Eulogy delivered by Morri Mostow at the Shaarey Zedek Synagogue
in Winnipeg, Manitoba on January 22, 2026
in Winnipeg, Manitoba on January 22, 2026
LILLIAN ROSALINE MOSTOW (NÉE HALPARIN)
August 31, 1926 - January 18, 2026
Lillian was blessed with robust health. Growing up, I never remember her getting so much as a cold when she nursed me and my two brothers through countless flus, colds and the many childhood illnesses for which there are now vaccines. She suffered no major illnesses during her lifetime, except for a bout of pneumonia about three years ago that convinced the staff at the Simkin that she had come to the end, but she confounded them all. She rallied, although she never recovered her mobility and was wheelchair bound from then on. However, because of her dementia, she didn’t suffer from her immobility because she thought she was still taking a walk every day.
The youngest of five siblings, Lillian was doted on and indulged—a theme that continued throughout her life. In 1935, when my mother was eight years of age, her parents took her with them to Palestine because her mother, Clara, thought she was too young to be left behind. Her parents wanted to check on her eldest brother, Bill, who at 24 was managing the 75-dunam (18.5 acre) orange orchard in Ness Ziona that her father, Moishe, had bought in 1931, with the intention of eventually retiring to Israel. Sadly, he died before he could realize that dream, a year before the birth of Israel.
Even in her 80s, my mother could vividly recall every detail of this trip: taking the train from Winnipeg to New York and then the Cunard line to Le Havre; ordering whatever she liked onboard (her favourite being apple-stuffed duck); getting stuck between floors with her parents in the hotel elevator in Paris and having to crawl out to alert management; taking the train to Marseille and then a ship to Haifa; the apartment they rented for two months on Allenby Street in Tel Aviv; visiting archeological digs in Caesarea and swimming in the Dead Sea, where the minerals in the water stung a cut on her toe; being fired on by Arabs as they travelled from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem for Pesach in an armed bus convoy.
In 2011, when she was 85, I wrote this story as she told it to me for the Jewish Foundation of Manitoba’s Endowment Book of Life, as a tribute to her parents. With her help, I wrote an article three years later for the Winnipeg Jewish Post, about her father’s sweater factory, Standard Knitting, located next door to their Dufferin Street house. Thanks to this factory, my mother had a large collection sweaters, much to the vexation of one of her high-school teachers who thought her wardrobe excessive.
As well as being a great beauty and what we now call a fashionista, my mother was smart and exceptionally talented in so many areas. She kept many of her drawings from her interior design course at the University of Manitoba, which she never completed after the sudden death of her father in her final year. These drawings always amazed me, as did the portrait in bronze of my father, also done for her course, which still hangs on our wall today. Her artistic talent was inherited by both my brothers but, alas, not by me.
There was virtually nothing my mother couldn’t do. and do well. She was an exceptional cook and bake—her recipe for triple-decker party sandwiches became the standard for Bar and Bat Mitzvahs at the Shaarey Zedek for decades and still may be for all I know. She could knit and crochet anything I asked for without a pattern—sweaters, leg warmers, whatever—and basically dressed me, as well as my two daughters when they came along, until I was in my 40s. True, my father was in the schmatta business so there was no shortage of samples for me to wear, but she loved to shop and had exceptional taste. At least once a year, she would take me to Fargo to shop for the gorgeous brands unavailable in Canada, and to visit one of my favourite relatives, Auntie Nellie Klein, a flamboyant, brilliant, artistic woman who wasn’t an aunt at all, but a cousin of my father.
As a girl, my mother worked at her father’s movie theatre in St. Boniface and helped out in the sweater factory, but once married, my mother never worked outside the home again. “Me, work!” she liked to say, but she was always busy, organizing or decorating events for Hadassah or Glendale Country Club. She and my father liked to throw elegant parties at home and of course she made all the food, which anyone who attended would agree was always outstanding. She seemed to do everything effortlessly but always with panache. When I turned 16, she threw a memorable Sweet Sixteen party for me at home, complete with a live dance band in the basement. She even designed my dress, which she had a dressmaker make for me. I remember the platters of sandwiches individually wrapped in different pastel-coloured foil to distinguish the types. Everything was exquisite.
Even in grade school, I was slightly envious of her leisurely lifestyle. She played badminton at the YMHA on Hargrave Street several days a week and then had a steam and hung out with the other women, who lounged in a special area of the locker room naked, wrapped in large white sheets. I suffered from frequent and painful torticollis, what we called then a stiff neck, and she would blithely let me miss school so I could while away the hours with her at the Y in the steam room, wrapped in a sheet, and get a neck massage by the formidable Mrs. Schneider, doyenne of the locker room. I couldn’t wait to grow up so I, too, could spend my days just like her, having steams and lounging naked at the Y!
Until my youngest brother, Syd, was in school, we always had live-in help so being a homemaker didn’t seem particularly onerous to me — an impression undoubtedly distorted by the effortless way my mother handled everything. My parents always seemed to be dressing up and going out to dinners or parties. Of course, my father, Harold, was away working much of the time while I was growing up, so my mother competently managed everything on her own. She always had her own car and was a fearless driver. In grade school, I remember her weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic at top speed in her tiny second-hand Austin, its turn signals flapping up and down like yellow wings from the sides of the car, to get me to my North End piano lessons in time. As she liked to remind me, she had driven trucks with double shifting for her father’s factory when she was 16 so this was nothing.
She designed our split-level home on Brock Street, where she lived for almost 60 years, and much of the furniture, too. She always knew whom to call to get anything made or fixed, a talent I have always envied but have never been able to emulate.
When my brothers and I finally left home, my mother began accompanying my father on his business trips to Asia – what they referred to in those days as The Orient. In order to be able to write off her travel expenses, she started her own jewelry business, which she called My Place, and designed an ingenious cabinet that she had installed at home in a spare room to hold all the findings and finished pieces that she designed. While my father met with his Asian clothing suppliers in Taipei, Bangkok, Jakarta and Hong Kong, she went to factories to buy large supplies of beads in ivory, coral, glass and semi-precious stones that she used primarily for necklaces that her friend, Lori Johnston, strung for her. Like everything she made, they were exquisite. She sold them mainly to people she knew.
When my father retired, they began spending more time in Maui in the winter, something she adored but never took for granted. She would often tell me that she could hardly believe that this was her life. When my husband, Doug, and I got married in Maui in 1998, we decided to make it a double celebration to honour their 50th wedding anniversary, as well. Of course, she organized the whole event and, naturally, it was fabulous.
My parents adored their two granddaughters. Because the girls lived in Montreal, they brought them—and me!—to Maui almost every winter when they were young and then hosted them in Winnipeg over many summers, chauffeuring them to mini-university or to Glendale, where they played tennis with my mother.
In 2005, two years after my father died, my mother, then 79, made the courageous decision to sell the Brock Street house and move to Gabriola Island in British Columbia with my husband and me. She was happy to leave all the cooking to my husband, Doug, and spent her time doing whatever she liked, attending events, shopping, going to the library. She tootled around Gabriola in her 2005 PT Cruiser and, for the first five or so years, took the ferry several times a week to Nanaimo to swim at the aquatic centre. She began to volunteer, doing odd jobs for the team that raised money for the construction of our new medical clinic and then worked once a week as a volunteer cashier at the thrift shop run by the Auxiliary for Island Health Care, whose profits support community health on our island. When the thrift “retired her” because she couldn’t master the new automated system, she started attending the twice-weekly seniors luncheon program, where she was greeted with “Hello Gorgeous!” by one of the male volunteers who took particular care of her.
For 14 years, the three of us got along well together, until 2019, when her cognition and mobility began to fail beyond what I could handle at home. She spent her last years at the Simkin Centre, reluctantly at first but then with her trademark stoicism. She wasn’t always easy—feisty, one of the staff charitably called her—but she became more participatory as she aged, and at 99 was still going to exercise classes and concerts. And although her memory was shot, I could have a normal conversation with her on FaceTime, when she inevitably said something wise or profound. She always recognized me, her niece Carla and even my friends when they dropped in to see her. My last visit with her was in May 2025. The weather was balmy so we were able to spend most of our time outdoors so she could bask in the sun and admire the foliage.
My mother has always been here for me, all these more than seven decades, so it feels strange that she is gone. I hope it is to reunite with her husband, who told my psychic husband shortly after his death that she didn’t have to hurry, that he was enjoying the golf in heaven and could wait until she got there. So, that’s how I’ll imagine them from now on, as young, healthy, and swinging their golf clubs together forever.
Eulogy by Lillian's granddaughter, Clotilde Aras
When I think about my Baba, all my memories bring me back to those summer days in Winnipeg. I can still picture that first glimpse of Baba and Zaida waiting for Cass and me at the airport, standing at the bottom of the escalator in the baggage claim area. We would run toward them, greeted by the biggest hugs, and always a BIG kiss on the nose from Zaida.
Those were the days—full of fun, sunshine, and unforgettable family gatherings around incredible food. But more than anything, they were days when I felt part of something bigger: a community, a family, a world beyond my hometown of Montreal. The house on Brock Street will forever remain one of the happiest places in my memories—a place where life felt simple and the love of my grandparents felt complete. We were spoiled rotten, and we loved every single minute of it.
Baba had a way of showing her love that you could see, smell, and taste. Sunday mornings meant her famous pancake brunch—blueberry or raspberry, always perfect. The scent of her Must de Cartier perfume still instantly brings me back to her, just as much as the memory of her melting moments cookies, which were my absolute favorite.
As I grew older, I came to realize that my loving Baba was also quite the character. She said what she meant, without filters, and she did so with confidence. She was the true matriarch of our family—strong, opinionated, and fiercely protective of those she loved. You always knew exactly where you stood with her.
Thank you, Baba, for your generosity, your warmth, and yes, even your sometimes-biting comments. You were always true to yourself, right until the end. It comforts me to know that you are now surrounded by those who loved you most—your loving husband, your brothers and sister, and family waiting to welcome you.
We send you off with all our love: Clotilde, Nicolas, Lenny, Lilas and Céleste
Obituary
LILLIAN R. MOSTOW (NÉE HALPARIN)
AUGUST 31, 1926 - January 18, 2026
Our beloved matriarch, Lillian Mostow, passed away peacefully at 99 years of age at the Simkin Centre, where she had received exemplary care for more than six years.
Lillian was quite the character. She said what she meant, without filters; she was strong, opinionated, and fiercely protective of those she loved. You always knew exactly where you stood with her.
The youngest of five, Lillian grew up on Dufferin Ave. in north-end Winnipeg, next door to her father’s sweater factory, Standard Knitting. Clever and artistic, she studied interior design at the University of Manitoba before marrying Harold Mostow in 1947. They had a wonderful life together. They loved to throw parties for their family and friends at their home on Brock St. and Lillian’s Sunday pancake brunch was a cherished tradition. To escape Winnipeg’s brutal winters, they vacationed first in Mexico and later in Maui, where they celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary as a joint simcha with the marriage of her daughter, Morri Mostow, to Douglas Long. After their children left home, Lillian accompanied Harold on his business trips to Asia, where she bought beads and semi-precious stones for the necklaces she designed for her home-based business, My Place.
In 2005, two years after being widowed, she moved with her daughter and son-in-law to Gabriola Island, BC, where they happily shared a home for 14 years. Despite being a city girl all her life, she adapted seamlessly to country living. She soon had bridge partners and friends and began volunteering. Fiercely independent, she drove around the island in her red PT Cruiser, going to the library, attending events and taking the ferry to Nanaimo’s aquatic centre to swim a few times a week.
In 2019, failing mobility and cognition necessitated a move back to Winnipeg, to the Simkin Centre, where she spent her final years. At 99, she was still going to concerts, synagogue services and exercise classes.
Lillian was predeceased by her parents, Moses/Moishe and Clara/Chaika Halparin, her siblings, William/Bill Halparin, Norman Halparin, Archie Halparin and Freda Fox, and by Harold Mostow, her husband of 56 years. She is mourned by her children, Morri Mostow (Douglas Long), Michael Mostow and Sydney Mostow; by her grandchildren, Cassandre Aras, Clotilde Aras (Nicolas Gautier), Kyle Mostow (Rachel Minuk) and Mauro Mostow Palmer; by her great-grandchildren, Emily Mostow, Léonard, Céleste and Lilas Gauthier; by her many nieces, nephews and cousins; and by all those whose lives she touched.
Grateful thanks to the extraordinary staff at the Simkin Centre who took such good care of Lillian. Also to Rabbi Carnie Rose, who officiated her funeral with great warmth and compassion at the Shaarey Zedek Synagogue on January 22, 2026. Donations in Lillian’s memory can be made to the Saul and Claribel Simkin Centre.
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