Smith, Ryan O’Keith

Smith, Ryan O’Keith
27 Feb
2017

Ryan O’Keith Smith, age 43, of Flat Rock, St. George, Sales and Delivery man of Dundee’s Bakery, Flat Rock, St. George, Treasured Son of Victor Smith and Angela Mottley-Beckles, Brother of Rodney, Rhonda, Andy and Theik Smith, Great-grandson of Clesfield Mottley, Nephew of Maxine Phillips, Winston and Elma Smith, Frank and Eleanor Bullen, Wayne and Victor Mottley, Sonja Bubb, Vanessa Moore, Oreen and Ivis Corbin and seven others, Great Nephew of Luther Corbin, Colleen Taylor, Beverly Worrell, Penelope Walcott of Canada and many others, Uncle of two, Stepson of Thomasine Watson-Smith and Henderson Jordan, Cousin of many, Relative of the Smith, Bullen, Mottley, Worrell, Corbin and Taylor families, Friend of Joezel Joseph, Nicole Wood, Joeann Greaves, Timothy Barnett, Lloyd Crookendale, Ken O’Neal, Marcena Bradshaw, Primero Moore and many others

The funeral of Ryan O’Keith Smith leaves Waithe’s Funeral Home, Greens, St. George on Friday, February 24th, 2017 at 2:00 p.m. for St. Matthews Anglican Church, Hothersal Turning, St. Michael, where relatives and friends are asked to meet at 3:30 p.m. for the service, followed by the interment in the churchyard.

The Organist and members of the choir are asked to attend.

Floral tributes can be sent to Waithe’s Funeral Home no later than 1:30 p.m. on Friday.

The body will be reposed in the Chapel of Waithe’s Funeral Home, Greens, St. George from 4:30 p.m. until 6:00 p.m. on Thursday.

Bus transportation will leave the Flat Rock Wesleyan Holiness Church at 2:30 p.m. to St. Matthews Anglican Church and back.

Online condolences can be sent to This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

  • Stop all the clocks
    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead, Put crépe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song, I thought that love would last forever: 'I was wrong' The stars are not wanted now, put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.