Morris, Viola Glendora

Morris, Viola Glendora
05 Oct

Viola Glendora Morris, age 91, affectionately known as “Brown Girl”, of Franklyn Road, Belleplaine, St. Andrew, former employee of theTransport Board and Ministry of Housing and Land, Mother of Beryl Smith, Elsa, Eulene, Lorna, Ila, Everton, Gweneth, Bertie, Curtis and Yvette Morris and the later Randal Morris, Grandmother of Daniel, Gwendolin, Bernard, Alison, Carlisia, Brian, Justin and Shinika Morris and eleven others, Great-grandmother of nineteen, Great-great-grandmother of fifteen, Sister of Gloria Downes-Elcock, Seymour Bynoe and the late Dorothy Worrell, Aunt of eleven, Great-aunt of many, Cousin of Esmay Jemmott, Mother-in-law of Lester Smith of the U.S.A. and Cecile Morris, Relative of the Morris, Bynoe, Headley, Sobers, Dash and Ishmael families, Friend of Reverend Allan Jones, the St. Andrew Parish Church family and many others

The funeral of Viola Glendora Morris leaves St. John Funeral Home, Half Moon Fort, St. Lucy on Thursday, October 11th, 2018 at 1:30 p.m. for St. Andrew Parish Church where relatives and friends are asked to meet at 3:30 p.m. for the Service of Thanksgiving, followed by the interment in the churchyard.

The Organist and members of the Church Choir are asked to attend.

Wreaths may be delivered to St. John Funeral Home not later than 1:15 p.m. on Thursday, October 11th, 2018.

The body will repose for viewing in the Chapel of St. John Funeral Home from 4:00 p.m. until 6:00 p.m. on Wednesday, October 10th, 2018.

No mourning colors by special request.

Fond remembrances and condolences to the family may be directed to This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. & 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.