Griffith, Iona Viola

Griffith, Iona Viola
18 Apr

Iona Viola Griffith, age 103, of Weston, St James, Mother of Wycliff Jordan, Phillis and Eleanor Griffith and the late Anthony Griffith, Grandmother of Natalie Farley of the U.K., Sonia Nicholls of Texas, Rachael Hall-Amayo of Canada, Eddison, Geoffrey, Deborah and George Griffith, Yvette Hunte, Esther Trotman, Winfield and Martin Moore, Sandra Seale and Aileen Cumberbatch, Great-Grandmother of Osharro, Tara and Kayode Griffith, Nakara and Nayele Hunte, Ria Whyte and fifteen others, Great-Great-Grandmother of Shaniqua Springer, Najarie Hope, Anijah and Jahna Whyte and six others, Sister of the late Marjorie Jordan, Relative of the Griffith, Chase, Jordan and Quimby families, Friend of the Phillips family, Quida Gibbons, Carolyn Williams, Ileen Seale, Livi Payne, Daphne Forde, Lorrain Reid, Euretha and Blair Richards and many others.

The funeral of Iona Viola Griffith leaves St. John Funeral Home, Half Moon Fort, St. Lucy on Saturday 21st April, 2018 at 12:00 noon for St. Alban’s Anglican Church, Lower Carlton, St. James, where relatives and friends are asked to meet at 2:00 p.m. for the Service of Thanksgiving. The cortege will then proceed to St. James Cemetery for the interment.

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

Wreaths may be delivered to St. John Funeral Home not later than 11:45 a.m. on Saturday 21st April, 2018.

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.