Friends,
My Dad passed away Friday night.
It is not necessarily a time for grieving. My Dad was very elderly, to the point where something you and I could shake off would bring him down, and so it did. He died of pneumonia, at 87 years of age.
I am unsure where to begin talking about this extraordinary man. He’s the guy who taught me to hit a baseball, how to throw a baseball, how to catch a football. How to fish. How to safely shoot a rifle (“Don’t tell your mother, okay?”) How to shave.
He taught me how to mix a martini, how to appreciate good Scotch, and how to smoke a pipe and a cigar.
When I was 17, Dad and I re-roofed the cottage (cabin, vacation home, whatever you call it); and when a rainstorm came, we stood out there like lunatics in the pouring rain, watching our roof repel the rain, while inside, it remained dry.
He taught me how to drive. First time out, I took a corner at 40 mph. Mom screamed, but Dad just said, “You may want to slow down a little next time.”
When I lost my office, suit-and-tie-job, Dad told me that there was no such thing as a bad job. He had had more than a few blue-collar jobs in his life. So when I got a job punching my card at a warehouse, or driving a truck, or operating a forklift in those times, he was not unhappy. Rather, he was proud: “Spoons, you’re working, you are earning money, you are doing your best to keep body and soul together. Things will get better.” And they always did, as long as I kept trying to make them better–another lesson he taught me.
My mother died in the late 1980s, and shortly after, my sister relocated to Australia. So there was really just Dad and I left among our immediate family in Toronto. He always invited me over for Sunday dinner, and I would always accept. Dad could cook, and liked to cook. Our Sunday dinners were spent with martinis in front of the TV watching sports, then a nice Dad-prepared dinner with an appropriate wine. Good conversation, as you might expect–we did not always see eye-to-eye on issues of the day, but we certainly discussed them.
When I was accepted to law school, Dad could not have been prouder.
Dad was a proud Canadian and considered it a point of pride that he had been coast-to-coast-to-coast in Canada, and always encouraged me to see it all. I have seen a great deal of it: I have been to all ten provinces and the NWT. Dad was also cognizant of our American friends, and our relationship with the USA: I was with him when he put a Canadian flag at the foot of the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington DC, to honour our Canadian boys who signed up with US forces in that conflict.
There are too many stories to tell, and not enough bandwidth. So, friends, I would ask that you join me in celebrating the life of this most extraordinary gentleman.