Can’t describe better.
To your dad!
I dedicate this sip of Tully to the loss of your father…and the rest of the bottle to a life well spent.
Thanks for sharing a small part of your dad’s wonderful being with us, Spoons.
What a beautiful tribute to a special man. My thoughts are with you.
So sorry to hear of your loss, Spoons. From all the stories of your Dad you’ve shared over the years he sounds like a fine man.
Thirding this. My condolences on your loss. Thank you so much for sharing.
Thank you for sharing a bit of your wonderful Dad with us, Spoons. My condolences for your loss.
My condolences for your loss - he sounds like a positive influence in your life and a good man. 
How fortunate you are to have had such a father, Spoons. Thank you for sharing this beautiful homage with us.
That OP is truly a celebration of a fine man and father, Spoons, and as I offer condolences on the time of loss I also join in tribute to a life well lived.
Just reading this now Spoons. It sounds like you had a wonderful dad and role model in your life. Take care my friend.
Maybe your dad and mine can get together “out there” where the good dads go.
I’m sorry you lost your father Spoons, but he will live forever in you. If you have sons the best you could do for them is to live up to your father’s memory.
If you feel like it I’d love to hear more about him, when you can.
He won’t mind if you ditch the cigars.
Hugging hard. A wonderful tale. As long as anyone is remembered they are alive. I’ll never forget that story. Thank you.
Thanks for this, Spoons. Sometimes we don’t appreciate the people in our life enough, especially our parents. I’ll gladly raise a glass of Lagavulin tonight to you, your Dad, and mine.
Friends, thank you for the words of support and comfort. They mean a great deal.
The funeral was today. I would be amiss if I did not admit that this post was composed after a few drinks. But they were drinks consumed while discussing the life of my Dad.
It was amazing, the people who came out for the funeral. Old neighbours from our old neighbourhood. Business colleagues. Friends from curling (Dad was an avid curler.)
One of my own friends, a gentleman who spent years in the Canadian Forces (now retired), stood at rock-solid attention when the casket passed in the church. In all the years I’ve known him (about 30 now), he has never done that for anybody not in the military. We have lost friends, and we have attended and been respectful at their funerals, but the only civilian so far that I have seen my ex-CF pal hold an “ten-hut!” pose for has been my Dad. Apologies to our military friends; I don’t know how to describe this properly. But it was very touching, and meant a lot to me.
There were so many stories, so many memories. I’d like to share, but where do I begin?
Baker, I have no doubt that your Dad and mine are “where the good Dads go,” and that they are, right now, swapping stories.
I’ve posted a couple of stories about his train experiences, but I see no reason not to bring at least one forward:
Here is one, about a cross-country train trip with my baby sister.
More to follow, if there is enough interest.
There’s enough interest, Spoons.
Sounds like he was such a great guy. Sorry for your loss, Spoons.
So sorry to learn of your loss. Glad he left you with so many great memories and stories. A good dad is priceless.
Okay, more stories.
Well, as I said, Dad was a proud Canadian, and was determined to see as much of this country as he could. He had done a good piece already, as one of his summer jobs as a university student was to drive cars from Toronto to Vancouver, for those who chose not to ship them. He’d get the car where it needed to go in Vancouver, then stuck his thumb out at the side of the highway, with a sign saying, “TORONTO. Or Any Point East.” The stories that came from those trips could fill a book.
He was a civilian contractor in Churchill, Manitoba in the early 1950s, and told us that, at the Hudson Bay trading post in Churchill, he got a heavy coat to cope with the winter cold.
“Wow, Dad, what did you trade at the trading post? Beaver pelts, gold … what?”
It wasn’t quite as exciting to my eight-year-old ears to hear him reply, “Twelve dollars.”
Dad was one of the sandbaggers who helped in the 1950 Winnipeg Flood.
We lived in Calgary for some years when I was small. Behind our house was a park, and in the winter, it was flooded to make a skating rink. The rink-keeper was rather old and not really up to the task, so Dad would get out there in the evenings, and clear the rink of snow, using only a snow shovel. Mom would put my skates on my feet, and send me out with Dad. He’d shovel, I’d skate; and when he was done, Dad would put on his skates too and join me. Only, he had never learned to skate as a child, so we learned together. We both fell a lot.
Dad bought me a baseball glove when I was about six. On nice evenings, after dinner, we’d go out in the backyard and play catch. And it became a tradition–every spring, for forty years or so, we’d play catch in the backyard. The last time we played was in 2003 or 2004. His eyesight was failing, and he couldn’t see the ball, so I served up easy catches right into his glove. But we still played catch. I miss those games.
Our family attended church every Sunday. I hated it. I hated getting dressed up in a jacket and tie to go to church, and then Sunday school, which was boring. One Sunday, my sister was ill, and Mom stayed home to look after her. Dad assured her that he and I would go to church; and in our Sunday best, off we went. Only we didn’t go to church at all. Dad drove through the city, pointing out places of interest to me (Maple Leaf Gardens! High Park! Hart House!). We got home at the usual time, and Mom asked, “How was church?” Dad simply replied “Like always,” and that was that.
Dad could be remarkably calm and strong at the worst of times. I got a call from my sister one morning saying that Mom had died. I jumped in my car and rushed to Mom and Dad’s house. I found Dad, in his pyjamas, calmly taliking to a police officer at the kitchen table. The coroner arrived, and determined that it was a heart attack. Dad called a local funeral home, who removed the remains. Then he put on a jacket and tie, said, “Kids, follow me,” and off we went to the funeral parlor to make the arrangements. Those were concluded to Dad’s satisfaction. But the calm and strength he showed at such a difficult time inspires me to this day; and helped me through the recent proceedings.
In recent days, I have become fond of saying, “I didn’t have a father. I had a Dad.”