Memories of Dad

It’s a hot humid evening in Niagara with the sun beating down out of an optimistic blue sky.  It’s hot like mid summer and I am ready for evening to creep in from the east with its pink paintbrush to touch the sky.

I will start out by saying Father’s Day is a tough day for me to get through.  The huge build-up in the media, the talk radio shows on the topic, and the many BBQ’s going on right now in the neighbourhood in honor of the fathers that surround me. 

There are two reasons for my dread of this day; I don’t have any children so there are no crappy ties that I will never wear coming my way tomorrow or a year’s supply of Old Spice aftershave.  Also, my own Dad passed away June 8 1991.  He is no longer around to call on the phone so I can bounce an idea off of him and he is no longer around to visit this weekend with a card, a chance to chat, and to chew my way through my mother’s very well, well-done roast beef.  His passing is 20 years ago this month in which, Father’s Day falls.

His passing came on the weekend I was running an international yacht race for double-handed yachts racing the length of Lake Ontario and back to Port Credit with some marks roundings along the way.  My father’s living will instructions were clear.  There was to be no caskets, no viewings, no funeral service, and a total absence of “fuss” as he would call it. 

My Mother called me the morning he died to tell me.  I went into my standard response of fixit mode though I didn’t have the foggiest clue as to what I would fix.  Mom just said I should cool my jets, run my race and come down the next week and help with the funeral home papers. 

I did just that.  It was strange to walk into what had been the family home for 43 years and not see my Dad in his LazyBoy recliner reading a Mickey Spillane novel while listening to military bands or Strauss waltzes on the stereo.

After the hospital released the body, he was cremated right away.  Later, my Mother and my sister spread his ashes in one of his favorite places along the Illecillewaet River in British Columbia.

I have not visited this place yet but suspect I will on one of my rides.

So on this Father’s Day’s eve, as I sit here alone my Niagara home, part of me longs to receive a tie with a hideous patter and color combination that I will never wear or a red squeeze bottle of Old Spice that would likely trigger a full blown asthma attack.  But most of all, I would give the world to hear my Dad’s soft, gentle voice again telling me “Well Kim, there’s no future in getting old.”

Here’s to you Dad, on this Father’s Day 2011.

Here is a selection of pictures of my Dad.  I have tried to figure out dates and time but I will let my Big Bro’ the family historian correct any in accuracies.

Dad in uniform before his posting to Kiska, Ak as part of the joint US/Canadian garrison in WW II

Mom and Dad on their wedding day in January 1942

Dad in Yorkshire with his lorry in the training period before the Normandy invasion

Dad in his uniform of the Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders of Canada probably in England

Dad's Bren Gun carrier somewhere in Normandy after D-Day

Dad (bringing up the rear) at Port Loring with the day's catch from Long Lake with a camp guest

Our Family taken in the mid 80's

Mom and Dad with my sister-in-law and their grand children