Goodbye Dad

            When the funeral preparations first began, I was fairly confident in my need to be a part of dad’s eulogy, to pay him one last tribute. A tribute that I assumed would be fairly easy to accomplish; simply piecing together little stories and tidbits about him as a dad and grandpa. In reality, I assumed the hard part would be standing in front of you all and relaying the stories. And then I made a phone call to a dear friend and mentor and he explained to me the true purpose of the eulogy. That this was something so much bigger than myself and a simple goodbye, to which I am not sure if I am up to the challenge. But I will do my best for I believe this will be one of the most important speeches of my life.

            There I go again, as at the beginning, making this about myself and not dad; which brings me to my friend’s first words of advice, to know who the eulogy is for. Whereas I thought it was for me, and my brother, my sister, his mother, and his brothers and sisters, friends, and so forth, I was only partially correct for he informed me that, first and foremost, I was writing this for my father. That dad was the pebble and we were the resulting ripples. That I would have to put my desire to portray my father in the best light possible second to the need to present to you the man that he was. And that to do this properly, I would have to talk not only of my relationship with him, but also of others. Of his gifts and his faults. For as humans, he said to me, we are also sinners, and dad was more aware of his humanity than most.

So I am here to honor not only my father and the grandfather of my kids, but the reverend, the friend and the carpenter, among others.

            As my uncle has described to you his childhood, I have the opportunity to speak of my father as a grown up. And his first step as a grown up was to become a minister. To talk accurately of my dad the reverend, I must speak of things which I know to be true and also that which I’ve only been told to be true.

            This is what I know, deep down in my heart: he was meant to be a pastor. I have little knowledge of callings but I know this was his. Not only was he called to the church, but to this church, the one I am standing in today. He was more at peace when he worked in the church than at any time in his life. There was a sureness about him that was present when he was at the pulpit that I only saw on rare occasions afterwards. I can still see him, standing in this very place, in his vestments, bible in hand, explaining the word of God to the congregation before him. A gospel he believed in with every fibre of his being. He took it very seriously and I know, although I cannot remember any specific sermons myself, that when it came to preaching, he had a gift.

            And here we come to what I don’t know but have been told.

            The fact that my father even graduated from the ministry was a momentous occasion, for it took drive and dedication. Not only to graduate from high school (in which I think he told me he was one of only 3) but from the ministry (which he had to do entirely on his own, earning his own way through with odd jobs here and there. At one point he worked as a chauffeur for coffee money, as he called it). His graduation day was one of his proudest, probably only trumped by us later in his life. From what I am told, my father was a brilliant theologian, with a very solid sense of the gospel and the teachings. The church was his life and his family and he cared deeply for the people within it. When there was strife in the church he felt it as if there was trouble in his own family. And in this way, it was his undoing, for I don’t believe he ever fully recovered from the rent that finally forced him to walk away from his one true calling. I don’t know exactly what happened that finally made him leave the church, but it took a piece of him, and his self-confidence with it. I would have liked to have seen him return, for he truly was a brilliant pastor, who put people first, and politics second. Who cared for his congregation as he did his own family, and who understood the teachings better than most

            To conclude my father, the revered, I will share a little story. Those of you who know me undoubtedly know that my beliefs do not follow as closely those of my father’s, although, I do think we tend to agree on very many aspects of the world and religion. And like my father, I do not keep quiet about my thoughts and beliefs like I sometimes should. My struggle with God and faith began years and years ago, when I was young and of about confirmation age. As a child, I had unwavering faith in God and what my father taught, for he was my dad and I could not envision a world where he was wrong. But at some point I remember first questioning the existence of the God that my father believed in so strongly. I felt compelled to go speak to him about it, but was unsure of the reception my thoughts would receive. Here I was, probably about 12 years old or so, going to question a man who’d devoted his life to teaching God’s word, about whether that God did indeed exist. Part of me assumed he’d get angry and have me removed from his presence, but another part of me was drawn to speak with the man who was so at peace and so secure in his beliefs. So I made the trek from house to garage (where he’d been spending the majority of his time) and stepped inside. I found dad, sitting on a lawn chair, smoking his pipe, with a long stick in his hands (which he used as a tv remote having lost the original one and needing a way to switch back and forth between our two channels). I’m sure he said something like “Hello, Jo,” as this has remained his greeting to me to this day. Not the type to beat around the bush, I said, “Dad, I don’t think I believe in God.” Then I braced myself for what was to come next. However, the worst did not happen. Dad sat there for a moment, puffing on his pipe, and then he reached over, pulled out another lawn chair, and said, “Sit. Let’s talk.” And we did. And although I walked away that day with a better understanding of God, I never quit questioning and he never once devalued my beliefs or forced me to believe the same as him (although I’m sure there’s been more than one conversation detailing his arguments for why I was wrong). No matter if it hurt him to know his daughter could not follow in his footsteps nor lead his grandkids down the Christian path. And looking back I think this was the place where he was the most understanding and I think that is because his faith and his belief was so strong, he didn’t feel the need to prove me wrong. He had enough faith for the both of us.

            Some people think the next facet of my father is due to his being a minister, so I would like to talk of it now. Although, just so you know, it had nothing to do with his career path but simply him. I wouldn’t be surprised if the gospels had a little to do with it, but I honestly think it was simply a love of his fellow man. When we were camping as a young family, my dad met some random person in the campground, learned that he was alone, and invited him to our camp. This drove me crazy as I was not the type to share his comfort of strangers. However, he brought him over and sat him down and spent the evening talking and sharing his beer and his food. Then, he walked him back to his campsite. When he’d gone, one of my mom’s siblings (who was with us at the time) said to him, “does he do that because he’s a pastor?” and my mom replied, “no. That’s just him.” And it is. He has always reached out to everyone who was alone, or in need, or simply, standing in front of him. A cyclist was going through town, he met him at Robin’s Donuts I believe, and dad found out he had no where to stay. So, a short while later, the guy had his tent pitched in dad’s yard, was using his shower, and eating his food. He stayed for 3 days. But don’t think because you’re not asking for help he won’t give it to you. Whether you’re in the aisles at the hardware store or standing in line at my shop, he will offer whatever helpful advice he can, for it made him happy to help others. And he was utterly selfless in his actions. Whatever he had, he would give it if you asked for it. His time, his food, the shirt off his back. And he would drop everything he had to give it to you. Those who knew him, knew he could be trusted and called on at any moment of every day. And those who didn’t, could still be blessed (or plagued, depending on the situation) with his service. One day, my husband’s grandmother was shopping in the hardware store for a deadbolt. She wasn’t sure of how to do it, and as dad happened to be there, he explained to her how to do it. But then he instead offered to go to her house and replace the deadbolt for her. Carolyn did not take him up on this offer but has always been impressed by the man who would willingly give his time to someone he had just met. This is something my dad has done with friend or stranger, for as long as I’ve known him.

            My dad loved the good things in life. Good wine. Good food. Good music. Good friends. Good laughs…although, in that sense, good laughs often ended up in a raucous laugh of his own and the uncomfortable chuckle of those around him, for his sense of humor was often just a little too crass for most. But that was okay, because he found himself funny, and if he found himself funny, well, that was almost enough for him. As I’m one of those who cringed at some of his less than desirable jokes, I’m not going to share them with you as I’m sure most of you know of what I am speaking. But I will tell you this. As I’ve been going through his house and his paperwork and his documents I have been finding two things. Recipes, which I’ll mention later, and comics. If there was something he thought was funny, he cut it out and kept it. If he thought it applied to others, he cut it out and gave it to them because loved to laugh and he loved to share his laughter with those around him. Often by giving you a slight backhand to the shoulder and repeated, “hey? Hey?” until you finally agreed that yes, that joke was funny.

            On to the next thing I found littered about his house…food and drink clippings from the paper. All over you will see recipes and drinks that he was saving to cook up for the next meal. The problem was, he never made them for himself, so unless he had someone coming over, he never tried them. His love of fine cuisine was not simply for the sheer pleasure of the food, but for the pleasure he took in making it for other people. I’m sure looking around here today, there are very few of you who have not had the pleasure of enjoying my father’s cooking. And, yes, he did make some amazing food. However, there has been a time or two when his chef attempts have also resulted in some very inedible dishes. One time, when we were still living at the house on the hill, my dad decided he was going to try out a recipe for seafood crepes (now, Sonya, Jon, and mom, if I’m a little incorrect, bear with me. I truly do have a terrible memory and am trying my hardest to be as factual as possible). From what I remember, the crepes called for crab, or imitation crab, and were to be sautéed in white wine. Well, we did not have crab, but did have canned tuna, so he figured, they’re both from the sea, you might as well substitute one for the other, right? As for the white wine, well, we did not have that either, but we did have red. And wine is wine, is it not? I do believe he also substituted a few vegetables that were called for that we did not have but as the last time he told this story I tuned out having heard it so many times, I don’t recall the specific ones. Either way, he substituted pretty much every single thing in the recipe except, the crepes. When all was said and done we were left to eat a thin pancake full of pink mush... And when I said we were left to eat it I mean we were left to forage in the cupboards ourselves for our supper as even the dog would not eat his seafood crepe substitutions. And do not think he learned from this mistake, for later in his life he did the same thing. Only this time, Jake, Jonathan and I were fortunate enough to have him take us to Boston Pizza after he had once again, substituted his way into a perfectly disgusting dinner.

 As a last note on cooking, let me tell you about my father and greek salad. My dad is a very smart man. As a child I thought he knew everything, but mostly because I think my dad was sure he knew everything too. And he was often right about 75% of the time. The problem was, he rarely fact-checked so if he didn’t know what he was talking about, instead of using the words, “I don’t know”, he just made something up. And most of the time, he was positive he was correct.  Usually he took the little tidbit he knew to be true and completely warped things from there to create something that was as far from the truth as possible. Take, greek salad for instance. He invited us over for supper, once again, and I asked what he was making. He rattled off a few things and then finished with, greek salad. As I love greek salad I was pretty excited for supper. And then, he set the salad on the table. I said to my father, ‘what is this?’ And he replied, ‘greek salad’, to which I argued that, ‘no, it wasn’t’. For you see, I was staring at a spinach salad with olives, mushrooms, strawberries, and feta cheese with a sweet oil and vinegar dressing. I said,’ dad, this is not a greek salad. Greek salads have peppers and onions and cucumbers and olives and feta cheese. This is a spinach salad’. To which he replied,’no, it’s not. Look. Feta and olives. That’s a greek salad’. So there you have it folks, my father’s recipe for a greek salad. Apparently if there’s feta and olives, you can do what you like with the rest.

While on the topic of my father and knowing everything, I have to laugh. Whenever someone would come to me and say, I met your father, he told me all about you, I would be forced to cringe a little and say, ‘well, just make sure you understand that while he believed what he said to be true, it often wasn’t’. And believe me when I say I mean this in the fondest sense as we learned to laugh about it as he would be sometimes so far off base he couldn’t find his way back. For instance, he told a story at my wedding of how Jake and I got together. As I’ve already mentioned, my memory is depressingly poor and I don’t exactly remember what the story was, but what I can say, was that it was wrong. Absolutely, completely, and totally wrong. So, after the wedding, I said to my dad, “You know, dad, that’s not how Jake and I met, you know.” His reply, “Yes it was!” And I laughed and said, “Um, how do you know?” To which he replied, “I was there!” Now, I really did not realize he’d come with me to Boston Pizza on my first day of training and met Jake in the basement in the breakroom. However, if he believes he was there, who am I to argue? And also remember, I retell these stories with a smile on my face because this is what made my dad who he was. And often, when he finally saw how completely off the mark he was, he’d laugh along with us. And, I have to say, there was more than one occasion where we fact checked him after he left only to find out that he really and truly was right, and we were wrong. But of course, he doesn’t need to know that now, does he?

Bear with me, I’m down to two subtopics now….dad as carpenter and dad as father, which are both are somewhat intertwined.

I’m not sure if dad has always been interested in woodwork or if he took it up as stress relief from the church, but I vaguely remember it being something that he needed as an escape. Dad internalized his stress and so needed some kind of venue for its release and I guess wood working, and pipe smoking, was it. (oh, and by pipe smoking I mean tobacco pipe. Dad wouldn’t even know what the other kind was if it blew in his face – true fact. Because someone actually smoked it near his vehicle and I laughed about it and his response was, oh! So that’s what it smells like! However, I digress. Let me return to my father as a carpenter.) Now, this goes a little in line with my dad, knowing most everything. He was a very good carpenter and cabinet maker, although how he managed, I do not know. For you see, although he read Wood magazine and Fine Woodworking, he never bought a textbook on carpentry. He never took a class. Nothing. He just started woodworking. Which is fine, except, my dad likes to impress… And to impress in his mind meant to wow everyone with his ability to create amazing stuff without having to measure it. So, whereas the typical carpentry motto is, measure twice, cut once, you could probably say my dad’s was, don’t measure at all, make a semi-educated guess, and cut 2 if not 3 times. I don’t know who, but dad told me that one of his friends suggested he write – Repeat Construction – as his business name on his van for the number of times he had to redo mistakes. Along with his,’don’t measure but impress’, motto, he also tried to whip things off quickly and with little help. And because of this, he often cut himself. As one of his dear friends said, she often expected her stuff to come with the odd blood stain here or there. But you know, regardless of his rather unorthodox ways, he did some beautiful work. I for one, am so happy to have so much of his work to remember him by. Not just by the desks he built for my children, or the hope chest I built with him (that he actually tricked me into building, by the way, because I wanted to build my sister one and he kept giving me stuff to glue and cut and clueless me kept doing what he said blindly, not knowing he’d tricked me into building two hopechests…my own and my sister’s), but every single time I walk into my shop I will remember him. He was so proud of me for opening that business, but he doesn’t realize I could never have had it without him. Who else would have done it all for the cost of materials…and afterwards, for nothing. He often walked in to hear me say, ‘dad, I need this now. Dad, can you build me this. Dad, can you fix this.’ And never once did I get a bill…only an installed whatever I’d asked for. He never even let me comp his jasmine tea.

And now I come to the final phase of my talk. I must get down to the heart of the matter and talk of my father as my father and the grandfather to my children. I know this is supposed to be for him, and I do not want to make this about me, but I know, that the biggest part of my father’s life was not just me, but my sister and my brother, my two kids and Sonya’s two kids. It is what kept him alive.

Where do I even begin to tell you of my dad as my father. I am struggling with a lack of words to explain to you. My dad taught me to drive a standard, in the orange beetle tearing around our yard up on 93^rd avenue. My dad read the entire set of Narnia books, all 7, to me when I was 9 years old, and because of this I read to my kids. My dad would sit and listen to me practice piano for hours. He would listen to us practising the violin or cello, of which I am sure Sonya was the only one to make them sing. He was so proud of us and supported us in everything we did. Attended every event. Drove my brother to every hockey tournament and score kept almost every game (at least the ones he wasn’t kicked out of). Took us skiing. Woke up at 6am to take us to Seals (which in our family, is a huge feat). He supported us to the best of his capacity and worked hard not to miss anything in which we were involved. Made sure we did well in school and never gave us the option of not continuing on to post secondary education. On our birthday, he would pick us up from school and take us out for lunch. And on Bree’s and Miles’ birthdays, respectively, he did the same. He did everything he could to support us and even though he didn’t say it to us, he was so proud of us. Each one of us. When he spoke of us (and he did it only second to his tales of his grandkids) his face lit up and he was always smiling, and he spoke of us all the time. Sometimes to perfect strangers who really didn’t care. But he did and that is all that mattered. 

To talk of my father as a father figure is a little bittersweet, for my father had some difficulty relating to us, stemming from a sense of inadequacy. He was aware of the fact that, although he could converse easily and counsel church members and others, he had difficulty offering us the same counsel. It wasn’t because he didn’t love us, for he loved us more than anything, but I sometimes feel he felt he needed to be strong for us. Was unable to show us any weakness and had to hide his pain from us. I believe he grew up in a time where men were men so they did not talk to their children about their troubles. And for that, he pulled away. And because of that he was never able to see what an amazing job as a parent he did. For, it is every parent’s job to raise a self sufficient child. And he did that better than almost any parent I know. He raised three children who all grew up to graduate university, to find great companions (for lack of a better word), to live their lives as best they could. And it wasn’t that we didn’t need him, but we needed him in a different capacity. And he didn’t quite understand that, and I only wish he could have, for if he had, I know he would have been a much happier man. And dad, I’m telling you now, although all children at some point in their lives, wish they could swap out their own parent for another more ideal one, I would choose you over all of them. For because of you I believe I can do anything I put my mind to. Because of you I have a love of music, and learning, and books, and everything that is beautiful in the world. Because of you I understand the importance of helping others, and putting family and friends before money or things or work. You were never able to see just how amazing and caring you truly were, but I could. And I may not have told you, but I always felt it. And I wish I could have seen beyond your pain and your suffering to put you first in my life as you did for me. But all I can hope to do, is all that you would ever ask me to do, and that would be to do the same thing you did for me, for my children. And if that is all I do as a parent, I know I can walk away when my children are grown, knowing I did the best any parent could ever do.

I had expected to share with you more stories of my father. But I fear this is growing too long. So I will just tell you that with dad gone, I will never find anyone in the world who thought I was as smart, and amazing as he did. There is no one out there to share the smartest and best grandkids a grandfather could ask for, for that is how he portrayed them. I’m sure almost every one of you sitting here today has seen some picture of my kids or heard some tale of their antics. And I know those kids will carry that unconditional adoration in their hearts for the remainder of their days.

I know there is so much I am missing dad, and for that I am sorry. I could not portray you as accurately as I should have. And so many here will miss you in much different ways than I do. Robins donuts and your friends will be short just a little bit of wisdom, but I know they can continue to save the world over coffee, just with one empty seat. I know Jake will miss someone to laugh at his antics and help him with his projects and renovations. I know Jon will miss your company during hockey games and in your shop. Miles will miss riding with you on the lawn tractor. Bree said to me the other day how much she’ll miss making jello’d eggs with you. And I said, ‘well, we’ll just have to make them ourselves, won’t we. And she replied, ‘but it won’t be as fun. Grandpa made things fun.’ And that’s just it. You have left a void in all of us that cannot be filled. Personally, my shop will always feel a little empty without your daily stop. As for everyone else, they have one less person to call on in their time of need. There is one less person who would have done everything to help them in any way they could.

I will leave you with a conversation I had with my dad after his death. I was feeling guilty for not having visited him enough, for having dropped off my kids but not come in to stay. For not having sat down with him enough when he came to have tea at my shop. I was storing all this pain and guilt and then asked myself, what would have happened if I phoned up my dad, right now, and apologized for feeling this way. This is exactly how the conversation would have gone:

First off, keep in mind, when the phone rings and he answers there will be a great deal of noise as each time his phone rang he jumped as if startled and hearing something for the first time. Then had to shuffle and relearn how to answer his cell phone every time. Once he did answer, he rarely sounded cheerful, but often answered with a gruff, ‘yeah?’ or ‘lo as the stress of cellphones was nearly too much for him.

Back to the call. The phone has rang, he has mustered a greeting, and I say, “Dad? Are you happy?”

Dad: What do you mean, am I happy?

Me: Well, with your life? Day to day. Are you happy?

Dad: Well, of course I am, Jo. Why do you ask? (he’s sounding a little irritated at this point, with my asking such obvious questions. Impatient that I would even be worrying myself about him.)

Me: I just needed to know. Sometimes I worry that you are lonely. That I don’t spend enough time with you.

Dad: Well, you’re busy. I don’t expect you to. You’re being ridiculous. I know you do the best you can.

Me: I know. But are you? Sad? Lonely?

Dad: Of course I get lonely and would like to have someone with me. But I’m not sad. I have you kids. I have my grandkids. They make me happy. Stop worrying about me, Jo. I’m fine.

Trust me when I say, this conversation is as true as it is imaginary. And, he really is going to be okay…and so will we. Because my dad was more at ease with death and his own death than almost anyone I know. And the last thing he would have ever wanted to be, was a burden. So unburden yourself here. Say your goodbyes, shed your tears, then walk away. Walk away knowing he would want you to be happy. Leave behind the bad memories and keep the good and think of him fondly, for that is all he ever wanted. Go forward and love and appreciate your family and fellow man. Put them first. If you can do this, he can rest in peace.