Dear Dad,
I have been putting off writing this because it makes me feel the inescapable absence of you. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye and neither I think were you.
How do I sum up your life, our life together in one mere letter. As I try to do so I am reminded of when in 2014 you were in this very position for Grace, your mother and my grandmother. In a rare opportunity, while in Ottawa for her funeral, you and I stayed at her apartment and spent several days together just the two of us. Despite the sadness of the circumstances, it was a special time. Without the typical distractions of our lives back at home, in that period we truly saw and appreciated each other, our strengths and capabilities. The night before Grace’s funeral you weren’t sure how to honour the exceptional person Grace had been when so many of the stories and experiences with her were nuanced with so many layers and emotions. As I went to bed that night, not envying you, I suggested you focus on the period you most admired, that at 70, Grace essentially reinvented her life. The next morning when I awoke, you were very excited. You had stayed up most of the night but felt like you were able to do Grace justice by talking about the life she lived and created for herself in her later years. Not surprisingly your eulogy was a wonderful tribute and of course entertaining as well. Because you were very sentimental, the extent to which I only realized when I was tasked with clearing your home, I of course found your eulogy speech notes and it enabled me to relive that very connected time we spent together.
Dad, like your mother, you too reinvented your life. At age 60 you courageously left what in some ways was an unfulfilling and unrealized life in Victoria and moved to Nelson to build houses. With the ground still frozen and covered in snow you shared your plans with myself and mom, your oldest friend. I vividly remember mom and I urging you to at least wait until Spring, when the ground thawed. But like so many other times in your life, your mind was made up, you had a plan and there was no influencing what you wanted to do. I’m so happy you didn’t listen to us. Andy Warhol once said, the idea is not to live forever but to create something that will and you did that. As I begin to write this I am sitting in the beautiful home you built that overlooks a hill of other lovely well built houses you created. Many have a style reminiscent of Grandma Campbell’s farm house, which represented a period of your early life that I know instilled a sense of belonging and connection to your extended family. Each one of your Nelson homes constitutes the labour of your love. It was a love for precision, architecture, good workmanship, quality, design and the elusive notion of perfection. It is this striving that got you the amazing reputation I unsurprisingly heard throughout my time in Nelson. It is while building homes that you also created your new community and a sense of belonging, in Nelson. You told mom and I how young you felt hanging out with your younger crew of guys and how you enjoyed the time you spent with them on the job as well as after a day’s work having a beer or burger. You formed deep connections with your neighbours, their friends and family and later with several Home Hardware co-workers. As a testament to this, most people in Nelson were astonished to hear that you had only lived in the city for just over 10 years. The depth and closeness of the relationships you created suggested much longer.
I affectionately think of this Nelson period as the ‘Grandpa Doug’ era. You joked with mom and I, that for some people it takes them until they turn 60 to mature. Perhaps that is true but I also believe something magical happens when a parent turns into a grandparent. I remember the euphoric experience when our first son was born. Despite it being at one in the morning, you, mom and the Taylor’s were all in the hospital waiting room eagerly awaiting his arrival. As you held Tytan for the first time I could see the feeling of wonder, excitement, love and tenderness wash over you.
Fast forward five years to you coming to our house to meet our third. As I opened the door I could see in your face the anticipation of that same magical moment, but it was bedtime and we now had three kids. We shoved Levan into your arms, grateful for the spare set of hands and went upstairs to put the other two to bed. I laugh when I think back to your expression of surprise. That pretty much characterizes the the pace and tone during your subsequent visits. When you came for a visit, it was immediately go time.
Whether you pulled into the lake driveway at dinnertime or arrived in the wee hours of the morning for the kids to discover wrapped in bed the next morning like a Christmas present, we were always excited to see you.
Quite frankly, we were all also relieved that you actually made it. To that point, one area where I can’t say I noticed any maturation or change, despite a decline in vision and reflexes, was your driving. You remained the dad who taught me at 16 how to take a corner like a Formula One race car driver and who was impressed by the “good time” I made when driving out to Nelson with the kids in 2018. During the second leg of that specific road trip, you met us in Kelowna to bike the trestles. This was a memorable experience and one that we talk about often. While it was the trestles that terrified the kids for me it was afterwards, while trying to follow you on the road. The kids still talk about the never heard before expletives I exclaimed as I watched you pass rows of cars and semi trucks, in tight places with the expectation that I follow suit. I tried my best to keep up but was eventually overcome by a car sick kid. After a while you noticed I wasn’t following you anymore and came back to find us. When I asked you ‘what was that’ and conveyed what I felt was the inherent driving etiquette when someone is following, you merely said you thought I could handle it…which shocked and flattered me at the same time.
Most recently this summer, while we drove in separate vehicles from Gambier to Lillooet Lake, I knew that despite leaving about 20 minutes before you that you would be covertly racing me. Being of your blood, I struggled with the dichotomy of not wanting to be out driven and the responsibility stemming from a truck full of kids. When I arrived at Mom and Lutz’s and you pulled up right behind me, I knew you were secretly satisfied to have caught up to me and I was content not to have been passed along the way. Despite finding your driving terrifying, it had to be said you were actually quite skilled at it.
I am so grateful for our visit this past summer. We could see that the year had been hard on you, but like you, we were unaware of the cancer growing inside your body. Even though you were ill, like always you rallied and joined in from the moment we picked you up at the boat launch at Porteau Cove. You went prawning with us, helped the kids build their forts, and skipped rocks with them at the beach. During that visit and in all your interactions with the kids you connected with them in that special way where you met them where they were at, showed interested in what they were into and incredibly knew something about the topic too. It is why they felt so close to you and were always so happy to see you.
The second part of the visit at Lillooet Lake was unforgettable for a couple of reasons. The first, was it was to be the last time we were physically with you. The second because the forest around us erupted in flames. As always, you spent your time at LL playing chess with the kids, going for family walks, engaging in psychoanalytic discussion (aka gossip) in the kitchen, animatedly discussing politics, and trying hard to elicit excitement from a disinterested crowd about your trading matrix. A few nights before you left to go home, a lightening storm caused forest fires which ravaged the mountainside across the lake as well as down the road from us. We spent the night helplessly watching as it burned, anxious and unsure of what to do and what would happen next.
The last year of your life was much like that forest fire. After yet again courageously rising from the ashes and embarking on a new chapter at Home Hardware, life took a drastic and unexpected turn with the pandemic. Being a well read and intelligent man, you realized the heavy and far reaching implications of what lay ahead. Having dealt with the effects of a compromised immune system for much of your life, you, like a lot of us, were scared. You retreated, most of us did. As a result, you and I didn’t connect as much. Old hurts, which seem so trivial now, clouded the way. I unknowingly fell trap to the very thing I often accused you of doing, assuming we had endless time and that the future was a given not a gift. I lost sight of the preciousness of the moment and now the bitterest tears shed are for words left unsaid.
The fact that your life ended with you being isolated, alone, and scared is something that weighs very heavily on me. I wish I could be with you for one more moment, to hold you and remind you mattered, you belonged and you were loved.
While I know it is not the impermanence that makes us suffer, it is the wanting of things to be permanent when they are not which causes pain, I can’t help but grieve for what will never be again. With Covid this past year, we weren’t able to get together over the holidays but it felt bearable because I believed it to be temporary. I didn’t realize that we would not spend another Christmas Reveillon at our house with the French Canadian side of our extended family. Never again would I get to watch you patiently sit on the couch reading with the boys or figuring out their latest Xmas present. You won’t ever again be on the floor playing Magnatiles or building lego with the kids. There won’t be another board game together. I will never again hear the sound of the boys squealing with delight as you chase them through the house moaning and walking like a Zombie as they scramble to the safety of the stairs.
When the kids and I were recently at Lillooet Lake, a place where we spent so many Thanksgivings, Easters and summers with you, it felt unnatural not to see you on the couch talking to us about politics and history. Your passion for the topics and ability to synthesize various concepts was so interesting. It felt eerily quiet not to hear you playing with the boys until the point of exhaustion when you would have to steal away for a nap.
After you died, I found that in the limited memory on your phone you kept videos of the kids sneaking up on you during some of these midday siestas. While you slept, the kids delighted in zooming into parts of your face and placing things on you. One of these items was the eraser end of a pencil, which they put it in your ear. It amazed but didn’t surprise me that you awoke from what seemed like a deep sleep with a playful roar and lunge towards them. This only made them laugh harder. You were always open to connecting and playing with them, despite what I now look back on and realize was your increasing fatigue.
While we didn’t get together in person as much this past year, you spent hours on FaceTime with the boys, particularly Tytan. With your work overalls on, you painted your basement while listening as intently as you could and asking questions as the kids chatted away. For Levy’s 6th birthday in January you participated in the challenge to draw a picture of him and made several versions for him to enjoy. A few weeks later when Tytan turned 11, you figured out how to download and play the online game Among Us. For his birthday and the weeks that followed you, the kids, Mom (your ex), Lutz (your husband in law), Louie (your ex-brother in law Pierre’s son), Celine and Tina (your ex-sisters in laws), and I played online together. Ten days later when Nash turned 9, you had prepared and figured out how to Zoom and joined the family call where we all showed Nash our redesigned Nashville logos. Yours was a hit. Later at your house in Nelson, I found the many practice sketches you had made in preparation.
Since your death, going through the motions of these holidays without you breaks my heart into pieces all over again. It isn’t merely in these traditional occasions where I notice your absence, it is in the fabric of my everyday life. I miss sharing in the little things with you dad (Gambier, the first day of school, lost teeth with new toothless grins, haircuts, artwork, weekend sports, Halloween, successes, challenges, new experiences, skiing, family outings as well all the sweet and silly moments). With each picture that I send, my reflex to include you in the family text now sadly abated, I wonder what you would have said? What funny one liner would you have come up with?
Einstein once said that our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation, for they are us; our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life. I see you in my children and it makes me feel, to a certain extent, that you are still with me.
It makes my heart ache that you won’t be around to speak to Tytan about your mutual interest in American politics. I always pictured the two of you one day relishing in one of your pass times of stirring up controversy on Republican blogs. I have wondered if there is a collective sense of relief on those sites now that Snerdgronk is suddenly quiet. As you know, I felt that you and Tytan had similar minds, ways of learning and feisty challenging rebellious spirits (the pre Grandpa Doug era). I wanted you to be one of his guides on how one navigates this conventional world with formidable unconventional intellect. He will particularly miss your jokes that even from a young age always made him laugh.
I also envisioned you continuing to connect with Nash on that tender level for you share the same kind, gentle, and sweet soul that is sometimes too pure and vulnerable for this world. I wanted you to be one of his male role models. I had hope you could continue to be one of his emotional safe spaces. I always figured you’d be one of a handful of people that could reach him when he gets stuck because of being wounded by the ruthlessness side of life or because he is entrenched in his set way of doing things and can’t see alternatives. You offering this type of guidance was something I always felt would benefit you both.
I will miss seeing you thoroughly enjoy and delight in Levan’s kinaesthetic prowess. I can still picture you saying, “Geez” while scrunching your eyes shut and shaking your head after one of his ridiculously athletic moves.
Dad, I don’t know if you ever knew this but after their dad of course, the boys considered you the second best family soccer player. Honestly, I thought you were pretty good too. It never ceased to surprise me that you were talented at so many things and knew something about everything.
Einstein also said to be the things you love most about those who are gone. In direct and indirect ways dad you inspired me.
I admired the resilient albeit slightly impulsive mantra by which you lived. If you wanted to do something, you just went for it and figure the rest out on the way. While your tolerance for chaos and pushing things to the edge was always greater than my sense of comfort, you taught me that if an opportunity doesn’t present itself, go and create it. If you get blocked while chasing that dream, then the challenge becomes to find a creative, ingenious and/or unconventional way around it. Death is the exception to this and I am still processing the fact that you won’t outsmart this situation and find a way back to us.
When I was around 13 you bought your sporty MR2. Soon after and on a whim one afternoon, we drove straight to Disneyland. The drive being your amusement park and the actual destination being mine. Adventures with you were always exciting, if not memorable and at times a little crazy. On the drive down, when I was hungry you asked why, since I hadn’t moved or expended energy. You later were reluctant to stop when I needed to use the washroom since, as you pointed out, I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink. At one point I awoke to find you, arms straight, eyes wide as the car came to a sudden stop following a tailspin. You had hit black ice as you tried to avoid a multi car pile up. You laughed as you animatedly recounted how someone who had been waving a cautionary road sign jumped out of the way at the last minute when they realized you had lost control. When we eventually made it to Disneyland safe and sound we were both taken aback by how magical it felt. We had such a special time. I still have the stuffed animal you bought me. It lives in Tytan’s bed and reminds me of our adventure. On the return home we drove up the coast. While I remember less about this portion, I do remember being grateful for the slowed pace.
Ironically the intimacy of that tiny two seater car came to symbolize a sense home and safety for me. It was in contrast to the (depending on how you looked at it) half demolish or half built home in which we lived. Before I moved to Victoria in grade 10, with the intention of building a large basement to top floor stairwell, you cut open the centre part of the house. It always surprised me to see the look of shock and confusion on my new friends’ faces as they took in our house. It was only in that moment through their eyes that I would actually see the house for what it was, temporary metal support posts and all. Like you Dad, I only viewed it through the lens of potential and lived in the image of the finished product. I’m still like that. During that year together, I had a lot of freedom. You were however very strict if not rigid about curfew. It always amazed me that being as time blind as you were (another trait we share) you held this dogmatic adherence to time agreements. As a result, you would sometimes pick me up (well before my friends I’d like to add) from whatever park I was at. Even though I hated leaving, there was something so wonderful about stepping down into your warm car with the Dire Straights Brother in Arms album invariably playing. It was like a safe little cocoon whisking me away from any teenage angst or awkwardness. You always acquiesced and wound the tape to my favourite song, Why Worry. When I play that song now, I feel transported back to that wonderfully feeling and moment in time. It makes me both sad and happy.
Your love of fast engines was pervasive throughout your life. The appreciation was so great that you would often imitate the sound that a car or motorbike would make as it went by, marvelling at its beauty. You rarely let lifestyle limitations hold you back from experiences. Desperate to drive the new 911 Porsche when it came out, you used your ingenuity to make it happen. At the time you had a Toyota sedan and were quite sure the dealership would see through your pretence of buying a Porsche. As a result, you found a private sale of a 924 Porsche and managed to take it out for a test drive. We drove directly to the dealership whereby you pretended it was your car and that you were considering an upgrade. Perhaps it was a different time or maybe it was because of your charismatic manner or both, but we were able to take the sports car out on our own. It was during that ride that I too developed an appreciation for the handling capabilities of a Porsche, particularly on hairpin turns.
In the early years when you moved to Victoria, you were captivated by sailboats. Our weekend visits almost always included walks along the Esquimalt boardwalk to the nearby marina so that you could wander the piers admiring the boats. Not long after that, you bought a CAL 20. With no real ocean experience, we began doing family sailing trips, you, mom and I. I vividly remember hanging on to the side rails for dear life as we almost capsized near Clover Point Park. Amazingly, and like in so many other instances, somehow we pulled through and you didn’t let it stop you. You went on to sail the Gulf island on your own.
Despite at times feeling excited, let down and baffled by how you always aimed high, set lofty goals and were driven by the hope this ambition fuelled, it was something unique and interesting about you. In real estate and in travel, you had a great ability to spot the deals, make your money stretch and see the value in experiences and property long before they became popular.
When I was 12, the company you worked for had a competition. The winner in each sales division got money towards a trip anywhere in the world. You were determined to win. Being the passionate, engaging, relationship focused person you were, you of course outsold those in your North American category and won. For good and for bad Dad, when you put your mind to something you were usually unstoppable. As always, you went for the biggest bang for your buck, and why not?! You organized for the two of us to go to the Cook Islands and Fiji. Just before we left, Fiji had a coup so we decided to spend the entire time on the island of Rarotonga in the Cook Islands.
This was our first taste of a tropical third world country and it appealed to us both. As our trip came to an end, the political climate in Fiji settled. Despite being financially stretched in a time before credit cards and lines of credit, you were determined we would seize the opportunity and go to Fiji. We flew into Nadi, which blew my young mind. You negotiated a deal for us to stay on the resort island of Mana for the entirety of our stay. It was quite possibly the closest to paradise as I’ve ever come in all my travels. Since breakfast was included, and we were on a tight budget you got me to fill my belly and pockets every morning. It really taught me how far you can make your dollar stretch when travelling. It was a skill that enabled me to later travel all over the world on a shoe string budget. We spent our days on the white sand beach, sitting next to the only topless tourist around. You told me that by being a single dad it made you seem unassuming and thus allowed you an advantage with the opposite sex. You always shared too much with me on that front. One unforgettable day, we went snorkelling and were both blown away by the beauty of the coral, the underwater colour explosion and how close we came to a shark. To this day, that snorkelling trip is one of the truly unique experiences of my life and is unparalleled by any other underwater expedition I have done. It always made me happy to tell you that as I know you would have loved to have travelled more than you did in your life.
When Cancun was hit by a Hurricane, you seized the opportunity to get cheap flights and so off we went on another adventure. Yet again you taught me the value of traveling on a budget by capitalizing on available opportunities as we would take the public bus from our city centre accommodation to the fancy hotel strip and spend the day by the pool and beach. For the second part of the trip we stayed in a lovely place on the ocean side town of Ciudad del Carmen. It is from there that we took a day trip to Chichen Itza. This Mayan site also remains one of my top travel experiences. Not one to miss a historically informative experience, you had me follow one of the French tours and translate the tales of sacrifices and offerings to Gods back to you. I will never forget the terror I felt as I looked down from the top of the pyramid you convinced me to scale. I don’t know how you got me to go up and then come down from there but I feel grateful that you did because people are no longer allowed on it and it really was an incredible unforgettable experience.
In so many areas in our life together, you pushed me past my comfort zone both on purpose and also because that was just how you ran your life. To a tween and teen who just yearns to be normal and have stability this was at times excruciating but in some areas I now emulate what you got me to experience and think of you as I do.
Before bike lanes were ever conceived and during our semimonthly weekend visits starting when I was seven, we would bike all over Victoria. Looking back on our journey together, I never realized what a big part biking played in what we did together nor did I appreciate what a shared value it was. While I was attending university, your life circumstances changed and you decided to return to school and finish your degree. We found ourselves at Uvic at the same time. While we never took any classes together, a prospect that intimated me, we would often meet up in the common area and ride to/from school together.
After I graduated, every June, mom and I would return on our bikes to Victoria for your birthday. You would meet us at the ferry terminal in Swartz Bay and we would all cycle along the Lockside trail to your place for an overnight visit. It was during those visits that I would find you and mom reading each others Taro Cards. It was always such a staunch reminder of your deep esoteric connection and my hippie roots.
To this day as I opt for my bike over driving any chance I can, I think of you. I remember our little rituals of biking to get cream cheese bagels with sprouts on Yates street and Ukrainian Pocket Pies on Fort street. It was there that you would excitedly draw out your latest house design idea onto a napkin. The goal of having a house support itself with suites has been prevalent and consistent through my lifetime with you. Dad, with a little last bit of help from us, you achieved your goal. Your house in Nelson is finished and rented, supporting itself as well as your beloved grandchildren. I now think of you now as I embark on my own project of bringing all my little napkin drawings to fruition. I never told you our plan because I wanted to surprise you with something tangible on your next visit. It makes me sad that I never got to show you just how much I was listening, watching and trying to emulate what you valued.
One area in which I continually and with great challenge strive to be like you is your wholehearted curiosity of people and ideas. Not only were you one of the most interesting people I have ever known but you were also the most interested too. You had an ability to engage and connect with just about anybody and on any topic. You truly embodied seeing the gift people had to offer and giving everyone a chance. With your passing, I feel the world has lost one of its rare, unique, gentle and deeply kind souls. While you live on in me and the boys, you will be forever missed. I will endeavour to honour you by looking for the uniqueness each person has to offer, to treat people with compassion and contribute positively to the collective fibre that joins us all. Despite fear and anxiety, I will pursue my dreams, be they big or small, in honour of the biggest dreamer I’ve ever known, my dad, Doug Graham.
Bye Dad, I love you and I miss you!