It’s been awhile since I got that call from Ottawa saying that you’d passed. And your death has really affected the family in the meantime. I think this has to do with the fact that we discount the influence of certain individuals in our lives until they’re gone. And then we only have our memories, mementos, and ‘should haves’, ‘could haves’, and ‘would haves’. Sometimes it feels like your funeral hasn’t ended; as if there’s something unfinished. Like there are still many tears and laughs to be spilled awkwardly and collectively before we can pick up and move forward.

As you knew, Grandpa, our minds have ways of playing tricks on us, and guilt, regret, and remembrance can be a powerful poison as well as a tonic. Some deaths bring families together, some drive them apart, and others simply solidify positions that were forming long before. And yours? Who knows. All I know is I think of you whenever I see blue Christmas lights. Take care. Love Daniel.

P.S. Shannon remembers you fondly and she loved playing guitar and singing for you during that visit from London to Toronto by train all those years ago. A decade now? How time has flown.

Dad, it's been five years to the morning you took your last breath. I will never forget that day and I'll never forgive myself for being too late to say good-bye. I watched for 45 minutes while you struggled to live and I closed your eyes when your body finally gave up its good fight. Karoline and I brought the boys to see you this morning, to say hi and to remember. Jack and Aaron both threw pennies in the wish fountain and I'm pretty sure that Aaron's wish was for you to be alive again. You never met him but he has a lively spirit that you would have enjoyed. Jack turns seven this weekend, becoming a young man much too quickly for my liking. Take care of yourself. We miss you.

Rob

My father always had a lot of nice things, including art, sculpture, Dicken's collectable houses, baskets and masks from Africa, books, framing equipment, and much much more. I felt lucky when my sister sent me a small packet of unframed art pieces when he passed. I was also thrilled to receive a long-cherished vase that he had owned. I have no idea what happened to everything else.

I know my father asked me to take his entire art collection many times over the last years of his life but I didn't do as he asked for a number of reasons. Instead, he put together a few items that he really wanted me to have but no one in my family would put them in the mail for him. When you hear your elderly father crying on a long distance call because he feels helpless for the first time in his life, it breaks something inside of you. I kept telling him that it didn't matter but it did matter to him.

Eventually, my older brother went to Toronto to see my father and rather than mail the packet to me as he promised my father, he took it back home with him to Alberta, along with a lot of other valuable things, with no one's permission. This is undoubtedly the most evil thing he has ever done to me, especially considering how many things I have given him over the years and since he didn't give me one thing besides a Doobie Brothers album when I was 15. He just didn't care that my father wanted me to have some specific things (or maybe he did and was jealous) and he didn't care that my father had spent a long time going through his art collection and choosing them for me. The problem is that I will never know what my father chose for me and that makes me sad.

I haven't opened that small packet of art that I was sent after my father's death yet. I know almost five years have passed but I didn't think I could stand it. I thought if I opened the package my heart would break into a million pieces. I am not so sure that isn't still true. I know it sounds like I lack courage and in some ways you'd be correct. But I remember sitting in the basement of our house when I was just a kid and watching my father mat and frame pictures while listening to the radio. Through the years I was there when he matted and framed hundreds more when I worked with him at his gallery as a teenager, and also at home when he was watching football. I can see all of them in my mind's eye. It brings me right back to his act of creation. My father was a brilliant colourist and had quite a talent for choosing the perfect matboard and framing materials for each and every picture he framed and I remember most of them. That's the tough part.

You know, I have always tried to do the right thing and not cause trouble. But sometimes I sided with my father because he was right or because he needed someone to stand up for him or sometimes, just because he was my father and I loved him and I had allegiance to him. This often left me ostracized by the rest of the family. It left me alone and isolated.

When you live away from your family and don't have the luxury of seeing relatives on a regular basis, life can become a crazy complicated set of circumstances. I always really tried to remember everyone's births, birthdays, anniversaries, attended graduations, sent money for report cards, made visits during summer holidays and on Christmas breaks, and I tried to phone my mother and father almost every day and did for years, even when I could barely afford it during those years when telecoms didn't offer great long distance packages.

But at the end of the day, it wasn't enough, not nearly. When my father died I wasn't allowed to contribute any ideas of what should be done next, even though my father had spoken to me many times about what he wanted. All aspects of his memorial and cremation were simply communicated to me as a series of done details. The entire experience was nightmarish to me. I was left with very few delusions about my position in the family and my value as a member. As the eldest daughter and someone my father loved and was very close to, I deserved better. A lot better. So did my father.

For all of you out there who live within a few hours travel or closer to significant others, Rejoice! Be happy that you are close enough geographically to make a difference, but don't downplay what others contribute. I know that I made a huge difference to my father's life; he told me unequivocally that my ongoing telephone and postal communications with him made his life that much more worth living. He said I kept him going long after he was ready to go.

The moral of the story is that a family comes together and each makes a significant contribution, in their own way. I know my maternal grandfather left Ireland when he was only 16 and came to Canada to make a new life. Do I think his parents missed him? Surely! Do I think his siblings made him feel unworthy of family love and guilty because he wasn't able to be there like those left behind? Not for a minute.

I love you, Dad. I will always miss you.

Next week my father will be gone from my life for five years. I have made an effort not to write anything that may be considered controversial but I have decided that it is time to try and express how my father's death has caused a reverberation of enlightenment and pain for me.

My older brother, his wife, and kids have lived out west for years. There was a time when we all lived in the same city, but they went away to make their fortune. In the intervening years I divorced, was a single parent, went back to school full-time and had part-time work to boot.

One day I got a phone call from my sister-in-law Ramona telling me that her mother was in hospital and she needed me to go directly to the ICU, which was like asking me to cut off a finger. I am not a particular fan of hospitals.

To make a long story short, for the next year, I spent every minute of my spare time at the hospital trying to look after Ramona's mother. I read ancient poetry and literature to her in the ICU when she was unconscious and did all my homework and studying at the hospital, which wasn't easy since I was studying Ancient Greek at the time. I also dragged my son there almost every day. I have to say that his behaviour during those difficult days is one of the reasons that I love him as much as I do. He never complained, even when he had every right to. He even spent Christmas at the hospital as Mrs. Bowie came out of her coma and was well aware of her surroundings.

During that year at the hospital I learned a lot about myself and people, in general. I hosted Ramona at my home and took very good care of her for many weeks while she sat by her mother's bed.

When my father passed I expected her to pick up a phone, send a card, or write an email to express some sympathy for my father's death, but I was left bereft. I guess if we hadn't been close friends for years, if I hadn't sent her clothes, food and money for her kids over the years, and if I had not taken care of her mother and helped to clean out her mother's home and loved her mother as much as I had, I could make some sense out of it. I used to walk three miles to visit her mother, even in the winter after a long day at school.

This stands as one of the most painful and unexplainable circumstances of my life. Not because my sister-in-law is anything special, but because it is an example of how a decent person who tries to do the right thing every day can be sucked into believing that they will also be treated decently. This does not always happen in families. Ramona knew how close I was with my father but at the end of the day she didn't care about me and she didn't respect what I had done for her and for her mother. Her mother would be very disappointed with her.

Irregardless, spending that intense time with Ida Bowie has been one of the most wonderful periods of my life. I loved her and she loved me. She had the greatest stories to tell. May she always rest in peace.

I have many albums of Mason family photos, belonging to your first cousin the former Stephen Clark son of Moira, since 1993 Stephen A. Norris.
Stephen is now in the later stages of Huntington's disease and is a patient in the Continuing Care unit of St. Mary's of the Lake Hospital , Kingston Ontario

We are growing some organic herbs and veggies this year.

Red Basil



Nufar Basil



Oregano and Thyme



Roma Tomatoes



Ripening Romas



Summer Vegetables

An August Tea Party at My House. Some copies of Moby's book about his tea restaurant in New York are on the table. Notice the Raku vase centerpiece, created by Erin McArthur.

Bon Anniversaire, Grandpa! Le temps passe vite, n'est-ce pas? La vie ici est assez mouvementée. Le printemps et l'été ont été à ce jour belle de Terre-Neuve.

Certaines mauvaises nouvelles: Grand-mère est à l'hôpital. Elle s'est cassé la hanche. Pour la deuxième fois! C'est aujourd'hui le fete de Jacob, ainsi, et je parle avec lui plus tôt. Il a déjeuné hier avec Mary et dit qu'elle est la pire qu'il a vu. nous espérons que bientôt elle va mieux.

Shannon et moi sont en train de préparer pour les visiteurs d'été. Nous avons un ami de lycée qui arrive dans une semaine, puis Gerry, puis les parents de Shannon arrivent. Il sera le 22 août avant de la maison est encore calme.

Encore une fois, Joyeux Anniversaire. Je t'aime et que vous manquez

Jack, Aaron and I visited Dad's grave this morning. He would have been 81 today. It was a beautiful morning and the cemetery felt very peaceful. I gave each of the boys a penny to throw into a fountain near Dad's grave and asked each to make a silent wish. It turned out that they both wished they could see their grandfathers again (Aaron actually wished he could meet Dad for the first time). The sad occasion was made happy by the beauty and innocence of my sons.

Rob

Today would be my father's birthday. He taught me a lot about gardening and flowers, which he loved. This slideshow, with music, is my way of saying thanks for all the flowers and all the memories and all the love.

http://moyak.com/ron/birthday2009/

Miss you, Dad.

Love Moya

Moya,
Reading your words to your father, looking at the photos you send to him, made me cry. It is like me missing my mother. I know it is hard and after six years I miss her deeply.
Best regards for you and your family. I wish you well.

From BC, Ely

I wish you had more visitors here.

Love you

I haven't owned a television for about 15 years, but recently I started watching Frasier online at Justin TV. It makes me miss my father that much more. I love you, Dad.

Hi, Dad:

I love you!

My father really liked windmills. He bought me one when he was in Holland in the early 1990s. Here's a windmill sculpture from the Guggenheim.



Always love you, Dad. Miss you.

Dad, it's been four years since you've left us. This morning, Jack, Aaron and I said a little prayer for you and remembered the hour of your passing. My boys have grown healthy, strong and beautiful over the years. Jack, who called you Grandpa Bobo when you were still with us, turns 6 on Saturday. We are having a great big party for him and his friends. Aaron, who never met you in life but who has heard much about you, turned 3 in December. Life is not always easy but the boys are a true blessing that I'm very thankful for.

There is a terrible snowstorm in Toronto today but we plan to visit you in the next couple of days. I hope you are warm and happy wherever you are.

Love,
Rob

Hi Grandpa,

I’m thinking about you today on this morbid anniversary. I don’t think about you often, and I’m sorry for that. I’m still in that young, self-absorbed stage of life. When I do think about you, I picture you bent over the oven on Waterford Bridge Road, pulling out a tray of all-spice cookies early in the morning. I remember you made so many cookies that we had bags upon bags of them in the deep freeze for weeks. And I remember you in your big orange coveralls that you probably got through your offshore work. No matter the season, planting bulbs, shoveling snow or trimming trees, you had those coveralls on. I remember you had them on when you built me a snow fort with a wooden ceiling and pillars to support it… I just want you to know that I have fond memories of you and I miss you. Love, Daniel.

I've had a difficult time getting over my father's death. When I read the following quote from Eleanor Roosevelt, I thought it might help others who read here.

"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, "I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along." The danger lies in refusing to face the fear, in not daring to come to grips with it... You must do the thing you think you cannot do."

My father didn't live long enough to see Barack Obama become president, but I know he would be thrilled. He raised me with a healthy respect for civil rights, justice, freedom, and public consciousness. I remember he gave me a record album of Martin Luther King speeches. The accompanying book had the text of the speeches and photographs. One thing I thought as I cried my way through Obama's acceptance speech was that Teddy Kennedy lived to see a man like Barack take the presidency. When his brothers were assassinated there was a lot of speculation that their concern for freedom and civil rights, in part, led to their deaths. I am thankful that Teddy lived long enough to see their dream come true. I hope Caroline will play some role in the new cabinet.

Congratulations to the Obamas!

Miss you, Daddy.

I miss you, Dad. I thought you would like to see the Lady. Miss you very much.

Love Moya

Thinking of you, Dad, on this sunny Sunday afternoon. I am in the midst of reevaluating my life and deciding on what to do next. I wish you were here to talk and walk me through; a man who remade himself so many times and who had so many interesting careers. Love Moya

Hi, Tracy, I am glad you have found comfort here. My Father would enjoy knowing. Thank you. I hope in the days ahead, you will find your way through the darkness.

Thank you for posting the poems and thoughts about your father. As I prepare to inter my young sister with my parents, I found comfort and inspiration. Thank you.

My father really liked Easter. He always made sure to bring home many Easter goodies for us. He and Mom put together a great dinner each year. I miss those days. Happy Easter, Dad.

Thinking of you, Dad. Love Moya

I woke in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, sleepless and mindful. I thought about what had woken me and I realized it was a dream about my father and the birthmark on his arm. I tried not to get worked up but I couldn't stop myself from thinking of that birthmark and the morning he died. I need to look through the few pictures we have of my father and see if I can find one that shows his birthmark. It reminds me of my childhood. Love you, Dad.

This is the third anniversary of my father's death. These past three years have been very tough for me, even though I know my father wouldn't like to know how I've suffered.

I couldn't sleep that well last night and as I lay there I thought about how Dad must have been scared lying there all by himself, pressing a buzzer, waiting for help. I wondered if he knew when the pain came that the end was near. I was very close to my father but I didn't have a bad feeling. I actually slept through his death because I was still asleep when the phone call came.

I've learned so much more about these long-term care facilities since he died and if I let myself dwell on the details, I'm sure I would go mad.

Dad, my love for you is as wide as an ocean. I send you my love on this very sad day.

Thinking of you, Dad. Miss you lots.