My Dad loved watching curling. He would have loved to watch the Newfoundland team doing so well. I have watched the games for him and am learning more each time. I can understand why he liked it so much. They are going for a gold medal tomorrow and I am planning to watch the game.

Here's thinking of you, Dad. Miss you every single day.

Love you,
Moya

We want to thank you for your message about our father. I could picture everything you described because I got to visit Stratford in the late 90s with a friend of mine. It is a very beautiful town. I have actually considered moving there.

Thanks for taking the time.
Moya

I just happened on your website while searching for some information, working from my home in Stratford Ontario. I have spent the past few minutes reading about your fathers life. These memorial pages are a beautiful tribute to someone who obviously touched the lives of many people. I often eat lunch on a bench by the river that is not fifty feet from your dad's childhood home. I go there to relax, think and watch the progress of one particular pair of swans who make their nest there, every year, in a hollowed out tree stump on the bank. Just across the street, about one hundred feet to the East of the house (in millennium park) they have recently planted the Birnham Wood Arboretum which is adjacent to beautiful gardens, lily ponds and a nature trail, as well as the Stratford Art Gallery. After reading about your dad I couldn't help but think that he would like how his old neighbourhood has turned out

It's been a year now since our father has passed away, a year of contemplation about our own lives and how we live them. His death made me understand that this is not a dress rehersal, we get one shot to live our lives fully and compassionately.

When I pass I hope to be remembered for the good I did, for my father did much good. I hope to be remembered for the love I share with friends and family for he loved us and his friends had many laughs in his company.

I miss my father, but know he helps to guide my steps. I weep for our loss but know my dad is resting peacefully with his mom and dad waiting for us to join them.

I leave this poem for us - for our father - a tribute to our love for him and the loss we feel each day we live our lives.

GoodBye

I need to say goodbye although you're with me. I stand beside your grave, yet you are here.

I miss you terribly and hope you miss me,
But when I turn to you, you're always near.

I talk to you as though you lived within me,
Not changed but simply moved in from outside.
I know each day you must a little leave me,
But here, as always, you must be my guide.

You were and are and will be, just as ever,
In many minds and hearts, not only mine.
No physical event can such love sever;
Death is a dimension, not a line.

And so goodbye does not mean you are gone:
So long as I still love you, you live on.

Love you Dad

Dad, it has been a year since you left and now a year and two days since we last spoke. We visited your grave today and left you a dozen yellow roses. We also played you some music that we think you would have enjoyed. Jack was a little confused about where you are but in any event he remembers and loves you. Aaron, our new addition, visited you for the first time. I will never forget the morning that you died and I still find it difficult to dwell too long on your passing. I wish you all the best and do hope you are somewhere looking down on us.

Love,
Rob

Hi, Dad:

It's been a year since you passed away. A year today. I stayed up late last night so that I would sleep past the exact time this morning. It is still so fresh, the pain. A year has taught me a lot about myself and the people around me. It hasn't made me any stronger. Not at all. I counted on you to be here and now you aren't. I can say that I know I have to accept it and I do, but just barely. I haven't traveled that far, it seems. My inner thoughts tell me that I won't accept your passing anymore than I do this day. I have to accept that, too. Sometimes I have to stuff my thoughts of you down and try to block them out because releasing them and mulling them over hurt too much. I feel bad that I do this, but sometimes I have to.

Louis has made sure that there are vases of flowers around me to help keep my spirits up and we keep very busy with work, just like you always did. I am still in touch with Aunt Kim and that connection has helped me learn more about you. I couldn't get to the old house today because the winter has finally shown its face and it is very cold, too cold for me to go out.

But I also celebrate your life by remembering your accomplishments and how much you taught me about so many things. I think of the days when I would visit you at MUN and when I worked at the art gallery. I often think of you out in the garden and how much you loved being outside. Mostly I think of when we would talk on the phone and how many laughs we would have. I love you, Dad. I love you very much and miss you more than I can say.

I stumbled on this website after looking for a song of mourning that was sung on Star Gate Atlantis tonight. I never knew the man, but after taking a look around, he was loved very much. May he rest in peace and stay in your hearts forever.

-Adam

Thanks for your kind words, Adam.

The one year anniversary of my father's death is drawing near. January 28th is the date. I have sent a donation to his old school to mark the milestone.

I miss my father every day. I keep wishing he had had a good enough doctor to pick up the signs that are apparently common enough among people with blockages. It seems surreal to me that he was neglected in that fashion. After all, he was at a very good facility.

I have decided to mark the anniversary by doing a few things: I am starting a fast of sorts tomorrow and continuing until Saturday. I will basically be drinking lots of water, green tea, and an assortment of fresh juices. Over the week, I am also going to visit places around town that remind me of my father. Waterford Bridge Road, the Hill, the barrons, his old art gallery, the harbour, and other places. I will try and digitally document my treks and post them here.

When the crows caw and the seagulls squawk and the songbirds sing, I always answer them. I know it is you sending your love and wishing me the best, Dad.

I love you, Dad. I miss our fine chats. I'll be thinking of you when Brad curls in the Olympics. I'm real sorry you will miss all that.

Happy New Year, Dad. It has been almost a year since you died. I still feel sharply the pain of your sudden passing and the guilt for not having done more for you. I guess we always have regrets, none more so than when a loved one dies. Your beloved grandson Jack will turn three in a couple of weeks. He still talks about and remembers you (although his actual memories will soon fade since he wasn't quite two when you left). Your new grandson Aaron is about five weeks old and seems to be doing well. I will be in touch soon and hope you are at peace.

Love,
Rob

I missed you a lot this holiday season, Dad. My first without you. It was tough, especially since you were the one who loved Christmas the most. I did put up some lights and had vases of flowers around to mark the occasion. Dan made the day by coming up for dinner.

You gave me a book of poems when I was young. This poem was always a favourite of mine.

Miss you....

"Christmas Bells" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Hi Dad,

The closer we get to Christmas the more I am haunted by your leaving. I miss you so much I can hardly sleep at night. I am remembering last Christmas, I should have gone to see you, I shouldn't have waited. It troubles me greatly that I missed that chance to spend a few days alone with you. But between the weather and sick kids I didn't go, I don't think I will ever get over that.

Another Christmas is upon us now and it will be the first one you are not here. I wish it was February, I wish we didn't actually have to go through all the motions of pretending to have a Happy Holiday. I don't think it will be happy. I will again be driving to Toronto and this time you won't be there. I remember taking you to the Smoke Meat Restaurant you liked so much by Robert's house, sitting on the patio and drinking a draught. I wish we could do that again. It saddens me that your loss is still so fresh in everyone's memory.

When I look back at Christmas on Waterford Bridge Road, it was amazing. So much food and hand made goodies, our friends loved coming to our house, they loved the smell of fresh baked bread and turnovers. I loved the egg nog, Dan loved the endless supply of mashed potatoes. I loved watching Indigo sit by the fire, boy I miss that dog. He was well loved that's for sure.

So another year. Well the good news is you are a grandfather yet again. Robert has had another baby boy. His name is Aaron Robert Lavoie Mason. He will carry on your family name with pride. I can't wait to see him, his pictures look so beautiful. I wish you were here to hold him

I will write you again through the holidays, somehow it makes me feel better after I write here, I hope you know how much you were loved.

Love you Dad,

Lisa

Hi, Dad:

I know how much you love American Thanksgiving. Happy Thanksgiving, where ever you are.

I woke up screaming and crying last week. I dreamt that you and I were on the top of Road Deluxe, at the corner of Topsail Road, and you were trying to say goodbye to me. I was hanging on to you and begging you not to leave, not to go on your trip. You had on a steel grey 3/4 length coat and a hat, which was a style you never usually wear.

I never dream like that. My heart almost broke. Lou woke up and tried to console me. I really can't be consoled. I try to cope. There's nothing else for me. That's the best I can do.

Lou and I walked and walked last night -- up on those dark quiet trails that skirt through Pippy Park. It was warm and so we walked for three hours, using a flashlight from time to time.

You kept popping into my mind; I kept hearing your voice.

I'm past talking about my feelings and thoughts of you these days. I understand that the people around me have heard everything I have to say. So, I am thankful to be so busy at work.

It's the nights that freak me out now. The darkness has stuff mixed in with it these days. I don't sleep very much.

I know I am a broken person. I can feel it. I feel fragmented and rearranged. I understand loneliness more than ever before. I actually understand you better. Gosh, I miss you more than I can say. Sometimes I feel like a baby. I figure someone will tell me to buck up and get on with it, if they only knew the weight I am bearing.

But am I better than I was at the beginning of this journey. I still find it startling you are not here. But I remember you so well and am so grateful you were my father. I am also filled with grief and love and empathy and tears and so much more understanding.

I love you, Dad. I love you for all the good you gave me and all the rides to the stadium and all the stained glass and tea biscuits on Christmas mornings and chats as you dug out the driveway and the bread you baked us all on Sunday afternoons and the work ethic you passed along and for your ability to live life to the fullest, no matter what. And because you gave us Mom.

Miss you desperately.

There are times when I am sitting at my computer and working through emails or just surfing the web looking for world news or interesting stuff when overwhelming grief will grip me about someone I have lost. I do not know why but I find myself typing the names of my lost loved ones in my Google search bar. It's as if I will find them. It's an undescribale feeling that they are just lost, not gone. Anyway, I had a Grandpa Bobo when I was little. He used to make shrunken apple heads and he had the largest bunny I have ever seen in my entire life... appropriatly named "Buggs". He loved playing the Bango and was extremely good at it. I didn't get to spend much time with him since he earned his living as a truck driver, but I loved hime very much and the small amounts of time we had together, I have always treasured. When I typed in Grandpa Bobo today and found your web site, I was moved. My sympathies are with you. Sincerely, Kye.

Miss you, Dad. Think of you all of the time.

Dear Dad,

Lately I am feeling very sad that you have gone away. So many things are happening that I could have used your advice on. I wish you were still here, my strength is draining and I am not sure I can keep up with life the way it is racing. You always had a way of keeping up, giving more, I know this because I got the same trait from you.

I have moved - yet again. I hope this time I won't move for awhile. The kids are very happy about the move, we are back in the city and Chantal is thrilled. You know she turns 17 on Oct 13. Can you believe it? Where has all the time gone? It slips away too fast. Some days seem to drag on forever, but then a month has gone by and you wonder where it went. I wish this month would be gone so I didn't have to live through it.

However, it will be soon enough and then November will be upon us. You know Rob is having another baby boy? What fun it will be for Jack to have a younger brother. He loves to play and will enjoy having a sibling, I am sure of this.

I am hoping Moya will come up and visit us. There have been terrible storms through New Orleans and Louis and her have been really worried about friends and family. I hope this situation resolves itself and she will come up and visit. I would love to spend time with her.

Jacob is doing well in school and is now with friends after school, a real treat for him. He really enjoys playing with the gang and swims every night at our new house. The facility has a huge pool and the kids love it.
I have a roommate again and his kids are Jacob's age. They get along so well.

That's all for now dad. Wish you were here, wish I could see you and have muffins and tea, put my feet up and forget about what is happening. Take care of yourself, wherever you are.

Miss you greatly - Wish you had not gone. Sure could use a hug right now.

lisa

I think about you every day, Dad, and wish you were still here. They say that the entire point of psychotherapy is to convince people to live in the moment and not yearn for a second chance at the past. It is an unbelievably difficult thing to achieve. I wish we could chat again. I sometimes still come home and expect to hear a message from you on the answering machine.

I thought of you a lot the last few weeks when I saw how many older folks were evacuated out of parts of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Texas. Especially the ones who weren't lucky enough to escape. I wondered who would have rescued you. It is heart-breaking to watch the suffering on television.

Cajun country -- the part of Louisiana that Louis is from (where I used to live) is currently being slammed by Hurricane Rita. Lake Arthur, the site of many conversations and computer lessons between us is now evacuated and probably close to being underwater. The old oaks, beautiful homes, animals, a way of life, and mostly the good people are in trouble tonight. Louis' family and friends are in harms way tonight in Lafayette, Houston, Abbeville, Lake Charles, New Orleans, Morgan City, and many other places across the region. We are hoping for the best.

I love you.

Like the rest of the family, I think of you all the time, Dad. I realize that the mistake I've made most of my life is to always live in the future. I can remember saying to my son, "when I get to live my real life, I will....." Now, I realize that this is my real life and the only thing any of us has is this moment. As my brother always said: "we must seize it." I am trying. I always thought that you would be there whenever I got it together enough to travel. I didn't realize that you wouldn't be able to wait for me. I don't blame you. I have tore my guts inside and out because I was too stupid to live in the moment and understand that life doesn't just wait until you catch up and smarten up. I stupidly thought that you, my beloved father, would live forever. Coming home tonight I remembered you weren't here anymore. It is so hard for me. My friend Nicholas just asked me: "How about you, kid? It hasn't been that long. Has the day yet passed when you didn't think about your father? I hope so. Because it never leaves you, but it fades a bit after the first day without regret. Been there, still there. Guilt. The conversations we had about Montaigne, and the conversations we will never have." And never will.

Nick and I also talked about Home and what it means. Lisa and her kids came to visit, Dad. They left to go home last week. We tried to go many of the places that you used to take us to like Portugal Cove, Ferryland, and St. Mary's Bay where Chris and Mary Pratt live. We also visited Mount Scio Road and Waterford Bridge Road. As you know, both houses are gone. Sometimes I wonder if we ever really lived there. The evidence is so long gone. Nature has seen fit to take back its rightful place and everything looks so different. All that life and love and meals and the totality of our young lives has no definitive dimensions anymore. Was everything wiped out? Is that where it all went wrong? The spirit of Home was lost and tossed into the atmosphere of the Universe? I don't really believe that. There was too much to it. Mom's love and all her meals and all the times she waited up to listen to what had happened to us and to see if we needed her gentle voice to see us through the night. I know I did many times. She wasn't judgmental. Thank God for that.

Lisa and her wonderful kids and my little family had a great time while she was here. Lisa wasn't very well and I suppose, in part, it had a lot to do with coming Home. Sometimes our bodies know a lot more than we do. Where is home? Is it where the Heart is? Is it where we feel the most comfortable? Is it where our loved ones are? Is it where we were born? Is it a Montage of all of the above? Perhaps. A lot of the time I feel Home when I am near the ocean and out in the woods...picking berries, hiking, connecting with Nature. You instilled that in us, Dad. Aunt Kim said that she feels that way, too. The farm in Fruitland? Other influences that we don't know about?

Lately, I have tried to break down our relationship...take away the frills and those fantasy aspects we all throw in once someone has passed on. I did this, just to see if my grief was still on par. It was. I know you made a hundred million mistakes with us. You knew it, too, at the end, but for some reason, I always loved you just the same. I know when we were planning my Dan's christening, Mrs. Jackman and I decided that we would postpone it until you were ready. It only took you five months. You were a big enough person to find your way to be with us. I always remembered that. A person can make a mistake and still move forward and make things all right.

Yes, I know that there are people out there wondering why we couldn't get it right the first time. Wondering why we weren't the Cleaver family from T.V. land. I am glad we weren't. For the most part, you and Mom accepted us for what we were and how we wanted to live our lives. I am totally glad about that. I don't know. It is all so complicated. I contend we live our lives the very best we can and that we don't mean to hurt those around us. I really do believe that. The very best thing that you gave us was Acceptance. What else can you ask for in life? The rest is just the dressing. I know that you loved us so very much, and like Aunt Kim says: You loved Mom to distraction. You thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. And she was!

There's so much of my own life I wish I could relive. I understand what you meant, Dad. I understand that if we could do it all over again, we might do it different. I would try to live more for THIS day. If I had, I would have seen you alive, wouldn't I? I can't take any of it back. I can't ever push your wheelchair down the hall and cut your apple for you. But one thing I do know is that I loved you the very best that I could with the skills and experience I had when you were here. I know that it might not have been the best, but it was every single thing that I could offer you at the time. Doesn't that count for something? Does it count for something that I really really did try my best to be there for you when you were here? I pray that it was at least something. I offered it all with love. Don't ever forget that part. I've been through the mill and back again, and I am hoping I can get through to the other side of this and find the peace I KNOW you would want me to have.

The reason I am writing all of this is to let you know that I understand the mistakes I've made. I know that I can't take them back. I know they were all part of the Dance. BUT: I have to live for now. I hate that you aren't here anymore and that I won't be able to take care of you. YES!!! I hate it, but I know I must go forth and do my best. Lisa's visit here made so much of a difference. Even though she was sick, she brought life here, to me. She showed me I could be okay again if I tried. I want to try. There are people counting on me. It seems like a miracle to look forward -- to see all the minutes in front of me come hopping along with something marvelous in them, instead of just saying: well, that one didn't actually hurt and the next one may be bearable. I love you so much and miss you. I know you made the most of the life you were given at birth. That wasn't a cake walk in the park, was it? You made the most of it and tried to have a laugh and a dance. God Bless you.

Here is a poem for you:

Something Out of Nothing

I still carry with me the first
fork I ever ate with. All else has been lost,
stolen, borrowed, maybe it's the kind of thing
I'll take in the coffin with me, my rosebud;
mouths are important symbolically and even
without symbols, it is where the poems and prayers
emerged, the exhalation of spirit, it is where kisses
drew the summer air, and when the curses came, the
exclamations that negotiated me in God, the thank
you at the Xmas gift, the first plea for rejoinment
to the womb, the name of beauty, the lovely names
of friends who scattered shadows. This fork is stainless,
and rather mundane. If there is a feature on it I will
keep it to myself, it is that private, unlike everything
else I have spoken and said. And yet it is the final thing
I don't know what God means by; all else is gone, my father's
first transistor, first eyeglasses, 1964 muscle
magazines, so He must mean something by it, leaving
me this, as if a mouth must be something to Him,
a place from which to carol eternity, his gift of
song and life.

I use this fork, and if I lose it, I
will find one more last thing to make a fuss over, always one last thing; it is last things that are important, what I would take with me; I would, rather than a fork, your blue eyes taken to my soul or the poem almost finished and filled with
everything, or the sublimity of an afternoon alone when
all friends form a confluence like a ring around your
heart; but the fork is also where I've been, cities
and witness in a stupid way to all the drama, was the fork
sleeping through all that? I look at it and it almost remembers for me the things I thought grander than eating; just a kitchen
table, mother, first breakfasts as if all social animals
crept out of the mire of weaning and placement of dishes
and adults in conversation while the child revels in his
own particular fork.

I would take so much, but we always travelled light
in our family, and this is the best thing I could have
been left, and where it ends up is maybe a box
carted into a secondhand store with invisible
stories that stalk the earth. It's good it is only a fork.
Because it is the same with the gorgeous things
we are to each other, memories or books or
lifting a child to the air, it is something you do not
resent God for taking -- a fork, it is where you started,
as simple as that, with the cartloads heard as
your heart goes away, heavy with crowns, tiaras,
love affairs and blood. You can't hear your life
crying, that's the beauty of the fork. It is the
beginning you could almost take up again, as if nothing had
happened, between your mouth and your hand, like the
first take, like the first frames, before God says action;
you are ready, and you miss nothing, yet. -- From "Living in Paradise" by Pier Giorgio Di Cicco.

Dad, I just wanted you to know that I'm thinking of you today. Not for any particular reason. I'm just about to leave work and realized that a year ago I would probably be heading to see you before I made my way home. Did I mention before that Chantel and I are having another son? Well, sleep peacefully wherever you are tonight.

Rob

Our father died six months ago this morning. Despite the passing of half a year, my memory of that morning remains as vivid as ever. I suppose it will never really fade but hopefuly will become blunter, less painful over the years. I plan to visit my Dad's grave this evening and will play for him the latest slideshow assembled by Moya and Louis. I will pass on to him everyone's best wishes, love and regrets. I don't expect any answers or revelations - just silence, calm and hopefully, peace.

Six months today? I would swear that it was but three. Certainly not six. Rob mentioned being with Dad that morning he died. I cannot imagine how painful and awful it must have been to be there because Dad couldn't be saved. Rob had to stand for all of us that morning, pleading with the universe to save our father, but it wasn't to be. All the same, what an honour it was for Rob to be there when Dad died. Difficult but an honour all the same.

I remember being with the Power family when their Dad died. I was with them when he drew his final breath. It was during the time I took care of Mrs. Bowie and we got close to several families who were also spending their days in ICU.

I still have such a lot of grief. Not so so raw as it once was but a lot all the same. Sometimes more than what is good for me. A measure of Dad's sway over my life or some sign of incredible weakness on my part that I still feel that veil of blackness and lack of joy almost every day? Maybe a lack of closure? I am soft like my father was. Probably too soft for my own good.

I spoke to a neighbor of mine today about Dad and told him how I haven't been feeling all that well. He told me he can take me through some meditation because he teaches it and has a meditation room in his house. He thinks he can help me. I hope so. I have tried to help myself but my strategy must be flawed.

I will post a poem later. My sister is coming tomorrow. I am hoping that we will find some closure together. Visit the old haunts and mull things over. It might help.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Jack and I talked about you a lot tonite. My son tells me that you died and are in heaven with the old Pope and his Elmo balloon. He still remembers you and his visits to Kensington. I will visit you in a day or two. I hope you weren't too alone on your birthday and that somehow you blew out candles and ate some cake. I hope you knew you weren't alone the day you died. Maybe I should have called out to you in the hospital room or forced my way up to your bed and grabbed your hand. But I thought the doctors would save you and I didn't want to get in their way. Everything in my life had worked out for the best until that day. I'm sure you were very scared and I'll never forgive myself for not getting to you faster. I wouldn't want to die seemingly alone with strangers pounding and shocking my chest. I wish I'd let the phone ring longer the night before when I called you - you might have answered and I might have known something was wrong. I wish I'd visited you two nights before instead of shopping for Jack's birthday party. I'm just happy I stayed for lunch on your last Sunday in this world and helped you eat. But I guess I'll never be at peace with how suddenly you left us and how little we did for you when you needed us the most. It hurts too much to dwell on everything that has been lost. Just know that we love you and wish we could have been stronger and kinder for you.

Your son,
Rob

p.s. Jack also wishes you Happy Birthday in heaven. Say hi to his balloon for him.

Today is my father's birthday, it is also the birthday of my son Jacob. Half of me celebrates this day, the other half is filled with sorrow. Sadness I can't really explain, express or remove from my heart.

I celebrate my father's life, because he was strong and lived - really lived his life - his way. I am proud to stand as his daughter and continue to live my own life in similar fashion.

But today I miss my father, I hope he is smiling fondly down on us. I hope that he celebrates my son's birthday and sees what a wonderful young man he is becoming. His children & grandchildren are a living monument to his life.

I leave a poem for my father and hope that he is smiling, free of pain and celebrating his new journey. I hope that he is watching over us and is spending time with his family that passed before him.

Happy Birthday Dad!

I

Miss

You

Your daughter, Lisa



FINALLY
So....it has come....at last
How quickly the time has flown
Worn out my welcome, it seems,
Forgive this man his little moan

So much left to do....a shame
I don't really want to leave at all

But I was well loved, this I know.
Look at these photos, they tell my tale.
Our goodness wears a familier face,
while this heart, worn out of years, grows frail.

So.....it has come....finally,

I stand


I rejoice

The stars.....

They beckon me!

I bought an audio book a couple of weeks ago: "My Dream of You" by Nuala O'Faolain. I had never owned one before but I thought a bedtime story might be of some use to me. It was an interesting exercise. I bought some for my father a few years ago because he was having trouble holding a book and reading. I don't think he ever got to listen to them.

I jotted down the last of the audio book this evening because when I heard it, I thought of Dad.

The lead character says to her sister:

"We have to forgive the past for our own sakes, and the way to do that is to see ourselves as precious just for having existed. We are only links in a chain...

I was praying that there be a heaven. Let [Dad] be in heaven. Let there be something for him because he had such a hard life. Please make it up to him for having lived in that house when he was young. [Dad], please, if you still exist, please be somewhere where you are loved. And the cold circle of neglect that was around you in life, please let it be burned away. And I forgive you." We all do. With all our hearts.

My father never had it easy. He might have grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth but he didn't get to taste the sweetness. I always thought he worked too hard. I especially believed that when I went to stay with him in the mid-90s and worked alongside him. A part of me was never the same after that trip because I couldn't make it any better. I understood a lot more about my father after that. Thank God I stayed in such close contact with him these last seven or eight years; the years after Joan died and he had more time for me. What an honour it was to be his confidant. I will forever feel blessed for our daily chats. My father was terribly interesting and charismatic. I loved speaking with him.

But I never fully understood my father until just a few months ago, just weeks after he died. It was then that I understood that those crazy nights he had in later years, those times when we worried after him, those nights when he sat up, and with glass of wine in hand, you could watch his mind work as he silently reviewed his life and judged its essence as he traversed the years. All of it came down to one thing: he was scared. I am sure of it. So sure. He was much more scared after Joan died and he felt alone again. Like a child. I think he must have been scared when he passed, too. I am very very sorry for that.

I bought some of your favourite flowers today, Dad. Lobelia, dahlias, gerbers, verbena, heliotrophe. I tried to get the others but they weren't available.

I am also going to do a container of perennials, just to see what I can create with small interestingly-shaped enduring plants and a colourful ceramic pot that makes me smile when I see the colour shining in the sun on the deck.

Your birthday is next week and we will plant a tree or two for you up on the hill. I think one of the best places to see God is in the garden. I will dig for him there and hope to catch a glimpse of you, too.

Miss you.

I was telling Lou last night that since you died, Dad, it is as if someone has taken me by the heels and shook me upside down until nothing is the same anymore. Everything being topsy turvy.

Some semblance of normalcy would be good about now but I realize that would have to be the new normal and I can't see how that looks yet. I wish I could. There's still that veil of darkness hanging over me like those pieces of black lace worn at funerals, blocking my vision to the future.

We buy flowers now in hopes that the colour will spill over onto us and make life a little more joyful, like it was before you went away. They are something extra to hang onto as I try to make my way now that you are gone.

Today is Canada Day and Memorial Day in Newfoundland, commemorating the men who died during World War I in the Battle of Beaumont Hamel. I know you fought your own battles, especially the last few years. I wish I had better understood the peril you were in and been there to stave it off. The battles we all fight for our sanity. They will always stand as monuments to our humanity.

Love you

Notes on an Upcoming Anniversary by Des Walsh

We are North Americans now
the same as those Pablo Neruda wearied of,
lulled into the same crimes,
the same culture-starved wanderings.
Fifty years ago we were Europeans,
singing stubbornly into the face of wind
cutting masts for schooners that would sail forever,
cutting pine for the churches of England.
Fifty years ago we were lean and sensual,
our mouths unhurriedly pressed into each other,
our tongues touched whatever God we wanted.
Before our glistening fish, salted for Portugal
and Spain, became the currency of theatre,
before being slaughtered in wars far from
the coves we wandered as children,
we pressed wild berries to our lips
and wiped the pungent juices from our mouths,
the blood red placenta of the promise of a healthy future.
And now, the disease spreading, we weep together,
collectively walking to every graveyard on every headland
and bury men and rodneys, women and knowledge.
We close the lodges and the halls, remove the steeples,
abandon the headstones, haul the doors of the trap, leave rosary beads
between stone and seaweed, leave saw blades to rust behind hills,
half-empty dippers of berries spilling into
the mossy barrens, leave our sensuality circling the tops of
fog-wrapped fir trees. And now, fifty years later,
having done as we're told, we are left to celebrate.

*To Moya and family here is a poem that reflects all of us:

Miss Me - But Let Me Go
When I come to the end of the road,
And the sun has set for me
I want no rites in a gloom filled room
Why cry for a soul set free.

Miss me a little - but not too long
And not with your head bowed low,
Remember the love we once shared,
Miss me - But let me go

For this is a journey we all must take
and each must go alone
It's all a part of the master's plan
A step on the road to home

When you are lonely and sick at heart
Go to the friends we know
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds
Miss me - but let me go.

May he rest in peace.

Hi Moya. Very sorry about the passing of your father. Know this Fathers Day was especially rough. Louis sent me the link to the website last night. Your memorial to him is outstanding and I am sure he would have loved it. You and Louis take care of each other. Love, Patrick

Thanks very much for your message, Patrick.

An old friend of mine posted this story about his father on his blog yesterday. I thought I would share it here.

June 19, 2005

The best thing about having the kind of father that everybody loves and respects is knowing you can do it too, and sometimes even thinking that you can do it better. Today I'm going to think about Pops in the ways I know I will never match, because it's all about him today.

I often think about my father not in terms of who he was or is as a man, but in terms of what he made us do. They say you've got to break down a person in order to build them up. It's not my turn to do that with my kids yet - they are still in elementary school so that's mom's job. Pops didn't wait so long or so I seem to recall.

When I got straight As and a C in handwriting in the 6th grade, my father made me practice my handwriting every night. He made me draw precise loops on page after page. When we moved to our new house across the street, the weeds were taller than I was and the house was pink. None of those things lasted long. My father who served with the Marine Corps at Pendleton was all about discipline. And so we learned the discipline of cutting weeds and painting houses, and painting sidewalks, and trimming trees, and replacing windows, and carpentry.

We four boys were addressed as 'The Crew', which meant working crew. On the refrigerator was the infamous 'List'. We not only had to make the house spotless, we had to clean the neighbor's side yard and the gutter. During the summer months, Pops would make an occasional 'pop call' driving home the County issued 1975 Chevy Vega to make sure we weren't just playing football and Monopoly, but actively showing off to the neighborhood how tightly the Bowen family was run.

Our driveway consisted of two strips of concrete with a path of grass in the middle that extended back to the garage. In the front yard, the grass remained. Behind the redwood gate (that we installed) (yeah it was fun using the pole diggers and setting the 4x4s in concrete) Pops had us rip up all of the grass and have a six inch deep trench between the concrete strips. Into this trench was placed four 50lb bags of ornamental tree bark. The bark filled the spaces around a dozen geometrically shaped stepping stones like a sea of Lucky Charms. Every summer we had to wash the bark. Each piece was about the size and shape of a computer mouse. There were thousands of them. We picked them up and washed them in one of our 30 gallon trashcans, set them out to dry and then replaced them in the driveway of Hell. Then we closed the redwood gate so nobody could see it.

This was one of many construction projects at Wellington Road. We converted the garage twice. Once into a neighborhood theatre complete with custom built seats and a stage, and then later split it in two into an office and my bedroom. We placed the studs at 18 inch intervals and braced them so that the wall would survive an earthquake. For the Bicentennial, we painted the back of the house and the garage red white and blue. We dug out the rose bush and poured a couple of tons of concrete to extend the patio. We built several basketball contraptions, none of which survived the slam dunks of the neighborhood kids. We built various fences and even a tool shed.

Our two favorite projects were, of course, the go kart and the Two Storey. The Two Storey was our playhouse, complete with a trap door and a hangin' post. It had, of course, two stories and from the top which was a little over 8 feet off the ground (with 2x4x10s from Cooper's Lumber over next to Sears Pico) we had a nice view of things. The hangin' post was a 2x4 that overhung the concrete path that led from the patio alongside the garage to the back corner of the yard where the Two Storey stood. We arranged triple pulley rigs and jacked up objects too heavy to lift; we swung from it. The Two Storey was orange and green the first time, then dark red later. We cut geometric and puzzle shaped windows in it. It was our castle.

The go kart was slow, converted from an old power mower. We cut the blades out and left the axle intact but didn't regear it to do much more than 5mph. Steered with ropes, even the little guys could drive it. Not that we let them often enough.

We were a building family. We even re-creosoted the telephone pole in our backyard. The Wellington house still frequents my dreams. I lived there from 66 to 82. It was in the 'hood, but we were its creators without question. This is what Pops gave us. A home of our own creation, driven by his discipline and determination.

There's so much more I could say about Pops, and inevitably will have to. I could talk about the Angeles National Forest, the jogging at 6 in the morning, the incessent letters, the library, and Saturday morning trips to the film library. He influenced us in so many ways. But today, I'm just thinking about Wellington House and what we made it, because he's the kind of man who leaves things better than the way he found them.