Day 70. Remembering Dad

Today is my father’s birthday. He’d be 100. It’s hard to imagine. He’d died relatively young, by today’s standards. Two weeks shy of his seventy-fifth birthday. My mother was 65. Young to be a widow.

He was a libra, and definitely had the characteristics of his sign. He was urbane, sociable, elegant, kind, easygoing and extremely generous. He loved beautiful things, and had exquisite taste. And although he wasn’t demonstrably affectionate in public, he did have a romantic streak. He was the least judgmental person I’ve ever known, he had tons of integrity and was honourable to a fault. His word was more binding than any contract.

This is his engagement photo. He was thirty-one years old. People tell me I look like him. I think I do, although I have my mother’s colouring.

I had an incredibly close relationships with both of my parents, but my dad and I had a very special bond. From the first day I moved out on my own, to the day he died, I spoke to him everyday. Without fail. Even when I moved to Toronto, from Montreal. He and my mother would visit me in Toronto very often, but he used to come quite frequently on business; and we always saw each other when he was in town. We’d have dinner, or lunch, whatever he had time for.

And, because he was also so generous, he’d always tell me to invite friends or even colleagues to join

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