Celebrating my dad

I’m publishing my blog a day early this week because today’s my dad’s birthday. He’s been gone a long time, 31 years. Hard to believe. I never missed his birthday, even after I moved to Toronto.

From as far back as I can remember, my mother and I always drove ourselves into a frenzy trying to figure out what to get for him and how to celebrate. He was hard to buy for — not because he was picky — because he never wanted anything. He always said he had everything he needed. Same thing with parties. He liked to keep things low key. Except when the shoe was on the other foot and he was doing something for others — and then nothing was too good or too much trouble. He threw himself into the task with absolute zeal.

That was my dad. Kind, sensitive to the needs of others, caring and generous to a fault. He embodied all the values that are in such short

The first man in my life …

Yes, that’s me in the photo. With my dad, a very long time ago. Hard to believe I was ever that tiny. Oh, how I adored him. We were extremely close, up to the day he died, 30 years ago. Hard to believe that, too — that it’s been so long. I still think of him every day and still miss him like crazy.

He was an amazing dad. For that matter, he was a pretty amazing human being. Kind, thoughtful, open-minded, generous, loving, loyal, honest as the day is long.

When I needed advice it was my father to whom I turned, always, even as an adult. His friends and my friends often turned to him as well, as did many members of our family. You could always count on him to be fair, objective and

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