Here are a few shots taken between Red Hook and the Brooklyn Bridge…

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The following eulogy was delivered in Ottawa, Canada on November 30, 2010:

My Dad was a unique guy, to say the least, and there’s really no way to sum up his affect on us because he meant so many things to so many people in so many ways. The best I can do is to share a few stories and hope that they round out the picture just a little more.

As a father, he was ‘the greatest,’ which is exactly what he used to say about his ‘old man.’

Dad always loved to putter in his yard on weekends but if we kids ever asked him if he needed help, he’d usually tell us to go and play. “It’s kid’s time,” he’d say to us. He knew our time for yard work would come soon enough and just wanted us to be carefree as long as possible.

If we wanted a ride somewhere, Dad would drop whatever he was doing and take us. I loved our trips to the hobby shop on Saturday mornings, or to Taffy’s Diner on Bank Street. He was the go-to Dad for rides to movies, concerts, parties, you name it. When it was time to come home we’d call him no matter how late, and there he’d be, speeding along the Queensway in his pajamas. He never said no. He never said, “Take the bus.”  What he said instead was, “Have fun.” And we did. Thanks, Dad.

Dad used to make us breakfast every day, and pack our lunches for school. He was always chipper in the morning, pulling back the curtains and singing the same annoying song until we’d get out of bed. Dad was also color blind and some mornings he’d come into the kitchen dressed like Willy Wonka, blinding us with his color choices. “You’re not serious?” mom would say, before going upstairs to pick out a different shirt.

No matter where we lived, we seemed to be blessed with great neighbors. I remember some pretty wild parties on Sellers Court, and it didn’t matter how loud they cranked ‘My Way’ on the juke box, because all the neighbors were there anyway! If the evening wore on a little too long, mom would go down in her housecoat and urge Dad upstairs. “Don’t you old fools know it’s time for bed?” she’d say. (Answer: no.) Once or twice they were both woken up by friends who had let themselves in, having decided that our house was a perfect spot for a nightcap. No wonder mom had the bar taken out when she renovated the downstairs…

Dad was an excellent athlete in his day. He always gave the credit to his brothers, but he was a fierce competitor himself. As a father, he went to all of our games, and most of our practices. When we went down to St. Catharines for high school, he often drove twelve hours round trip in a day just to see us play an hour-long game. Mom could join him for weekend games and they’d take the opportunity to explore other parts of Ontario, visiting wineries, staying in B&B’s or at Connie and Fred’s in Toronto. “Those trips were some of the happiest times of our lives,” they would say later.
Another thing my Dad did during those years was write letters. From the first day of high school until sometime after College, my Dad wrote my brother and I each a letter, every morning before he started his workday. Just a little something to let us know that he was there. Like I said; pretty unique guy.

If you asked my Dad a question he didn’t know the answer to, he’d say, “I missed that day in school.” He wasn’t an academic scholar, but he was the smartest guy I knew in many ways. (He would say the same thing about his cousin Brian Kilrea, and the two of them flunked kindergarten together. Go figure). He knew everything about sports and history, and loved to talk politics, which he always managed to do louder than everyone else. He read the paper every morning but not so many books. “Why should I read books when I have my own ideas?” he’d say. But his real talent was with people. He was a great judge of character, which explains all of you, and he could talk to anyone. If he didn’t like you, he’d probably tell you, but in general his bark was usually way worse than his bite.

Dad had a lot of friends and he always found ways to keep them close. From the early days at the Wellington Club to his regular Thursday afternoon lunches with the Piggies at the Royal Ottawa, he just loved his pals and the spirit of camaraderie they shared over a drink and a laugh. Dad had a knack for making you feel special, even as he teased you, because he did it with affection. And he was the first to laugh at himself when the tables were turned. He was always upbeat and, simply put, Dad was a lot of fun to be around.

One didn’t have to look too far to see where Dad got it from. He and his siblings John, Bruce, Valerie, Gordie, and DeeDee, and their honorary brother Brian Kilrea, were an absolute howl when they all got together. Despite having grown up during the Depression, their parents Gordon and Ethel somehow managed to infuse in their kids a sense of fun, not to mention warmth, and family gatherings were filled with one-liners and playful jabs that will live on a good while longer, I’m guessing. But they loved each other dearly and would do anything to help anyone, in or out of the family. Before Gordon Sr. died at 52, he said to his son Garry, “Take care of Mama.” And Dad did. He was 23 years old at the time, but he looked after his mom for the rest of her life. Just as he looked after the rest of his siblings, and his friends, and his own family. “You do for other people,” was Dad’s unofficial motto. He gave everybody everything and never asked for anything in return.

My Dad used to say that, in his next life, he was coming back as us kids. But to come back as us, someone would have to come back as him, and our mother, because our lives, the ones he claimed to covet, were all thanks to them and the opportunities they created for us, as well as the examples they set for us. Watching my parents dote on each other well into their seventies 
was, frankly, gross at times. After 53 years of marriage, they still hurried to greet each other at the back door like it was their first date. “Isn’t it great to be home,” Dad would say, settling into his chair in front of the fire to catch up on the day’s events with his best friend, “the babe” (as he called my mom). She in turn would fuss and coo over “my sweet,” her pet name for Dad. If Darren or I happened to be there during this daily reunion, it was like we didn’t exist for a few minutes. But I am so grateful for their example of what love between two people can and should be. Here’s to you guys.

As Dad’s health declined, he accepted his fate and never complained. He laughed when he told me how Giggy—who enjoyed the occasional beer along with his trademark cigars—had teased him recently by saying, “See Hammy, you shoulda taken better care of yourself like me!”

On a final note; last Thursday when Dad was in the hospital, four men came to the house to cut down two massive pine trees in the backyard. I know he would have enjoyed watching them shimmy up the trees and set about roping, sawing, and lowering the huge branches to the ground. Getting those trees down looked like a three-day job to me at least.

As we all know, things at the hospital took a turn that afternoon and our father left us. When Mom and I came home, the workers’ truck was gone and both the trees were stacked on the lawn next to the house, awaiting pickup the next day. I couldn’t help think how Dad would have admired the neat job they did stacking the wood and sweeping up his laneway. Like my Dad, the trees had gone much more quickly than we’d expected. A change had come over our world, and as Mom and I surveyed the backyard, I couldn’t ignore the obvious analogies between my father’s passing and the missing trees. The sheer size of them could easily represent his giant personality or his oversized heart; the deep roots still underground might symbolize the deep impressions he made on those of us left behind. The greatest father had at last been reunited with his greatest father, and his mother and brothers. And by removing the trees, the four men had unwittingly cleared a path for him.

We love you, Dad