Father Husband Best Friend

Here are a couple more video clips of dad that the boys and I found the other day:

We love watching Peter and Dad jam and figure out how to play this song together. "Daddeo was a very good musician" Noah said. "I miss Daddeo" said Ezra.

I interviewed Dad in this clip about what he remembered about my birth. Dad was up visiting and waiting for his first grandchild to be born in July 2006. Noah said "Daddeo was a really good cook!"

-Jacob

Do

Dad's relationships with animals evolved as he grew as a person. I remember hearing stories of "mutt and Jeff," a dog and cat my parents had before I was born. The first pet I remember though was a female dog named Do (pronounced the same as doe, as in doe a deer). The story is that I couldn't say "Dog" just "do" so my dad named her Do. Do was one of my best friends for the time we had her. You can see some of Dad's notes on the photo below.

I remember playing outside and a badly injured dog showed up. I don't know what happened to it, but it had some bad wounds on its shoulder and side. Dad had taken to scaring off dogs from our yard and following up with a shot from his bow, so I was scared to tell him about this injured dog that had shown up. I remember him coming out, and instead of shooing it away, he felt immediately sorry for it. He went back inside and came back out with a mason jar full of liquid. I watched in amazement as the dog drank every drop and then after resting for a while, moved on.

We eventually moved on ourselves. We moved to Victoria and we weren't allowed to bring pets. Mom and Dad found a home for Do before we moved. I was about four years old. I still vividly remember being in Victoria and getting a phone call saying that Do had to be put down. She'd been caught and beat up by a dog pack. I remember clearly seeing Dad's young body sag, and then him telling me with a lot of sadness that my dog was going to die. He explained that she'd been "torn up" by other dogs and couldn't be saved. We were both very sad about that.

Doe/ Do II

We went a couple of years in Victoria without pets. To me this was eternity, to Dad it was a long time. We then moved to High Level Alberta and Dad went out and got Do II. Dad later told me that he'd heard about a litter of Shepard cross pups in town that needed a home. He went and had a look, and picked out another female dog for us. I woke up on a cold crisp morning, the first one in the house out of bed. I went into the kitchen and heard whining outside on the back deck. I opened the door and saw this little puppy in a cardboard box with a blanket inside. It never crossed my mind that this was our puppy. I thought it was lost, or maybe an angel had delivered it. I remember running into my parent's room and jumping on the bed, and saying with amazement that there was a puppy on our deck! Dad groggily beamed and told me it was OUR puppy.

Doe grew up to be an insanely tough dog. In our year out in the log house, Doe grew into our protector and a very efficient hunter. Rumour is that she was part wolf - when Dad picked her up the owner claimed she was 1/4 wolf. This may or may not have been true - up here in small-town-ville everyone claims their dog is part wolf... but Doe certainly acted part. She developed into pure muscle, which dad encouraged by making her run from the highway all the way to the log house every time we'd go in and out of town. Dad would yelp with amazement at how fast she could run and how we were never really able to leave her behind on the dirt road. I remember looking behind us and seeing her legs all a blur, and he muscles rippling up and down her chest, with her ears flat back as she ran like the wind.

She'd hunt deer and even attack porcupine, coming back with a mouth full of quills, which dad would dutifully pull out with pliers. Dad would proudly recount the "bear" story, when Doe relentlessly attacked a mother bear to protect him and my cousins. There was no messing with Doe.

One day someone came home with a special treat - Donuts! We sat outside on the small front landing eating, and Doe sat behind us keeping watch. My littlest sister Sophia took a bite and then relaxed her arm backwards behind her head. I remember this scene almost like it was filmed - the donut, in her hand, goes behind her and almost is put right in Doe's mouth. Doe gingerly takes a bite, likely thankful that her little human shared with her. When Sophia realized what happened, she burst into tears and wailed. Dad came storming out and gave Doe a huge beating. I remember feeling very upset and very sorry for Doe, who was pretty much innocent of any crime.

As I said Dad's relationship with animals seemed to closely mirror his own growth as a person. He would be both very loving and caring with our animals, and at other times incredibly harsh and abusive. In terms of punishment, he firmly believed at the time that animals and kids learned lessons through physical punishment only. He told me, seeing my sadness and feeling sorry for our dog, "that is the only way they learn." This would be hard for people who knew Dad later in life to imagine - as he grew he moved away from the physical aggression and punishment to the point where I never saw him strike a dog again.

We moved in to Two Mile, to a small 2.5 acre hobby farm in town. Doe, who had developed into a super tough bear-fighting dog, did not fit in. Unlike Do I, Do II didn't take any shit from the dog packs, handily defeating any of them that dared challenge her to a fight. I recall a time when she accompanied us to the bus stop, and the local pack tried to put her in line. At the end of the scrap, it was her bus stop. 

She also started hunting sheep, and badly maimed two. My parents decided she needed to be put down. Dad cried hard, and so did I. It was a horrible, traumatic thing. Dad swore off dogs, again. We had a multi-year break after losing Do I, now we seemed destined for another break after the trauma of losing Do II so young.

Horses

When we bought the 2-Mile house - the first house my parents ever bought - it came with two horses "for free." One was Skeena - a crotchety old black Arabian mare, guessed to be around 20 or more years old. The other was Keetar, a part Appaloosa young gelding (meaning balls removed) who was a deathly-afraid-of-puddles gentle giant. 

As I recall Dad had no experience with horses but that didn't stop him from trying to connect with them from time to time. Mom and us kids got riding lessons - but Dad decided to show us how it was done and ended up upside down in the saddle :) As he would say - the stuff of legends! 

Dad tacked up the horse himself, and then took Keetar for a ride in the park across the road. He didn't cinch the saddle properly, and the saddle (with dad in it, feet locked in the stirrups) rotated slowly from on top of the horse to underneath the horse. I think Dad said something like "woa woa woa!" as he slowly rotated. Keetar, the gentle giant, stopped moving shortly after Dad ended up upside-down under his belly, but dad still managed to fall and break a rib. We marvelled afterward how great Keetar was, and how hilarious Dad was - showing us how it was done!!

Dad would always save money wherever he could. With the horses, this meant that we'd get our own hay right off the field. This was at least a twice-a-year chore. I remember being amazed when dad - so strong - could throw a bail of hay from the back of the truck in to the top of the barn, where I would hoist it in and stack it. I tried this recently and I could hardly pick up a bail let alone throw it!!

The horse chores landed on me, as the oldest child. I got to feed them every morning and check them every afternoon on my way home from the bus stop. Dad would sometimes stake the horses in our yard to let them eat our grass. I also remember him administering ointment to them when one of the horses tangled with barbed wire.

Skeena was a smart old horse and dad was amazed that she figured out how to open the barn door with her lips and raid the bin of oats. She'd decided on retirement and didn't appreciate being ridden or generally being told what to do. Despite her attitude though she was social, attached to Keetar and attached to our home. When we put her to pasture for a summer, she was so upset that she went on a hunger strike and we had to go get her and bring her home. 

Keetar was basically a big dog, and Dad used to laugh at his antics. Keetar broke BOTH our front AND back decks trying to get into our house! He thought he had the same rights as our dogs and cats, but he was way too big to even make it through the door. That didn't stop him from trying! Dad was forced to fix up our decks and replace some broken rotten planks after Keetar walked up them and broke the steps.

One day I remember Dad waking me up in the morning. "Put on your clothes, hurry" he said to me seriously "you're not going to school today." I immediately knew something was wrong. "it's the horses." We rushed out of the house and he gathered up some shovels. I don't remember what he said on our walk, but I remember he briefly put his arm on my shoulder. We walked over to the park, where he'd tethered Keetar and Skeena the day before in some long grass and then left them overnight. He'd brought Keetar back but Skeena was missing.

He'd found her stuck in a hole. A massive, huge, deep hole. It was perplexing - you couldn't even see her, but could hear her breathing. She was completely obscured in the tall grass. Her whole front end and half her neck were below ground level. Her hind end was mostly above ground, but one of her back legs was trapped down with her front end and we couldn't see it. Her head was laying jaw-down on the ground. As some point Dad cried, and didn't really know what to do. I remember kneeling down by Skeena's head and running my hands over her - she was wet. Sweaty. Cold. I ran home, got a bucket of water and remember her drinking it all. We put blankets over her and tried to warm her up. But it was all too late.

We fought hard for hours - we dug like madmen with the hand shovels, and gave her a path out of the deep hole - which it turns out, had been dug a year before by a volunteer for two new outhouses, but it wasn't marked or advertised. Word spread like wildfire in our small town and soon a small army of helpers showed up, including one with a backhoe. We tried to lift her out, but she'd had enough and with a last sigh the life went out of her eyes and she was gone.

Dad had a hard time with this, he blamed her death on himself. We buried Skeena in her hole in the park. Not long after we gave Keetar away and didn't have horses again. Having horses had a big impact on us kids though - and my sisters especially fell in love with them and dreamed of horse-centered careers.

Pussy Willow

Dad was never a cat person, but he made an exception a couple times. The first exception that I remember was Pussy Willow, a fluffy, easy going, super sweet gray coloured male cat. Dad was working on building a deck for my uncle Matt next door. Us kids would play around the construction site. At this time in our lives, we were discouraged from encouraging stray animals as my parents did NOT want any extra animals. 

One day a kitten showed up while we were playing, more dead than alive. It quietly perched on some lumber and watched as all eight of us kids played around outside. We noticed the strange, obviously stray kitten but dutifully ignored it and abstained from encouraging it by giving it any attention. When we were done playing - which took hours - we headed back home to our house, and the kitten followed us. I remember the kitten being quite silent - no meowing or anything. He followed us as far as the horse fence nearest our house, climbed up a fence post, and then sat there. He sat for hours. With my conscience eating me I checked through the back window as dusk was settling in - and the kitten was still there. I decided to tell dad, and hoped he would solve the problem.

I still remember Dad's reaction - I expected him to be harsh, to scare it off or something - but he immediately melted when he went out and saw the kitten. By his recounting, the kitten seemed to have barely enough energy to sit up straight. He was skin and bones, and his long fur was matted in spots. He gathered it up in his big strong hands, and brought the kitten in and started nursing it back to good health. We named the cat Pussy Willow because he was fluffy and gray. He ended up being the most gentle, loving, tolerant cat we ever had. Dad was amazed at how he let Dad clean out his very infected ears, and how he would let dad do anything he needed to do. It was like Pussy Willow knew he'd been rescued from certain death and he was just thrilled to be alive - and was going to love us as much as possible.

Pussy Willow bonded with our uncle's dog. The dog would curl up on our porch, and he would curl up on top of the dog. Dad would laugh when my sisters dressed Pussy Willow up in doll clothes. He was so tolerant he would even purr as my littlest sister packed him around in a mesh sack. He was so easy going he didn't even scratch or bite when a visiting toddler decided to pick him up half by his balls and half by his tail. He was the best cat we ever had, and we got to enjoy him thanks to dad.

Dogs Don't Go to Heaven... Or do they?

We were raised to believe that we would go to heaven, so when we'd traumatically lose an animal that we deeply loved, I initially took some comfort that we'd see our pet again in heaven. I mentioned this to Dad after Doe died, and he sadly but very seriously told me that dogs definitely don't go to heaven. 

As dad softened with animals and started changing to be more loving and gentle, he started to shift his stance and beliefs. We had a couple amazing dogs who ended in tragic ways. One was named Hero and another was Mompst. Dad took Hero's death really hard. Hero was a rescue dog, similar to Pussy Willow he found his way to us. Hero broke the moratorium on dogs by being a fantastic pet, one who brought some balance to our family for a while. Hero would gently look out for us kids and had so much personality he seemed part human. A couple quick examples are that he would take our hands gently in his mouth on walks, and he'd "hug" us when we cried or where having a hard time.

Dad blamed himself for Hero's death - Hero had been hit by a car and badly injured, and after a few days of bed-rest inside dad's harshness kicked in and he insisted that Hero sleep outside rather than inside. Hero froze to death that night. I remember Dad crying - hard - when he brought his body out, and loaded it up in the back of his truck. We held an impromptu funeral and memorial at the tailgate of our truck, attended by ourselves and some extended family. In his grief, dad declared - looking me in the eye - that dogs do go to heaven. I still remember the exchange - me saying something like "dogs don't go to heaven" and then dad looking me right in the eye and sadly but clearly saying "I don't believe that anymore. This dog is going to heaven."

Rescue Ranger Dad

Many years later, when dad was single parenting he came home with a kitten that he'd named RC. RC was short for "rez cat," because he'd rescued her from the reserve he was working on. He was on break when he noticed some kids throwing kittens up on tin roof and laughing as the kittens slid down. He chased off the kids but the kittens bolted too. He told his co-worker "if you get your hands on any of those kittens let me know, and I will take one."

RC was probably one of Dad's first full on rescue projects. Girl, Hero, and Pussy Willow had arrived somehow on our property. RC was the first animal that he went out and rescued. Later with Marny he'd stay active as an animal rescuer with both Roxy and Kale.

Hawks

Dad captured hawks a couple of times. I am not sure where he learned it, but he was really good at capturing wild animals using only his wool toque and/ or his shirt and/or jacket! 

We once rescued a hawk that had been hit by a vehicle. Dad took off his toque and put it over the head (and most of the body) of the hawk to keep it calm (by covering it's eyes) and make it manageable. We then held it in the back seat while he drove. The hawk ended up recovering and we released it out in the wild. I've since used this technique a few times to rescue birds and it works well.

Our favorite hawk story though is the one where dad captured a hawk who was raiding our chicken coop. Dad was amazed this raptor had figured out how to get in the fully enclosed coop, and he dedicated a few hours to sleuthing to see how the hawk did it. He then ambushed the bird and leaped on it like a ninja. He threw his jacket on the hawk and scooped it up. I still don't know if I'd have the nerve for that! That was a big bird.

He then devised his 'lesson' for the hawk. He made a tether for its' leg. He tied a rope to the tether and staked it in the middle of our yard. The hawk tried flying away a few times, realized it was trapped, and then just sat down in the middle of our yard looking around. 

My dad's favourite part is when our cat decided to stalk the hawk, probably thinking from a distance that it was a small bird. The cat got close, all of a sudden realized this was a big bird of prey, leapt in the air, spun around, and ran away as fast as he could.

Dad figured the hawk had enough and let it go after a couple of hours. I remember watching the hawk fly off.. and you know what? It never came back. 

The end

It was fitting that dad died in the water with his dogs. He loved animals (and people!) whole heartedly and deeply. He went through a lot of hardship in his life and with animals - and suffered a lot of loss and trauma along the way. He always had to do the hardest stuff with our animals - the most emotionally difficult and bravest tasks. Toward the end he was nothing but love and patience with animals and it was a wonderful thing to see. Every time we'd see dad, a dog would pop out of his vehicle from somewhere. Knowing dad and his beliefs, he's in heaven, swimming, playing, and reunited with his dogs who went before him.

With much love and memories,

Jacob

Note - I will add more photos if/ when I find them.

Another entry today in the "Dad and Animals" category 

February 1, 2009, 6:00pm - Sent from roddymacroddy@shaw.ca

Hi all

This by means of an introduction.

My name is Roxy. I was recently adopted by Roderick and Marny Beaton. Roderick sez that since I am part Retriever, and since they are close relatives to the Nova Scotia "Troller" Retriever, that my middle name should be Roxy Troller. My other part is Chow, thus explaining my part-colored tongue. We have been down to the beach a few times, and I had no idea that water could be so much fun, or that the Gulls and Ducks enjoyed me chasing them soooo much! 

I am a good house dog, but have to also live on the leash during the day. I am a bit of a houdini so Roderick has had to use chains and wire to keep me in the yard. A new fence is in the works. Marny's little smarty has a space for me in the back with a safety grid. On the way home from the SPCA, she talked to me ALL THE WAY, and kept me calm. I love her and keep her always in sight. Roderick has also made a space for me in the back of the truck and we went yesterday and tried it out, then to church today and up to a snowy field for a good romp. I'm really good in the house and quite quiet except when I get surprised, but I don't bark much.... just a woof now and then, to let every one know I'm a real dog!

Last Friday I got my cone head off and my stitches taken out at the vet, my first bath, and flea treatment. 

I like cheese. An' bones, an' biscuits. I'm a bit underweight after having two litters in rapid succession, so some extra treats are just what the doctor ordered! They even said to give me extra fat in my meal! Life has taken a good turn. I am happy.

-roxy troller

Girl and the Shoes

I was removing my boots after a walk to the beach with Roxy. She sat and watched my activity with disinterest. It must have been her askance attitude that shook a memory loose. A memory of Girl trying to look innocent around footwear of any kind. You see, Girl came to live with us barely old enough to eat dry kibble, and as much as she wanted to be around us, she was pretty much as certain that she belonged outside. A point of tension to be sure. 

Wanting to be near humans, their warmth and smell, yet needing to be out and free too. I’m sure it was that juxtaposition that created the situations with shoes. She often could not seem to help herself; she would take a shoe out to the middle of the yard and lie down with her face resting on the footwear. 

There were 6 of us living in the house, and for the most part, our footwear was left out in the porch. Girl would take one, and only one and carry it off. Never chewed on. It was not that king of comfort required. Just sweet dreams of the last playdate, child-filled games of race and chase and keep-away. 

She would be found out, chastised, told “no” and “baaad dog!”, but still she would occasionally need some comfort and a shoe would take a trip. The owner then, if all the other shoes were gone elsewhere, had to either retrieve the shoe in stocking feet, or try to hop the distance on one shod foot, all the while berating Girl while she tried her best to look penitent. 

As the children grew up and away, and Girl was home alone for most the day, she found comfort from neighbours and admirers walking by, and the shoes remained for the most part on the porch where they belonged, but she always found comfort in laying her wooly head on a pair of old boots or sneakers, and the porch never felt quite right without a pair of something there… and not necessarily in their right place.

-Roderick Jan 2011

Girl ended up being Dad's dog. She was dumped on our property along with her sister - unwanted mutts. Dad ended up naming both of them. We already had a dog - Mompst - and we expected to give away or re-home these two pups abandoned in our horse field. Because we weren't keeping these dogs, us kids declined to name them. Dad called one of them "Girl" and the other one "Jen" - short for "Generic." He thought he was hilarious. 

Dad shows us Girl's bag of tricks in 2006

Dad told the story best - that one of my cousins came running into the house - "uncle Roderick, there is an animal under the barn with BIG EYES!" Thinking it was some sort of predator, dad went marching up with a head full of steam - and ended up pulling out two scared balls of puppy fur instead. 

Girl was probably the least awesome dog we ever had. She was a total coward, and yet would gang up on other dogs given half the chance. When she was spayed, the vet allegedly said she had the "thinnest abdominal muscle wall" he'd ever seen in his life - something dad was proud of! In other words, she was close to a literal sausage with legs. 

For some reason when we moved and kept 1 dog, Dad chose to keep Girl over Jen. Jen had far more Joie de vivre, but Dad claimed that she was too energetic for the town we were moving to. He thought Girl, with her super lazy temperament, would be a better fit.

I actually think that Dad chose Girl because she was so imperfect and he felt some kinship with her, some sort of understanding. She was incredibly quirky, and he enjoyed that. Girl would walk on fences like a cat - the only Dog I know that did this often - and Girl would delight in walking the fence and torturing the neighbour's dogs by perfectly walking the line. I remember the neighbour calling - "uh, did you know your dog is, uh, on... the fence?" That just tickled my dad pink. 

Her other quirks Dad loved included sleeping in the bonnet of his old Volkswagen car - he liked to surprise people by popping the hood of his car, and instead of an engine a dog would pop up and the unsuspecting stranger would leap backward and maybe even yelp (it was a rear-engine car).

With Girl, Dad gave up his domineering ways with animals and he just loved her for what she was - a lazy, sometimes sour tempered, very quirky, scared-of-fire-hydrants dog. One of the highlights of Dad's life was writing a story of Girl and having it read on-air on the CBC. It was one of his favourite party stories about Girl, and if you know Dad, you probably heard that one.

Today I was looking through some old video clips with my son and found this one of Dad and Girl. Dad had come up to visit and brought Girl in the back of his Nissan truck. She was very old at this point.

>> read some of Dad's words on Girl here.

>> Dad's introduction to Roxy, his next beloved dog here.

By Bryan Beaton

Roderick's birthday is four days away.

Every year we would connect. January 16. Always was, and always will be, a special day.
Last year I reached my brother in Mexico ... calling from the harbour in Hong Kong. Close and connected across time and space.
Who will we call this year on "his" unforgettable day?

While I grew into my teen years I lived with our mum, Patricia, and would spend most of the weekends with our Dad.  This was one of the rare weekends that Kayla was not with us at Dad's place.  It was just Dad and I.  I would wake early in the morning to take Girl the dog for a little run.  When I came back to the house dad had pancakes and homemade syrup with blueberries ready for enjoying.  After a delicious breakfast we went for a walk to the river and had a little dip.  The day carried on in warmth, relaxing strolls, and reading books.  

I thought that I would be exhausted come bed time.  I woke at about 3am unable to sleep any longer and stared at the ceiling for a while.  When sleep did not come I got up and insync Dad and I opened our bedrooms doors.  We had a laugh as we looked at eachother and said "You cannot sleep either, hey?".  We went to the kitchen and dad said in his wonderful cheery voice "I know just the cure for this ailment!" smiled his wonderful and slightly goofy smile.  He warmed up milk with a touch of honey.  We sat exchanging stories, memories, and dreams of the future while drinking in warm milk and honey.

It did not take long for the warm milk and honey to win us over and we went back to our rooms and slept, deep, wonderful sleeps.  I will miss all the wonderful talks with Dad.  I will miss the wonderful positive energy that he brought to my world, and that of so many others. 

- Sophia

My Dad and Mom (Patricia Vickers), started seeing each other when they were both 17. They met at church. Dad was a popular teenage singer - a "young Johnny Carson" - who with his older brother Bryan sang in people's homes and churches. Typical to those with teenage angst they were on-again-off-again until they were engaged and eventually married at 22. I was born in '79 when mom and dad were both 24. By the time Dad was 31, he had four kids, and had struggled to get work to feed the growing family and finish his education. 

I have many good memories of Dad when I was little, and many sad and difficult memories as well. I have the blessing and curse of a vivid memory, and can remember my early days, when I was still in diapers toddling. My Dad never talked much of the darkness in his childhood, but he'd hint at it. I can take a very good guess at what he went through and struggled with based on my experiences with him. My childhood and teenage years with Dad had two very clear, strong strands: the Dad of light who was playful, patient, a good teacher, loving, endlessly compassionate, and kind... and the Dad of darkness who would rage uncontrollably, and who was physically violent. Dad struggled with the latter strand and would ultimately completely overcome it in his life. (click here to view one of the Psalms he'd sing when I was little)

My Dad's story is one of redemption. Many people become twisted by these two opposites, but Dad worked so hard and became purely a good, light-giving person. When I was a child my best memories are from when he'd take me with him and we'd spend time one-on-one. He'd make me feel valued and loved. I remember being two, and he'd bring me with him to the Kitwanga High School, where he'd encourage me to play while he did prep work and marked student papers. I had run of the halls and would zoom around on my ride-on "bus." He'd beam at me ever time I popped into his classroom. One of my favourite years with him is when he was on strike, and he'd take me with him everywhere. I only have good memories of these times, when he'd teach me how to hammer nails, how to pull them out, how to find good copper pipe to salvage, how house wiring works (and he even let me twist on the marrettes), how boats work, and how to build a perfectly balanced model airplane. He was happiest while creating, building, and teaching.

I went through a stretch where I was angry with Dad. We never talked about the violence before he died, but Dad would take every opportunity to tell me how much he loved me, how proud he was of me, and what a good Dad I am. I could feel his heart reaching out to me every time I saw and talked to him. I never told him while he was alive that I forgave him, and he never said he was sorry. Looking back I have nothing but respect and love for my father, who as a young dad had to go through and endure some of the most difficult circumstances. In the last couple years he started to acknowledge and talk more openly about these early years. I was touched when he posted this on Mom's photo of me as a baby on Facebook (click to view).

I had my first child when I was 26. Noah was born in 2006, and Dad came up before Noah was born and immediately after. I faced my own demons in raising my son, and I've made my share of mistakes, like my Dad. Like my Dad, I worked hard to overcome them. Every time Dad was with his grandsons, I saw him love them completely. He was the Dad he wanted to be with them - while I'd lose patience with Noah, he'd delight in letting Noah be himself, and he'd give Noah space and happily engage him in conversation. He'd come to me after and tell me how much he loved being with my boys, and what a good job I was doing as a Dad. He told me early on how important it is to say at least six times more positive and loving things than negative or critical - a lesson I took to heart and try hard to follow at home and at work. 

In my mind Dad's short life had three distinct parts - the first 20 years when he was very young, the middle 20 that he dedicated to us kids, and the last 20 where he dedicated his life to being his true self. I can't think of a more generous, kind, hard working, compassionate, loving person. He would chose to see the good in everyone. As us kids left home and started to find our own boyfriends, girlfriends and eventually partners, we could count on Dad to accept them with open arms no matter what. Thank you Dad for being so loving and accepting of everyone.

When we were small and growing up Dad was generous with his hugs and kisses. I am sure all of you who met him experienced his warm embrace. He'd hold me against his body, and it always felt warm and natural. His arms were always big and strong, and the sound of his heartbeat always brought me comfort. In the last few years his embrace grew even stronger, and he'd catch me sitting (so he could be taller than me and reach my head), wrap his arms around me, and say "I love you laddie." He'd kiss me on the head, and put the side of his head on my head, and hold me. He took every opportunity to tell me how proud he was of me, what a good Dad I am, and how lucky I am to have found myself such a great wife. Thank you Dad for affirming me.

In the old days he'd lie on the floor and read us stories almost every night. Sometimes I'd lie on his stomach and listen with my ear to his back, feeling the vibrations through his chest. He always managed to tell the same stories over and over again with the same gusto as the first time. He seemed to have a bottomless well of love and patience, especially when it came to storytelling. He insisted that we stay away from TV and video games, and made up for this with late night seemingly endless story sessions. His favourites to read to us were the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings. His stories would inspire us and we spent countless days playing outside, re-enacting scenes from stories and creating our own epics using our imagination. This combination of story and enforced no-screen playing outside has been a critical piece of my success in life. Thank you Dad.

I look forward to telling many stories about Dad. The absolute best story is the story of his life. It is the best kind - a full circle story of incredible challenges that follows the rise-fall-rise formula and ends in beauty and redemption. It is the best kind because it is unbelievable and it is true. If you have time, I would love to tell it to you. It is the story of my father, and I am his proud, proud son.

-Jacob