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Happy Birthday, Dad

We'll set a place for you and the laughter will continue

By Catherine KenwellPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 5 min read
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My Dad and me at Golden Lake

Happy Birthday Dad,

This week I’m filing your taxes and I took your coin collection to an auction house (one I trust, don’t worry!). Months after you died, I’m still learning about you and of course, your bookkeeper Joanne told me that you and her husband had been friends since high school. The stories I hear!

Sometimes I feel like we’re slowly erasing bits and pieces of your life. Not you, really. At least, that’s what I tell myself. You’re not the furniture you owned, the money you saved (although I wish you were here to tell you how much I marvel at the amount), or the odd things you hung onto over the years.

You’re in the people you loved, the guidance you gave, the kindness you showed. That lives in us. Wow, does it ever.

John and I see each other all the time. In the last few years of your life, I’m sure you saw your kids grow closer. I believe it might have been through your example…the more time we spent with you, over coffee or dinner or hockey games, we really learned what a lucky family we are. I’m glad we created opportunities where he and Kevin and I could hang out with you. When COVID hit and we couldn’t go out for Sunday breakfasts, we brought them to you. Sundays haven’t been the same since.

I miss our spontaneous conversations on random subjects. One moment we’d be chatting about my summer working in road construction, and then you’d tell me about that time you worked on the Highway 400 crew. You’d often point out the spots you helped build and laugh about the machinery you weren’t licensed to use but operated when the regular driver was drinking beer in the bush. It always seemed like the Wild West…like so many stories you shared with us.

There are buildings I can’t drive by without a wistful smile. That building in Hillsdale, where your aunt ran the store. The stove in the shop heated the entire building, so the rooms upstairs where you slept were always freezing. You always made it sound like an adventure.

When we go up to Golden Lake this year, I think the Killaloe LCBO staff might be a little bewildered when I burst into tears in the beer aisle. One of the best surprises of my life was bumping into you at the store when you were sneaking up to visit us at McMillan’s. Thank you for just being there. Everyone up there loves you. It’s their 90th year this summer. You would have been 90, too. And you'll be right there with us to celebrate.

You had the gift of making the ordinary extraordinary. Thank you for allowing me to see the world through your imaginative, eternally mischievous eyes.

Like Perky’s Fish and Chips. You know, I always invited you to join me when I picked up plants at the Springwater Nursery, just so that I could hear you say, in a magical voice about half-way up Highway 26, “Would you like to stop and have lunch at Perky’s?” like the idea had suddenly come to you. C’mon, Dad, you know how old I am! I wasn’t born yesterday. But I always played along.

We managed to eat there a few times during the pandemic, even though we spilled ketchup in the front seat of my truck and the splotches created what looked like a crime scene. I know you cursed at the mess, but the memory will elicit teary chuckles long after that vehicle is gone.

You knew good fish and chips, and you made the best. When you and Mom were first married, you ran the fish and chip shop in Collingwood. I wish I could find a picture of you in your white apron and little white cap. I bet you were a real cutie.

Your hilarious tradition of praising my husband for everything I achieve has continued. Yes, now John is besties with Kevin, and I’m on the periphery again. Good thing I’m confident in my family relationships, because Kevin is always John’s first contact for everything, and ‘little sister wifey’ is just along for the ride. God, you know I keep this family together, right?

Of course, John and Kevin and I are going to enjoy your favorite meal on March 6. I might even have a Coor’s Light in your honor. Nah, you know me, it’s Guinness or nothing. Gee, if only they still made Cinci. I’d take a sip before handing it over to you, like I did when I was five.

It’s your favorite puppy’s birthday on Sunday too. Sunny misses you, although Unka John has almost filled in for you…but without the treats. He remains eternally optimistic though. He checks John’s pockets every time John shows up. The tradition continues. Hard to believe Sunny is 14, right?

Kevin’s turning 64 the day after your birthday. He’s still relieved you let him back into the house. It’ll be a bittersweet day, but he’s asked me to make Mom’s tourtiere for his birthday dinner and John will be joining us. And you know you always have a seat at our kitchen table. Whenever we celebrate, you’re there with us.

The Baycats have made big changes this year. New president, new stadium name…wherever you are you’ll probably still hear Josh’s Dad cheering, and you’ll laugh. We’ll be keeping your seat warm for you, you know it. We all will.

The Leafs! Need we say anything? It’s another season. John misses dropping over to watch the games with you. And I miss the recap the next day.

What I’d do to have a hot chocolate or a beer or one of those 10-minutes-turns-into-two-hour talks. So often, I’ll think of something to tell you, and I miss our nightly after-dinner phone calls, when we caught up on each other’s days. I’m so very grateful that we knew each other as adults, because it was only as an adult that I learned what a great guy you were. And I listened to you, more than you think. Thanks for being my pal.

Cheers, Daddo. Happy 90th. It’s gonna be different this year, but as you said we would, we’ll be just fine.

Forever,

Your Little Princess

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About the Creator

Catherine Kenwell

I live with a broken brain and PTSD--but that doesn't stop me! I'm an author, artist, and qualified mediator who loves life's detours.

I co-authored NOT CANCELLED: Canadian Kindness in the Face of COVID-19. I also publish horror stories.

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