My dad was born in 1925 and his birthday was on Monday—he would have been 92. He grew up in Hamilton, Ontario; fought in WWII for the RCAF; he was the youngest of five and enlisted at age seventeen after his elder brother died overseas. He adored his mom, Lydia.
There’s so much I miss about this kind gentle man but today these seven:
He was always whistling a tune; the scent of cherry pipe tobacco; he endearingly called me mugwump; his smile when he held his granddaughter; the love of reading he passed on to me; his thoughtful giving nature; his quiet sense of humor.