The house is quiet now, all the visiting family is gone. The kids and I plan to travel to the West Coast this week to spend a few days on the boat, and we will scatter Ron's ashes.
The memorial was Saturday. Our friend Lance Beswick read a lovely tribute to "Ron the Friend" and Tom Crighton sent a lovely tribute all the way from Scotland. The eldest son Stephen wrote on behalf of the kids, "Ron the Father." Daughter Rose read "The Road less Travelled." Son Kevin played "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and our little Jennifer wanted to contribute and so decided Friday night to learn "Ode to Joy" on her recorder - and she played it well. Wee Angus broke all our hearts with his sad, sad face, a tissue clutched in his fist, dabbing at his tears. Then he made us smile when he offered this soggy, crumpled tissue to Jenny to help her wipe a tear. Son Morgan read this poem:
Death Is Nothing At All
**************************
Henry Scott Holland
"Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I, and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way you always used.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Life means all that it ever meant.
There is absolutely unbroken continuity....
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight.
I am waiting for you.....
for an interval....
somewhere near,
just around the corner.
All is well."
There have been a few words about Ron published in the last few days:
Ron's obituary is here:
http://makeashorterlink.com/?E29713965
A newspaper column by his friend Paul Whitney:
http://www.canoe.ca/Columnists/whitney.html
And I filed a column which appeared this morning:
http://www.canoe.ca/Columnists/graham.html
Stephen's words were more-or-less as he drafted them, below:
-- Jodine
Dad- a gift to his children.
Most of you will know Ron Graham for his talent as a
writer, for his keen mind and as a friend. For me,
Kevin, Rose, Morgan, Jennifer and Angus, we know him as
Dad -- and this, I believe, was his most important role.
Yet he was more than just my Dad. He was also my
friend, my colleague and my mentor.
He was a man of dreams and ideals. Always making
plans, whether those plans included boating on the West
Coast, trips to the golf course, or writing a book with
Jennifer about hugs. He was making plans until the
last minute; even in his final days he was planning to
go to Vancouver to see his brother, Mike, to see Rose
move into her new condo and to include me in an annual
Graham golf tournament once I returned from Taiwan.
He said children were a gift to adults, helping
grown-ups get past petty grievances and to focus on
what really matters in life. But for us children, he
was the real gift.
When I was 15 years old I moved to Calgary with my Mom,
Peggy, and stepfather, Charles. The hardest thing about
that move was being away from my Dad. But one of the
benefits of that change was that I learned at an early
age the importance of spending time together.
Despite the distance, we were able to see each other on
weekends, summer vacations, and later as partners in
business.
His passion for ideas and politics was contagious.
Attracted to these ideas myself, it was natural when I
started working in the family company, where I could
follow my Dad's lead by immersing myself in news. This
mix of business and personal affairs was not unique to
me and Dad. Rose and Morgan spent years working with
him, and Jennifer and Angus were no strangers to the
office from their time in diapers.
With such seamlessness between work and family, we got
to know our Dad in a way most children don't get to
know their parents. We got to see firsthand the daily
trials of running a business. We could see our Dad at
work and at play, virtually every aspect of his life,
even joining him for his Friday night social
gatherings. Simply by walking into his office we were
able to surround ourself in ideas -- his newspapers,
books, and of course Dad himself. We could see how a
normally quick-tempered man reacted with calm and class
when facing his toughest challenges, such as when when
finances threatened the family business several years
ago. And of course, his greatest fright, cancer, he met
with bravery and grace.
Of course, there were lighthearted moments as well.
After a bad shot on the golf course, Dad might blurt
out "I can't golf in these socks!" And he made us laugh
as a back-seat driver, waving away potential hazards
with a stroke of his hand and telling whoever was
driving to "watch out for that pole," as if it might
leap out on the street in front of us.
But his greatness as a Dad isn't best illustrated by a
single event or anecdote; it's all those little things
-- the tickle of his mustache when he gives you a kiss,
the sound of his voice when he says hello, and the note
inside a world atlas he gave me encouraging me to see
the places therein. Look at the photos of him with his
kids and you'll see a smile that radiates with pride,
affection and love. Although a man of words, it was
this smile that said the most.
He said that children helped adults grow-up, and as his
oldest son I was able to see that growth in him. As he
got older, his priorities changed and increasingly
focused family. He was fond of telling me how much he
enjoyed spending time with Jenny and Angus and giving
them their minimum four hugs a day and reading them
stories. Jennifer was able to add a precious word to
Dad's vocabulary -- gok, meaning she wanted a hug. He
died knowing that gok is what makes life worth living.
It would be easy today for us children to focus today
on our loss. But we should focus on our luck to have
had such a fine father. We can continue to pursue our
dreams and hopes as he pursued his. In reading his
columns over the years, I often hear myself in his
words. He is still alive in us.
Thanks Dad.
