Remembering My Father, 25 Years Later

It’s been 25 years since my father passed, yet there are days when his laugh, warm and full of life, feels as if it’s just out of earshot. Dad was the sort of person who loved family, gardening and—perhaps most distinctly—orchids. Oh, and flying. And singing. And God. Actually, the list gets pretty long, now that I think about it. But that’s the kind of man he was—a life bursting at the seams with interests and passions, all wrapped in this Irish personality that you couldn’t help but admire—and occasionally eye-roll at.

Yes, my dad had what I often call a “Belfast look.” Big and sturdy, with massive fists and a serious air that could be downright intimidating until he opened his mouth. That’s when the funniest, most unexpected line would sail out and completely disarm you. He had a gift for wit and a knack for humour, as though it was his spiritual mission to keep those around him slightly off-balance but always entertained.

The Greenhouse Respite

Growing orchids in a freezing Manitoba winter requires a unique combination of patience and stubbornness, both of which my father had in spades. I can still picture him in his greenhouse, tending to his flower “babies” with meticulous care. It was his restorative haven. He’d often tell me, “You can rush a lot of things in life, but orchids aren’t one of them.” I didn’t tell him at the time, but I loved going into that greenhouse when he wasn’t around—the warmth, the smell of damp earth, the delicate beauty of those flowers—it all felt alive in a way I didn’t quite understand as a kid.

But of course, Dad’s nurturing hand in the greenhouse didn’t extend to all plants. One memory involves a wayward row of tomato plants that refused to cooperate and grow. “For heaven’s sake,” he bellowed one day, “if you don’t start showing growth, you’re going straight to the compost heap!” He was not entirely joking.

The Transformation

Dad was always religious, and his dedication to church, choir, and faith permeated our upbringing. But something remarkable happened when I was seventeen—a shift that turned his faith into something deeper, more profound. God became real to him in a way it hadn’t before, and it changed him.

Suddenly, the faith that had always seemed structured and dutiful transformed into something vibrant and alive. He became gentler, more reflective, and unshakeably at peace. It wasn’t that his humour or wit disappeared—thankfully, those stayed intact—but there was a different weight to his words, a new sense of purpose behind his actions. I would wake up early in the morning and find him sitting in his wing chair reading his Bible and making notes. There was something so peaceful about that.

Being the youngest, I witnessed this transformation up close. My two older brothers and I have since talked about how we each grew up in almost different homes, shaped by his and Mom’s evolving lives. By the time I was the only one left at home, I had the privilege of seeing this renewed version of him every day. It was as though his faith had moved from something he practiced to something he lived, and that left a lasting impression on me.

Voices in Harmony

Music wasn’t just a hobby for my dad; it was a language. Between church choir rehearsals and his time in a Barbershop Quartet, a good chunk of his week involved singing. If you’ve never heard a Barbershop Quartet practice, imagine four very determined men standing uncomfortably close, debating harmonies and occasionally striking a note so beautiful it would stop you in your step. My dad absolutely loved it.

Some of my earliest memories involve standing next to him at church, trying to keep up as he effortlessly filled the sanctuary with a deep bass, resonant voice that seemed to come straight from his soul. He joked that God gave the Irish their voices so we’d be forgiven for everything else.

The Aviator

And then, there was the flying. Dad’s eyes sparkled most when he talked about his years as a flying instructor during World War II. He didn’t share many war stories, but when he did, they were less about the danger and more about the boys who came through his cockpit. He taught them how to handle planes with precision and respect—two things I imagine could describe how he handled life itself.

Even after the war, his love for the sky never faded. It’s one of the few places where I think he felt completely free. He let me take the controls when I was just ten and we would practice landing atop the clouds. Still today, when I hear the distant drone of a Cessna overhead, I can’t help but think of him.

Lessons That Last

Dad wasn’t perfect—none of us are. But he carried a strong sense of faith and a belief in bettering the world around him, even if it meant starting with a single stubborn orchid in the middle of winter. He opened our home to others and helped people get back on their feet. He taught me that laughter could diffuse tension, that dedication is a form of love, and that singing—regardless of how you sound—connects you to something eternal. More than that, though, witnessing his transformation taught me that it’s never too late for faith to deepen and for life to become richer.

Twenty-five years is a long time, but the memories of who he was and what he loved remain vivid. Flowers, the songs, the skies—they all tell his story. If there’s a choir in heaven or a greenhouse that needs tending, I have no doubt he’s making himself indispensable up there, and making everyone smile along the way.

It’s been a long time since we have shared a Guinness together, but here’s to you, Dad. Your DNA runs strong in my family and you would be so proud of your clann and your great grandkids would have you wrapped around their fingers. You’re greatly missed but remembered with a smile—and occasionally an eye-roll.