I’ve known the day was coming for the past 22 months. I had time to prepare. I made good use of the 660 or so days, so when the day finally came, I could handle it. Honestly, it made it easier.

Earlier this month, my mother moved off our family farm. My parents bought it in 1973. I was seven months old. I don’t remember moving in, but that lovely farm is where I learned how to work, how to love, how to laugh and it shaped so much of my life. I’m incredibly grateful for the thousands of memories and moments it gave me. It was the perfect home for me, and our family.
My mom turns 80 next May. She lived alone at the farm for the past 24 years. In that time, she earned her Doctorate, wrote three books, started a freelance company, planted over 1000 trees, hosted numerous family reunions, birthday parties and yearly back-to-school or back-to-work gatherings with her children and grandchildren and she oversaw the day-to-day operations of a 240-acre farm with 30-75 cows depending on the year. It was inspiring to see.
And it was a lot of work. I’m proud of my work ethic, and I know I got it from parents and working on the farm for the past 51 years. It is difficult to describe the satisfaction that comes from completing a task, even one as mundane and boring as picking rocks, but I’m glad that feeling was instilled in me as it has allowed me to build a fulfilling life that has become more amazing than I could have imagined.
I wrote earlier how the journey to the sale began 22 months ago. For me it really started when we sold all of the cows in November of 2022. That day was tough for me. I love animals, and I loved everything that came with having cows. I named them. I cared for them. I slept in the straw every calving season. I helped birth hundreds of calves over the years. I cried when some didn’t make it, swore a few times during vaccinations and never tired of feeding them or putting out bedding. Those memories will make me smile for years to come.
The most difficult part of leaving the farm, is leaving behind so many memories of my father. Whenever I yearned for him, I would go to the farm and my heart would be filled. I could feel his presence when I walked through the white gate, into the barnyard and up to the barn. Some days I would just sit on the tractor, close my eyes and I picture his face. I’d see his smile or hear his guttural laugh. Every time I returned to the farm I could see my father.
I won’t have that opportunity anymore. But that’s okay. Life is about change, even when it is painful.
Twenty-four years ago today, my father, William Arthur Gregor, passed away at the young age of 56. Dad had a massive heart attack in his car at a red light in Sherwood Park, and like many of you who have lost a loved one; I can vividly where I was when I found out, and I still am amazed at how compassionately my brother, Colin, came to find me and tell me the news. It was shock, devastation and complete sadness.
Wild Willy, a nickname his two sons gave him when we were teenagers, shouldn’t have left us so soon. He wasn’t a big drinker, ate fairly well, loved making popcorn on the stove and he was on always on the move. His family had no prior history of heart attacks, he was healthy, and he was active running the farm, but his number came up.
For most young boys, our father is our first hero. He seems larger than life, strong enough to hold you up on your bike, tie your skates, wrestle with you, teach you how to drive the lawn mower when you were 12, scare the monsters out from under your bed and hopefully make you laugh and feel safe. Dad was all those things, but he was so much more.
If you never met my father, I can tell you he was one-of-a-kind. He had lots of energy and enthusiasm. He loved to tell jokes and stories. I still laugh thinking of how animated he would get when telling us a story about his childhood. Especially his archrival, Fluff, or the story of Ralph Punter. He told it with such enthusiasm.
Ralph lived down the road from us. He was a welder and not a very big man. Maybe 140 pounds. One day Dad, my brother Colin and I were in the corral unloading hay bales off the hay wagon. I was only six, so I wasn’t lifting the hay bales, nor was my brother, although he could at least push one off the wagon down to my dad and he’d stack them. Ralph showed up and turns out he’d had a few beers. He tells my father he will help him unload the bales and promptly climbs up the wagon to the top of the bales.
A square hay bale can weigh between 80-120 pounds depending how big they are. We’d stack them about eight high. Ralph gets to the top and grabs one and tosses it down. About four or five bales in, Ralph goes to toss the bale but forgets to let go. He, and the bale, go flying off the wagon, the bale hits the top board on the corral, Ralph lands on the bale, and then the momentum spins him over and he lands inside the corral with the bale on top of him.
Dad rushed over to help him. He sits Ralph down in the corner and says, “I think you are done for today.” The best part is how my dad would tell the story. He’d be so excited, and he’d add much more colour to it, especially how he described Ralph. “It was like the bale wouldn’t let go and drug him off the wagon,” he’d say while trying to contain his laughter.
I remember him telling that story to my brother’s friends at his stag party at the farm. They were howling. I just sat back and smiled. Dad had an amazing ability to connect with everyone, including his children’s friends. Many of my buddies loved coming to the farm or seeing Dad at the hockey rink, because he’d always make them laugh. What I wouldn’t do to hear him tell a story one more time.
He was kind to everyone he met.
He did the best Donald Duck impression. He loved his wife, kids, sister, nieces, nephews, grandkids and wow, he could dance up a storm. He also had a short fuse in the barnyard. Something he passed on to me.
He was the epitome of what a real man should be; strong, loving, caring, sensitive, stern when necessary and a fantastic role model. He put his family first and loved my mom unconditionally for all 31 years of their marriage. He asked her out in a post office, three weeks later they were engaged and four months later they married. It was a quick romance that blossomed into a long-lasting love.
My father passed on a Friday evening. That weekend was a blur. I don’t remember much, expect that I often retreated to the barnyard. I’m very social and enjoy interacting with others, but I do remember telling mom there was lots of work to do, and while I did interact with the many visitors who came to show their support, I also remember spending time alone in the barn and around the cattle. I felt closer to my father there and while feeding the cows I was able to try and process my grief. We all process grief differently. There is no right way. Everyone will act differently, and for me, working in the barnyard, in between visits with family and friends was my way to cope.
Five days later on the morning of his funeral I couldn’t sleep and decided to write an email to my friends to release my feelings. Every year since then I type an e-mail in his honour, and hope that it somehow lessens the void in my heart.
I asked my friends for a favour that day, and today I will ask you the same one.
When you are done reading take a moment to connect with your father. If you are lucky enough to be able to see him today, or this week, give him a hug or just spend some time together. At the very least call him and ask how he’s doing. Dads might never say it, but they love hearing from their kids. If you are in a different city, give him a call and tell him you love him. I hope that through your actions, my father will see what a wonderful impression he made in my life and heart and know that our family misses him dearly.
Thank you in advance.
My life has changed significantly since Dad died. He’s missed so much of my life, but he’s also given me so much. It is a strange dichotomy. I was a single bachelor when he passed away. I remained so for 10 more years, before I met Traci on a blind date. I wasn’t as crazy as my parents, who were engaged after three weeks, I waited six months before proposing and was married six months later. It was one of the best decisions of my life.
Thirteen years after he passed, I became a father. Oh man, what a moment that was. Traci was amazingly strong, and when I held my son Beckett for the first time I was overwhelmed with feelings of love. If you’re a parent you know, or at least I hope you had that feeling. It is so intense. Becoming a father strengthened my connection with my father, even though he had been gone 13 years. He had taught me how to be a father through his actions many years earlier. I’m not sure I’m as good of a father as he was, but whenever I doubt what I’m doing, I take a few moments to remember how he acted, or the few times he offered words of advice.
Thankfully, I was never mad I lost my father so young. Hurt, sad, devastated, you bet, but never angry. We had a good relationship, and that bond helped me deal with his loss, not to mention I know many of you reading this have experienced a similar loss, and in many cases probably much worse than mine. I try not to feel sorry for myself, even though at certain times his void is very painful.
I’ve learned to accept that, but I’ve also learned to embrace those emotions. It reminds me of how much he meant to me, and I hope that when I die my son will have similar feelings, because it will mean I made an impact on his life and soul. I’ve watched this James Blunt video at random times the past few years. If your father is alive or has passed. You might appreciate it.
<div class="jetpack-video-wrapper"><iframe loading="lazy" class="youtube-player" width="1424" height="801" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/DTFbGcnl0po?version=3&#038;rel=1&#038;showsearch=0&#038;showinfo=1&#038;iv_load_policy=1&#038;fs=1&#038;hl=en-US&#038;autohide=2&#038;wmode=transparent" allowfullscreen="true" style="border:0;" sandbox="allow-scripts allow-same-origin allow-popups allow-presentation allow-popups-to-escape-sandbox"></iframe></div>
Over the past 23 years I have received many heartfelt and compassionate responses from this letter. The most common theme from men who write to me is how they hope they are impacting their children the same way my father did to me. I’m certain you are in ways you don’t even realize. I never told my father how he impacted me, because when I was a teenager, and even as a young man, I didn’t even know he was. I wish I had, but I don’t dwell on it. He knew I loved him, and I knew he loved me. I’ve learned that fatherhood is about the long game. The return on your time, effort, love and actions comes much later. And that is okay.
For decades men were taught it wasn’t masculine to share their feelings, but thankfully that has changed, and I see it daily in how my brother, brother-in-law’s, father-in-law and my friends interact with their children. I believe a fulfilled and happy man is someone who is willing to show their vulnerability, express their feelings but remain strong in their convictions, beliefs and actions. Men and fathers are just as important in the family as women and mothers.
If your father or mother has taught you great lessons, or impacted your life tell them today. It will strengthen your bond, and warm both of your hearts.
<h1>THE PATHWAY OF LIFE…</h1>
For many years I wrote this letter from only the perspective of a son. Then as a husband and for the last 11 years as a father. Our perspective and experiences evolve and change as we age, and now I’m entering a phase where many of my friends are losing their fathers, but simultaneously I’ve also had friends pass away and left their wives and children to grieve like my father left our family 24 years ago.
Seeing those situations is very difficult. The toughest part is seeing men, who were incredibly loving fathers and husbands but extremely present and active in their kid’s lives suddenly die. I know they didn’t want to go, and that hurts. It hits me hard, because that is exactly what happened to my father. And it is an underlying fear I have. It doesn’t encompass my thoughts daily, but I do try to live a healthier life in hopes of not leaving this world earlier than I want. I know I can’t completely control it, but the thought of leaving is scary. I know many men feel it, and it is okay to admit it. Just do your best to give yourself the best chance to be here. Eat well. Exercise. Laugh. Hug a loved one.
Earlier this year my co-worker and friend, Robin Brownlee, had a sudden heart attack and died. He left behind his wife, Analyn, and two sons, Michael and Sam, only 17 and in grade 12. Brutal. I sat at Bronte’s funeral and listened with pride as many shared stories of his life, and mainly how much he loved and doted on his family. A full life, which, sadly, ended prematurely.
And last month my friend, Mike Brown, also passed suddenly. I remember his and Jacqueline’s wedding vividly. What a fun party. They were the first wedding I attended where they had a massive entrance song at the reception. It was, I got a feeling by the Black Eyed Peas. I think of them every time I hear that song. They entered with a bang and lots of dancing. It symbolized how Mike lived; energetic and filled with love.
At his funeral I sat in my chair, tears streaming down my face, as I listened to Jacqueline and many friends speak so eloquently about his life, his accomplishments, but mainly is commitment to his family and his two lovely children MacKinley and Jonah. Jonah and my son are the same age, while MacKinley is 14. Way too young to lose their father.
Listening to the stories of Robin and Mike made me proud to call them friends. They were loving and caring husbands and fathers. My respect for them grew from listening to the stories from their loved ones. It was also a reminder that how you make your family feel is much more important than what material things you give them. Time, love and encouragement are extremely powerful, and while there will be rough days, I’m confident Robin and Mike’s children and wives will thrive, because of the foundation of love and respect that they were given through the actions of those two men.
Their actions reminded me of my father’s, and it was eerie in how many similarities they had. Robin and Mike did not have easy childhoods. But they choose to break that pattern in how they loved their children. My father did the same, and I’m forever grateful he did.
If you didn’t have a great relationship with your father, that doesn’t mean you have to do the same with your kids. Make a conscious effort to be different. Choose love. Choose joy. Choose vulnerability. You won’t regret it, and your children will flourish because of it.
Before I end, I want to share and note I received last October.
Gregor, we’ve never meet, but I feel I know you from listening to your show and reading many of your articles at Oilersnation. I’ve read your letter to your father for many years, but I don’t think I really understood it until my father got sick this past year. Admittedly, I think I took him being healthy for granted. He’s, my dad. When you wrote about our father’s being our first hero, you were so right. I’ve always looked up to him, and just assumed he’d be around for a long time. 
He was only 61 when he was diagnosed with Stage Four Prostate Cancer. They gave him six months to live. I think hearing his diagnosis was harder than the day he eventually passed. We found out last November and after being initially quite mad, I remembered your letter and found it. I printed it out and went to my parent’s house and read it aloud to my dad, mom and my three siblings. 
I don’t ever recall seeing my two brothers and dad all crying at the same time. It was therapeutic tears for all of us. Your heartfelt words struck a chord with everyone, and we decided we would make the most of his final six months. We met up regularly. We went on two family trips. One with just us and mom and dad and another with all our spouses/partners. Those six months made our family even closer, and when my father was getting quite weak, he told us the past six months were the best time of his life. He was ready to go, and he was fulfilled. 
I should have written to thank you earlier, but I hope you and your father know your connection really helped our family. Thank you. Keep writing as your words make a difference. 
Scott W. 
Scott, thank you. What a beautiful story and what a great family decision to make the most of a very tough situation. A great reminder that we can choose to find the positive in even the most difficult situation.
Once again, thanks in advance to those who follow through on my request. It means a lot to me, and I offer my condolences to all of you who have lost your father, or mother, this past year I hope that his memories warm your heart. Especially to the Brownlees, Browns, John Short&#8217;s family and to my friends Terri, Jackie and Kris who lost their father Jack last Sunday. Cherish his memory. And to all of you have read this, if your father is gone make sure you call your mom, because the void in her heart might be even deeper than yours.
Wild Willy, I love you still. Thank you for loving me and teaching me so much about being a father. You are still in my heart and your actions inspire me to strive to be a better husband and father. I hope I am the father Beckett deserves. Please watch over all of our family and friends, my lovely Traci and especially your soulmate; Mom.
Love your son, Jason.
PS…If you are missing your father, or if he has been given a tough diagnosis. Listen to this painfully beautiful song by Dean Lewis. It would have helped me 24 years ago.
<div class="jetpack-video-wrapper"><iframe loading="lazy" class="youtube-player" width="1424" height="801" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/QCtEe-zsCtQ?version=3&#038;rel=1&#038;showsearch=0&#038;showinfo=1&#038;iv_load_policy=1&#038;fs=1&#038;hl=en-US&#038;autohide=2&#038;wmode=transparent" allowfullscreen="true" style="border:0;" sandbox="allow-scripts allow-same-origin allow-popups allow-presentation allow-popups-to-escape-sandbox"></iframe></div>

I’ve known the day was coming for the past 22 months. I had time to prepare. I made good use of the 660 or so days, so when the day finally came, I could handle it. Honestly, it made it easier.



Earlier this month, my mother moved off our family farm. My parents bought it in 1973. I was seven months old. I don’t remember moving in, but that lovely farm is where I learned how to work, how to love, how to laugh and it shaped so much of my life. I’m incredibly grateful for the thousands of memories and moments it gave me. It was the perfect home for me, and our family.

My mom turns 80 next May. She lived alone at the farm for the past 24 years. In that time, she earned her Doctorate, wrote three books, started a freelance company, planted over 1000 trees, hosted numerous family reunions, birthday parties and yearly back-to-school or back-to-work gatherings with her children and grandchildren and she oversaw the day-to-day operations of a 240-acre farm with 30-75 cows depending on the year. It was inspiring to see.

And it was a lot of work. I’m proud of my work ethic, and I know I got it from parents and working on the farm for the past 51 years. It is difficult to describe the satisfaction that comes from completing a task, even one as mundane and boring as picking rocks, but I’m glad that feeling was instilled in me as it has allowed me to build a fulfilling life that has become more amazing than I could have imagined.

I wrote earlier how the journey to the sale began 22 months ago. For me it really started when we sold all of the cows in November of 2022. That day was tough for me. I love animals, and I loved everything that came with having cows. I named them. I cared for them. I slept in the straw every calving season. I helped birth hundreds of calves over the years. I cried when some didn’t make it, swore a few times during vaccinations and never tired of feeding them or putting out bedding. Those memories will make me smile for years to come.

The most difficult part of leaving the farm, is leaving behind so many memories of my father. Whenever I yearned for him, I would go to the farm and my heart would be filled. I could feel his presence when I walked through the white gate, into the barnyard and up to the barn. Some days I would just sit on the tractor, close my eyes and I picture his face. I’d see his smile or hear his guttural laugh. Every time I returned to the farm I could see my father.

I won’t have that opportunity anymore. But that’s okay. Life is about change, even when it is painful.

Twenty-four years ago today, my father, William Arthur Gregor, passed away at the young age of 56. Dad had a massive heart attack in his car at a red light in Sherwood Park, and like many of you who have lost a loved one; I can vividly where I was when I found out, and I still am amazed at how compassionately my brother, Colin, came to find me and tell me the news. It was shock, devastation and complete sadness.

Wild Willy, a nickname his two sons gave him when we were teenagers, shouldn’t have left us so soon. He wasn’t a big drinker, ate fairly well, loved making popcorn on the stove and he was on always on the move. His family had no prior history of heart attacks, he was healthy, and he was active running the farm, but his number came up.

For most young boys, our father is our first hero. He seems larger than life, strong enough to hold you up on your bike, tie your skates, wrestle with you, teach you how to drive the lawn mower when you were 12, scare the monsters out from under your bed and hopefully make you laugh and feel safe. Dad was all those things, but he was so much more.

If you never met my father, I can tell you he was one-of-a-kind. He had lots of energy and enthusiasm. He loved to tell jokes and stories. I still laugh thinking of how animated he would get when telling us a story about his childhood. Especially his archrival, Fluff, or the story of Ralph Punter. He told it with such enthusiasm.

Ralph lived down the road from us. He was a welder and not a very big man. Maybe 140 pounds. One day Dad, my brother Colin and I were in the corral unloading hay bales off the hay wagon. I was only six, so I wasn’t lifting the hay bales, nor was my brother, although he could at least push one off the wagon down to my dad and he’d stack them. Ralph showed up and turns out he’d had a few beers. He tells my father he will help him unload the bales and promptly climbs up the wagon to the top of the bales.

A square hay bale can weigh between 80-120 pounds depending how big they are. We’d stack them about eight high. Ralph gets to the top and grabs one and tosses it down. About four or five bales in, Ralph goes to toss the bale but forgets to let go. He, and the bale, go flying off the wagon, the bale hits the top board on the corral, Ralph lands on the bale, and then the momentum spins him over and he lands inside the corral with the bale on top of him.

Dad rushed over to help him. He sits Ralph down in the corner and says, “I think you are done for today.” The best part is how my dad would tell the story. He’d be so excited, and he’d add much more colour to it, especially how he described Ralph. “It was like the bale wouldn’t let go and drug him off the wagon,” he’d say while trying to contain his laughter.

I remember him telling that story to my brother’s friends at his stag party at the farm. They were howling. I just sat back and smiled. Dad had an amazing ability to connect with everyone, including his children’s friends. Many of my buddies loved coming to the farm or seeing Dad at the hockey rink, because he’d always make them laugh. What I wouldn’t do to hear him tell a story one more time.

He was kind to everyone he met.

He did the best Donald Duck impression. He loved his wife, kids, sister, nieces, nephews, grandkids and wow, he could dance up a storm. He also had a short fuse in the barnyard. Something he passed on to me.

He was the epitome of what a real man should be; strong, loving, caring, sensitive, stern when necessary and a fantastic role model. He put his family first and loved my mom unconditionally for all 31 years of their marriage. He asked her out in a post office, three weeks later they were engaged and four months later they married. It was a quick romance that blossomed into a long-lasting love.

My father passed on a Friday evening. That weekend was a blur. I don’t remember much, expect that I often retreated to the barnyard. I’m very social and enjoy interacting with others, but I do remember telling mom there was lots of work to do, and while I did interact with the many visitors who came to show their support, I also remember spending time alone in the barn and around the cattle. I felt closer to my father there and while feeding the cows I was able to try and process my grief. We all process grief differently. There is no right way. Everyone will act differently, and for me, working in the barnyard, in between visits with family and friends was my way to cope.

Five days later on the morning of his funeral I couldn’t sleep and decided to write an email to my friends to release my feelings. Every year since then I type an e-mail in his honour, and hope that it somehow lessens the void in my heart.

I asked my friends for a favour that day, and today I will ask you the same one.

When you are done reading take a moment to connect with your father. If you are lucky enough to be able to see him today, or this week, give him a hug or just spend some time together. At the very least call him and ask how he’s doing. Dads might never say it, but they love hearing from their kids. If you are in a different city, give him a call and tell him you love him. I hope that through your actions, my father will see what a wonderful impression he made in my life and heart and know that our family misses him dearly.

Thank you in advance.

My life has changed significantly since Dad died. He’s missed so much of my life, but he’s also given me so much. It is a strange dichotomy. I was a single bachelor when he passed away. I remained so for 10 more years, before I met Traci on a blind date. I wasn’t as crazy as my parents, who were engaged after three weeks, I waited six months before proposing and was married six months later. It was one of the best decisions of my life.

Thirteen years after he passed, I became a father. Oh man, what a moment that was. Traci was amazingly strong, and when I held my son Beckett for the first time I was overwhelmed with feelings of love. If you’re a parent you know, or at least I hope you had that feeling. It is so intense. Becoming a father strengthened my connection with my father, even though he had been gone 13 years. He had taught me how to be a father through his actions many years earlier. I’m not sure I’m as good of a father as he was, but whenever I doubt what I’m doing, I take a few moments to remember how he acted, or the few times he offered words of advice.

Thankfully, I was never mad I lost my father so young. Hurt, sad, devastated, you bet, but never angry. We had a good relationship, and that bond helped me deal with his loss, not to mention I know many of you reading this have experienced a similar loss, and in many cases probably much worse than mine. I try not to feel sorry for myself, even though at certain times his void is very painful.

I’ve learned to accept that, but I’ve also learned to embrace those emotions. It reminds me of how much he meant to me, and I hope that when I die my son will have similar feelings, because it will mean I made an impact on his life and soul. I’ve watched this James Blunt video at random times the past few years. If your father is alive or has passed. You might appreciate it.

https://youtu.be/DTFbGcnl0po?si=nNHuiaGctlgqi7dQ

Over the past 23 years I have received many heartfelt and compassionate responses from this letter. The most common theme from men who write to me is how they hope they are impacting their children the same way my father did to me. I’m certain you are in ways you don’t even realize. I never told my father how he impacted me, because when I was a teenager, and even as a young man, I didn’t even know he was. I wish I had, but I don’t dwell on it. He knew I loved him, and I knew he loved me. I’ve learned that fatherhood is about the long game. The return on your time, effort, love and actions comes much later. And that is okay.

For decades men were taught it wasn’t masculine to share their feelings, but thankfully that has changed, and I see it daily in how my brother, brother-in-law’s, father-in-law and my friends interact with their children. I believe a fulfilled and happy man is someone who is willing to show their vulnerability, express their feelings but remain strong in their convictions, beliefs and actions. Men and fathers are just as important in the family as women and mothers.

If your father or mother has taught you great lessons, or impacted your life tell them today. It will strengthen your bond, and warm both of your hearts.
<h1>THE PATHWAY OF LIFE…</h1>
For many years I wrote this letter from only the perspective of a son. Then as a husband and for the last 11 years as a father. Our perspective and experiences evolve and change as we age, and now I’m entering a phase where many of my friends are losing their fathers, but simultaneously I’ve also had friends pass away and left their wives and children to grieve like my father left our family 24 years ago.

Seeing those situations is very difficult. The toughest part is seeing men, who were incredibly loving fathers and husbands but extremely present and active in their kid’s lives suddenly die. I know they didn’t want to go, and that hurts. It hits me hard, because that is exactly what happened to my father. And it is an underlying fear I have. It doesn’t encompass my thoughts daily, but I do try to live a healthier life in hopes of not leaving this world earlier than I want. I know I can’t completely control it, but the thought of leaving is scary. I know many men feel it, and it is okay to admit it. Just do your best to give yourself the best chance to be here. Eat well. Exercise. Laugh. Hug a loved one.

Earlier this year my co-worker and friend, Robin Brownlee, had a sudden heart attack and died. He left behind his wife, Analyn, and two sons, Michael and Sam, only 17 and in grade 12. Brutal. I sat at Bronte’s funeral and listened with pride as many shared stories of his life, and mainly how much he loved and doted on his family. A full life, which, sadly, ended prematurely.

And last month my friend, Mike Brown, also passed suddenly. I remember his and Jacqueline’s wedding vividly. What a fun party. They were the first wedding I attended where they had a massive entrance song at the reception. It was, I got a feeling by the Black Eyed Peas. I think of them every time I hear that song. They entered with a bang and lots of dancing. It symbolized how Mike lived; energetic and filled with love.

At his funeral I sat in my chair, tears streaming down my face, as I listened to Jacqueline and many friends speak so eloquently about his life, his accomplishments, but mainly is commitment to his family and his two lovely children MacKinley and Jonah. Jonah and my son are the same age, while MacKinley is 14. Way too young to lose their father.

Listening to the stories of Robin and Mike made me proud to call them friends. They were loving and caring husbands and fathers. My respect for them grew from listening to the stories from their loved ones. It was also a reminder that how you make your family feel is much more important than what material things you give them. Time, love and encouragement are extremely powerful, and while there will be rough days, I’m confident Robin and Mike’s children and wives will thrive, because of the foundation of love and respect that they were given through the actions of those two men.

Their actions reminded me of my father’s, and it was eerie in how many similarities they had. Robin and Mike did not have easy childhoods. But they choose to break that pattern in how they loved their children. My father did the same, and I’m forever grateful he did.

If you didn’t have a great relationship with your father, that doesn’t mean you have to do the same with your kids. Make a conscious effort to be different. Choose love. Choose joy. Choose vulnerability. You won’t regret it, and your children will flourish because of it.

Before I end, I want to share and note I received last October.

Gregor, we’ve never meet, but I feel I know you from listening to your show and reading many of your articles at Oilersnation. I’ve read your letter to your father for many years, but I don’t think I really understood it until my father got sick this past year. Admittedly, I think I took him being healthy for granted. He’s, my dad. When you wrote about our father’s being our first hero, you were so right. I’ve always looked up to him, and just assumed he’d be around for a long time. 

He was only 61 when he was diagnosed with Stage Four Prostate Cancer. They gave him six months to live. I think hearing his diagnosis was harder than the day he eventually passed. We found out last November and after being initially quite mad, I remembered your letter and found it. I printed it out and went to my parent’s house and read it aloud to my dad, mom and my three siblings. 

I don’t ever recall seeing my two brothers and dad all crying at the same time. It was therapeutic tears for all of us. Your heartfelt words struck a chord with everyone, and we decided we would make the most of his final six months. We met up regularly. We went on two family trips. One with just us and mom and dad and another with all our spouses/partners. Those six months made our family even closer, and when my father was getting quite weak, he told us the past six months were the best time of his life. He was ready to go, and he was fulfilled. 

I should have written to thank you earlier, but I hope you and your father know your connection really helped our family. Thank you. Keep writing as your words make a difference. 

Scott W. 

Scott, thank you. What a beautiful story and what a great family decision to make the most of a very tough situation. A great reminder that we can choose to find the positive in even the most difficult situation.

Once again, thanks in advance to those who follow through on my request. It means a lot to me, and I offer my condolences to all of you who have lost your father, or mother, this past year I hope that his memories warm your heart. Especially to the Brownlees, Browns, John Short's family and to my friends Terri, Jackie and Kris who lost their father Jack last Sunday. Cherish his memory. And to all of you have read this, if your father is gone make sure you call your mom, because the void in her heart might be even deeper than yours.

Wild Willy, I love you still. Thank you for loving me and teaching me so much about being a father. You are still in my heart and your actions inspire me to strive to be a better husband and father. I hope I am the father Beckett deserves. Please watch over all of our family and friends, my lovely Traci and especially your soulmate; Mom.

Love your son, Jason.

PS…If you are missing your father, or if he has been given a tough diagnosis. Listen to this painfully beautiful song by Dean Lewis. It would have helped me 24 years ago.

https://youtu.be/QCtEe-zsCtQ?si=FG5JQ0Bt_Jrhze9N

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