My dad

My energy, my stubborness, my high standards, my always wanting to be doing something don't even come close to my dad's. He was always "doing" - building this, taking apart that, making something perfect, puzzling through some conundrum, puttering around outside (and, until he was 90, literally putting four days a week at the golf course...but at 90 he found himself unable to walk the 18 holes so gave up the game). He was not a big fan of my new adventure - figuring there are lots better ways to cross the country (his choice would be flying, with himself at the controls as he had been a pilot in the Canadian Air Force during WWII). But I kept working on him - and it definitely provided us with some animated discussion.

The last couple of years have been tough for my dad. Physical ailments piled up and he was unable to do all the fiddling that had kept him so happily busy throughout his life. This fall, thoroughly frustrated with just sitting around and feeling yucky, he stated he wouldn't make it past Christmas. He is a man of his word. My pop, my standard of excellence, died this afternoon.

As I make my way across the country this summer, I'll picture him shaking his head over all the zig zagging I'll have to do. On the tough days, I'll dig deep and call on the big dose of stubborn he endowed me with. And as I arrive in Petoskey, I'll smile remembering that it was pop who moved his family to such a beautiful spot on this planet - a home worth running across the country to....and I'll look skyward with a wry grin - just like his own - to show him I did it!