Life Reflected in Art

I've been reflecting all day on the fact that it has been thirteen years since my Dad died.

A few nights ago, when he was feverish and having trouble falling back to sleep, as I laid in bed beside my son trying to comfort him, we chatted in the dark.

He asked me if there was anything I regretted. With tears in my eyes, I told him the one thing I really regret was not having spent more time with my father when I was younger. While I had made it a point to spend time with him once I was a young man (ie, in my early twenties), I often think about all those additional fishing and hunting excursions I could have gone on with him when I was younger -- all that father/son bonding time that I missed out on.

Because the times spent with my dad were always so very precious; and the memories I have are good ones -- fun ones.

I told Alexander that's one of the reasons why I love to spend so much time with him; why the traditional week-long "Boy's Road-Trip" we do every year the first week of July is so important to me. While I do spend a lot of time traveling, I have made spending time with Alexander a top priority.

Every year, on this delightful day in which we're supposed to all turn a little bit Irish and drink a toast, a cheers to St. Patrick, I find myself offering a special little cheer to the many beers that I shared with my Dad over the years. I think of the happy memories, all we had, and not the regrets.

And, today, I have been thinking about how many of the books I've written are reflective of that important father/son bond.

When he was still alive, one of my biggest fears was my father dying. To that end, I struggled with the thought, and imagined having to face it head on. From that fear and anxiety came the novel MORNING SUN.

Sharing parts of the first draft with him that I was working on while my Dad, my cousin Rodney and I were on Manitoulin Island during deer hunting season. (Dad and Rodney were hunting, I stayed back and hammered away on the laptop on the novel)

Dad & I on Manitoulin Island. Him reading MORNING SON; me with a beer

MORNING SON (a novel which I haven't yet published - it remains in a drawer) is more of a contemporary story with a bit of an underlying mystery. It's the story of a bereaved man who learns that his father's last dying wish was to have his son scatter his ashes at his favourite fishing hole. The only problem is that he always kept his favourite fishing hole a closed guarded secret. The young man, a bookstore manager who continually escapes into work as a way to avoid conflict in his life, finds himself compelled back to the Sudbury region to explore his father's past and find that secret locale. But in the midst of uncovering the past, he also unveils a closely guarded family secret that explains why his father was estranged from the rest of the family.

The novel contains many autobiographical details as well as several details from my father's own life. All fictionalized, of course. But many elements -- my father's near fatal motorcycle accident, the less than out-doorsy bookworm son with epilepsy -- are based on reality.

Here's the prologue for that novel:

I never spoke so many words to my father as I did when I was thirty-two and traveled with him from Ottawa to the sprawling network of fishing holes off Highway 144 in Northern Ontario. The only thing that took any real pleasure out of the experience was the fact that my father was nothing more than about five pounds of ashes in a silver-plated urn that I had strapped into the passenger seat beside me.

     A man of few words his entire life, my father's Will reflected the same, stating that everything was to go to his only son, and that upon cremation of his body, I scatter his ashes at his favourite fishing spot. The only problem was that my father's favourite fishing spot was a more closely guarded secret than the US president's nuclear launch code. That and I hadn't fished with my father since I was eleven; I was about as likely to remember where he'd take me fishing all those years ago as I was to guessing the winning Lott 649 numbers. And I would be just as at home reading a topographical map as I would be reading the French language my namesake suggested I possessed.

     Nonetheless, leaving my wife and child behind, I set off to fulfill my father's request, taking myself on a journey of introspection, self-discovery and, finally, a clear picture of who my father really was.

     Despite some of the shocking secrets I discovered, the realization that my father was as flawed and fallible as myself, and the fact he had been dead for several weeks, I never felt closer to my father in my entire life

     And I couldn't have loved him more.

As I mentioned, I haven't yet published the novel. I did send it off to a few publishers back when I first completed it and received a few polite rejections. Apparently, mainstream more "literary" novels just aren't my forte. I then moved on to other writing projects; but every once in a while I wonder if I'll pull it back out, give it another polish, and send it off to a publisher or perhaps self-publish it.

One novel that I DID publish, and which was based on my father's actual death, was, again based on some things from both my father's life and my own. The afore-mentioned near fatal motorcycle accident; my initial adoration of computer programming back in the Commodore PET computer days; not to mention that the novel mostly takes place in a fictionalized version of the building where Kobo's home off is. (I changed the company my hero works for to an online insurance company).

EVASION was inspired by my father's death, and the anger I felt towards the doctors, towards the hospital, towards everyone involved. It also came from the odd thing that kept happening to me for years after he died. I kept imagining I had spotted him in a crowd or driving the car beside me on the highway. It made me wonder: well, what IF he really is still alive? How could that be? Why would it be? The answer to that turned into a thriller -- one in which a man investigating his father's mysterious death finds himself hunted by everyone he knows and encounters. And thus, the novel, EVASION was born.

Here's the beginning of the Prologue for EVASION:

Scott Desmond was looking at a dead man.

     He shook his head, swiped at the sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes, tried to focus more clear-ly on the sight before him.

     There was no mistake about it.

     The man he was looking at across two sets of train tracks was none other than his father – a man who had died almost eighteen months earlier.

     Scott shook his head for the second time, rubbed his eyes, tried to focus through the humidity of the August day. But there was simply no disputing the fact.

     The man he was staring at across the GO train plat-form had to be his father.

EVASION is available in print, eBook and now in audiobook versions. You can also read the entire text of the first draft of the novel (unedited, so you'll have to just suck up the typos and grammar and other issues) on Wattpad where it has had almost 200,000 reads. I'm quite delighted with the audio version and think that Brian Troxell does an amazing job reading it. Click the link below to listen to a sample of it.

Evasion on Audible

I have already written most of the sequel to EVASION. It's a story that focuses on the life of Lionel Desmond. (Lionel was my father's middle name, and, yes, much of Lionel' character was based on my own father -- it was so much fun writing Evasion and based certain personality traits on my Dad. Even more fun exploring a fictional childhood from my father's perspective)

My father has shown up in a few other stories I have written; stories and tales he has shared, or that have been shared about him have surfaced in so many other places, including direct tributes that became a collaborative effort such as the time I wrote him a poem inspired by a painting and he turned the poem itself into a beautiful piece of art. So while these, so far, are the only two book-length works he has appeared in, I'm sure he'll continue to make himself known in other works along the way.

That's the reality of art that pulls snippets from life. That's the reality of continuing to be inspired by someone who meant so much.

Here's to the continued inspiration, the memories and the never-ending love. Thanks, Dad!

Eugene Lionel Lefebvre: June 28, 1938 - March 17, 2003

A Dozen Years, A Lifetime of Memories

Twelve years ago today I lost my father.

For the longest time, losing my father had been my greatest fear. The first full length novel I wrote (still unpublished) was an attempt to come to terms with facing that fear. And a relatively recent novel that I wrote explored my desire to explore "what if he hadn't died." I doubt I'll ever stop including this element in some way in my writing.

Yesterday, when I was talking with my son about the grandfather that he never had the chance to meet, he asked about the surgery and if I ever wished I could find a time machine so I could go back and change what happened on that day. One of the things I love most about hanging out with my ten year old is that our minds are so alike; we can get into a grove and the decades of age difference between us dissolve. 

It's always an interesting premise, wanting to go back and change things that didn't go right.

But there are a few things that went right that fateful morning. Such as giving my father a hug and a kiss and telling him that I loved him before he headed off into surgery.

Dad and I in Levack, sharing a beer and some laughs back in the 90's

Taking the time to tell those that you love, those who are important to you, is always the right thing to do; even when it's awkward. But the great thing about love is that you can give and share love without ever once feeling depleted of it. It's an amazing internal natural resource.

Tonight, when I'm sitting back and having a beer, I'll be toasting the memory of my father; I'll be toasting all the fun times that we shared, all those moments together, and the life that he lived; celebrating a man I continue to try to emulate. But I'll also be celebrating the incredible gift that I have in being a father to such a truly wonderful son as I continue to marvel at all he is and continues to grow to become.

Alexander and a game of chess we played last night (while philosophizing) at The Winking Judge

Tonight, I'll be toasting to memories, and to futures; and reflecting on just how blessed I am that I get to live between the two extraordinary lives of my father and my son. The influence of both of them make me into a better person.

Dad And My Writing

June 28th has always been a special day. My Dad's birthday.


When we were young, it was always a time for our family to get together (my larger family, that is, which always included my Mom's brother, Uncle Leslie, and his family. His sons, my cousins Rodney and Kevin grew up more like extended brothers than cousins, so whenever I thought of the family getting together, they were always a part of it - especially on special occasions like Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter and my Dad's birthday)

My Dad died unexpectedly on an operating room table. It's something I've been dealing with for a long time. Before that, my biggest fear for the longest time had been losing my father. And that was the spark of the novel Morning Son, which I wrote more than a decade ago.

Morning Son is the story of a man who is tasked with spreading his dead father's ashes at his father's favourite fishing spot -- only, his old man's favourite fishing spot was a secret, so the novel's hero ends up leaving his wife and daughter behind to go on a quest to see if he can learn this secret locale -- only, he uncovers other disturbing secrets from his father's past that he wonders might be better left alone.

Dad reading a scene from Morning Son

I had been working on one of the first drafts of the novel when my Dad, Rodney and I were staying at a cabin on Manitoulin Island. They were hunting and I was writing. Although the novel is fiction, some elements had been based on things from my Dad's life, such as a motorcycle accident that had almost killed him when he was in his early twenties and left him with a leg injury that would plague him his entire life -- I thus had my father read a few of the scenes that had been based on real life, like the accident in order to help ensure I properly captured the essence. (I had constructed it from reading the gigantic court transcript of the case)

I shopped Morning Son around to a few publishers, several of whom thought it interesting and with some merit, but none interested enough to publish it. I put it back in the drawer and haven't looked at it in years. I think it's a decent novel, and certainly unlike most of my writing, because it's mostly contemporary fiction, with perhaps a bit of a mystery to it.

But last November, during NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), I ended up writing about my Dad again. Only this time, it was to explore something that kept happening to me shortly after he'd died. I keep "seeing him" everywhere. Wish fulfillment, of course, because I wasn't ready to have lost him. But my mind kept imagining scenarios where he wasn't really dead and thus there was a chance that the two of us might get together again some day.

And that's how my novella length thriller Evasion was born.

Evasion opens with the following text...

Scott Desmond was looking at a dead man.
    He shook his head, swiped at the sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes, tried to focus more clearly on the sight before him.
    There was no mistake about it.
    The man he was looking at across two sets of train tracks was none other than his father - a man who had died almost eighteen months earlier.

Evasion, trade paperback version - front cover and spine

Evasion explores what happens when Scott Desmond starts looking into his father's death, convinced that he man can't possibly be dead, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Just as he feels he is getting somewhere, people in his life, starting with his boss, begin trying to kill Scott. He is forced to run, wondering if he'll be able to stay alive long enough to figure out what happened to his father.

I hadn't planned on doing anything with it for a while (particularly since I already had two books coming out from traditional publishers and also releasing the 10th Anniversary Edition of my self-published One Hand Screaming all slated for later this year).

But I had posted the novel to Wattpad in the hopes of getting some beta reader feedback and perhaps even winning some money from a post NaNoWriMo contest they'd offered. I figured if I won I could use it for editing and cover design costs for the book. Only, a Wattpad employee found the story, liked it and wanted to feature it in the Thriller category on May 26th.

So I rushed it to an editor, revised the cover and got a cleaner version of the book ready.

It exploded in reads and, to date, has received more than 71,000 reads, over 1000 votes and 270 comments. Wow.

One of the more popular comments including many that ask if the book will be available to purchase and also what happens next.  (Inspiring me with plans to write the sequel to the novel this coming November during NaNoWriMo 2014)

Evasion - trade paperback back cover

The book is available to be read completely for free on Wattpad.  It's also available as an eBook on Kobo and Kindle. (Versions coming for other forms in the near future) And a print version is also now available.

I also thought I'd test out using some book design templates I had read about from designer Joel Friedlander. I had been following his blog for a while and heard many positive comments about his templates and services from trusted folks in the different writer communities. Friedlander has created a series of Word templates that allow authors to easily create print-ready documents for both a book's interior and exterior.

So last weekend, I spent a few hours fooling around with the templates and then loading them to Createspace, a POD solution offered by Amazon.

The templates were simple and easy to use. Despite knowing how to use Adobe InDesign to create a cover flat layout, I used Friedlander's Word template for covers and followed the handy online instructions. I ended up with a template that worked quite nicely and did not look like a cookie-cutter outline. There's enough flexibility within the base template to allow someone to be able to come off with a decent looking design. I was suitable impressed and can highly recommend these templates to authors who don't already have expert support in making print-ready files.

Then I accidentally published the thing.

Yes, in the process of going through the proofing on Createspace, I had meant to order a proof copy (which I did), but I accidentally hit the APPROVE PROOF button and the book went into publish status.

So I hadn't really been planning on letting the thing go live yet. I've been waiting since 2007 for my first novel I, Death, to be published by a publisher I have adored working with. And it's coming later this year.  (I suppose, since Evasion is a novella, I, Death will still be my first novel)

The proof arrived the other day and I looked at it for the first time last night - on the eve of my father's birthday. I was blown away by how gorgeous it turned out.

Evasion is dedicated to My Dad. Writing the book has been a cathartic experience, and testing out the templates and the process to make it into a print ready book has also been incredible.

Interior of Evasion - a Picture of Mark and his father Eugene

On the inside "About the Author" section, I used a picture of me and my father at the BBQ.  It was taken a few years before he died and reminds me of the fun we had on those late June afternoons, hanging out with the family, sharing stories and jokes, drinking a cold beer and enjoying those precious moments together.

When I return to the universe of Evasion this coming fall, I'm certainly going to enjoy further exploring the relationship between Scott and Lionel Desmond, a fictional father-son relationship that has already brought me so much joy in writing. When I look back at it, stories my father shared with me have ended up being used in so many different stories. There are elements of him almost everywhere in my writing.

No, writing Evasion or the next book in that series that explores the father-son relationship between Scott and his father won't bring my Dad back. But it's always fun to dream and wish and imagine.

Happy Birthday, Dad! I love you. I miss you. And I thank you for so many wonderful memories and for the endless inspiration.

Evasion

I'm rather excited that my novel EVASION is being featured on Wattpad.

There's nowhere to hide when everybody you know is trying to kill you. Scotty Desmond's day begins like any other until his boss calls him into the office, pulls out a gun and start shooting at him. Scott manages to escape the surprise assassination attempt, but everyone else he meets, colleagues, friends and strangers are all similarly obsessed with killing him. Will Scott survive long enough to understand what is behind the relentless attacks and how it might relate to the investigation into his father's mysterious death?

The story was inspired by something that kept happening to me in the first couple of years after my father died. I kept seeing him everywhere. When you lose someone you love, there's always that little part of you that sees them everywhere and in everything. The mind does that to you.

But I started to imagine (speculate, if you will), a possibility where the things I had been seeing hadn't been my mind playing tricks on me, but that my father was actually alive.

I kicked the concept around and made a few attempts to write the story.

But, shortly before NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) in 2013, I started jotting down some notes and outlining the characters and plot that went along with this premise. And I wrote it during November.

The daily word count for Evasion during NaNoWriMo

And Evasion was born.

The book is set mostly in Toronto and Sudbury and opens in the thinly masked building that is Kobo's head office in Liberty Village. It's a fast paced action thriller written in the style of the movie Die Hard -- ie, some crazy shit goes down and the hero has to think on their feet in order to stay alive.  Of course, readers have already commented that the opening reminds them of Joseph R. Garber's Vertical Run. It might also conjure up thoughts of Duane Swiercynzski's Severance Package. I adored both of those novels and watch Die Hard every Christmas, and I wrote this novel to satisfy my own thirst for that type of tale, so I suppose anybody who has enjoyed either of those three might also get a kick out of Evasion.

I had fun playing with the premise -- and not just the action, but the father/son relationship: The novel includes a number of flashbacks into Scott's childhood and memories of his father.

I wrote the first draft for Evasion in November 2013. I let it sit, then did a re-write of it and recently sent it off for an edit.


The book is being featured this week at Wattpad, which is a social platform to connect writers and readers, filled with stories you can read for free online or via apps for your smart-phone or tablet.

I'll be releasing Evasion as an eBook for $4.99 this summer.  The pre-order is currently available at Kobo. It'll be added to the other places shortly.

A Beer In Your Honour, Dad!

Another St. Patrick's Day and another year that I will be tipping a beer back tonight in honour of my Dad, who died on this day 11 years ago.

My Dad and I BBQing in Levack, ON - mid 1990's

At bedtime tonight, I'll also take the time to tell my son another story about the grandfather he never had the chance to meet, but who is very much present in so many of the things that we do together.

My Son and I, at my Dad's BBQ in Levack, ON - mid 2000's

It doesn't get any easier each year this anniversary hits. The pain and loss never really goes away. It just grows a little different as time passes. Love never dies. It grows stronger and memories, precious memories are clung to and new memories are made. I'm so glad that I matured enough to appreciate my father for the man that he was before I lost him; that I had begun to pay attention to all of the things that he could teach me.

And most of my thoughts about my Dad now turn and result in reflecting on my relationship with my own son, and the special moments and fun memories that we are building.

Last week, we took a family trip down to Myrtle Beach; it was great to be able to spend so much time with my family after so much work related travel recently. Zander and I had a wonderful time playing in the pool, solving magical quests together, exploring hands-on science, climbing through 3-story obstacles, zip-lining and racing go-karts. We even shared a few of those special and strange moments of looking into the night sky and speculated together about the possibility of aliens life and UFO's. All new memories of fathers and sons. All special moments that I will continue to cherish in future years.

Here are a few of the annual posts about my Dad's loss from 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005.

The Product Of Two Men

I am the product of two men. Okay, one's not yet a man, he's still a boy - but truly, so many of the things I am, so many of the things I appreciate about life, that I respect, admire and connect with, come from my relationship with two people.

So much of the way that I see myself, stems from two very important guys:

My Dad and my Son.

They never had the opportunity to meet each other. I know that my Dad would have worshiped the ground that Alexander walked on, and that my son would have had idolized and adored his Grandpa Gene.

But my Dad died before Alexander was born, so they never met.

And yet they are connected.

Today is my Dad's birthday - our family always made a big deal about that; always celebrated it, in conjunction with ringing in the summer season. Alexander's birthday is about a week later and has, for Francine and I, been a similar type of special celebration of a wonderful new season in our lives -- and thus, as June ends and July begins, I am filled with strong thoughts about how I am a better person for my relationship with these two males who define me.

Dad and me in the boat on one of my earliest fishing trips

Alexander and I are heading on a boy's trip next week. It's going to be a road trip with lots of exploring and, of course, fishing as a central activity. He has expressed a desire to go fishing; my Dad was the most avid fisherman I ever knew.  Taking Alexander for his first fishing experience is going to be fun, a little bittersweet, but certainly a wonderful memory for the two of us. I have spoken to him many times about my own experiences fishing with my Dad, but I'm sure, when we're out on the water, I'll conjure up other memories for him of other memories and stories that will come to mind.  (Fishing, inherently, goes hand in hand with tales)  Who knows, it might even become a tradition, the way my taking the first week of July off every year to spend some concentrated time specifically with Alexander has been a tradition ever since his first birthday.

Alexander and I BBQing in Levack

I'm a really lucky guy. My Dad loved doing things with me. And Alexander has always enjoyed doing stuff with Daddio.  I cherish those moments, and those memories.

And so, on my Dad's birthday, I think a lot about the two men who make me a better man, a better person.

And I'm extremely thankful for both of them.

Man Of The House

I used to receive great little tidbits of fatherly advice from my Dad. And, interestingly enough, the advice that he would share with me didn't seem like all that much when he was relaying them to me. But now, I think back on those nuggets of wisdom and cherish them.

I have tried to do the same with my son Alexander.


I travel quite a bit for work. And, every time I do, I usually sit down with Alexander the night before and have a heart to heart chat with him about what it means.

Alexander has always been a helpful little person, assisting with chores around the house and he has always been working right at my side at various tasks and DIY projects in the home. And he takes his responsibility very seriously.

So, respecting that, I usually sit him down prior to my departures to pass on the "man of the house" duties to him.

Alexander and I, summer 2012 - Swiss Family Robinson tree house, Walt Disney World, FL

This is how it went last time.

Mark:  I'm heading to New York tomorrow and will be there for almost a full week. You know what that means, don't you?

Alexander:  That you'll be spending most of your time looking up on the side of the tall buildings to see if you can spot Spider-Man?

Mark:  Of course. How could I visit New York without doing that? What I mean is, you know what that means around here, right?

Alexander:  That I'll be the man of the house.

Mark:  That's right.  And you know what your main job as man of the house is, don't you?

Alexander:  Yes.  Listening to Mom.

Mark:  Exactly.

Again, my son has nailed it.

In celebration of what it means to be the man of the house (until she gets home), here's Rodney Carrington's "The Man Song" in which he sings:  "'Cause a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and I'm gonna do what you tell me to.  Because I'm top dog around here . . . but I've been neutered....


To all the "men of the house" out there . . . Happy Father's Day!

It Has Been Ten Years, Dad

Ten years ago today my Dad died.

I still miss him, and I still love him. I still wish I could have just one more minute to spend with him, drink one more beer with him, exchange one more joke, hear one more story or fishing tale. And I would give all of those things up (were they presented to me) for the opportunity of having my son and my father meet. I know that my dad would have loved Alexander and my son would have, likewise, adored his Grandpa Gene.

But there are always things you want, things absent, things left unsaid that you wish you had made more of an effort with.

At the very least, I know that I didn't fall into that stereotypical male habit of holding back feelings and being non-demonstrative.

I never failed to tell my dad that I loved him, I never paused to hug or kiss him, to make sure that he knew how much I respected and looked up to him.

In fact, the last words I spoke to him on the morning he died were "I love you." And this was said as I was giving him a big hug and a kiss just before he went off to the operating room. He never came back out.

Had I held back on sharing that with him I would still be regretting my inability to express what I felt.

And I'm so thankful that my dad knew just how much I loved him.

The lesson, here, I suppose, is this simple thing:  if you love someone, if you appreciate someone, if you have positive feelings towards a relationship, any relationship, why hold that in and keep it to yourself?

Love is at its strongest when it is given out and shared fully.

Because this is the 10th anniversary of losing my father, I thought I would link to the annual memories I have posted on this blog (and where I grabbed these pictures from):  2012, 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005.

My Father & My Son

Father's Day is a special day for me not only to remember my dad, but also to relish in the very special joy I have to be the father of such an amazing and wonderful little boy.

My dad and Alexander never had a chance to meet, but I'm sure they would have gotten along smashingly.

Being the generation that binds the two of them together in this subtle way, and being so lucky to be the son of a great man and the father of a wonderful child is an honour and a privilege.

Here's one of my favourite pictures of Alexander, taken last spring, sitting on my truck (what used to be my dad's truck).  Dad and Alexander are beautifully connected in this picture, which brings me a great sense of joy and bitter-sweet pleasure.

No Longer My Truck

I sold my Dad's truck the other day.

Funny, isn't it? I've owned the truck since 2003, yet I still think of it as Dad's Truck (and yes, in capital letters like that). My Dad owned it from 1997 until he died in 2003. I held onto it, yes, partly as a way of trying to hold on to my Dad.

But the control arm (steering mechanism) rotted out and I haven't been able to drive it for weeks. So I listed it, a dozen or so people asked about it, a few came to look at it, and the other night someone offered me pretty much what I was asking for it.

I sold it to a mechanically inclined man who is going to be buying it to try to either fix up for his son to use or else use the parts and sell others. While it's tough letting go of my Dad's truck (see, I still don't think of it as my truck), I would be delighted to learn he WAS able to fix it up and his son was able to use it. Perhaps that way, the truck could be part of a third father/son bonding experience.

I did ask if his son fished and told him if he did, this truck would be lucky for him because it came with my father's essence of fishing luck.

I took this picture of Alexander recently, sitting on the hood of the truck and looking off pensively. From his perspective, it's Dad's truck.  He was born in 2004, so he never knew my Dad, and never really knew it as Grandpa Gene's truck, even though I constantly refer to it that way. Alexander and I had some great times driving around together in that truck.

I found a picture of Dad and I that was taken in the early 90's - both of us looking off camera, pensively. It's one of those many moments we sat together in a pause between chatting, just enjoying being in one another's company.

I feel these shots are the best kind to go with this blog post as I sit and think back about My Dad's Truck and all the things it has meant to me as well as my relationships with my father and my son.

So it's no longer my truck, no longer even my Dad's truck - but it leaves me with a lot of great memories of the father/son bond which can occur over something as simple as a hunk of steel, glass, plastic and metal mounted on four tires.

Dad's Truck

Today is my Dad's birthday.

He would have turned 74 years old today if he were still alive.

Every year on or near his birthday, I've paused to reflect on June 28th and my Dad. I just took a quick stroll down memory lane and read: This Moose Be My Real Reason (June 2010); Summer + BBQ = Dad Celebration (June 2009); Just One More Beer With Dad (June 2008); Da Count - Dad (June 2007); Memories of Dad (June 2006) & Daddy Hugs (June 2006); I Think I Caught His Spirit (June 2005)

This year, I'm thinking about Dad and his truck.

After he died, I took his truck. I didn't need a vehicle, because I had already been leasing one - it actually cost a bit of money to break the lease early - but having my Dad's truck meant a lot to me. From the time I was little, going for a ride in the truck with my Dad was a really fun experience, right up there with going to an amusement park. Just Dad and I together, heading out to run an errand, going to visit my Uncle Leslie or barrelling down a dirt road on our way to a fishing or hunting spot, enjoying one another's company, yelling "wheee" at the top of our lungs as the truck raced down a steep hill on the winding Old Cartier Road near Windy Lake.

When I got older, I learned to drive standard in Dad's truck. And, though I was approaching adulthood, there was still this magical thrill of getting in the truck with my old man and going somewhere -- anywhere. That thrill never left me. Even today, if I had a choice between taking a magical journey on The Polar Express or a ride with Dad in his truck, I think you'd know which one I'd take, hands down

So, when he died, I kept his truck. And since 2003 I've not only been able to re-live some of those special memories of driving around with Dad in his truck, but I've been able to create special new ones with my son Alexander. Going for a ride with Dad in the truck is likely as fun for Alexander as it has been for me. When he was smaller, sitting in the car seat in the truck allowed him a vantage point of the road that he wasn't able to get in the back seat of the CRV. And he was always at the healm of the controls for the garage door opener.

Yes, the father and son tradition continued.

Until last week -- when I received the devastating news that the odd pulling and occasional snap, crackle popping I heard while turning was due to the control on the front of the passenger side wheel being completely rotted out. Taking the vehicle anywhere on the road could result in a nasty accident with complete loss of steering control.

Simply, the cost to fix this would likely come to double what the vehicle itself was worth. Well, at least in dollars.

The real worth of the vehicle can't be measured in dollars. The real worth is measured in treasured memories.

During the first winter that I had the truck, not all that long after I lost my Dad, I'd been driving by myself on the way to work. It had been some sort of frustrating or anxiety-filled day - can't remember why, just that I was feeling out of sorts.

Then, a sudden smell hit me. And, though it seems weird, it was the smell of my Dad's sweat - likely sweat that had been baked into the very seats - not sure where or how. But there it was all the same - the distinct sensation of my Dad's smell filled the cab of the truck. Scent memory is a very powerful thing.

So for a few moments, everything was okay. Dad was with me again; the world was alright.

Yes, it seems strange that I would find comfort in such a basic (and seemingly gross) sensation. But that morning, smelling the remnants of my Dad's perspiration comforted me in such a gentle and wonderful way. I can think of very few scents that spark a special feeling in me -- fresh baked bread, popcorn, bacon, coffee. And the smell of my Dad. Sadly, I can easily re-create each of those other scents. My Dad's however, I cannot. So thoughts of that one special morning driving alone in my Dad's truck and not feeling at all alone due to that scent, linger with me.

And, as I begin to say goodbye to Dad's truck, it's like another chapter of my life that's closing. It's that special part of my Dad, and of special memories that I was able to hang onto for another 8 years.

But really, it's just a truck.

It shouldn't hurt this much.

My Father And My Son

I thought I would be feeling bitter-sweet about Father's Day, again focusing on how much my Dad would have loved Alexander, and how my son would have adored his Grandfather.

But as I was thinking about the two of them, and just how much I know they would have enjoyed one another's company, while slightly sad for the fact the two never had a chance to meet, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed with thinking about just how fortunate I am to have been sandwiched between the two of them.

I had a great Dad - I have some amazing memories of him and of the two of us doing things together. Though we shared many laughs, we never really sat down and had any serious talks about life (we did have some serious talks, but mostly we just enjoyed one another's company, in the traditional "males doing things together" capacity); nonetheless, I reaped so very much of my work ethic, my morality and my ability to find amusement even in perilous or frustrating circumstances, from the examples he continually set for me.

And every day I count the many blessings that my son bestows upon me. Alexander is such a kind, thoughtful, intelligent and funny little man. Yesterday when I was working on a light fixture while perched on a ladder, there he was, handing me the correct tool that I needed, a reminder of how he has always been involved in the day to day "business" as well as the day to day fun - minutes earlier he was sharing a joke he'd just made up. "Why did Dad go to the Beer Store?" - "To get a case of beer." (His version of the chicken crossing the road chestnut)

It's funny how much I learned from my Dad when I was young; things I still apply to my day to day life.

But it's amazing just how much I continue to learn from my son; things that continue to enrich my days.

I'm overwhelmingly blessed, because whether I look back at my Dad or ahead at my son, I see men that I truly respect, admire and love from the bottom of my heart.

I'm one truly lucky and blessed guy.

Dad and me

Me and Alexander

HNT - No Regrets

Eight years ago today my father died unexpectedly. He was waking in the recovery room after having a kidney removed and already joking with the nurses when suddenly his blood pressure dropped from severe internal bleeding. The clips had come off his renal artery (manufacture error or human error we'll never know) and he bled to death.

One instant, alive and making others smile. The next, gone.

Sometimes I think back to how I should have spent more time with my dad; listening to the wonderful and hilarious stories he used to tell (whether they were fishing tales, hunting stories or memories of his childhood and his years as a younger adult) - I know I would have benefited from simply knowing more about him while I had the chance. And at times, my heart aches for all the missed opportunities.

But instead of focusing on what I missed, I like to concentrate on all the times I did share with him, on all the stories I heard, on all the memories we created together.

Dad and I on my wedding day - 1996

And I'm thankful for the very last words I said to him before he walked through the doors and into the pre-op room that fateful morning.


I kissed him and said:  "I love you, Dad."

Yes, a grown man who is supposed to be embarassed about doing such things about saying such things, about being seen acting in this way. And in a rare moment in a public place, I tossed all those things away, kissed him and told him I loved him.

It doesn't make up for all the previous opportunities I missed out on, how, at a certain age in my childhood I stopped holding his hand, about the many teen years where, as children often do, I pushed away from and rebelled against my parents, and all the stories that I never got to hear.

But at least I didn't leave unsaid the important things in my heart.


I've long blogged about my Dad, and, particularly on this anniversary of the day I lost my father, I've come back to reflect on all the things he was to me.

Rather than repeat, I'll simply post links back to each year's memory.

2010 - A Man, His Son & Their Laughter
- Includes a poem I wrote for my father back in 1996)

2009 - Mourning Son
- I talk about my still unpublished novel Morning Son, much of which was inspired by stories from my father.

2008 - And I Miss You Just The Same
- Mostly pictures of my Dad

2007 - Dad, Four Years Ago Today
- Memories of the last hunting trip with my Dad and my cousin on Manitoulin Island

2006 - Still Miss You, Dad
- Basic memories, a lot of which I have repeated in this blog over the years; and the father/son poem

2005 - Miss You, Dad
- Simple thoughts of being a new father myself and thinking of Alexander and my Dad interacting

Dad and I playing Intellivision - 1981

For HNT this week, I thought I'd post this picture of my Dad and I playing Intellivision back in the early 1980's. I love this picture. We were collaborating on one of the simple initial game offerings on this system: Space Battle. One of us would navigate the cross-hairs over the enemy spaceships and the other would fire. A simple task that certainly didn't require two people, but the game was so much more fun when we did it together.

Sometimes, when my son and I are collaboratively trying to beat the computer on a game (most recently the Lego Star Wars game on our Wii), I think back to the joy brought by the memory of this simple time spent with my father.

And I'm thankful for every moment I spent with my father; and every moment I spend with my son.

HNT - The Garden of Memories Continue To Grow

Just a quick HNT this week. I've recently posted about the passing of my Baba who was very much like a mother to me. And last week's HNT post also featured her. Of course, I've been looking at a lot of pictures recently and reflecting back on many good times, so you'll never guess who's included in this week's HNT post too . . .

Here is a shot my Dad took of Mom, Baba, Francine and I in the yard of my parent's home in Levack.

Dad and Baba are gone now, as is the garden we were standing in front of. But the memories still continue to provide sustenance for the heart, perhaps as a virtual garden of memories.

Okay, now that I've said something in an attempt to be warm and touching I can get back to the really important thing, which is to tell you to STOP LAUGHING AT MY MULLET!

HNT - Father And Son BBQ

This past weekend we took a quick trip up north to spend Thanksgiving with my Mom and help her get the house and yard ready for the fall.

While turkey was the main menu item, we also had a chance to BBQ.  After all, the weather was absolutely perfect for being outdoors.

Of course, every time I BBQ at my Mom's house, I can't help think back fondly to all the times I BBQ'd with my Dad, both when I was little and then later when I was an adult. Some of my fondest memories of my Dad involve standing or sitting near the BBQ and just chatting and enjoying the moment.

Me and Dad at the BBQ, 1998

Alexader, of course, is fond of the BBQ experience and even though he is only 6, he has long been an activie participant in the whole father/son BBQ ritual whether it's at Baba Jean's or at home.  He even has his own little BBQ so he can cook alongside his old man.

Me and Alexander at the BBQ, 2010

I thought it was neat to have this picture of Alexander and I taken at about the same spot where Dad and I did so much BBQing over the years.

I still miss my Dad so very much, particularly when I'm hanging out in a spot that used to be "ours" -- but having Alexander there to share in the BBQing, and create our own new father/son BBQ memories makes it easier, and a lot more special.

This Moose Be My Real Reason

My Dad's birthday was yesterday. Had he still been alive, he would have been 73. He was a passionate fisherman and absolutely loved and adored the out-doors. Some of the best times I've had outdoors have been with him, and there isn't a single time that I enjoy the beauty and wonder of nature and the woods without reflecting on what this man meant to me.

I've long been a fan of Moosehead beer. I love the that they are Canada's oldest independent brewery and when I buy their lager I'm not only enjoying a great tasting beer, but I'm also supporting a business that has been owned by the same family for six generations.

But yesterday, while I was drinking a Moosehead beer in honour of Dad and reflecting on all the great times , I finally put two and two together.  You see, in our family we always associated my Dad's birthday, and June 28th, with the true weekend that rang in the summer.  For us it was never Victoria Day (we lived in Northern Ontario, after all, Victoria Day was typically still too cold to consider it "summer") -- on the weekend closest to my Dad's birthday, we usually got a "beer ball" of Northern Draft and get the whole family together and have a grand BBQ at my parent's place in Levack.  Beer and June 28th and Dad, meant good times and fun.

So I started to think that perhaps my powerful fondness of the Moosehead brand is my way of staying connected to Dad.

When I reflect back on it, I believe I started drinking Moosehead beer merely because the logo of the moose reminded me of my Dad. He was a hunter/fisher, and so moose hunting season was a big thing in our house. The wonderful majesty of the moose has always reminded me of my father.  When I look back at the recent "The Outer-self" ad campaign (a little known part of the human psyche that yearns for the outside world) from Moosehead, it makes more sense to me.  Most standard non-craft brewed beers, after all, taste relatively the same -- there's very little actual variety in the more popular Canadian beers on the market.  What becomes important to the consumer are your internal associations with the label, with the brand. What it SAYS about you as a consumer of that brand.

And when I look back to the last time I spent some real "quality time" with my Dad, it was when my cousin Rodney and my Dad and I were deer hunting on Manintoulin Island, our beer of choce was Moosehead (okay, the two of them were hunting, I was there to work on a novel).

One rainy afternoon, while my cousin was out scouting the area, my Dad and I sat on the deck of the cabin and bonded by having a real heart to heart talk. For the first time in many years, I intimately shared a scene from my novel-in-progress MORNING SON, a novel that explored the father-son relationship and was, in many ways, inspired by my Dad.

I read the scene to him, which was a motorcycle accident that forever changed the life of the father in the novel, and which was based, heavily, on a very similar accident my father had been in. I'd written the scene from court transcripts about the accident and wanted to check with my Dad to see if I got the feeling right, if the scene came through as "real."

I'll never forget how he sat there with tears in his eyes after I finished reading the scene and nodded his head, letting me know I got it right. Then he hugged me and told me how proud he was of me.

And then we sat on the deck and chatted more, waiting for my cousin to come back, and drank a few more Moosehead.

This must be my real reason. Or, to put it in beer-speak, this MOOSE be a very strong underlying reason why I'm so passionate about Moosehead. I just never thought about it before.

Sure, I'm proud to drink a lager from a six generation family that is Canada's largest and oldest independent brewery. But there's an underlying connection to my Dad every time I drink a Moosehead.

Funny how the association has always been there, but I never really, properly drew the connection until recently.

A Good Man Isn't Hard To Find

Every once in a while I wonder at why I bother taking time to "put myself out there" by composing blog posts about things that are important to my life.

Then, something happens that reminds me why I'm doing so.

First, I do it because I'm a writer and it's part of fulfilling my need to continually be writing.

But as to why I do it publicly, that's a tougher thing to answer. Sure, I appreciate the fact that others read my writing and can sometimes benefit from things I have to say or talk about. But then there's also the concept of "immortalizing" people places and things that are important to me.

I was recently contacted by the folks at The Good Men Project who found an online picture and post of my Dad from 2007. The picture was taken back in 1995.

They wanted me to write a short blurb to accompany this picture in their project. In the words of one of the founders: "The Good Men Project is men telling their stories in their language. It’s men sharing and searching for their good. And it’s an unfolding and limitless conversation about what good means, what the good man can be."

I agreed to let them use this picture of my Dad and to write an accompanying bit of text to go with it. So I submitted a quick summary about how I learned to laugh and find humour in regular daily situations because it's something very important that my Dad taught me. He loved life, loved to laugh, but more importantly, loved to make other people laugh. And, when following in my father's way and I'm actually able to inspire smiles or laughter from others, that's like having a bit of my Dad there with me.

In any case, I'm honoured and delighted for my Dad to be recognized in this way. And it reminds me that this "putting myself out there" on this blog is perhaps doing some good, and not just keeping me working on my "craft" of writing.

A Man, His Son And Their Laughter

My father died 7 years ago today. In many ways it seems like just yesterday that I lost him, but in other ways, it seems like several lifetimes ago.

Time perhaps makes it a bit easier as all the details of life fill one's days, but the heart aches no less.

Seven years? Really? Wow. And yes, I just doubled checked. Each March 17 I have reflected back on various things that came to mind on this anniversary of his loss in 2003.

March 17, 2005 - Miss You Dad
I had just started this blog and was reflecting on how we "sort of" named our son Alexander in honour of my Dad. I repeat the "sort of" thing with a humour I know Dad would appreciate. I mean, love him as I did, Dad's name was Eugene. But his Dad's name was Alex.

March 17, 2006 - Still Miss You Dad
I'm pretty darned good at consistent naming conventions, aren't I? Is this post I shared a poem I had written for him back in 1996 that I'll share again today.

March 17, 2007 - Dad - Four Years Ago Today
The title of this post proves without a doubt that I can indeed count. Within the post I reflect on a fine fall on Manitoulin Island when I was working on a "father/son" themed novel called Morning Son and had shared some scenes with my Dad. I'm still counting, and the novel is still unsold. (I just got back the latest rejection on it about a month ago - but I'm not giving up on that one. I know if I don't give up it'll eventually find a good home - us writers love abuse; rejection only makes us stronger . . . that's why I was such a force to be reckoned with when I was single and dating - I'd been rejected MORE than anybody around)

March 17, 2008 - And I Miss You Just The Same
This post is filled with pictures of my Dad and me, a brief summary of the day he died (since I re-live it in my head regularly), and a nod to how my Dad always left them laughing. More on that in a bit.

March 17, 2009 - Mourning Son
Last year's post I talked, yet again about the unsold novel, Morning Son (yes, there's no typo here, the title is a play on the words "morning sun" and "mourning son" -- oh how clever I am with words) -- but the really fun thing about this post is that it includes pictures of me and my Dad. They make me smile to look at them, but they make others laugh to see the mullet I was sporting.

And that leads me to a legacy my Dad left me with which I truly cherish.

My Dad loved to make people laugh. Since I admire the man so much, I naturally want to "be like" him or be seen to be like him in many ways. Yeah sure, I have middle age thinning hair and male pattern baldness just like Dad, but gosh darn it all, I want more. If I could possess only one of his skills or talents, it would be that -- make 'em laugh. Continually influenced and inspired by his manner, I do my best to put smiles onto the faces of people where-ever I go, whether it's a quick interaction with a stranger, or yet another chat with a colleague.

The world needs more laughter -- and, since my Dad left this world, and there's one less person making people smile and laugh, I feel it's only right to do my part. It's part of the reason why I chose to poke fun at myself while quietly reflecting on my sadness and loss. If that made just one reader smile, then I've done my job, and I've done my Dad proud.

Okay, and now to the serious stuff -- my (drum roll please) poetry. And no, this isn't the one I claimed to have written about that man from Nantucket.

As I copy and paste (look how hard I'm working here) this poem, I'm glancing at the beautiful artwork from an Ottawa valley artist that Fran and I purchased to give to him with the poem that partially inspired it which hangs in my den above the desk and above this poem, mounted on a gorgeous wooden frame my Dad created. We both channeled our creative energies into the project - I did the writing, Dad made the writing resonate in the beautiful natural presentation of it.

A Man, His Son and Their Dog

A man, his son and their dog
Sit quiet, ever still
They are dark silhouettes against an intense fire-red
display of the waking sun in the eastern sky
The haunting call of a loon in the distance
And a duck flaps its wings, takes flight above the lake
Slicing cleanly through the picturesque scene

The dog whimpers, leans forward, looks askance at the boy
The boy himself turns his head slowly to regard his father
The man nods, smiles, then returns his gaze to the mist
rising off of the lake

In that silent exchange
Against the orange-tinted morning sky
A mutual respect and love are shared
In a way that can never be spoken
But which still carries more power, more beauty
Than any sunset or sunrise
- Mark Leslie Lefebvre, 1996

I cried when I wrote this poem, and I cry every time I read it.

But I smile to think of that powerful, mostly unspoken bond between a father and son. And when I think about both the collaboration this poem represents, as well as the fun times and laughter Dad and I shared, my smile gets bigger and bigger, and the tears are a sadness mixed with laughter.

As I reflect on how Dad made me and others smile and laugh, I realize something crucial about the circle of life. My son makes me smile and laugh multiple times per day. So, no matter how much I try to give back and give that gift to others, it comes back to me two and threefold every single dad.

I'm a blessed man. Rich with smiles, rich with laughter. I have endless pocketfuls of the stuff that I feel is my duty to share with as many people as I can. But, like love, you can never run out of the stuff -- the more you give, the more it returns to you.

Okay, time to go upstairs and wake up my son. Unlike myself and my Dad before me, Alexander isn't a morning person. But when he's particularly hard to wake up, there are tricks I can do to get his attention -- like when I "throw myself" down the stairs. That always gets a rise, and, of course, a laugh out of him. (Kids, don't try this at home - I am, after all, a trained professional in the art of pretending to throw myself down the stairs -- been doing that for decades and haven't broken a limb -- at least yet)

So my son and I will share a quick morning laugh. What a wonderful way to start the day.

I know Dad would have been proud.