My Father

My father, Derek Smith, passed away suddenly on February 26 while doing something he loved, vacationing in Mexico. 

I am his oldest child. He endearingly called me Poopsy when I was very young and Sniff when I got older! 

He was born and raised in Montreal, was fluently bilingual, graduated from Sir George Williams University with a Bachelor of Commerce and went on to a successful management career, mostly in the area of manufacturing. He was a lifelong volunteer to many worthy causes. And he was a good Dad!

One of my earliest memories was one evening a week we were alone as my mother was working.  He made me the same meal each week, which he called “Wimpy’s Special” – mashed potatoes and carrots and boiled hamburger.  I got to watch Mr. Ed the Talking Horse and we played a game called Felix the Cat and his Magic Bag – every week it was the same and I loved it!

We grew up in Montreal. It snowed a lot and I was the one who went out with him early many winter mornings to shovel us out of the many feet of snow in our driveway. 

He was a handyman, finishing our basement in 1960's Tudor Style by himself and regularly up a ladder or under a sink. I fondly remember my Girl Guide Pack needed wooden boxes for each 'Six' to store stuff in. I was the leader of the Daisy six. I went home and asked Dad and he made all the boxes for the whole troupe. I was very proud.

For many years he volunteered with Civitan International. He recruited me to help deliver pre-ordered Xmas fruitcakes with the revenue going to a sheltered workshop which he took me to visit. That experience not only taught me a little about volunteering and accounting but most importantly the capacity of people with disabilities.

He had many interesting jobs. He was part of the design of the Montreal subway, modeled on the Paris Metro. He took me to the grand-opening and to our horror the doors closed leaving a child beside us on the train and his parent on the platform. My father took charge and the two were reunited. I also remember him teaching me that day “ Always let the people out (of the building or train) first.” Advice I live by.  

In 1973 Dad moved us to Winnipeg. He loved trains so had the romantic notion to move his family by rail across the country…in February!  Somehow our seats were double booked and we had to sit up from Montreal until North Bay - three children and a dog – before we were escorted to a different train in the middle of a cold, wintry night!  Anyhow we got to our sleeper, crashed and when we arrived in Winnipeg, the first thing we saw as we pulled into the downtown station was the Nutty Club "Can D Man".  We all wondered what kind of place we had come to.   

A few years later he became the General Manager of the Royal Canadian Mint. Being a teenager growing up in haughty River Heights I occasionally got asked what my father did for a living. I replied with a twinkle in my eye: “My father makes more money that anyone else in Western Canada.” That shut them up. 

I married and moved to Edmonton in the early 80s. Dad enjoyed coming out to visit and he always wanted to be busy and help me with the house. I needed a new deck and Dad offered to build it himself.  My daughter Stefanie’s bedroom overlooked the backyard and she recently shared how she remembered 'Grandpops' swearing the whole time.  He did like to express himself. 

Despite living in different cities he spent a lot of time with his kids and grandkids.  While I lived in Australia he learned how to use Skype so we could keep in touch. He also texted and used a tablet.  As he used to say “Not bad for an old guy!” 

He and I shared a love of coconut cream pie, strong cheeses, dogs and the ocean. We played 'Peanuts' or Punch Buggy' on long car trips and because of him I knew the make and model of most 70s cars. We spent many hours together in the waves of the Atlantic.  He couldn’t swim but he sure could float!

One of my last fond memories of Dad was spending the better part of the day touring through the Canadian Museum of Human Rights. He was very proud of it and we discussed the exhibits and their political and historical implications over a late lunch at the Pancake House in the Forks.

We didn’t always agree. He could be a curmudgeon. But he was a softy inside. When I went in his home office after his passing I found he had saved all the cards we had given him. 

These Forget-Me-Nots originated in my grandparent’s garden in Montreal, were transplanted by Dad to Winnipeg then to my home in Edmonton and this bunch is now blooming in my garden in Victoria. They will remind me of my father, whose love, spirit and influence on me and my children lives on.