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.
