My Dad died recently. Not yesterday, but earlier this year, after a long battle with cancer. 

When we had the Celebration of Life last month, when the weather was warm enough to, my mother put out books of photos of some of the things Dad had created in his life. 

Dad had always been an avid gardener and general woodworker, but beyond that, so the story goes, he didn’t have much creativity. And he certainly couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler. But around about the time I was an early teenager, he started taking duck carving classes. This unleashed something in him that nobody knew was there. After some time, he ended up teaching those classes, having exhibited and won prizes for his beautiful waterfowl and delicate little songbirds. I am lucky to have an Oriole, a Blue Jay and a pair of Kinglets on my shelves.

Birds gave way to chip carving, which adorns my hope chest and my jewellery box, and eventually to custom furniture. When I sold my last home, deciding what furniture wouldn’t make it to either my new home or the cottage was painful. Almost every stick of wooden furniture – from bedroom sets to my dining set to my living room console – the custom bathroom cabinets I had to leave behind. Many residents of the town he lived in also have kitchens and bathrooms cabinets he created. My son has the last kitchen he built.

But what I remember about my Dad’s hands goes back way further. When I was a very little girl I remember being fresh out of the bath with my (then) honey blonde damp hair hanging behind me. It’s early evening and I am in my nightgown and dressing gown – I think it’s terry towel with green flowers on it.

Dad has just come home from work. He must have been working long hours then. He doesn’t even change out of his work clothes. He takes my hand in his and we walk slowly around our back garden in Sarnia looking at the flowers. What is newly bloomed, which flowers are at their best and which are fading. I have no memory of what happened after our nightly summer garden tour, but I suspect my mother shooed me off to bed while Dad changed and got ready for dinner.

I loved my Dad fiercely, but he was not a sentimental man. Heartfelt words of emotion didn’t flow freely from his lips; hugs were infrequent and my brother and I knew that if he was picking us up at a certain time, we’d better be there or he might leave without us. But we knew without a shadow of doubt he loved us. What he couldn’t express in words he showed in the gifts made with his hands.

I was lucky to be by my father’s side when he passed away. I got my last hug. My mother held his hand as he slipped away and we watched cardinals at the bird feeder, almost as beautiful as the ones on the shelf that he carved with his own hands.