My children will never meet their grandfather – my father. He passed away when I was a young teenager. The best they will ever know him is through the photo album that my mother keeps in a drawer at her apartment. I am reminded now that I should begin gathering anecdotes – perhaps in a special folder, where, once they are complete, I can write his biography. On this I shouldn’t procrastinate. Details such as whether it was my father or just his best friend who worked for the post office when they immigrated to Canada before I was born, can only be told by my mother.
But, the facts are just details. It is the man and his character, his sense of humour which hasn’t skipped a generation yet, that they will be most interested in. That and of course the old photos.