I've been staring at a blank space to fill with words for almost a week, feeling like anything written was inadequate. What tribute can be written when the legacy you leave behind is so big?

Papa's legacy was love and kindness. His love seemed as deep as the ocean; no matter how many new faces were added to the family, there was always more to go around. He showed me the best way to show love was through acts of service and quality time.

My first experience of this love began at birth. Nannie and Papa were actively involved in those first 2.5 years while we lived with them so dad could work and mom could finish school. When people would ask my parents if i was a mommy or a daddy's girl, they would say "neither. she's a Nannie and papa's girl."

This remained true my whole life. A favorite story for Papa to reminisce over when I visited was about a trip with the family. And I cried because I wanted to travel with my papa in the truck. there was no way I was driving with anyone else, and of course Papa wouldn't have had it any other way.

Any time we were at the house, he spent his time doing whatever our hearts desired: beach walks, blueberry picking, clam digging, trips to the co-op or port hawksbury. Fishing was always a favorite activity. If he even heard a whisper of a potential trip, he was out in the porch going through the tackle box, prepping and checking all the rods, and attaching the hooks as needed. To this day I can still picture and smell the wharf where we spent so many hours fishing, with papa expertly doing the dirty work of gutting and descaling the mackerel.

Another fond summer I think back on often is when he visited our house in New Maryland to help with repairs: baseboards, flooring, painting, and much more done with so much care. One of my more vivid memories was when he hit his finger with a hammer and yelled his favourite saying "JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH!" I can just imagine how many times he said those words building the house in Louisdale.

In the last few years, with failing health and mobility, quality time became even more important. His eyes would light up seeing us come through those doors and we'd spend our time telling and listening to stories - reminiscing and laughing the whole time. He never tired of telling those stories, and I never tired of hearing them. I would give anything to hear those same stories for the thousandth time, and watch the tears run down his cheeks with shoulders shaking and barely squeaking out the words.

But no matter how much time was spent, and no matter how much we did together, it never felt like enough. Every time it came to leave he'd give the longest strongest squeeze as if he didn't want to let go - and to be honest neither did I. Goodbyes were always tearful, followed by a long cry in the car ride back to our house, no matter how far away we lived.

This last trip in June was no different, in fact I think our hug was the longest ever. He took that time to tell me how much it meant to have us visit and that he cherished the time with River and I. Then, as is tradition, I cried in the car on the way home.

Now as we drive home, i'm reminiscing. As I look back on cherished photos of times gone by, I'm feeling blessed to have shared this earth and my time with a man so full of love. All I know, is that I want to leave behind a similar legacy of love and sacrifice, and ill be trying to emulate this love the rest of my life.

So all I can say as a tribute to such a wonderful life is: Thank you, Papa, for everything you did and sacrificed. I love you, you know?

P.s. As is tradition, I am crying in the car.

These words I can write will pale in comparison to the feeling of both immense love and emptiness currently circling my heart.

Grief is a stranger, and every new grief is a new stranger, you only learn to be acquainted or friends with it. Grief is also a feeling you can only experience for those you have loved. So many of us are carrying deep oceans of grief for your loss, the love shared with you in your different roles. A brother, friend, father, mentor, teacher, storyteller, papa, and more.

Papa is who you've always been to me. As my papa I saw glimpses of what you were as a dad through my own. Whether that was through the stories he told, you told, or watching the both of you together. Seeing the work ethic, the drop everything for family mindset, and the I can fix it attitude are all things I see in equal measure. How beautiful it is to leave such a reminder behind.

As my papa I saw what it was to be a teacher, you taught me stacking and splitting firewood, how to tie knots, how to swear without getting in trouble ( Jesus Mary and Joseph), and how to fish to name a few. I believe part of my love for water comes from the amount of hours spent near it learning to fish with you.

As a papa, I saw you purely love me. When I wanted to learn how to place flooring in our new houses you would always call me over. I'll never forget asking you when I was about 8, if you would teach me how to clean the freshly caught fish. You might have questioned if I was sure, but the smile was unforgettable. When I curiously asked if you had ever seen a fish brain the same day, you laughed and asked me "what do you think I am? A brain surgeon?"

As my papa, I saw patience. Patience as we all were learning, patience in waiting for nanny while she talked to every second person while doing groceries and not once did you complain or huff about how much time it took. When I asked about it once you said to me " All I have is time for every single one of you."

How lucky I am to have had a papa who loved like you, the impact you had as a papa is the kind I can see in my dad as the papa of my own kids. How lucky they will be to recieve this legacy of love. How lucky I am to have found someone, my Christophe, who carries the same patience for me that you had for everyone. How lucky I am to be your family, to pass on this legacy of love and time in my own life.

I will teach my kids to fish. I will walk the riverbanks and shorelines. I will continue to practice your level of other worldy patience. All in honor of you.

Until I see you again, let this grief be a reminder of how much you mattered, of all the love, of all our time.

Papa,

I will never forget all the memories we shared together. You taught me how to fish, and to be honest, you were the only reason I ever enjoyed fishing, because it was a way we could spend time together.

I remember going out with you, Hughie, Ron, Dad, and Morgan to the forest to cut down some trees and get wood for your wood stove when I was 6 years old. I may have just picked up a stick and fought invisible people while the men did the real work but I enjoyed going with you nonetheless, especially when I watched you drive your minivan through an invisible trail in the bushes that anybody else would’ve thought ended in us hitting a tree. Dad always said following you in a car was impossible, I’ll say from experience that he must’ve got that quality from you.

I remember always helping split and stack the wood for you each summer in the backyard. I remember laughing when you got upset at dad for accidentally cut your “perfect splitting log” and stacked it away.

And your stories. The stories you could never get through without crying of laughter: Your time on the farm as a boy, the story of your son coming home without a pant leg after being chased by a bull, your sons leaving footprint marks on your ceiling, your time in school with the Morgan’s, and many more hilarious stories.

Most of all I remember the kind of man you were. Your otherworldly kindness, your patience, your ability to teach, your devotion, your intelligence and handiness, and the love you had for all of us, children, grand and great-grand children alike. Anytime family was over you were a “smiley” chatterbox.

Mum and Dad named me after you, and the standard you set as a man will be a very hard one to reach, but I’ll try as hard as I can to make you proud.

I love you Papa, and I will miss you for the rest of my days.