In April of 2014, I had the great honour of speaking at a memorial ceremony celebrating the life of my father, who’d died two days earlier at the age of 70, having suffered a massive heart attack several weeks prior.

After thanking my younger brother for his many years of watching over my aging Dad, and my husband Jeff and cousin Geneva for their superhuman efforts to support my mother and me in our time of grief and confusion, I began my remarks by telling what—for nearly 50 years—had been my father’s favourite joke. It doesn’t translate as well to the page, so I’m not even going to try here; you’ll just have to ask me to tell you in person some time.

Frank Syms was my father. That’s the first time I’ve ever had to cast that particular sentence in the past tense.

I’d be the happiest man alive if my Dad were here with us right now. But seeing so many people in this room from across the spectrum of his life experiences—family members from near and far, friends who knew him as a little boy, men who’ve worked alongside him over the years—I feel a little bit less alone tonight, so thank you.

My father comes from very humble roots, but my life with him has been rich—and I’ve learned more from Dad than anyone else I know. Let me tell you some things about his life, based on recollections he’s shared with me over the years. I’ll also share a few specific moments that are memorable for me and meaningful to me, and the simple but potent life lessons that I carry with me as a result.

Dad was born in London, England, at the height of World War II. The baby of the family, he was the youngest of six kids raised by a single mother who loved and cared for animals. Work was scarce, and the family roamed the British countryside in search of it while my father was a child.

I remember him telling me how he lived with his mother in a caravan—a camper of sorts—and how over time they travelled a circuit between England and Scotland, where his mother had family. Dad said that as a little boy, he would be picked on in Scotland for having an English accent—and that by the time they migrated southward to England again, he would be teased for having since developed a Scottish accent. He got into a lot of fights—so he learned at an early age to defend himself.

Frank Syms was fatherless by the age of 3 and orphaned at 11. He came across the Atlantic Ocean to Canada on a boat as a little boy, settling in Niagara Falls, Ontario.

Without a mother or father of his own, my Dad still had his brothers and sisters—but they were older and had many responsibilities of their own. He moved around between them a fair bit as a child but eventually struck out on his own. He told me that at first he slept wherever he could—in ditches, sheds and wherever else he could find shelter—but eventually lived on his own, in his own apartment, working jobs in construction alongside grown men, paying his own bills and taking care of himself.

A truly self-made man, my father worked at almost every physical job you can think of. He descended the mines in Sudbury. He drove truck in Toronto. He engaged in backbreaking labour in sweltering factories all over the Niagara Region. Three different bridges cross the Niagara River—my father worked on every one of them. As a painter. Hanging in the air with the raging gorge below, barely suspended from above. He told me it was the scariest job he’d ever done. But my Dad was very brave. He did whatever was needed to take care of himself and to raise his family.

For more than two decades he was a chemical operator at an oil refinery in Oakville, a job requiring both brains and brawn. Sometimes it involved brute physical force, loading and unloading tank cars. Other aspects of the work involved detailed knowledge of the chemical composition of a range of petroleum products and how to safely manufacture them. My Dad stayed steady at that job until his first heart attack forced him into retirement.

My father’s life wasn’t always easy, but he was devoted to his family, to working hard and doing his very best for us. When your Dad’s a shift worker, you don’t see him all the time. He’s often asleep or very sleepy when you’re awake and want to play. Growing up, I spent lots of time lying in bed next to my father when he was worn out or feeling drowsy. We’d watch TV together, or he would tell me stories.

When I was a little boy, I used to think that my dad and I were very different, that I had little in common with him. After all, he was a big, loud, strong, friendly, outgoing guy—and I was this weird, awkward, quiet, shy, nerdy little kid. But you know something? The older I get, the more I think we’re alike after all.

From my Dad, I learned the importance of charting your own destiny in life, and came to understand that sometimes you don’t have any other choice. I learned the value of strength and independence, because there are moments when you may not be able to depend upon anyone but yourself. I learned about survival and devotion—and the value of hard work. I learned that even if you don’t see someone all the time, it doesn’t mean that they aren’t there for you. In fact, it can be the opposite—that they would do just about anything for you.

Let me share a few specific memories of growing up with my Dad, and what I learned from them:

Cycling through

Outgrowing training wheels and learning to ride your first bike is a rite of passage for many kids and a proud moment for any father. We lived across the street from a quiet cemetery, and that’s where my Dad taught me. I was neurotic even then, paranoid about falling and hurting myself—so my father promised he would hold the back of my seat to keep me balanced. I begged him not to let go. Of course, eventually he did—and when I realized this “betrayal,” I panicked, lost control of the bike, and crashed into a thorny rose bush. I was a big crybaby about it, and it was quite a while before I thought I could trust my Dad again.

What life lesson can possibly come of such an incident and so melodramatic a response? Don’t trust a big guy standing behind you and making promises, because you never really know if he will say one thing and do another?! Well, no. More than that.

Learn to expect the unexpected.

When you fall down, get back up and try again.

Used cars, new neighbourhoods

My Dad was always buying and selling used cars—and houses. It seemed like we were constantly moving when I was a kid. As a result, I changed elementary schools 7 times; I went to 2 different high schools.

I can’t tell you how much time we spent in used-car lots when I was a small boy. My little brother and I used to play tag and hide-and-seek between the parked cars. A car lot can feel a tiny bit like a carnival if you squint really hard. They’re often decorated to dress things up a bit—with pennants and streamers on the surrounding telephone poles that can approximate a big top. If you’re really imaginative, you can pretend a test drive of a 1972 Honda Civic is sort of like an amusement-park ride.

All this buying and selling could feel a bit disruptive—especially all of the house-hunting and moving. It was hard always being the new kid at school. But there was a reason for it all—one I didn’t fully understand at the time. My father always wanted to get us the best car that he could afford, the nicest house for which he could manage the payments. He grew up with so little—and he was determined that our childhoods wouldn’t be as hard as his own. There are a lot of lessons in this for me, but one in particular stands out.

Sometimes there is more to life than may appear on the surface. Step back if you can—try to see the big picture.

Telling tales

I mentioned earlier how much time I spent with my Dad as he rested in bed after a 12-hour shift, and how he would tell me stories. He made up a series of adventures involving two new superheroes who would rescue innocent people from unexpected disasters—they were named Red Devil and Red Devil Jr. A father and son, and obviously based on my Dad and me. My Dad also had three green-ink tattoos. One was of a spunky-looking little dog. The dog was named Frankie (like my Dad’s name, Frank)—and my Dad would make Frankie talk and tell me stories, too. Now, my brother and I were raised in a fairly average working-class household, nothing very extravagant—although we did have toys, and in my case especially, books. But I learned from those hours spent with my Dad that it didn’t matter if you had those things or not.

A potent imagination is one of the most powerful things in life.

Toys and material things are not what matters most.

To have a fulfilling life, all you need is to spend time with your loved ones.

Moving stationery

I didn’t need or want a lot of toys as a kid. One thing my Dad always kept me well-supplied with, though, was paper. With a pencil and paper, I could get all my thoughts and feelings down. I could draw and write—explore my dreams and learn how to share them. I’ve been lucky to experience some success as a writer—and I owe a significant debt for that to all the early practice I was able to get in because of my father.

Where did all those sheets of paper come from? My Dad was very well-liked by all the administrative staff at his refinery. When he came in from out in the tank farm and chatted up the women in the office, they were happy to share their excess supplies with him, and his little boy. What’s the life lesson in this? No, it’s not: Steal the assets of your corporate overlords! But rather:

Know when to turn on the charm; and

If you are nice to other people, they are probably going to be nice back.

Let’s make a deal

When I was a teenager, my Dad took me to the mall, Niagara Square, because he wanted to get a new stereo. He did not, however, want to pay full price. He’d learned a lot about dealing with sales guys over the years. Not only did Dad want a discount on the price, he didn’t want to pay the tax either. And not only that, he wanted the stereo cabinet thrown in for free. I was a little bit mortified by his ballsiness at the time, to be honest.

Apparently that last demand was pushing things too far, according to the salesman. That, he couldn’t do. But my father would not back down. He said, “I’m going to go for a little walk through this mall and I’m going to pass by here again in about five minutes or so. You go talk to your boss or whoever you need to talk to. When you see me pass by again, if you’re not gonna give me the cabinet too, I’ll just walk on by. If we can make a deal, you wave me back in here, got it?”

And in the end, my Dad got exactly what he wanted. Now the obvious life lesson here might seem to be: Always negotiate on price. That is indeed a valuable lesson and one that I apply in my own job every day. But I actually think the lesson goes just a little bit deeper:

Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid to ask for what you really want, because you might just get it.

On the buses

When I was in Grade 6, I had the chance to attend a class for gifted students. The problem: It was at another school in another part of the city, and there was no sort of subsidy or school-bus service. You had to take Niagara Transit, at the cost of 60¢ per ride or a total of $6.00 a week. As I’ve said, my Dad worked hard to provide for us and was lucky to have a union job. We were not poor—but we were far from rich either. Out of necessity, my parents knew how to watch their pennies.

Whether or not I would get to attend that class for a full year was not a simple decision; there was a lot of back and forth about whether it was worth it and whether we could really afford it. In the end, I got to go.

I’ll tell you something. That year among the “gifted” kids actually really sucked for the most part. There were a handful of exceptions, of course. But they were, for the most part, a bunch of spoiled brats who had been “gifted” all their lives, with vacations to Europe and anything they could ever possibly want. To be fair, I’ve subsequently met people from well-off families who are models of charm, decency and grace. None of them happened to be in that particular school program, though—these kids were cruel, smart-assed, sarcastic and mean. They openly looked down on me and picked on me a lot. But I learned a lot from the experience, and from the conversations within my family about whether attending the class would even be a possibility for me. And it essentially boils down to this:

Don’t take anything for granted. Everything in life has to be earned and worked for, and that effort should be respected and appreciated.

The end is just the beginning

Those final three weeks in hospital were hard for all of us—especially my father. My Dad’s heart stopped in the ambulance, but he was revived. He was rushed to the Cardiac Care Unit at Hamilton General for emergency surgery to open up blood flow to his heart that had become nearly 100 percent blocked, something somehow missed by his doctor despite receiving very regular medical care.

My Dad tried his damnedest to come back. Even at his age and with everything he’d been through in life, he still had a lot of fight left in him. In the end he didn’t survive, but at least he knew that he was not alone. He wasn’t conscious a lot of the time during his attempted recovery, but he had many moments of lucidity. He opened his eyes, and he saw us. He felt our hands holding his, and squeezed back. He understood and responded negatively or affirmatively to questions, even though he couldn’t speak because of his tracheotomy. He puckered his lips to request kisses from my mother. The recent days I spent by my father’s side in hospital could be very hard at times, but I wouldn’t change a moment. He did his best, just like always, and he was surrounded by love that he had cultivated over many years as a wonderful and deeply caring man.

I’m still trying to parse through the many lessons of my final days with the father I love so, so much, but at a bare minimum I know they include these:

Never go down without a fight.

And always know how much you’re loved.

When I first wrote these words, my father had been dead for two days. It was hard then and it’s hard now. But I know that if I can remember and continue to learn from the many lessons he taught me, I’m going to be just fine.