This essay is the written form of the speech I delivered at my father’s memorial service.
Brian Andrew: my and Ben’s father, Sylvie’s husband, Barbara and Don’s brother, Raphael and Wilder’s grandfather, Archie and Sadie’s son, and to all of us, our dear friend.
My father was an interesting man. He was a Zimbabwean born adventurer, a Canadian immigrant, an adopted Frenchman, an accomplished architect, a curious mind, a devoted father, a loving husband, and a gentle soul. My friends joked he rivaled the Dos Equis “most interesting man in the world,” both in appearances and experiences.
He was different things to all of those that knew him. I am going to share what he was to me, what I will remember him by, and the lessons he imparted.
He ingrained that lesson in me. When I was 10 years old I was cut from a hockey team I so desperately wanted to be on. I was devastated. My father consoled me and confidently told me “there’s no reason why I can’t make the team”
“But how?” I professed.
“Easy,” he said, “you’re just going to have to outwork everyone.”
The following year I made the team, encouraged by dad’s support. Thereafter my father and I spent thousands of hours chatting as we drove across the city to hockey arenas. Those were formative conversations. In our many chats, my father shared how he got into architecture to follow his passion. How he commuted from his parents home in Mississauga to the University of Toronto. How drove a truck to pay his way through architecture school. How he honed his craft on evenings and weekends and studied his mentors.
If you want to do something; then do it. And do it right. Take pride in what you do. That was the essence of many of his stories. And a lesson I learned time and again as we hammered every nail into the cottage on Deer Island that we built together.
He was tremendously proud - of his wife, of his boys, of his architectural marvels. His successes were no accident. They came at the hand of deliberate hard work.
Brian made this lesson abundantly clear in his final chapter. We’re fortunate to have been blessed with 70 years of Brian. But his otherwise healthy life was cut short by a brutal cancer. His life as a grandfather was just beginning. Sadly his grandsons won’t have memories of him. His dreams of traveling the world and landing in Antarctica with his beloved wife Sylvie are over. He won’t be there to see me get married or have kids of my own one day.
So if you want to pay tribute to Brian, do him and yourself a favor. If there is something you want to do; do it. Do it now. Do it right. Do it all the way.
I’ll remember my father for his cool confidence. When other dads yelled at hockey refs, coaches and players - dad didn’t. When they bragged about new cars - dad didn’t. When his clients yelled at him, he offered a reassuring voice.
My father never swore. He never raised his voice. He never threatened anyone. He never put anyone down. He chose common ground over conflict. He was humble in a field of egoist. He didn’t need to do any of those things. He was confident in who he was, what he was doing, and why.
He was as cool as a cucumber. Always a steady hand in turbulent times. An anchor to be relied on. And boy did I need to rely on him at times. Whether it was school suspensions, broken bones or broken hearts, he was there to pick me up when I was down every time.
My father was a gifted storyteller. He regaled audiences with boyhood stories of rural Africa, of living in Paris, of designing buildings from Canada to the Middle East and on to Asia, and of his globe-trotting adventures. He could weave a tale so captivating he had you hanging on to his every last word.
He was an encyclopedia. He was Google before Google existed. He could recite all sorts of history.
“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked in amazement.
“I read and I travel. I’m always learning.” He said humbly.
He told stories to invite you into his world. So that you would share yours with him. He was open minded. He wanted to hear your story and your perspective, and see how that could reshape his own.
His quick wit and warm smile disarmed you. We were all comfortable in his presence. He loved hanging with his sons’ friends. He’d be thrilled to see so many of you at his memorial. He loved driving Ben and I and our friends to hockey games, cooking a barbeque for us at the cottage, holding down pub sessions in London and many visits to New York.
Our friends constantly reminded us “we’re only friends with the Andrew brothers to hang with Brian.” They weren’t kidding.
I’ll remember my father for his playful demeanor. He was easy going at heart. His jokes and antics serve as a reminder not to take ourselves too seriously.
I vividly remember a regular occurrence in our home growing up was my dad dangling my mother upside down by her ankles. It was totally nuts. My mom is high strung. My Dad was the relaxed one. My dad figured out that the best way to relax my mother is to shake her upside down. So he’d pick her up, flip her around, and dangle her by the ankles. Helpless my mom would laugh uncontrollably. He’d lower her to the ground. Lift her arm up, let it go. It would collapse under its own weight. “Yea, she’s relaxed now,” he’d say. Our dog would come running over and lick my mom’s face. My mother abhorred dogs licking her, but in that moment her resistance was futile. Meanwhile Ben and I were falling over laughing.
My father lived for these lighthearted family moments. Regardless of what’s going on in life, you can always crack a smile and have a laugh.
My father had a unique eye for design. He freehand drew architectural marvels. He painted moving watercolors. He captured wild animals in his photography. His creative work outlasts him. In the buildings he designed around the world. In the watercolors and photographs that proudly hang in Toronto, London and New York, which we’ll cherish for generations to come.
I wanted to be an architect and follow in his footsteps. I was fascinated by visits to his office. The drawings, the models, and the creativity drew me in. I watched him draw in amazement. He could turn a simple sketch into a masterpiece. He made it look so effortless.
I think his creative spirit came from his curiosity. He pondered why things were the way they are, how they could be different and what a new perspective could bring. That manifested itself in his unique designs, paintings and photographs.
I did not inherit my father’s creative touch. He did, however, bestow me with his curious mind. He encouraged me to think for myself. To think creatively.
My father taught me to endure. I came home one school afternoon as a teenager and found my dad lying on the couch. His furrowed brow and depressed grin were uncommon as was him being home at that hour. He informed me his firm had lost the bid to design the new Terminal Toronto’s Pearson Airport. A project he had worked on for so long and wanted to win so badly. Making matters worse, he’d forever had to walk through Terminal 1 reminding himself of what could have been.
He was defeated. Image as a young boy, seeing your father, this pillar of a man, my hero - defeated. It was unthinkable.
“So what are you going to do?” I asked.
He resolutely said “I’m going to pity myself this afternoon. And tomorrow I’m going wake up, brush it off, and get back to work. And we’re going to win the next project.”
We all deal with setbacks. It’s how we endure through those setbacks that defines us. And no greater setback did my father encounter than being diagnosed with an aggressive terminal brain cancer.
Every time I asked him how he was he boasted “wonderful…I’m just full of wonder!” He was dying of brain cancer. He knew it. I knew it. We all knew it. But that didn’t change his demeanor. He smiled ear to ear. He was thrilled to see family and friends on their many visits
Eventually I confronted him “dad, it’s okay to be down, frustrated, sad…even depressed.” By that point he was blind in one eye, suffered multiple fractured vertebrae, struggled to walk and wasn’t as sharp as he once was
“What’s the point in feeling down?” he replied.
“That’s not going to change my diagnosis.” He said firmly.
“I may not have much time left,” he continued “I’m not going to waste it being down.”
“I’m going to be happy. And there’s lots to be happy about.”
Indeed there was. He was with the love of his life for over 45 years. They adventured the world together, supporting one another. He found a craft he was passionate about. He shared his successes with partners, family and friends. He lived a life rich in experiences, friends and love. He was a devout and loving father and grandfather.
I hope we’re all so fortunate to be as happy as Brian was. My dad didn’t let cancer define him. He endured it with grace and poise, and tremendous courage. He never once complained about it.
In his final lesson, he taught us how to endure the most daunting setbacks. How to take them head on; positively. He taught us how precious life is.
He taught us how to die in peace. His secret: live today.
He died peacefully not because of a magical moment at the end of his life. But because of how he had lived for the prior 70 years.
In the end, I learned that the end is not the end. Brian’s passing, as sad as it was, coincided with the birth of his grandsons. The circle of life was acutely evident in our family. His passing marked the end of a life well lived. A life to be celebrated. A life to inspire.
Although he’s no longer with us, I carry with me all the memories of times together. I hope you carry your own memories of Brian as well. My memories of him are alive and well and will continue to guide me in my life. And they’ll be shared with future generations.
You left big shoes to fill dad. But because of you, I’m up for the task. We all miss you, but we’ll continue forward without you. I know you’d want it that way.
I will continue to make you proud. I will continue to live by the lessons you instilled in me. I will keep you in my heart…always.
Thank you, dad. I love you.
Post Script: End Of The Line is a reference to the Traveling Wilburys song. It was a favorite of my father's. We listened to it repeatedly in his final months. It also serves as a reminder of the finality of life. There is an End Of The Line for all of us.
Sam is an adventurer and life long learner. He questions why things are the way they are and occasionally writes about it.
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The tribute to my father I delivered at his memorial service.
