Update to this.
My dad passed in his sleep last night.
He was 90 years old.
He was a great dad.
I was OK with it until I had to tell my son that his Poppa had passed.
That was hard.
He will be remembered and missed.

To be remembered and missed. That is a successful life. In time, it will hurt less.

Perfect, Paul. True and sanguine.

Billy, I find as the years create separation from my parents passing, I miss them less and smile about them more.

They were great...just like your Dad.

Sorry to hear about your dad Billy. Hey life can be brutal sometimes. Sounds like you had a great father.
Cheers, Guy

I'm sorry for your loss Bill.
Make sure you tell all the stories to your kids about him.. Keep his spirit alive.

Sorry to hear Bill.
My condolences.

Thanks guys.
He had passed at about 2 am our time.
It was funny that I happened to be awake at that time last night and had a lot of trouble sleeping.

I was told of his passing when I was driving into work today.
I had called my wife and son to tell them.
I think I did what he would have done in the same situation. I worked all day.
Teaching was a great distraction for me today.

For many years, I have missed being able to drop into the garage at any time during the day and find him out there working on something. As his Alzheimer's like symptoms progressed, it robbed him of his want to create things.

I miss his enthusiasm for taking on new tasks. How he would research how to do something and then to do it successfully.

I miss his love of animals. He was a hunter by necessity when younger but had given it up in his later years. I think he actually started feeling bad about killing things. Never had that problem with fish though...

I miss his laugh and his corny sense of humor.

I miss you, dad.

Condolences Bill, just had to agree to put my Dad on palliative care this afternoon. I’m right there with you...

Very sorry to hear that, Bob.
Not an easy thing.

I first heard the sound of grief from my son when his Grampa, his hero, died.

Heartbreaking, isn't it?
My son is 11. Telling him was by far the hardest thing about my dad's passing.

One of my dad's favorite poets.
When he was 80, he could still recite this poem from memory.

The Cremation of Sam McGee
BY ROBERT W. SERVICE
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Condolences and all blessings on you and yours Bill.

Sorry to hear this. My condolences to you family.