Happy birthday, dad

I don’t do this heaven or hell malarkey. My view is that when life is over, it’s over and that I won’t survive my own death in order to stroll through the pearly gates to that great Wetherspoons in the sky. It would be nice to think everyone I loved who is no longer with us was up there looking down, clutching a glass of Moet and Chandon. Alas, I fear, if there was a God, he’d have a bit of a job carting it all up there. Nonetheless, happy birthday, dad.

My dad, Anthony Johansen, was born on this day in 1929. In an ideal world, I’d be with him today in Ottawa celebrating his 90th birthday with all his friends and family. If his 75th and 80th birthdays had been anything to go by, it would have been an absolute blast.

There would be stories, poetry, jokes, music, food, drink and, given this is my dad you are talking about, even more stories. For my father was the greatest storyteller I ever knew.

Possessed of a forensic brain, with an elephant’s memory, my dad grabbed your attention and kept it. The detail and clarity always astounded me when I often had trouble recalling what it was I did yesterday, never mind the name of the person I did it with.

Anthony died on 28 February 2011, although I never saw him again after his 80th celebrations of May 2009. Our paths were often far apart and there were times I wondered if they might never cross again. This was entirely my fault, rejecting time after time his overtures. The reasons, confusing to me as they remain today, are for another day. Today is a day to remember and celebrate.

In the last couple of days before falling asleep I have imagined my trip to dad’s 90th birthday, all the way from leaving Bristol, boarding a Boeing 767 at Heathrow and landing at Ottawa. Then welcoming an eclectic mix of guests on the day of the party. Close my eyes, I am almost there. Open them and reality dawns. My dad died in 2011. He’s not around anymore and my life is infinitely poorer because of it.

Dear dad. I know you won’t be able to read this, but happy birthday, dad. You always told me not to worry about the things in life you couldn’t change, but I never really took your advice and I worried about them all the time. And when you died, it hit me like a lightning bolt. Just as we had been closer than ever, just as I had taken you, at the age of 80, to our first concert together, John Fogerty at the Scotiabank arena, just as I finally felt able to open up on my true feelings towards you and listen to yours towards me. Then, it all ended.

I would like to wish you a good day in heaven, even though I am pretty sure there’s no such place. When you died, a massive part of me died too. I loved you probably more than you ever knew. And I know you loved me too.

Rick