![]() ![]() My Dad was 17 when his mother lost her life to a long-term illness at the age of 45. My paternal grandfather died when I was just a baby. My Dad, in contrast, never spoke much about his days in Scotland. Being in that space and re-visiting places from her childhood inspired hours of storytelling and I always had a grounded sense of where she came from. We would stay with my maternal grandparents in the tiny Glasgow home that my mother grew up in. Immediately upon exiting the plane, my mother would close her eyes and exaggeratedly inhale, “Smell the fresh air kids – just SMELL the fresh air!” My brother and I would roll our eyes. ![]() I’m pretty sure he golfed a LOT during the six weeks we were away. As a budding entrepreneur, my Dad stayed home to run his business. And while they are grateful for their Canadian citizenship, they are proud Scots to the bone.Īs a child, I was fortunate to visit the beautiful country many times during the summer with my mother and little brother. It made me feel special in a strange sort of way.īut his Hollywood good looks, witty sense of humour, and impressive intellect were no match for his always smiling eyes, compassionate nature, and optimistic outlook on life.īorn and raised in Glasgow, Scotland, my parents have charming accents although regrettably, with every passing year, they have come to sound a little more Canadian, eh. As a schoolgirl, my elementary teachers were giddy at the thought of him appearing on parent/teacher night. Cartwheeling (for real) my way down the hall to the front door, I arrived just in time to leap into his arms.Ī self-proclaimed “Daddy’s Girl,” I have always adored him. I heard the key rattle in the front door and bolted from the kitchen table. ![]()
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