It took less than two seconds to say the four word phrase, but the moment the words exited my mouth I regretted it. I heard the uncomfortable pause on the other end of the line. I knew exactly how he felt. Life is full of small errors, and I had to laugh internally, because the words weren’t uttered out of ignorance or a lack of empathy. It was out of habit. A natural greeting that is used hundreds of times between friends.

How often when you see someone or call them on the phone do you open with their name followed by “How are you,” or “How ya doing.” It is quite normal for me, but my goodness did I laugh thinking how badly I botched that intro this past Friday morning.

The moment I hung up the phone, the memories, which can invade my brain at the most unexpected times, came flooding in. I heard his laugh. I could see his body hunched over, heaving up and down when he would have one of his patented laughing fits. It made me smile. It made me laugh. I needed it. I always need it. Love never stops. It falls and rises at different times, and even 26 years later, it can fill my heart when I need it the most.

Twenty-six years ago today, my father, William Arthur Gregor, passed away suddenly at the age of 56. He had a massive heart attack in his car at a red light. Dad lived a decently healthy life. He had quit smoking a few years earlier, rarely drank, he was active running the farm, but I guess it was his time. I remember vividly where I was on the morning of his funeral. I was sitting in the study of our farmhouse, staring at the wall, struggling to process my emotions.

The day he died was a shock. A blur, but the funeral is where it became final. Two and a half decades later, many moments from that day are still very clear. I remember sitting in the study trying to prepare for the day. It was four or five hours before his funeral. My brother and sister had decided we would each say a few words about Dad, and I was trying to jot down something coherent. I ended up writing bullet points, hoping it could keep me in line.

This past Friday, I called my friend Ken four hours before his father’s Celebration of Life was going to start. I called because I wouldn’t be able to make it due to having a live on location broadcast that day, and I wanted to offer my condolences. My father died on a Friday.

Ken answered the phone, “Hi Jason,” and then I blurted out far too enthusiastically, “Ken, how are you.” My goodness, it was terrible. Sorry Ken. Thankfully, he didn’t hang up, and we had a good chat, but the odd thing was until I called Ken to offer condolences about his father, the amazing Cal Nichols, I hadn’t had many of my usual Dad memories.

Normally, in the weeks leading up to the anniversary of his passing, he enters my dreams or my thoughts during the day. I realized the moment after I hung up with Ken, that the anniversary of his passing was in four days. It snuck up on me, mainly because I hadn’t seen the signs. The past two weeks, I’ve slept like junk. Waking up at 3 a.m. and staring at the ceiling for hours. It happens annually, in the days leading up to his anniversary, and I really don’t know why. I started writing this year’s email on Saturday morning at 5:15 a.m. after I gave up trying to go back to sleep.

Our subconscious is extremely powerful, but even though I believe I’m aware of it, I still miss the signs sometimes when our body and mind are trying to tell us something. I can’t explain why I don’t sleep well in the days, sometimes weeks in September, but I’ve read about “anniversary reactions” where our body remembers past traumatic events.

My father and I had a great relationship. We spent thousands of hours working together on the farm, driving to and from hockey listening to music or to John Short on the radio, wrestling, laughing and luckily enough the odd father/son beer on the couch watching sports together.

On the morning of his funeral, I asked my friends for a favour, and today I will ask you the same one.

When you are done reading take a moment to connect with your father. If you are lucky enough to be able to see him today, or this week, give him a hug or just spend some time together. At the very least call him and ask how he’s doing. Your call or time will make him smile. If you father is gone, my condolences and maybe call your mom and share a story about him. I hope that through your actions, my father will see what a wonderful impression he made in my life and heart and know that our family misses him dearly.

Thank you in advance.

Writing this letter each year creates a mixture of laughter and heartache, but most of all it fills me with a feeling of undying love for and from my father. The wonderful thing about genuine love is that it truly never goes away, and the actions we show today will live in the hearts of our loved ones forever. I’m not sure I really believed that until I lost my father.

There is no shortage of positive memories of Dad that fill the void in my heart. I’m forever grateful for our relationship and the unending love he showed me. Not always with words, but with actions. Fathers, make sure your children know you love them. Show up. Support them. Comfort them and as they grow and spread their wings, that unconditional love will last long after you are gone. Don’t underestimate your importance in their lives.

While I butchered the opening line in my conversation with Ken, we did have a great talk about fathers. Cal Nichols was 84 when he passed. He and his wife Edna were married for 59 years. They had two children, Ken and Christine, and they have five grandchildren. An amazing life.

I find at times when a parent passes away in their 80s or 90s, society sometimes thinks that seeing your parents live a full life makes their passing easier. I’m not sure I agree with that. I was 27 when my father passed unexpectedly. In the past few years, I’ve seen friends of mine pass away and their children were eight, ten or twelve. It was devastating for me when I lost my father, and I often think how tough it was on those kids, but last year my father-in-law, Doug, passed away. He was just shy of 81 years on this earth. My wife’s sadness wasn’t much different than mine 25 years earlier, and when I spoke with Ken, I could hear the pain in his voice.

In some ways it might be harder because you have more memories and different levels of love and shared experiences together. My father never saw me get married or become a father. It pains me he never met my wife and son, but I also haven’t experienced seeing him interact with my family and then suddenly being gone. I believe death hurts regardless of when it comes and losing a father when we are a child, a young adult or when they are older still hurts.

I realized that the urge to pick up the phone and call Ken, likely stemmed from how I felt so many Fridays ago. I also know how nice it was to have people talk to me about my father when he passed. Fifteen years after his death, my mom and I sat down at the kitchen table and went through the hundreds of condolences cards friends, family and acquaintances of my father had dropped off at his funeral.

My mom kept them all. She had never read many of them, as it was too difficult. But one day she was ready and we sat at the table and opened them all. It was amazing to hear the kind words people wrote and it also reminded me of who showed up that day. I was unable to attend Cal’s celebration of life, but I wanted Ken to know I was thinking about him and his family.

Some people are uncomfortable reaching out because we don’t know what to say. Well, even if you have a terrible opener like I did, your action of reaching out means more than people realize. If someone you know loses a loved one, don’t be scared to send a personal note, or better yet call them. I’m old school, I still prefer the phone over a text message. It is more personal, but that is just me. Reach out however you feel comfortable.

This past Friday afternoon, I received my weekly Friday email from Cam Tait. Cam is a daily contributor on Sports 1440. Cam has been a journalist for over 45 years. Cam was born in 1958.  He was 18 minutes old before he took his first breath. A minute later, he stopped breathing again, this time for 45 minutes. The lack of oxygen caused him to develop cerebral palsy. He has lived his entire life proving people wrong.

I never met Cam’s father, Harold, but I’ve learned a lot about him through Cam’s stories. Cam is in a wheelchair and due to his cerebral palsy, he speaks slowly. Cam always wanted to be on radio, and when I helped launch Sports 1440, we came up with a plan for him to participate. Through the advancements in technology, Cam writes out his thoughts, and an automated voice orates them and makes a produced segment we call The Two-Minute Warning.

Cam is an amazing writer. On Friday’s he sends me his Two-Minute warning, and I have the pleasure of reading it live on the radio. He’s a jokester and often sends his segment via email minutes before I’m supposed to read it live on air, so sometimes I can’t pre-read it. He’s an ass that way and often will toss in a few words he hopes I trip over. It’s a running joke now and it makes me laugh.

This Friday, I opened the e-mail and as I read it, I realized it was an amazing tribute to Cal. It reminded me of my father and made me smile. Here are Cam’s words. He’s very specific and writes his notes like a movie script. What a beauty.

Let me ask you something.

[LONG, BREATHING PAUSE]

Close your eyes for just a heartbeat.

Think of someone. Someone you love. Someone whose quiet grace and unspoken fire make you stop and say to yourself…If the world only gave them the chance, look how high they could fly.

Now let me ask you:

Would you walk up their steps?

Would you lift your hand, strike your knuckles against their front door… and hand them the sky?

[PAUSE]

Earlier this afternoon, beneath the cathedral of glass at the Enjoy Centre in St. Albert, the air was thick with memory, and tears, and the kind of sacred silence that only visits when a giant goes home to rest.

We gathered to say our goodbyes, and our thanks, to Cal Nichols.

We all know the legend, don’t we? The history books will tell our children that Cal was the knight in shining armor who held the line-the prairie man whose grit kept the Edmonton Oilers from being torn from our river valley. He helped save our team. He saved a piece of our identity.

But seven voices stood up at the microphone today. And they didn’t speak of contracts or corporate ledgers.

They spoke of a soul. AND the importance of relationships.

Kevin Lowe took the pulpit, and when he spoke, you could hear twenty-six years of reverence trembling in his voice.

He took us back to June of 2000. A soft summer evening in Laurier Heights. 

A quiet knock at Kevin’s front door. 

Kevin opened it. Standing on the porch was Cal, alongside another gentleman, asking if they could come inside for a moment.

They sat in the living room, and Cal looked into Kevin’s eyes. No games. No pretense. Just the pure, unvarnished weight of a man offering his whole faith. Cal told Kevin: I want you to be the next General Manager of the Edmonton Oilers.

 Kevin said that the offer took his breath away. But it wasn’t the title. It wasn’t the prestige.

It was the sudden, overwhelming realization of what Cal was really offering:

Unconditional belief.

 A hand outstretched in the dark, saying: You can do this. And I will walk every single step of this long, hard road beside you.

Kevin looked out at the room and told us that that summer night began with the cold business of hockey… but it ignited a fire that never went out. A brotherhood. Kevin called it one of the most sacred, important friendships of his entire life.

You see, Cal didn’t just save a hockey team. He saved people. He built bridges with the timber of his own loyalty.

So tonight… let’s truly honor Cal Nichols.

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