Honoring Dave (1931 to 2025)

“The kindest and gentlest man I have ever known.”

These were the words of Dave’s niece, and I couldn’t agree more. Caring for someone can be challenging, but supporting Dave in his journey was nothing short of a privilege. He never wanted to be a burden—he was far from it.

When I first met Dave and his wife, my visits were simply for meal prep twice a week. It didn’t take long to see the depth of his devotion as her primary caregiver. He never complained, though the weariness in his eyes told its own story. Gradually, I began helping with more—laundry, plant care, light housekeeping—so he could focus on what mattered most.

After his wife’s passing, my role shifted naturally to supporting Dave. Together, we ensured he could remain in the home he’d loved for 70 years—sitting in the garden his wife once tended, greeting neighbors, and enjoying familiar routines no care facility could replicate.

His strong work ethic shone through in every story he told. He often spoke of a happy childhood on the farm, though it was marked by the sudden loss of his mother at a young age—a loss that shaped him in quiet, lasting ways. By the age of 12, he was already taking on tough jobs that revealed his determination: firing up the old schoolhouse furnace his father and uncles had built, and delivering telegrams for CN on his bicycle, even in the bitter winter cold. That same grit, paired with his genuine love for people, would later carry him into a long and successful career in sales.

Dave loved when I baked his favorite cookies, and only shrugged the day they came out as flat as a piece of paper. He enjoyed reliving the memory of winning the 100-yard dash as we walked down the block, followed by freshly made smoothies in the garden.

He was proud of his family and of the cabin he built with his own hands—a skill passed down through generations, and one I envied. He taught me to notice the world of birds and squirrels in our neighborhoods, and to see their beauty. Even though he frowned when it was time for his physiotherapy exercises, he always completed them with more gusto when I joined in.

His love for dogs, the great outdoors, travel, and donating his time and talents to causes he believed in spoke volumes about the values that shaped his long and meaningful life.

For over a year after losing the love of his life, Dave was able to grieve—and keep living—in a place that brought him peace, comfort, and joy.

In the fall of 2024, Dave became ill and was admitted to the hospital. That was the last time he was home to stay. After a long recovery, he moved into a lovely facility by the river. My most recent visit was just weeks ago. He couldn’t stay awake. He couldn’t speak. But in those few minutes of cognition, I hope my presence brought him comfort. He was not forgotten.

Dave’s story is a reminder that the measure of a life isn’t found in titles or possessions, but in the care we give, the connections we nurture, and the memories we leave behind. I feel privileged to have shared a part of his journey, to have learned from his resilience, and to have witnessed the quiet strength of a life well-lived.

His stories live on in my heart. And when my time comes, I hope to be remembered with even a fraction of the respect and love that surrounded Dave.

Robyn Wilson