I took the title of this post from among the many wise and witty utterances of the immortal Groucho Marx. He also said, "I intend to live forever, or die trying."

Of no surprise to my readers will be the disclosure that my brand of humour veers sharply toward the dark side. My dance card of funeral attendance over the years includes both my parents, four uncles and one aunt, an assortment of friends and the parents of others, and that's just the humans. If memory serves, I have also officiated at or otherwise participated in the last goodbye to five dogs, one horse, one cat, three hamsters, at least six birds of various species, a similar number of reptiles, and one monkey. Species be damned. Grief is grief.

As I've gone through the grieving process myself, and watched others do the same, it has become clear to me that, in the end, the power and joy of a life well lived is not diminished by the final footnote that it came to an end. That grief is a path leading to a place where, without trivializing our loss or assuming a pretense that the one departed isn't missed, we can once again think and speak of them fondly and often, without spontaneously melting into a weeping puddle of goo. That their lives will have meaning as long as those of us who remember still draw breath.

I often tell stories of my father, Lawrence Whynacht (above left with Joey), and employ his common expressions such as, "Like picking fly shit out of pepper with boxing gloves on," when speaking of a task that was very difficult to do. His influence in my life is felt daily, with joy instead of sadness, and yet since his burial the only time I have returned to his grave was the day we placed my mother beside him. That's not him there. Those are his remains, and I need no monument to remind me of what his life meant to everyone who knew him. In fact as his son I am, in the most powerful and fundamental of ways, a living monument to him.
 

I am motivated to reflect on these things because, five years ago today, another fine man, a fine friend, and most importantly a fine parent, whose life touched mine in a way that has forever filled me with gratitude beyond the bounds of mere language to express, died in Halifax after a mighty battle with cancer. Ryszard Stanisław Kleszczyński was the father of my beloved Diana.
 

Izabella, little Diana, and Ryszard in 1982
 

Born in Kłodzko, Poland on 2 June 1950, Ryszard was a professional engineer, tennis player, musician, and avid camper. A man of great intelligence and humour with a razor sharp wit, Ryszard possessed an effortless and classic style in his manners that only the term "old world" can adequately describe.

First and foremost though, Ryszard was a family man. A devoted husband  and lover to his wife Izabella;

a proud and loving father to his two daughters, Diana and Dorothy, the latter of whom will give birth to a daughter of her own in a few weeks from the date of this post.
 

Ryszard loved the outdoors and regularly took the family camping in Kejimkujik National Park for weeks at a time. Having been raised on a farm, he took a practical, no-nonsense approach to life, but never forgot how to relax ...

... have fun ...

... nor the importance of keeping romance alive.

As an engineer he valued motivation, clear thinking, and a drive to succeed. He cultivated these values and delighted in how they took root in Diana. Look at his face in the following picture, taken at Diana's Grade 11 honours ceremony. If that's not a father busting a gut with pride I don't know what is.

Here again we see the effect in evidence as Ryszard dances with Diana at her prom, something that in my day we called a grad dance.

Once more for good measure, here is a photo of Izabella, Dorothy, Diana, Michelin representative Nancy Bell, and Ryszard taken at Diana's high school graduation. Diana had graduated with honours, top of her class, with a $20,000.00 scholarship to Dalhousie University, and had won the $8,000.00 Michelin bursary for scholastic excellence which was presented to her by Ms. Bell. No wonder Ryszard often looked at Diana and called her Magnavox, the company motto of which was, "Smart. Very smart".

In his last days, Diana and I spent a lot of time travelling back and forth from our residence near Lunenburg to the QEII hospital in Halifax. We had moved to Corkum's Island in September 2003 and due to his illness he had never been able to visit us there.

During one of those last visits he asked to speak with me alone and said, "I have heard you have a big house."

I agreed that we did and he nodded his head. Raising a finger and gesturing toward the door where Diana had just passed out of sight, with a slight smile on his lips he said, "If you ever hurt her, I will haunt that house."

Well, I never have, but still think he haunts our house anyway, just for fun. In fact, this was one of the reasons we married on All Hallows Eve 2008. To the many who have asked, "Why Hallowe'en?" I have always replied, "Because some of the most important guests are dead, and that's the only night they could come."

The eagle is a bird that features prominently in Polish heraldry. On the day of Ryszard's death, as Diana and I drove home across the Corkum's Island causeway, a breath taking bald eagle flew low across the road in front of us. It, or one just as big, has often been seen in our vicinity on many occasions thereafter and I can honestly say that in all the time I've spent outdoors in my life, eagles were never so much in evidence as they have been since.

I've enjoyed telling these stories about Ryszard, and I'd be lying if I claimed not to have shed more than a few private tears of joy in celebration of the life of an exceptional man as I wrote them. In closing dear and loyal readers, here's an appropriate animated gif Diana created some months ago that I believe will speak for itself. Click here to view it.