Ashley
Family and friends, thank you for being here to celebrate the life of our Papa. We are Ashley, the eldest grandchild; Samantha, the middle grandchild; and Alyssa, as Papa would say, “the baby.” We are the granddaughters of Wayne Andrew.
At 15 years old, our grandpa vowed to take care of his younger siblings and mama after his father passed away. Over the course of his life, he remained a father figure to everyone around him. Sometimes as simple as sharing advice or asking everyone to call when they got home, his caring and concerned nature meant the world.
Together with my grandma, Papa took his fatherly role seriously, even when it wasn't demanded of him, like in my case. To give you a sense of the time Papa spent driving his three grandchildren to and from school daily, including mornings, lunchtimes, and afternoons, it took him over one hundred and twenty-three thousand minutes. These were all minutes he did not have to put in but chose to. Plus, my grandfather often offered to take my friends or anyone needing a ride to school along. He really was a father to all.
They say it takes a village to raise a child, but Grandma and Papa raised a village.
When Papa was in the hospital, we talked about how much I appreciated everything he has done for me. I want to share and continue that conversation now with all of you. Thank you for putting your time, effort and energy into raising me. I wouldn’t be who I am without you, a strong-willed, nature-loving, bargain enthusiast.
Being the eldest, I spent the most time alone with Papa in his happy place, New Brunswick. It's where I learned most of these qualities and how to be just like Papa.
Grandma used to tell me at that age that I was a princess, if that was true, Papa was king, grandma was queen, and New Brunswick was our kingdom. It was and is my happy place, thanks to the time I spent there with Papa.
Beachfront walks there were one of my favorite things to do with him. Growing up, I was always determined to do things my way, just like my Papa, so I insisted on climbing down the 6 feet of logs that lined our cabin to start our journey.
Papa, who always made sure I was safe, wouldn't let me. When we walked, Papa encouraged me to look for "treasure," our code word for rocks, stones, and sea glass. He'd tell me stories as he went, asking me who I thought had crossed the waters and what treasure they left behind. As I collected handfuls of treasure, I carried them in my hands with pride. Eventually, Papa would get worried we'd gone too far and the tide would come in.
Once again, I would protest, stubborn as he taught me. I protested because I was having too much fun and wanted more time with him. Even so, I would give in, and I’d be amazed at how big Papa looked as he walked in front of me. That was all I needed to feel safe, not to walk away from the tide, or take the stairs, just to know he was close.
It was when we were fishing that I felt Papa's presence the most. He loved fishing, and I, looking up to him, was always keen to join.
It must have been that eagerness that led him to buy me my own fishing rod and patiently teach me how to set it up, cast a line, and catch fish.
We'd sit in silence, I'd curl up beside him, and watch the sun cast itself upon his face. It was peaceful.
When Papa got sick, I stayed with him in the hospital many nights.
Like fishing, I enjoyed sitting with papa in silence, holding his hand. In those quiet moments, I would close my eyes and be back in New Brunswick.
Papa sitting in his big white plastic lawn chair, fishing rod at the ready. I'd run out of the cottage, the creaking door slamming behind me, and run toward his chair. I knew mine was next to him.
I'd love to think this is where Papa's energy is now. Fishing peacefully, with my chair waiting beside him for when we meet again. I'd like to share with you a poem that I think illustrates this beautifully:
If someone should ask for me,
Tell them heaven is where I’ll be.
I’ve finished all my life’s chores,
And now I fish on heavens shores.
The view is grand, and the fishing’s great,But I yearn for you as I wait I’ll save a spot on the river’s bend, For all those, I call family and friends.
But for now, sail out to sea,
And make a cast in memory,
To all the good times from the past,So the memories will ever last.
And if the fish no longer bite
Or seem no longer worth the fight, Because it’s me that you are missing, Don’t worry - be glad - I’ve only gone fishing.
Samantha
Everyone here today knew and loved Papa. I know he was special to each and every one of us. I wanted to share a few stories that show why I was so very lucky to be one of his granddaughters.
Growing up, I was fortunate enough to see my grandparents everyday. I knew the moment I walked out of school; I would see Papa and his van waiting there for me, rain, snow, or shine, with 680 news on the radio. Papa would often that remind us that he “walked to school in 6 feet of snow, uphill both ways” but never would have thought to let any of us walk the 500 metres home from school.
Speaking of snow, Papa was the first person outside after a snowfall, ready to plow not only his and grandma’s driveway, but his neighbours too. When he was done there, he’d make his way to my Mom’s to make sure hers was cleared as well. Once the snow was plowed, he’d be sure to come inside and ask us if his hands were cold, while placing them gingerly on all of our faces. The answer was always yes, they were cold.
Papa had a special relationship with our dog, Sonny. I like to think that he was Papa’s 4th grandchild. He was always on board to take Sonny for a walk. Papa would always say that when it was just him and Sonny, they were inseparable. That is until you threw my Grandma in the mix, then Papa became second best. Sonny was definitely selective, but I know that Papa was one of his favourite people in this world.
If I close my eyes I can see Papa picking raspberries in the backyard, piling them high into a Tupperware container and bringing them into the kitchen. He’d place them in the fridge and swap the berries for an iced cold can of pop, sipping with his signature “ahhhhhh”
- Speaking of Papa’s drink of choice, when it wasn’t a can of pop, it was coffee. But not just any cup of coffee, no. It had to be piping hot. Even boiling hot wasn’t good enough. Every cup went directly into the microwave for at least 15 seconds. The perfect drinking temperature to no one but him.
More recently, whenever I saw Papa, he always wanted to know how I was, how work was going and how my apartment in the city was. I’d give him the latest report on what was going on in my life. Then he’d smile and ask, “how’s the boss?”. I’d start telling him about how my partner, Ivan, was doing. Before I could finish, he’d say, “when I ask “how’s the boss?”, you’re supposed to say, “I’M GOOD”. We continued this ritual for years. I’m glad he thought I was the boss all along.
- A few more classic Papa phrases: “phone when you get home”, “where’s your coat?” and “gas is going up 2 cents tonight, you better fill up”
Papa taught us all a lot about strength, loyalty, and love. We are all lucky to have known, loved, and been loved by him. I found a verse that captures how I, and I’m sure many of us, feel today:
When all our tears have reached the sea
Part of you will live in me
Way down deep inside my heart
The days keep coming without fail
A new wind is gonna find your sail
That's where your new journey starts
Papa, thank you for being ours.
Alyssa
As the third grandchild, by the time I came along, Papa had had some practice; nonetheless, it is clear that he was a strong and distinctive presence to us all. He would sing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in July, ask for only three-quarters of a cup of coffee, and place his cold hands on your cheek every time he returned from shovelling snow.
Even now, I can still hear his booming voice asking me, “Who’s the boss, me or grandma? ” every time I look at his picture.
He was always himself, he was always a goofball, and that is what made him so special.
But in my view, the best part of having Papa as a grandfather was how he made you feel like the only kid in the world. You could see in his eyes that you had his full attention when he spoke to you. It was obvious he listened carefully to what you said. It was clear to him you mattered.
One day, after picking me up from school, he pointed at the car; a big cheeky smile came across his face, and he said, “Do you like the green van? ” I looked at it, pondered briefly, and in my blatantly honest kid way said, “Eh, I prefer red.” The next day, my grandfather returned with a red van.
To his surprise, I started crying. I wrongly assumed he had returned the car because I did not like his green one. He, of course, just needed a new one but wanted my opinion on the colour.
Nevertheless, I thought he returned it because I disliked it because that's how my grandfather made you feel. You were the only kid in the world. Only your opinion mattered. And it mattered enough to return a very expensive vehicle.
But my favourite and most treasured memory of Papa was when he taught me how to ride a bike. I'll be honest; it took longer than it should have. Over a month at that. Still, every day around 4 pm went like this. All prepared, helmet and knee pads in tow, I would get on the bike. Papa would hold onto the back of the bike, start pushing. Then he'd gain a little momentum, going maybe two kilometres per hour, which to an 8-year-old, felt like a thousand.
I'd feel my face get pale, my palm get sweaty, and I'd reach back to grab his hand to ensure he was still holding on. Of course, he always was.
But at some point, he would say, “Okay, I’m going to let go now.” And I, in the most high-pitched of voices, would scream, “No Papa, not yet, please.” And then he wouldn’t.
We would just go on like this for hours; I would grab his hand, and he would laugh at me, knowing he would not let me go until I was ready.
It was a similar experience for me when Papa was in the hospital. I'd walk into the room, talk to him, and hold his hand as he slept. And every now and then, when he looked at me, I wanted to scream, "Please, Papa, not yet, I’m not ready."
But on his last day here, when I looked at him, resting peacefully, something shifted. Like on the bike, when one day he said to me, “I’m going to let go now,” and I did not fight back; I let him. He prepared me, and if I needed him, he was not far behind me, looking proudly at me while I peddled on.
Papa, I will miss your humour, hard-working and gentle nature dearly. I wish we could sing happy birthday together again. I wish I could tell you about my day one more time. I wish I could hear you complain about the telemarketer who just called. I miss it all.
But I carry with me your words, your smile, and the world you build around me. I hope to emulate your care-taking attitude. Keep the promise I made to you that everyone you loved would be okay. I promise to make you proud.
To keep peddling on…and I know I can do it, because you are not far behind me, smiling proudly, until we meet again.
