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Dani Couture from Toronto writes: My dad, is a born capital 'C' Captain. The best at everything sporting — from hockey to fishing — I think he had to be surprised when he realized that he and his wife, my mother, had raised a non-athlete. An anti-athlete, if you will. While he was winning another golf tournament or scoring the winning goal, I was content to sit under the picnic table and read. Sure, I tried various team sports and was subjected to the disapproving looks of my team members who would rather my hands were busy with a book than with a ringette stick. That all changed several years ago when my father and I discovered my true calling. Fishing.

For the past several years, I have taken the train home for Father's Day and I go fishing with my dad in his small green boat on Lake Erie. And each year I manage to pull a (family and friend) record-breaking pickerel out of the lake. Last year, I even topped my father's record with a 9.5 lb fish. He gave me the biggest compliment that could come from my ex-military sporting father, 'You know what you're doing.'

Johnny S from Toronto writes: This story goes back to the 1960's when I was about 12 years, just before Victoria Day, in the days when us kids could buy all manner of fireworks from the local variety store. Among other things, we could buy "cannon crackers" which were up to 3 or 4 inches in length and about ½ inch in diameter. Needless to say, they went off with a big bang. My friend and I decided to fashion a home made gun, made from a piece of water pipe. We would stuff the fire cracker in one end and fit a cap on the threaded end of the pipe. We had filed a little groove in the pipe to allow the fuse to protrude. In the other end we put a glass marble, lit the fuse and the more courageous one of us held onto the pipe. With a mighty blast, the cannon cracker ignited sending the marble to places unknown. We did this "science experiment" in the local park as far away from anybody else as we could be. After a few rounds, I proudly took the projectile launcher home to show my father (who was a machinist with his own shop). Boy, did he ever get angry. He started yelling up and down, "don't you know how dangerous that is? Are you crazy, you could have gotten killed! Just look at that, you've used a lead water pipe; it could have easily exploded, since the seam cannot take that kind of pressure. I am going to have to make you a proper gun, with extra strength seamless tubing and a handle, so you can aim the thing."

A couple days later he brought home a wonderful gun: it had double tubing brazed together at the fire cracker end and a breech loading mechanism to allow a quick re-load. Also it had a hand carved wooden handle. It was a fabulous gift for a 12-year-old and made me the envy of all the neighbourhood kids. I still have that gun. Trouble is, the ammunition hasn't been available for a long, long time.

D Mores from Toronto writes: My dad grew up during the war. His dad left his mom for another woman. Being a single parent is tough today. Back then, the stigma of a single mom was worse, and then there was the grinding poverty of war. I can only imagine what it was like. I'll never know.

His mom was fiercely proud and independent, so she struggled on her own. My dad was old enough by then that he also made do growing up independently on the streets. He also picked up a few bad habits. He took up living space over a factory. I'm not sure the details are all correct. I just heard this from my mom. Basically, he never had a loving family. He never had a dad to show him how to be a dad. So growing up, we were never a close family. My mom still does not forgive him now, and my brother doesn't like him.

Due to these and other circumstances, he is now living far away. A few years ago, he had a brain tumour, and he had to go through surgery and recover alone, away from all of us. I do understand and I sympathize. I can only imagine all the other dads that may be misunderstood, and just had a tough break in life.

The only time he hugged me was when I was in big trouble in high school. I was crying and that hug was so shocking because it felt alien, yet comforting. I also remember the time he took on debt to take us all to Disneyland. I appreciate that he tried in the best way he knew how.

Last year, he sent me a Christmas card. It still sits on my dining room table.

Persona Non Grata from Canada writes: 1957. Still a high school student, I looked forward to joining my classmates and returning university students to the summer jobs so generously offered to us by the Hudson's Bay Mining and Smelting company in Flin Flon, Manitoba. I landed a day gig in the same department with my father: Surface and Transportation, in the role of railway track worker. My dad worked in a small building where parts for the trains were rebuilt.

Dad insisted that the first day we would get to work a couple of hours early so he could show me around. And we did. I learned how to check in, where to wait for the trains that were to deliver me and my crew to our place of work, often considerable distance from the mine itself. We walked about the area checking out the places to hide and catch a nap, if I wanted to, but only if the day was going to go slowly. He prepared me for the day of 'digging a deep hole' followed by, the next day, 'filling the deep hole in.' I always thought that was a joke. It wasn't. On several days we shovelled piles of gravel from one pile just to create another.

But he also instilled in me the solid day's work: when the job had to be done, do it well, do it with a sense of teamwork and look back at it with pride. The best advice I gained from him came from watching him. Laugh. Laugh a lot. Enjoy friendship and collegiality. Be courageous about sharing stories and learn who to trust and to share that trust.

I continued to work the next four summers with the HBM&S and always felt that my father's advice was honest and even worldly for since then I have witnessed many 'shifting piles of gravel' in my own work and in that of the workdays around me. And I certainly learned the value of a solid, contributing day's work and how, in the worst of moments, to laugh.

T J from Canada writes: This year Father's Day and my birthday will be celebrated on the same day, which also is First Capital Day in Kingston. Again this year I intend to celebrate and to count my many blessings (with as many of my family as are available) with a pint 'o Kingston First Capital Ale at the Kingston Brewing Company (a.k.a. Kingston Brew Pub).

Mike L. from Montreal Canada writes: I was 11 years old, and had never flown on an airplane but lusted to do so like most red-blooded kids my age. My father, that summer, took a day off and took me from Montreal to Ottawa by plane. We flew out on a Vickers Viscount (that should date me!) and back on a DC-9, so I could experience both a prop and a jet. On the flight out, on the Viscount, I was glued to the huge oval window looking at the view below and vaguely noticed my dad talking to the stewardess (proper terminology for the times!), but didn't pay attention until she returned, and said 'OK', and my dad said 'follow her!'. Which I did, which brought me into the cockpit, and thus started a kid's life-long love affair with aviation. Sadly, my dad died of a stroke two years later, and to this day, 37 years later, I still miss him greatly. I never did get to be an airline pilot, but I do own and fly my own airplane!

Rachel Jerome from Alberta writes: For two decades my father worked in camps on oil rigs for a variety of international companies in the middle east and other parts pf the world. Those jobs offered a little adventure, an opportunity to see the world, but mostly the best money a young man could provide for his family beginning in the early 80s. Eventually a master electrician, he provided necessary support for these camps and worked on all kinds of equipment. At the time, the crews worked one month in and flew home to Canada for one month off alternating. One particular fall a few years in, he was required to work through his month off due to (what I recall) some staffing issue. These camps had terrible repetitive food, tremendous heat, awful insects, long shifts and shared living quarters. Working conditions were not pretty. All in all, he spent a little less than 3 months in the desert during this particular crew change. My father's sense of humour has always been a great one. For many years afterward, when my sister and I were bad, ungrateful, or just all round cheeky, he would pull out 'I hope you appreciate that I worked 81 days in the desert for you guys'. He was using his humour to make us realize what we were fortunate enough to have. It was the ultimate symbolic phrase of years of his sacrifices for our family. Eventually, due to its frequent invocation, the rest of us used it with sarcasm when we could see its impending appearance. '81 days in the desert' was the running joke in our family. Over the years it has became a greater source of family humour, the exaggeration of the days gradually and ever expanding because he knew the moderate guilt it would instill years and years later. At last count, it was '113 days in the desert for you guys'...

I just wanted to say now to my Dad, in seriousness, I respect and appreciate what you did for us, whether it was 81 days or 113. Thank you

Corey Cunningham from Stratford writes: When I was a young boy, likely 4 or 5 years old, my father had a colleague over to visit on a hot day and go for a swim in our pool. Well, this colleague of my dad's thought it would be funny to spray me in the face with a hose while we were 'horsing around,' in the backyard by the pool. I didn't take it too well and ran off crying to my mother. My dad must have really felt my pain and didn't think so highly of the guy for doing that to me. So while my dad's so-called friend was lounging on our patio in the hot sun, my dad helped me fill up a large bucket of cold water, and you can imagine what we did next with that bucket. We took it up to the second floor of our house and out the window we dropped the bucket of cold water all over my dad's friend who had fallen asleep at the moment. And let me to you, this guy was not one bit happy about it. I remember my dad yelling down to him 'you mess with my son and you're messing with me too.' It was a nice way of my dad to show to me at a young age that he'll always be there for me, even though in this instance revenge was the tail of the story.

Prairie Dog from Vancouver writes: My dad is my hero. A military dad with a strong set of values and morals. A dad still together with my mother after 38 years. A dad who has only exhibited strength in adverse situations. A dad who has supported everything I've ever done. A dad who has bailed me out of my mistakes. A perfect dad. A role model.

Teresa Spurr from Coquitlam writes: My dad took our family, or most of us, on a camping trip around the Great Lakes in 1961. He and my Mom rented a white and yellow Shasta trailer which was pulled by our green and gold-coloured Ford station wagon. Six of the nine children in our family, the youngest six piled into the wagon with my Mom and Dad and headed out for two weeks during the summer. My parents always strove to give us the best in life, even though money must have been tight. Especially important was travel — to see the world we were born into. This trip was extra special because my Dad was going to show us the Great Lakes or at least a good part of them because he was very interested in trying to help keep them healthy. My Dad invented an idea called the GRAND Canal and along with the help of his brother he was working on trying to help people understand what was hurting their health. A definite highlight of a very enjoyable and exciting road trip occurred at the Pancake Bay campground. After supper as we were gathered around the campfire my Dad gave us a quiz. He asked us to point out something that he thought was a very special sight. We all guessed and guessed, an he gave us lots of clues as I remember, but none could come up with the answer. Finally, after we begged him to tell us he pointed to a large tree stump about 30 feet from our campsite. He said that was the special sight. We gasped. What was so special about an old stump we cried! He said take a closer look. We did. There was a tiny sapling growing out of the stump at the top where it had been neatly felled by some very precise instrument. What was so special about that? Dad said that it was a sign from God that nature will always find a way to survive and that out of the old the new often takes first root.

Al Goguen from Victoria writes: I grew up on a farm, but at a very early age, my father knew that I would not follow in his footstep. Oh, I enjoyed living on a farm. All the animals were my friends. I had given all of them names. My father would laugh but let me have my fantasies. But there was one animal that I liked very much, and looking back I am convinced the feeling was mutual. There was one cow in particular that I liked the most. I called her Menecelle. She would understand her name. She would come running when I called her name. My father did not like her to run. He was saying that she was losing her milk. But then I told him that he always said that she gave more milk than all the others. When I was about six or seven, one morning at breakfast my father arrived from the farm and announced that Menecelle had given birth to a baby boy. He also added that he had put the baby in a pen on the other side of the farm. Did not understand why then. I left the table and was ready to visit my friend. My Dad said let the mother rest for a while; I have some other work to do. My father rarely swore but when he arrived at the barn and saw the baby calf nursing, he swore and blamed me. He thought I had sneaked in the barn and gave the baby back to her mother. Without a word, my father grabbed the baby and walked fast to the den. Then again he swore. In the den was the first baby. Menecelle had twins. Then I was jumping with joy and Dad said he was sorry. But we have two babies. Right away I had to find them names. What to call them? My Dad said with a smile how about Primo and Secundo. I did not understand what it meant, it sounded just fine. Then the news got around. This was an important event in our little town; almost as big as when the quintuplets were born. You can imagine the number of visitors. I was right there in the pen introducing Primo and Secundo. You can imagine the look I had from some of the farmers, but Dad was the happiest man in town. This is a true story. It happened in 1936.

Craig Laurence from Toronto writes: I guess it's because I'm a new father of two beautiful children that Father's Day takes on a whole new meaning. Let me describe to you all the father I want to be. In 1994, I backpacked across Europe for six months and took literally a shoebox full of photos. I met up with an old friend in Brampton to go through the shots over dinner, and after we were done, returned to my home in Aurora. I arrived home late, around 12:30 a.m. I had just started my first job and the morning was sure to come quickly. As I arrived in my driveway I turned to the backseat to grab the shoebox, but there was no shoebox. Long story short, I put the shoebox on top of my car as I was getting in, and promptly drove away, leaving a spilt shoebox full of priceless pictures and memories (as well as the negatives - my bad) laying in the parking lot. My heart sank as I realized what I had done. As I approached my father, who has since passed away, and described to him the story ... an expected look of 'you dummy', was replaced by the words 'come on, let's go.' So back to Brampton we drove and we arrived somewhere approaching 2 a.m., to see empty downtown mainstreet — empty except for a thousand photographs blowing in the cool summer breeze. We laughed. We scurried around and grabbed all that we could, returned home around 4 a.m. and to this day I still have those photos, some torn, some tire-marked, some missing forever. I'd trade them all in for that one particular memory of my father.

My sister has a similar story of a forgotten favourite childhood blanket left on vacation. Its safe return required a 180 degree turn, and another 8 hours drive time — all under the authority of Dad. And so as I transition from a rookie to veteran Dad, I will always remember the lengths that he (and let's not forget Mom either) went to ensure their children's safety and happiness. And so THAT's the father I want to be. Dad.... Happy Father's Day.

Chris B from Ottawa writes: A week after finishing high school, my friend and I planned a week-long hiking trip up in Garibaldi Park. He had bought (for $100) an old Volvo and we tried to fix it up. However, we could not get it running right - something to do with the head - and we saw our chances of a trip slowly fading away. Enter my Dad - he came home from work, drove us up to the Park (about a 2 hour drive each way) and then came a week later and picked us up. As well, he and a friend got the old Volvo running while we were gone.

Kelly OReilly from Ottawa writes: I was a single mom when I met my husband. I had one son. I had plenty of time to think about what kind of man I wanted not only for my husband, but for my son's father. I created my wish list, not based on what kind of father I had. This was a wish list created from what I missed or wished I had as a child and what I could possibly give my own son. I was very determined to make my wish list come true. I decided I wanted a father who would be involved. Imagine that! I wanted a father who would share all family responsibilities, a father who would help me raise a confident, intelligent and caring son who would become a strong father to his own children.

I wanted someone to treat my son as they would treat their own child. I questioned my wish list several times, was I asking for too much? I wanted a father who would listen, who would make time to be there, who would honestly be present, who could express his love and say he was proud when he was proud. A father who would discipline with integrity. A husband that would treat me with respect, that would not be afraid to show his love for me. I wanted my son to have a positive parenting relationship. I wanted my son to step up if he had children some day. I wanted him to be a great husband. The list was very long and after being single for a few years. My wish became my reality. It was hard to accept that I was granted my wish when I met my husband. I was skeptical as he was not easy to find.

We now have three sons that I can only hope will become great fathers when their time comes. I have been blessed. Happy Father's Day to all dads that are doing their best to be present and involved. I now see that there are many fathers like this out there! We should remember how important they are to our children and to their wives EVERY DAY!

Al Rain from Calgary: I did a lot of ice climbing when I was in my 20's. I lived at home, went to classes at the University of Calgary and worked late nights on campus. In winter the nights could be cold enough that walking to your car involved real danger of exposure. One such February Friday night I found my car with a flat tire and no spare. I got a ride home, but needed my car in a few hours to drive out to the mountains to meet my partner for our weekend climbing plans. I woke my father up with a story that went something like 'I need you to drive me back to the university, lie under my car screwing around with the jack, freeze your hands messing with lug nuts, drive to an all-night tire repair place across the city and then back to my car to get the tire on. If everything goes well we should be back here in a couple hours. Oh, and I'm broke.' I stood silent in the door of my parents bedroom for a minute or two while my dad thought about my offer. Then he took a deep breath from his warm bed and said 'OK, let's go'.

CD W from Canada writes: Here was my biological father's story. He married my mom in 1959, two kids by 1961 and he took off. He was common law with one of the more wealthy North Toronto matrons and he was a kept man his whole life. In 1969 in a divorce hearing, he told the judge he only had his dogs as an interest, even though his common-law was a multimillionaire. We had a table as family property and he never paid child support. He showed up at his mother's funeral to claim his inheritance only to find that he had been disinherited and his claim was invested and split between my sibling and I. He died when I was in my 30's and left a substantial estate, with no will. So I did okay, but the thieves came out of the woodwork, but I fought them off. I gave a chunk to my mom, and have used the rest to make my retirement stable and my kids debt free from college. They are ungrateful for the lack of debt, but my mom is a peach. I have no worries, but would my life have been better if this [expletive] had been around. Nope, things are as good as they could be, but I wonder why my kids have no gratitude. I have been the best dad and without any training. Maybe they could just cut the grass this Sunday, but I don't think so.

Sarka Halas from Montreal writes: When we immigrated from Czechoslovakia to Canada in the mid 1980s, we, for obvious reasons, ended up in Fort McMurray, Alberta. My dad worked long hours and shift work for Syncrude, but always maintained that his family and his two daughters were most important to him. One of my most fond memories of him shows his dedication to my sister and I.

We had a pet rabbit for 6 years. One day in early spring, when there was still snow on the ground, I walked into the garage and found it with its feet in the air and dead. In tears, I ran into the house and managed to tell my dad what I saw. As both my sister and I cried out eyes out, we asked my dad what we should do with it. Under his breath, I heard something about taking him to the dump or something. But, when he looked at our faces in our young grief, he said our pet needed a proper burial.

So, he wrapped our pet rabbit in blanket and then in bag and walked out to woods with us solemnly following. Not far from our house, he stopped and proceeded to dig a small grave for our rabbit. Now, it being Fort McMurray, the ground was still frozen and covered with a bit of snow. With us watching, my dad dug a hole in the frozen tundra, it took him close to an hour. After, he placed our rabbit in it, covered it and then moved a huge boulder over the grave, to protect it from any predators. He then marked the rock to signify a grave. My sister and I were satisfied.

I have so many good memories of my dad, doing things like this for us. From painting Easter eggs with us, to giving us classes in Czech at home, to taking us fishing, to supporting us though university, and last year for taking me out on a spin on his new motorcycle. I look forward to many more happy years with my dad and mom and to the creation of many more memories. I love you tati!

Wasabi Jones from Canada writes: My fondest memory of my father is when I got attacked by a goose on Canada Day in 1978. He pushed me out of the way and strangled it to death. I love my dad even more today than I did at the time.

Elliott Katz from Toronto writes: How do we know that we have got the best dad in the world? The love he has provided us with. The enduring support through challenging situations. The ridiculous songs he makes up about us and sings at every possible (public) opportunity. The stories he tells (over and over again) filled with life lessons.

Recently our dad wrote a book on how to be a good father and husband. Now everyone will get to hear some of the valuable wisdom our dad has learned over the (many, many, many) years. Our dad is always saying how proud he is of us. Well, we couldn't be more proud of him for writing such an amazing book, Being the Strong Man A Woman Wants: Timeless Wisdom on Being a Man, and for being such a great dad. Leanna and Sarah Katz

Craig Houston from Sutton writes: When I was a young lad, many years ago, our family moved from Leaside to Willowdale. Among the landscaping that was done, an in-ground pool was installed. My father decided not to have a heater installed, but rather heat it by the sun. One summer he found a rather unique way of adding warm water into the pool when the level dipped. He got out the electric fry pan, plughed it in down by the pool. He then ran a hose down to the pool and let the water slowly trickle into the fry pan and heat up before it drained into the pool. That was one of many eccentric things he did in our family.

Ian McDonald from Toronto writes: Hmmmmm, let's see, great story about dad...... How about how my father stole my car from me when I was 16? Of course he promised to pay for it, and since I am 37 now I expect payment any day now. Ok I have better. How about how my father gave me papers he was suing me while I was at my mother's funeral? After all my mother, left me everything and my parents hadn't been together in over 20 years at the time. Obviously everything she had should have went to him.

The Wight from Canada writes: I've always been little, and the year I was supposed to go into Bantam hockey, where body contact was allowed, the league determined that I was too little to stand up to the pounding and moved me back down into Pee Wee ... to the worst team in the league. I had always been a stronger player, so playing house league hockey on the worst team in the league was a real challenge. A couple of the players could hardly skate. They were 0-7 when I arrived, which rapidly became 0-13. We finally hit a game against the second worst team and were down 3-2 with a powerplay at the end. Our worst player got a clear breakaway and ... took a half dozen strides and wiped out. The collective frustration on the bench finally boiled over and some of the players, myself included, started carping over the boards at the weaker player.

My Dad was one of the coaches and even though he was a really quiet guy, this was too much for him and he turned on us as a group. He was furious and you could see it in his face. He said that he was ashamed of us, that it was how we treated the weaker people in the world that determined what kind of men we would be and that, in his eyes, the bench was full of losers. Of course, I was ashamed and took it to heart because I knew he expected me to be a leader.

A couple of weeks later, we entered a tourney and I decided internally that this was MY team, win or lose. In five games, I got 27 points, we won the tourney and I got the tourney MVP. We didn't win again all year, but my season was made when there was a two-on-one, me and the same player who had blown the breakaway two weeks prior. Instead of taking it myself, I passed it over and he scored his only goal of the season. When the paper came to cover the feel-good story, I made sure he was front and centre with the trophy.

My Dad never says much, but like another one of his sayings, everything you say or do can be just the first ripple on the pond.

LD Cross Cross from Ottawa writes: Real Men Want Sons. My father wanted a boy. He got a girl. And he never got over it. Life was simple and straightforward for my father. Family property would be passed on to the eldest son. And the girls, who would become nurses and teachers and potential wives, would get married and have no interest in a farm business that was not their husband's. Children did not "talk back" to their parents and parents did not argue in front of their children. 'Don't argue with your father,' my mother would say, 'it only makes him mad.' So, I simply went ahead and did what I intended to do anyway. A successful fait accompli is the most irrefutable of arguments. How my father wanted a son. His fantasy was the 1950s TV sitcom Father Knows Best where the father's pride and joy was called Bud. I always thought of him as Bud the Dud — too dumb to stay out, or get out, of trouble without daddy's help. But finally my father got his son. Every day we see family business names with the appendage '... & Son'. Very few end with '... & Daughter'. And this is not because it is so difficult to fit five more letters onto the company stationery. In my rural Canada it is still the son, that carrier of the Y-chromosome, who inherits the farm. It is gifted to the boy simply because he is a boy. In this last bastion of sexual discrimination, down on the farm there is no gender equality. The boy gets; the girl goes; the courts agree. Or, to quote Archie Bunker, that bigoted patriarch from All in the Family sitcom, no matter how defective, the one with 'more hismones than hermones' wins the inheritance lottery. But in spite of himself, my father gave me the greatest gift anybody can give another person. His actions forced me to be independent and to rely on myself. I know that when anything happens to me, good or bad, I am the first person at the scene. I am always there for myself. Damn it feels good!

Nicola Bishop from Moncton writes: Father's Day is very important this year. There are seven of us, two of hers, five of his. You need on top of that spouses, and children. This year is the first year without my mother, whom we lost on May 20 of ALS. We are all gathering at my step-sister's house (I hate that word step). We are having a barbeque and children's games all afternoon. Starting new memories. It was important to my mother that we get together on the good days. So we will. I want dad to know that I love him and he has been a dad most people dream of having.

Brianna Hennessy from Ottawa writes: Forever my Celtic Warrior, Forever my Father, Forever my Knight of Knowledge. His courage and determination is in the inspiration that he has given the thousands of high school students in Ottawa-Carleton for the past 40 years of teaching English. His words of wisdom have given even those who have lost hope, a reason to fight. His lesson is not the money you have or the time you spend away from your family making it, but the golden rule of 'Caring and Sharing' that should forever echo in all of our hearts. A true father starts off by loving his family unconditionally, one who would sacrifice even a piece of his soul for his son or daughter. He is one who shows you all the small treasures in life, like not forgetting the importance of our neighbours, even in today's society. He is one who holds a great respect for the heritage of the guides from our past. He is one who stands up to his duty, to in everyday find a truer meaning to life and its beauties. He is one who has not been caught in the webbing of the Spider of 'Fame and Fortune'. He is one who would sacrifice anything to protect you or fight by your side. He is one who knows when you are weak, and who carries you home safely when you have fallen. He is one who engraves memories of happiness with his worry free, promising laughter in your heart. A "dance of the father" with his son or daughter, is a childhood that everyone deserves. A father should be a Hero that saves you from all your Nightmares, with his shield of hope and glory. A true father always sees the truth in your eyes, and when blind, it is in his gained trust, that makes you certain, that he will always guide you back to the light. This man is my father, Dan Hennessy, and on this Father's day, my wish is for everyone to learn from him what all fathers should aspire to be. Today his golden Armour shall shine again, and never again be forgotten.

Diane Marie from Calgary writes: My late father had a whimsical sense of humour. When I was quite young, perhaps five or six, he would put a pair of black leather gloves on his shoeless feet and another pair on his hands and then invite me to dance with a gorilla. I'd stand on his feet and he would lead as I'd giggle my head off. Quite a handyman, he once built a small travel trailer from scratch. The outside was clad with textured aluminum. One day, much to my delight and with what seemed to be just a few deft snips of his metal cutters, he fashioned a fancy, silvery doll bed and handed it to me.

BJ Tyner from Armstrong, B.C. writes: My dad, Nic Maennling, came into my life when I was 5 or 6. My sister and I were part of the package when he married mom. Not many 27-year-olds are up to that challenge but he took it on with the confidence and foolishness that comes with love. He's done a wonderful job these 38 odd years and I can never tell him often enough what a great dad he turned out to be. Teacher, mechanic, doctor (not the tweezers!), handyman, chief dish washer, confidante, father. Thanks.