TORONTO (Oct. 5) — This morning, for the first time in nearly 66 years, I woke up without a father. I wondered if some wave of latent emotion might wash over me. Instead, I felt the same inner–peace and comfort as through all of Friday, when Dad went through the dying process… then left us at 5:15 p.m. In the end, there were no ifs and buts. It was most–certainly Dad’s time and I thank God he did not linger in discomfort; that was the only prayer I held in my heart throughout this process. I spent a few hours with him in the morning… and then chose to not watch him die. For which I have no regret. In my years at Benjamin’s, I’ve been repeatedly asked if it’s difficult to view the deceased. And, my answer has always been the same: I’d rather see a dead person than a dying person, any day of the week. Besides, nothing was left unsaid. Long before Dad encountered dementia, I had told him, several times and implicitly, how proud I was to be his son and how he inspired me by never treating one person differently than another. It was, among many examples, the most–principled and admirable trait my father possessed during his 91–plus years. And, it’s the one I’ve most–tried to emulate in his honor. Now, in his memory.

I had my two crying episodes. First, when my daughter, Lauren, called to say the end had arrived. Then, for a moment upon seeing Dad’s body in his bed. He was such a good man and I was relieved that he left us quickly and comfortably. I spent many moments with him while we awaited the funeral home to fetch his body. Though he died, like so many, with his mouth open, Dad looked peaceful. The strain on his face as he meandered through the remarkable dying process was gone. He actually appeared younger than at any recent time. I rubbed his cheeks, which quickly ran cold, and raked my fingers through his thick, white hair. Again, the feeling was more one of relief than sadness. As it remains today. The memories are already sustaining me. Not of Dad’s death. But, of his life. Of the manner in which he comported himself. Of the respect he earned, personally and professionally.

And how he became the best role model and moral compass a child could wish for.

You can also credit, or blame, Dad for my quarter–century in sports media as, primarily, a reporter covering the Toronto Maple Leafs. Home and away at The FAN–590. Day and friggin’ night. For more than 17 years. To think that I actually followed through on a dream that emerged from my earliest childhood memory is still a wonderment. But, it’s true. There was something mesmerizing about those ghostly, black–and–white images on our living room TV. Saturday and Wednesday nights. From Maple Leaf Gardens. Fading in and out of the picture, depending on the weather and wind direction. In the years just prior to cable. And, my first visits to the ethereal shrine on Carlton St. With Dad, of course. For a Junior hockey game. Then, the Leafs. Both in the calendar year 1966.

These are my earliest recollections of home life. They clearly sparked my passion toward hockey and media.

WITH MY DAD. IN 1964. I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD. HE WAS 32. ALWAYS LOVED THIS PHOTO.

More importantly was following Dad’s example. He was not a demonstrative man. Never a hugger or a back–slapper.  Not like Mom, who would smother you with warmth. There wasn’t a hint of showmanship when meeting Irv Berger. Just a sincere handshake and a warm, inviting smile. If you were on this Earth, you counted to Dad. Didn’t matter your origin, religion, ethnicity, financial status. Whether you had long hair, short hair, fake hair or no hair. If you treated others kindly and respectfully, he embraced you.

If otherwise, you could not be part of his circle.

I’m not going to ramble, here, because I could write forever about Dad. But, I want to point out a time in my life when I began to realize how truly special he was. In my late–teens, I worked summers at Dad’s accounting firm, then known as Starkman, Kraft, Rothman, Berger & Grill. Did some odd jobs and rearranged files; that sort of thing. But, I was around Dad a lot and I noticed — for the first time — how others reacted toward him. It was fascinating and incredibly heart–warming. Those interning at the firm, including a life–long pal, Ron Dale (whose son, Daniel, is the famous fact checker at CNN), would tell me how they wanted to work under my father. Not because the other partners were bad guys. Or, that Dad was more brilliant in any way. It’s just that he had no concept of pulling rank or making a person earn his goodwill. As such, an intern on the second day of his job would be treated the same as a senior partner. Like I said, Dad couldn’t, and wouldn’t, create a distinction among people. It’s the quality that made him my life–long hero. Particularly when I noticed the ease in which he related to others.

I am pleasantly awash, today, in nostalgia. Dad’s final years and accompanying decline are already becoming a blip. As I knew they would. While I write this, I think back to my blessed childhood on Kennard Ave. in the north part of Toronto (okay…the Bathurst Manor). How fortunate I was to have healthy parents (Sandee and Irv) and a healthy sibling (sis Cori) through my formative years. Yeah, Mom left us too early. Those damned cigarettes. But, her legacy endures; I feel her with me every day and I’m comforted to know she and Dad are together once more. I had the perfect upbringing. My parents loved and respected one another. And, that love so easily trickled to Cori and I. Memories of my youth are absolutely golden. Always will be. I’m blessed. And, I owe it to Sandee and Irv.

TYPICAL SANDEE AND IRV POSE. MOM: FLAMBOYANT, WITH THE EVER–PRESENT CIGARETTE. DAD: TAKING IT ALL IN… QUIETLY, HAPPILY. I WAS SO BLESSED TO HAVE THESE TWO AS PARENTS.

I’m going to close, on behalf of my dad, with some encouragement: Do not let ego or petty, perceived differences stand in the way of blood. Family is so important; so vital to the foundation of everyday life. Dad always inspired me to take the high road, which is often more of a challenge than going low. But, also, more rewarding. In my entire life, I can honestly say that I never heard my father excoriate another person. Not behind their back. And, certainly, not to their face. It’s the most–important lesson he taught: Stay above the curb. You can never go wrong.

Then, there is this: In December 1988, the British rock group Mike & The Mechanics released a song called “The Living Years”. You might remember it: the melancholy tale of a son’s regret over unresolved conflict with his now–deceased father. And, how he missed the opportunity to profess love. The song made an impact on me and ensured (as written earlier) that Dad would fully understand my love and respect for him… long before frontal–lobe dementia began cratering his dignity. So, please… emulate my lead. Never feel the despair and emptiness of being too late to express heartfelt emotion. Do it now. Do it today… in the living years.

EMAIL: HOWARDLBERGER@GMAIL.COM