Frank

12 years ago I was fortunate enough to meet a man who became a second father to me. From the minute I met Frank, he treated me like a daughter. He was indulgent when I was very obviously trying to impress him, always listened when I needed to talk, was gracious when I needed help, and proud of anything I accomplished.

Many of our extended friends and family benefited from Frank's generosity. He gave away homemade sausages, pasta sauce, canned tomatoes, antipasto, and of course, Plate Cove cod. If you ever ate at my house, odds are you enjoyed one of these foods. Frank loved to cook from scratch, and took great joy in sharing the fruits of his labour (as long as you didn't steal his cod tongues). My best memories of Frank involve working with him to figure out how to make something else from scratch. The day we made pasta from scratch, we took over the kitchen, the dining room, and two laundry racks to dry the noodles. It was a messy but delicious experiment. It also happened to be the day that about four unexpected guests decided to drop by. Frank was unrepentant about introducing his flour-covered daughter-in-law to his friends, in fact, I think he enjoyed it.

Frank's sense of humour was quick and mischievous. He dropped off a case of pasta sauce at my apartment in Toronto with the label "Pasta 2010, rabbit". I gave him my thanks but reminded him that I was a vegetarian. His response was "don't worry, so were the rabbits." Take me out for a beer some day, and I'll re-tell you his favourite story about the falling cows back in Italy.

Frank seemed to embody the values that make a community thrive. He was beyond generous. He probably did 30% of the renos on the house, helped me move several times, helped John's friends move, he even washed my laundry when I broke my foot at Queen's. With children he was gentle, patient, and loved to teach them how to work with their hands. He was kind to those who were older and would always be there to drive a friend into town, bring over some some food, or listen to the old stories again and again. 

He introduced me to long lingering meals, with good wine and good food. We would sit at the dinner table for hours, laughing and telling stories.  Although the table will now feel emptier,  I know there will be many more dinners where the wine and the conversation flow, and we idle at the table, telling stories about Frank. They will be happy, funny stories that we've told 100 times before, that Frank loved, and that he told again and again. For me, these simple pleasures and old stories will be his legacy.