Years ago I composed a song called "Remember". Although no-one close to me was sick at that time, the song idea just came to me one day and I began writing it down. Over the years, I sang it at a few events here and there: at a Relay For Life event for those affected by cancer, and at a memorial service at Gilda's Club, commemorating some of their members who had died of cancer that year.
And then suddenly, when we least expected it, my own father was diagnosed with terminal cancer at 88 years old. He died just a few months later, in November of 2005.
Fred Farha was a wonderful man who enjoyed life so much. People just loved my dad. In the last few years of his life, he became sweeter, gentler and more caring than I had ever seen him before. We enjoyed a rich relationship, full of laughter and music.
In one of the pictures in this video, you will see he and I singing for some senior citizens - that was on Christmas Day 2004 at a seniors' residence here in the West Island, and we had a blast together. He was already sick with cancer at that point, although nobody knew it. It was our last Christmas together.
He was articulate, informed, and sensitive. He loved making others laugh . . . I guess that's where I get it from. I really do miss him, as do many others, and there's no-one who could ever come close to replacing him.
And so this song "Remember" is dedicated to my dad, and to the many fun years we had together...as father and daughter, fellow singers, fellow comedians, and most importantly, as friends.
Many, MANY thanks to George Chan, who spent hours and hours
putting this video together and uploading it here on my
website . . . thank you, George.
----------
"Remember" can be found on Track 9 of Wendy Farha's CD "You Say".
To order the CD, click on the Buy Now button
on the upper right column of this page.
To purchase "Remember" as a single song
or to purchase entire CD "You Say" on itunes,
click here.
----------
This is the Eulogy I composed for my dad the night before his burial...
To
My Dad
I
thought I saw you the other day. I was in a shopping center, and I
saw that dear old familiar bald head, with its white fringe of hair,
and a beige jacket, and my heart leapt a little bit . . . but then I
remembered: it couldn't be you, because you are not here. It
couldn't be you, because you are gone. It sounds odd even to say
that, but it's true. You're gone, too soon. I know you were
eighty-eight, and you lived a long life, but it's somehow too soon.
You
were always a special man. There was something about you – a
sweetness, a kindness, and a gentleness – that drew others to you.
Especially the ladies! Half the fun of going to any concert you were
in was watching you perform a solo and flirting with the ladies in
the audience. I don't know who enjoyed it more, the ladies or you.
You had what it took to be charming and attractive and utterly
engaging. No-one else could sing “Unforgettable” like you, Dad.
I am
so very grateful for the past few years you and I have had together.
We've had times to talk, to laugh, and just to hang out together.
It's been so wonderful. I will always remember the Saturday morning
breakfasts we've had - you and George and I. And our birthday
lunches in Ste-Anne's, on the waterfront, with you and Betty and
George and I, have been events I've looked forward to all year, and
will miss so much.
I will
always remember the times you and I went out for lunch together alone
– just the two of us - before I was married. People would think we
were, you know, a couple. They'd look at us sideways and nudge each
other, and wink, and the waiter would come over to our table and pour
our water and smirk a little bit, and then I'd say something like,
“Are you going to have the chicken, DAD?”, and suddenly the
waiter's expression would change and he'd look normal again and the
joke would be on him. Though you and I talked about it, I never did
get that T-shirt that said, “He's my DAD, okay?!”
I'll
always remember the times, many years ago, when I would sleep over at
your place. We'd sit up until past midnight, and tell silly jokes,
and laugh hysterically until the tears streamed down our faces. For
the life of me, I can't remember any of those jokes, but it doesn't
matter.
What I
can remember so clearly is your face, contorted with laughter as you
took out your handkerchief to wipe your eyes. We'd finally get so
tired from laughing that we'd have to call it a night. Money can't
buy those kinds of memories. It's going to seem weird not going over
to your apartment to raid your chocolate jar.
Your
retirement years have been amazing. The Liason Center has been a
wonderful family of Veterans and staff to kid around with, play
snooker with, and eat lunches with. When you weren't at the Day
Center, you were line dancing, singing in a choir, doing aerobics,
and going for walks, and it's surprising you've even had time to
breathe, when I think back on your busy schedule. It's been so good
for you.
It's
been hard seeing you sick, but we're grateful that you never seemed
to be in pain. The nurses and orderlies have treated you with such
respect, and you in turn, of course, have flirted with the nurses and
staff as much as you could, considering how ill you were. It has been
a privilege to sit with you, and to spend these last months and weeks
and days and hours together, knowing we could just be with you, even
when it meant not saying anything. I know you appreciated it, and so
did we. The friends and volunteers who also came faithfully to visit
you have showed you that you were, indeed, a special man.
I
received an email about you this past week. It reads: “How well I
remember him accompanying you at that concert I attended last March.
He was magnificent.” And you were. In fact, I think that's my new
word for you: magnificent. You've been a blessing, you've been an
inspiration, and I'm so glad we were close as father and daughter.
And so
here we all are today, your family and your friends, and your loved
ones, to say goodbye. To remember you in all your sweetness, and to
think such fond thoughts of you whenever you come to mind. Your
memory will always be right here in my heart, Dad, and it has been a
privilege to know you - as a father, as a mentor, and as my dear
friend.
Tribute To My Dad 
