For decades I faithfully created a special and memorable celebration for Father’s Day. Now six years after his death, it’s an empty spot on the calendar—like a tooth you’ve lost. It doesn’t ache as it did in the beginning; still, you keep running your tongue over it.
Grief is an odd duck. You’re never prepared for when or in what form it’s going to slam you. On a recent visit to Foggy Mountain Forge in Sooke I came upon a madly grinning skeleton riding a rusting bulldozer.
Instantly memories of Dad on his beloved cat filled my mind and wrenched my heart. Clearing brush. Clearing snow. Pushing. Pulling. Leveling. Logging. Winching. Fixing–constantly fixing–the old thing.
![](https://www.thewayofwords.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/Dads-Cat.jpg)
Dad and my brothers on the cat
What a jolt of joy to imagine him in bulldozer heaven having a grand old time, and the occasional street of gold with cat tracks.
![](https://www.thewayofwords.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/Alvin.jpg)
Alvin Philippsen 1929-2011