There are some dates you never need a calendar to remember.
October 25 is one of mine. It’s my dad’s birthday.
Today, he would have been 89. And while I can’t wish him a happy birthday in person, I can tell you a little about the man who gave our family so much to remember—and plenty to smile about.
His name was William James Beresford, but he was known as Billy.
And Billy had a sense of humour right to the end.
When Dad passed away in May 2023, his obituary included his own explanation: he wanted it known that he had died as a result of being stubborn, refusing to follow doctors’ orders, and raising hell for more than eight decades.
Some people leave behind carefully chosen words of wisdom. Dad managed to leave behind an explanation that sounded suspiciously like a confession.
You have to appreciate a man who gets the last word in his own obituary.
He was giving, witty, and mischievous. And when I think about him today, I want to make room for all of that. The sadness belongs here, of course. But so does the humour. Especially with Dad.
One of his favourite sayings was, “If I knew I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself.”
Which is quite a statement from someone who apparently considered doctors’ orders more of a suggestion.
As I get older myself, I find there’s something both funny and tender about those words. We spend so much of our lives carrying on, assuming there will be another birthday, another conversation, another chance. Then someone we love is gone, and those ordinary things become the very things we wish we could have again.
One more conversation.
One more laugh.
One more familiar “right on.”
That was another of Dad’s sayings. Two little words, but when they belong to someone you love, they can hold an entire voice.
Grief has a way of preserving things like that. A phrase. An expression. A smile in a photograph. Small details that suddenly feel enormous because they bring someone close for a moment.
Birthdays can make that missing feel sharper. You know what the date should mean. You know who should still be here.
But I also want October 25 to remain his birthday—a day when I remember that he was here, that he was loved, and that he left his own unmistakable mark on our family.
He was a father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. His life reached across generations. There are people growing up now who are part of his story, even as they begin writing their own.
And here I am, in my own chapter of life, with silver in my hair and a website where I share a little humour, a little honesty, and the things that matter to me.
Today, that’s Dad.
So this post is for Billy. For the generosity, the wit, the stubbornness, and the mischief. For a man whose obituary can still make us smile through the sadness.
Happy 89th birthday, Dad.
I wish you were here. I love you, and I miss you.
And if there’s any hell being raised wherever you are, I suspect you’ve already been asked to settle down.
Right on, Dad. Right on. ❤️
