We shall carry on.
He was Big Papa. He was Wayne – “wagon maker.” A craftsman. A man who built up those around him. My husband bears his name. My son bears his name. His Irish-Scottish-Canadian-American blood runs through the veins of my daughters who have his slim build and long legs. How do you go on when the wheels of the family wagon don’t just break, but disappear? The first memory I have of Wayne is unremarkable – an afternoon of swimming in Wayne and Dawn’s pool as a teenager (since I was friends with their grandson). I’m sure I was introduced to these grandparents of a friend, and never thought twice about how these grandparents would become as dear to me as my own over the following 17 years. The last time I talked to Wayne, he looked at my husband and said it wasn’t hard for him to go because he knew that the people he left behind were successful. “Carry on,” he told us. Keep that wagon moving. Three Christmases ago, my girls received a red Radio Flyer wagon from