My Grandpa was the quietly magical sort of grandfather…
He was the kind who kept surprising you, even in his nineties, revealing that he’d lived ten fascinating lives before he ever became Grandpa Dave. You’d be sitting with him, thinking you knew the whole story, and then he’d casually mention something like, “Oh yes, I was on the Ed Sullivan Show in 1959”.
His brilliance never announced itself — it arrived in little revelations that made you realize just how remarkable he truly was.
Grandpa Dave grew up on the little island of Alameda in the Bay Area of California. Raised by his grandparents and surrounded by strong, artistic women — a grandmother who was a long-distance open-water swimmer and performing pianist, and an aunt who did acrobatics beside her on stage; and a mother who was a gifted writer with a brilliant, restless mind. He grew up in a world where creativity and grit lived side by side. Dave helped in his grandmother’s restaurant, learning the rituals of hard work and the rhythms of life in a Jewish family. His mother’s struggles with mental illness meant his childhood was not always easy, but I believe that is what made him so tender, perceptive, and kind in a way that stayed with him for the rest of his life.
As a young boy, Dave lived for a time in Hawaii, where his mother took a job as a writer — creating newspaper pieces and scripts for films back in California. Hawaii left a permanent imprint on him: the heat, the spirit, the myth of Madame Pele, the Volcano Goddess. Hawaii always felt like home to him, long after he left.
Dave was a star on the high school football team, playing on a line with Bing Crosby’s sons — a snapshot that perfectly captures his life: understated, but always threaded with something extraordinary.
Along the way, Dave fell in love with guitar. After hearing flamenco in a small club as a young man, he became obsessed. Flamenco isn’t just a musical style — it’s tension and release, story and spirit, heart and stagecraft, all in rhythm. It suited him perfectly. His music career eventually led him to performing and winning the Ed Sullivan Army Show in 1959, singing Drunken Sailor with that steady, booming voice. He later appeared on the Jack Paar Show, toured the U.S. in his VW Beetle, and recorded folk songs wherever the road took him.
Eventually he found his way to Canada and into a whole new chapter of life. He got a job at CBC Radio in Prince Rupert, which turned into thirty years with “Mother Corp,” as he called it. Dave was an announcer, interviewer, and storyteller. He spoke with musicians, actors, and community leaders — even André the Giant, who somehow squeezed into Dave’s car when they set off together for an interview.
Dave became deeply woven into the artistic life of northern B.C. He starred as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof under director and friend, Iona Campagnolo, performed in light opera, helped create cultural events like Folkfest ’75, and later taught opera, theatre, and performance to seniors with his signature warmth, humour, and patience. His life was full of art, even when he spoke quietly about it.
For me, the most important chapter of his life began in the most perfectly unexpected place: on an airplane to Hawaii, where he met the woman who would become his beloved partner — my Granny. What began as a chance encounter became a forty-five-year love story filled with shared interests, humour, travel, and a deep, steady friendship. Granny was the spark; Dave was the slow burn — warm, grounded, observant.
Together they built a life that shaped my brother’s and my childhood in a profound way.
We were his grandchildren, not by blood but absolutely by bond — and Dave, like in everything he did, became a grandfather who was humble and all heart. He encouraged us, supported us, and was endlessly present. Dave had a way of moving through life with patience where others might choose frustration. He was always humming little tunes quietly, curious about our lives, and he was the man behind the camcorder, capturing the magic of our youth. “Big Bave” as I called him when I was tiny, taught us to swim and snorkel — which, looking back, feels like his subtle way of preparing us for the eventual family trip to Hawaii, his favourite place.
Dave never lost his theatrical side. He even volunteered as Santa Claus at the mall for two seasons when I was about fourteen — and honestly, he was too convincing. The real beard, the gentle eyes, the warm voice, the genuine kindness. Even out of costume, he carried that same Santa-energy: patient, amused, soft-hearted, and quietly magical.
In his final years, his memory faded — but his tenderness never did. Even when he couldn’t grasp the timeline, he remembered love. He remembered us. And he remembered Hawaii… with awe and reverence. A gentleman until the end, even at ninety-two years old, he insisted on walking me to the door whenever I visited.
Only forty-five days after losing my Granny…Grandpa Dave slipped away suddenly on December 14th, 2025 — quietly, without fanfare, the way he did everything. I felt a deep ache knowing I wasn’t with him when he passed. I am grateful for my last visit with him a couple of weeks earlier. He told me how much he loved me, and I told him I loved him too, that he was the best grandpa. I told him I would try my hardest to get him back to Hawaii one last time…and as I watched his whole face light up like a kid even at ninety-two, he gave me a little fist bump and the mischievous smile he saved just for our Hawaii chats. We hugged goodbye…
The morning after he passed, I had an overwhelming sense — unexpected, unmistakable — that he was free. As if he had stepped back into the heat and glow of the Big Island of Hawaii that lived in him all his life… back into music… back into something larger than all of us.
Grandpa Dave lived a life every bit as interesting as Granny — and left a mark just as deep.
I am so grateful and lucky to have had such incredible, loving grandparents.
My heart is broken losing these two beautiful souls.
Two hearts, leaving us just forty-five days apart.
A love story that ended the way it began: together.
Aloha and mahalo Grandpa Dave — we will carry you in stories, in music, in the home-movies you left behind, and in all the ways you touched our hearts.
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