11/20/2025
In Memory of John:
Dear family, friends, and all who knew my father—thank you for being here today to honor him. He went by John to most, but to me and my siblings, he was simply Papa. I'd like to share with you the Papa I knew: a man of grit, charm, and quiet depth, whose life was a tapestry of adventure, hard-won lessons, and unbreakable love.
Papa was born in Mexico but moved to Ontario at a young age, growing up in the heart of a sprawling family—14 siblings strong, with five brothers and nine sisters who filled their home with chaos and unbreakable bonds. From those roots, he carried a spirit that craved the open road.
As a young man, Papa's adventurous soul led him east for construction work after leaving home. But when word came of cheap land in Paraguay, he chased it like a scene from one of his beloved Westerns—the cowboy life calling to his restless heart. He spoke fondly of a retired racehorse he owned there, a beast with just one gear: full throttle. Papa was always the first to arrive on group rides, though he swore it wasn't by choice. And then there was the time he got bucked off so hard in the dead of night that he lost his wallet and found himself stranded in the middle of nowhere. Mercifully, both horse and wallet turned up later. He dressed the part too—boots, hat, and that easy grin—embodying the heroes from the tales he loved.
It was amid this frontier chapter that he caught the eye of a beautiful young woman, unable to resist the allure of this mysterious cowboy from Canada. As you've probably guessed, she became my mother. They married soon after, and I arrived not long behind, followed a year later by my brother Johnny. Life as a single adventurer had been thrilling, but fatherhood brought new realities. With a young family to support, Papa made the tough call to return to Canada, chasing stability over the wild unknown.
They settled first in southern Ontario, near his family, where my brother Jake joined the fold. But opportunity knocked again in southeast Manitoba, and off we went. Papa landed a job as a mechanic at Powerland in Landmark, and there, at last, he planted deeper roots. Over the years, Tina, Maria, Lisa, and Nick came along—proof that his charm hadn't faded. Then came Susie, our youngest sister, who tragically slipped away just hours after birth, leaving a quiet ache that time softened but never erased.
Papa was a force: an extraordinarily hard worker with hands that could mend anything. My earliest memories are of him coming home late, covered in grease from long shifts, his presence alone a promise of provision. It fell to Mom to wrangle us—a wild crew that tested her limits. Spankings were rare and mostly ineffective; we'd laugh them off. But oh, that one weapon she wielded like a thunderbolt: "Just wait until your father gets home." Those words could shatter us into instant tears and true remorse. We didn't fear Papa, but we respected his discipline—stern yet always fair. We didn't make it easy on him, but my siblings and I are better for it, shaped by a father who led with steady justice.
Music was Papa's joy, too—a soundtrack to our Sundays that filled the house with Kris Kristofferson's gravelly wisdom, Johnny Cash's raw honesty, and the vibrant pulse of Spanish tunes that echoed his heritage. Money was tight, times lean, but his relentless effort turned the tide. From that foundation rose Giesbrecht Mechanical, built on his reputation for honesty and reliability. The rewards? Family adventures—a triumphant return trip to Paraguay, and countless fishing outings that stretched into our young adult years. Papa loved the water's rhythm, content to let the day unfold from a boat's quiet sway. He and I bought a couple vessels together, and I'll cherish those hours on the lake forever, lines in the water, stories in the air. Volunteers were never in short supply, especially once the grandkids arrived. Papa had a gift for them—a childlike spark in his own soul that made connection effortless. Flip through our photos, and you'll see it: him cradling or chasing them, his face alight with pure delight.
Shortly after I graduated, I had the profound privilege of joining him at the shop, working side by side for over twenty years. Watching Papa, I absorbed more than mechanical know-how; I learned the bedrock of hard work, honor, and perseverance. His stubbornness? Legendary—and a mechanic's best ally. He'd wrestle a problem to the ground, refusing surrender. Yet as a teacher, he was patient, forgiving, understanding that mastery came through trial and error. We clicked in the garage, working well together, turning wrenches and building something lasting.
Papa's excitement lit up when I shared news of my wedding, then our first child. He drew such joy from our family's growth, from witnessing love take root and happiness bloom. That's the heart of him: a man who celebrated us fiercely.
But Papa was human, good to his core yet wrestling demons that shadowed his later years. A few years back, a bleeding stomach ulcer laid him low for days. That same stubbornness, so vital in the shop, betrayed him here—he ignored the warning signs until an ambulance rushed him away. A lifetime of smoking and drinking had taken their toll, and though he rallied, he was never quite the same. He returned to work briefly, but rotator cuff and neck pain drove him to self-medicate with alcohol, while ci******es clung like old habits. Medical help? Only as a desperate last resort. When his body forced retirement, idleness opened the door to deeper struggles. He fought them—pouring focus into intricate Lego sets and models to keep hands and mind occupied—but it wasn't enough. Another crisis landed him on a ventilator; we held our breath, unsure he'd pull through. He did, frailer still. What followed was a slow fade: liver and kidneys faltering, strength ebbing. Yet even in his final stretch, hope flickered—he'd show up at the shop on better afternoons, checking in, dreaming of a comeback. In the end, he slipped away peacefully at home, wrapped in the love of the family he cherished and who cherished him.
We're going to miss you, Papa—your laugh, your lessons, your unyielding spirit. I'll do my best to make you proud, carrying forward the man who showed us how to ride hard, fix what's broken, and love without reservation. Thank you.
