David Leslie Adam
August 7, 1954 - August 15, 2026
The Story of Dave
His name was Dave. He was a different kind of hero than anyone expected, but exactly the one we needed. He looked after what was around him. Through making himself indispensable, he unknowingly crowned himself the King of Beliveau Road. Not because he ruled over anyone, but because his heart belonged to everyone.
He led by example. Rarely explaining how he pulled off impossible things. Well it's just something that needs to get done, he'd say. He'd then add, Most people my age are already dead. Signalling his deep appreciation for still being here. Live your life, form your own beliefs, don't worry about Dave. Just worry about you. We can still hear those words coming out of his mouth.
For most of Dave's life, he worked on his feet, becoming a leader out of necessity. First running a soup and sandwich shop for the working class. Then managing a bakery and kneading dough forty hours a week for the twenty-odd years that followed. Not to mention cycling twelve kilometres to work and twelve back, through the woods at four a.m., with coyotes howling in the darkness, into his seventies.
Dave took comfort in living between two parallel worlds. One foot led him into a world of deep introspection: history, philosophy, science, and spirituality. Knowing what every cog and lever did across humankind allowed him to feel part of a greater context beyond the prairies.
The other foot was planted firmly in life itself. He'd run into someone he hadn't seen in years, his guard would drop, and the old laughter would return as if no time had passed at all. They say the last of our five senses to go is our ability to listen. Dave was proof of this. In his final days, his exceptional listening endured. He could listen and listen and listen, quietly taking in everything around him. Observation was enough. A calm witness to life's beauty.
Dave never saw himself as an artist. Yet the ability to express himself came naturally. His mother and siblings were artists and entertainers. He played guitar. Through a musical gesture, an improvised recipe, or a daringly comedic anecdote, he could shrug off life’s weight for himself and those around him.
He rarely sat still. He was a machine. Cutting grass, checking clocks, maintaining stocks, seeing what’s left to cook with. He was proud of rarely taking his lunch break. He was off driving his kids somewhere they needed to be instead. You can do anything you want, he'd repeat. As long as it fits the budget, I’ll drive you there. That same autonomy carried the family on vast road trips, including a six-thousand-kilometre drive across the country and back. No biggie. Sleeping bags, a tent, beef jerky, sunflower seeds, a roadside motel. We'll make it. Mountain to valley to desert to abandoned towns to waterfalls to castles to coves. Some of those trips took him further than he probably ever expected to go. Yet he never took a picture. But no plaque was left unread.
Although we didn't realize it at the time, driving was the vacation for him. To remain forever in motion was relieving. The way the past, present, and future blurred into one sensation as the car moved, slicing itself forward through the epic landscapes. His right hand strumming along to the chooglin’ rhythms and cosmic ballads of his favourite artists. Unknowingly passing the lyrical teachings on to his children riding alongside. The music often bringing his own life back into view from the safety of the driver's seat.
He never mentioned it, but he seemed built for the stark grit of the prairies. That same connection extended down to the smallest things. Often giving nature's tiny buggers names, as if to sign a pact with them. Keeping the relentless mosquitoes and wasps at a comfortable distance by turning them into beloved frenemies.
With a sun umbrella set at the perfect angle, and a strike of luck—when the weather happened to align perfectly with his own body temperature—he could look into the eyes of nature itself and marvel at its grand beauty. He claimed not to be a pet person either. Yet the household cats found refuge on his chest, while he smiled, then carried on reading. He once faced a bear that came sniffing around his twins at breakfast, at a campsite when they were two.
If a storm was rolling in, he'd pull up a chair and watch. We were reminded of this in his final days, when a tornado began forming above his bedroom. He watched it circle. Took note of the conditions. That's where I'm going, he comforted himself. The abyss! Barbecuing in the eye of the storm was Dave’s approach to life.
Toward the end, it felt like he was simply moving toward the light, the way a blood moon might rise unannounced over the horizon, catching him by surprise, lighting up the sky the same way life had always lit him up. As if to say, all any of us are really trying to do is return to beauty and grace.
Dave passed away on August 15, 2026, at the age of seventy-two from colon cancer. He was dearly loved by: His four children, Richard, Sarah, Michael, and Kerrigan. His siblings, Lynda, Don, and Mary. And his mother, Frances. Who all held a lasting place in his heart. We will remember him for the way he kept going, and the way he kept us going.
To share memories about Dave, please submit them to his Winnipeg Free Press obituary page.
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