The other afternoon at our seniors readers theatre rehearsal, our leader asked us who we would most like to have dinner with (dead or alive). She’s a lovely leader and does these “check in” moments with us each week. There were a variety of responses….mine was “my husband” ’cause wouldn’t it be nice to actually sit down somewhere together and just talk. HAH
My father said….”my mother”. He went on to explain that she died in 1947 making him an orphan at a very young age. She fled Russia with her children after her husband (my grandfather) was shot for singing songs with youth in a church. Once in Germany, she married again but he was a soldier and never came home. She was told that she should get her varicose veins operated on if she wanted to find work in Canada. And so in an effort to follow the rest of the family across the ocean, she underwent the knife. She died on the operating table. My father was devastated to the point where I do not believe he ever fully recovered.
My Dad and his brother had a lot of fun on the ship while their sister was seasick the whole time. Yes, my then teenage aunt took her little brothers across the ocean and then helped to raise, nurture and love them all these years.
My father lived in Winnipeg with many relatives around him and yet, he always yearned for his mother. There is a sadness to my Dad that I sometimes don’t understand until I remember his childhood trauma. Not only did he lose his mother at a tender age but he experienced war and everything that goes with it on a daily basis.
He was taught chess, violin and piano plus a great appreciation for classical music and Gilbert & Sullivan. His uncles saw to it. He went to university to become an architect (yup, uncles) but quit and went to the local Mennonite College where he met and later married my mother who was the daughter of a farmer. (uncles not so pleased) Later, he became the youngest student to ever graduate with a PhD from the university in Indiana. Yes, his uncles were proud. He came home from the states with a newly born son -uncles pleased- and promptly taught that son only low german -uncles less pleased- before heading out into the world as a sort-of-but-not-really missionary for lack of a better way of describing his various jobs for a few years.
It took many years and many “moves” before my Dad finally “settled down”. My parents moved 22 times in their life together. He was always looking for something else I suppose. I refer you to his childhood trauma and the loss of his mother.
He’s now lived with my husband and myself in our current house for just under 30 years – the longest he has lived anywhere. He loves this location. We have trees, peace and quiet, access to walking paths and the river valley view, biking trails and a quick drive to the Henday which takes us to choir every week.
And he has us. We are the people who love him, spend time with him and look after him. And he is appreciative and offers us his love in return. Sometimes, with a touch of sadness though.
I’m not his mother but I do mother him. I become the parent more each day. It’s odd and yet kinda right. I honor my grandmother by looking after her son.
