Death

Ya, I know ominous.

Our dear friend's mother died recently. She had been ill for some time, and there was some question about her being to be at their wedding two years ago, and she was unable to travel to see their newborn son. So they hustled up a passport and made sure they went to see her.

That adorable little boy will never know his father's mother.

That hit home.

The topic of death is one that we do well to avoid, knowing that at some point we'll have to embrace it. Either through those around us dying, or our own mortality coming to the fore.

Death has been with me for as long as I can remember. I never knew my father's mother, as she died ten years before I was born. Never knowing a grandchild. By all accounts she was a good lady. A mensch. Someone who cared for others, and was viewed highly by all.

Much the same way I've viewed my mother's mother. All I wanted in life was to be taller than Grandma. At 4'11", it wasn't hard to achieve that. Maybe this is when I started to set my goals too low. In this case, it was a literal thing. I loved hanging out with Agnes Aitken (nee McIntyre) Balfour. I miss her more now then I ever have. It bothers me to no end that she never got to meet Jodi, and she'll never see my daughter.

She's the grandparent I always felt most connected to. Her love of Coke (Pepsi when it was on sale), bacon, mac & cheese made from scratch, cigarettes and laughing showed me that older people didn't have to be....old.

She was in-and-out of the hospital frequently in the last 5+ years of her life. As was her husband. My mom's dad. The not-so-incredibly positive guy. The man who told his doctor that he had never had a good day in his life, and he would tell him if he did manage to squeeze one in. Sure, Grandpa loved baseball and hockey, but he wasn't so cheery, and he would overly-protective, which meant being able to do less if he was looking after me.

But, we'd go to McDonald's, or A&W, or the pizza palace in the Eaton Centre, if we were doing banking downtown. Which was pretty cool.

I sent a fair bit of time downtown as a child, either with my grandparents at Yonge & Queen, or with my family in Chinatown/Kensington Market.

So, the grandmothers were positive. The grandfathers, not-so-much. My dad's dad would come for fish dinner (he was Kosher) once a week, I'd get my PJs on, and we'd drive him home. I didn't know my Zaida Joe. He died when I was 7 or 8, and I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral. I did have nightmares about him though. He had his legs amputated and I used to dream that there were snakes coming out of the stumps.

(Better than "Snakes on a Plane"?)

My mom's mom died when I was 21 and my mom's dad died when I was 23.

My mom said to me, when I was 15, that my grandparents were getting older, and that she didn't want to hear any excuses about not knowing them, after they died. That said, I would go and see them at least once a week. Did I really get to know them? Not really. I didn't ask a lot of questions, and subsequently, there are tonnes of things I don't know about them. But I'm okay with that.

I just wish my mom would take her own advice with her grandchildren. But there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about that. I suppose it's always easier to see with greater clarity when you're not looking at your own life.

Do I really know my parents? That's a tough call. I think in some ways I know them better then my siblings, but then I realize that it's really that I know them in a different way. I've said for a long time now that I view my parents, specifically my mom, as friends. In that, I'm 40 and subsequently not a child. I don't hold my parents up on a pedestal. I greatly respect the sacrifices that they made me for me, and some would say continue to make for me, and I like them. They're good people.

I've had some interesting conversations with my parents. Ones that I suspect my siblings have not had. But then again, my siblings have a different relationship with my parents, and they have probably had conversations with them that I never will.

Oh ya, death.

So, I've been reading the obituaries for about 25 years now. Yep. Started around 15. My parents would always read them, and I figured there wasn't any harm in knowing if loved ones of friends and family had died. Not passed on. Not passed away. Died. And they're not lost either!

So, I've been pretty morbid that way. Reading the obits. The good ones. The bad ones. The tacky ones. The ones that lie. The ones that...well, the ones that are just like train wrecks. And the ones that cause me to clip them. There have only been a few. There somewhere in the Man Cave. Currently lost.

My dad almost didn't make it to our wedding. My dad has been in-and-out of hospital once a month on average, for the past year-or-so. My dad in many ways reminds me of my grandfather. Or is that grandfathers?

That said, he's much happier then I remember either grandfather being.

Or is he? I suppose it's about perspective. The unaware child only knows so much. The man in his early 20s is only aware of so much. The soon-to-be 40 year old father is perhaps aware of more, but does he share all that sees and thinks?

Ah...dilemma.

The last time I spoke freely, as a concerned "friend", meant that things got strained between my mom and I. I'd rather that not happen again. So, I bite my tongue. A skill I've managed to learn in mid-life. (Yet another reason I'm glad we're going to have a girl. Boys are stupid.)

I cherish my relationship with my parents.

I've learned so many things from them. I've learned just as many things from friends and other parents over the years. I'm grateful for my ability to observe, process and evaluate, so that I can take the best of all worlds and apply it in life.

My life.

My daughter's life.

My mother's skepticism will serve me well. So will her discriminating eye. Her joy of life, and ability to laugh aloud are something that cannot be learned. It's genetic. A passion of expression, for both loves and hates, are so deeply rooted in my being that they can't be found, or removed. For better or worse. A sense of what's what, and joy of being around intellect of expression, serve of us both well. Always early, and with a few shopping lists. That's me.

My dad's ability to create, no doubt permeates my being. To create trouble, to create in the kitchen, to create mileage on the car - grocery shopping for any manner of delights. Unlike my dad, I don't bring home the cheap cookies. I make the best ones. Which I owe to him. An early exposure to grocery shopping, smells and tastes in markets, going to the farmer for produce, appreciating where he grew up (on Baldwin Street in Kensington Market) in a way that I never could appreciate the suburbs, taking what was in the kitchen and making magic. Or dinner.

I owe calmness (It's there. Honest.) to my dad. My shoulder shrug is straight out of his playbook. Which he got from his dad.

I should also say that in many ways I've patterned myself to be the antithesis of my dad. I didn't want to be complacent, conservative or old.

That's it. My dad has always seemed old. I've said before that I've never played catch with my dad, but did twice with my mom. I got carded buying alcohol recently. I'm 40.

That's flattering.

Now, I wonder where I fit in.

My brother said recently, "Dave, tools and fishing tackle are an extension of a man." Needless to say, I rather emphatically disagreed.

Being able to look at yourself in the mirror and liking what you see is what it's all about. Knowing that you're living your life in the right way for you, is what it's all about. Knowing that if you want to make a difference, that you do it. In your child's life. In your spouse's life. In your friends' lives. In your own little world. In the world at large.

So, I say this.

I've really rambled. I guess this is what happens when you start a blog post at 5:30 AM on a Saturday.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Change is coming.

I'll be a dad before Halloween. Scary hunh?!?!

I've been talking to a lot more people about my Urban Nutrition Education Centre/Community Food Centre/Green Centre idea, and it's growing/evolving and frankly, I'm getting more excited about it.

I want to live my January 14, 1970 - whenever "dash" with vigor. And vim. And grace. And style. Frankly, it's all about passion.

I'm thinking about my friend Paul a lot these days.

Sad and happy thoughts.

I'm thinking about my dad a lot these days.

Sad and happy thoughts.

I'm thinking about my daughter a lot these days.

Happy thoughts.

I'm crying now.

Sad and happy tears.

I think that's healthy.