Wednesday, December 23, 2009
shhpecial
It's almost a year since Opa died.
After a fun event as a family at Killarney Pool, we drove past the old family digs where Oma and Opa lived on Rhodes St at 41st Avenue. The massive Vancouver special - original colours of white with pasty evergreen trim remain intact - riled up a whopper of nostalgic moments for me. In fact, the frontage brought less memories forward than driving down the alley way. Looking up from the alley, I could see the brown pick-up with full cab on the back parked neatly along the left side of the backyard. Up the external stairs, where many a worker came by to pick up paycheques or simply chat about the day over matte or te-de-deh. Those steps, kept me connected to my young and vibrant uncles - up to mischief while learning early on about work responsibilities. Inside I see Opa, on a crappy stool, replete with a fake, white leather seat, at the end of the low bar along the kitchen counter, on the phone, boisterously chatting about a price, a place or a player who is involved in the madness of drywall contracting. A pencil, a paper, in a corner of the kitchen but somehow right in the middle too. I sit in the nook (bench seat) along table, white as well, and watch Opa talk shop while Oma deliberately lingers and interjects in the background. It's no mistake she is in the kitchen fiddling with food preparation while he talks business. Often, she adds commentary to explain a facet of drywall business to me, or talks over him to ask me about my interests or favourite food requests. He annoyingly tolerates the banter, nevertheless bouncing ideas and information off of her like a dance partner going along at a jitter-bug pace... hoping for a moment of quiet but welcoming the company. I never understood how business got done there, but I liked it... in amongst the singing, laughing and jokes - especially on Kojak the cat. Dead Kojie - ha.
The Special had an office with many items I particularly cherished. My favourite item to play with, without another person knowing, was the monetary punch stamp that Opa used for cheques. It had many levers with a variety of numbers and symbols, like a typewriter, that would stick out like the insides of a thick cable. Often, we would get a Christmas cheque with an imprint of this very stamp, which endeared me to them so much. This office was also the location of my first encounter with Great-Opa Toews and his reveal about wearing a wig. This memory is forever associated with the oddities of the office and the secrets that lie within it.
Opa's memories are neatly woven with memories of my Oma. Singing as background or grounding me after a silly joke I didn't understand. Her instinct to consider my feelings throughout any silliness or happiness is always present - and gracious despite tactless commentary. I view their pairing entirely different now that I have only one of them. I see her effort and care for a man we all loved more than we could bear or understand; as critical to defining ourselves.
I remain a granddaughter to him and my heart aches for a ringing phone with him on the other end. I miss his forgiving spirit although I love his partner more. I listen for wheezing or snickers in other peoples' laugh, Opa. And, of course, when a person orders a steak - detailed and enthusiastic, I smile.
After a fun event as a family at Killarney Pool, we drove past the old family digs where Oma and Opa lived on Rhodes St at 41st Avenue. The massive Vancouver special - original colours of white with pasty evergreen trim remain intact - riled up a whopper of nostalgic moments for me. In fact, the frontage brought less memories forward than driving down the alley way. Looking up from the alley, I could see the brown pick-up with full cab on the back parked neatly along the left side of the backyard. Up the external stairs, where many a worker came by to pick up paycheques or simply chat about the day over matte or te-de-deh. Those steps, kept me connected to my young and vibrant uncles - up to mischief while learning early on about work responsibilities. Inside I see Opa, on a crappy stool, replete with a fake, white leather seat, at the end of the low bar along the kitchen counter, on the phone, boisterously chatting about a price, a place or a player who is involved in the madness of drywall contracting. A pencil, a paper, in a corner of the kitchen but somehow right in the middle too. I sit in the nook (bench seat) along table, white as well, and watch Opa talk shop while Oma deliberately lingers and interjects in the background. It's no mistake she is in the kitchen fiddling with food preparation while he talks business. Often, she adds commentary to explain a facet of drywall business to me, or talks over him to ask me about my interests or favourite food requests. He annoyingly tolerates the banter, nevertheless bouncing ideas and information off of her like a dance partner going along at a jitter-bug pace... hoping for a moment of quiet but welcoming the company. I never understood how business got done there, but I liked it... in amongst the singing, laughing and jokes - especially on Kojak the cat. Dead Kojie - ha.
The Special had an office with many items I particularly cherished. My favourite item to play with, without another person knowing, was the monetary punch stamp that Opa used for cheques. It had many levers with a variety of numbers and symbols, like a typewriter, that would stick out like the insides of a thick cable. Often, we would get a Christmas cheque with an imprint of this very stamp, which endeared me to them so much. This office was also the location of my first encounter with Great-Opa Toews and his reveal about wearing a wig. This memory is forever associated with the oddities of the office and the secrets that lie within it.
Opa's memories are neatly woven with memories of my Oma. Singing as background or grounding me after a silly joke I didn't understand. Her instinct to consider my feelings throughout any silliness or happiness is always present - and gracious despite tactless commentary. I view their pairing entirely different now that I have only one of them. I see her effort and care for a man we all loved more than we could bear or understand; as critical to defining ourselves.
I remain a granddaughter to him and my heart aches for a ringing phone with him on the other end. I miss his forgiving spirit although I love his partner more. I listen for wheezing or snickers in other peoples' laugh, Opa. And, of course, when a person orders a steak - detailed and enthusiastic, I smile.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
up in the air
To kick off my vacation right, A and I had a full day date. I like day dates, they are delighfully unpredictable and mimic the feeling of playing hooky.
After a delicious brunch at Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, we hung out in Gastown to check out the latest Vogs and local boutique shops. Hadn't been to Gastown for years and it proved to be an escape in our own city due to recent, classy gentrification.
We scooted over to see a matinee, Up in the Air. It's been a while since I've been delighted, entertained, moved, contemplative, laughing out loud and fully engaged in a film. Wow - this film is my tops for the year. George Clooney is brilliantly cast as Ryan Bingham, a well-established executive-type, who is retained as an uninvolved, third party whose job is to fire people most typically during massive lay-offs. He flys more than he's 'home', a relative term for Bingham. Home is in the airport, in the sky, and at the hotel. The place he reports 'home' to is a bare apartment that doesn't even have a real key, rather an access card.
I totally get Bingham. I almost regret to admit it, but his solitude while traveling is both comforting and relatable. In addition, his professional role although distanced from those he affects, is very much a cleaner-upper and again, I get that. The distance that comes from being at a distance is real.
My airport system is very controlled, if not a regiment. The away me seeks food, fitness and transportation beat by beat. All told, a stopover is the most disruptive event in my travel head. Never hungry or thirsty, only weighed down by carry-on as needed.
Rare scenes gave me some concern - like the one where he orders the maximum allowable airline or hotel voucher by virtue of entitlement. I do the same - it's not paid out of my pocket, it because of me (my use and requirement of their services) that these options require fulfilling. It's hard to explain, but I get it.
Being a loved wife and mother, and a valued, locomoting worker in my organization are two unrequited beings. Recent experiences on Skype with Birdie - while in my hotel room - give me great delight and sustenance to get through the work trip and scurry on home... yet, the experiences don't align themselves neatly in my head. I think, "I'm working now, in my routine, and hammering down to focus only on that in order to return home fully aware and available. So let's at least be productive." Right?
Watch the flick, you won't believe how authentic and unsexy it is. I highly recommend it.
After a delicious brunch at Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, we hung out in Gastown to check out the latest Vogs and local boutique shops. Hadn't been to Gastown for years and it proved to be an escape in our own city due to recent, classy gentrification.
We scooted over to see a matinee, Up in the Air. It's been a while since I've been delighted, entertained, moved, contemplative, laughing out loud and fully engaged in a film. Wow - this film is my tops for the year. George Clooney is brilliantly cast as Ryan Bingham, a well-established executive-type, who is retained as an uninvolved, third party whose job is to fire people most typically during massive lay-offs. He flys more than he's 'home', a relative term for Bingham. Home is in the airport, in the sky, and at the hotel. The place he reports 'home' to is a bare apartment that doesn't even have a real key, rather an access card.
I totally get Bingham. I almost regret to admit it, but his solitude while traveling is both comforting and relatable. In addition, his professional role although distanced from those he affects, is very much a cleaner-upper and again, I get that. The distance that comes from being at a distance is real.
My airport system is very controlled, if not a regiment. The away me seeks food, fitness and transportation beat by beat. All told, a stopover is the most disruptive event in my travel head. Never hungry or thirsty, only weighed down by carry-on as needed.
Rare scenes gave me some concern - like the one where he orders the maximum allowable airline or hotel voucher by virtue of entitlement. I do the same - it's not paid out of my pocket, it because of me (my use and requirement of their services) that these options require fulfilling. It's hard to explain, but I get it.
Being a loved wife and mother, and a valued, locomoting worker in my organization are two unrequited beings. Recent experiences on Skype with Birdie - while in my hotel room - give me great delight and sustenance to get through the work trip and scurry on home... yet, the experiences don't align themselves neatly in my head. I think, "I'm working now, in my routine, and hammering down to focus only on that in order to return home fully aware and available. So let's at least be productive." Right?
Watch the flick, you won't believe how authentic and unsexy it is. I highly recommend it.
