Locomotion

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.