I am just back from Buffalo where I have been for the past week, foraging through safe deposit boxes, rummaging through files, and talking to lawyers, accountants, and bankers. Dad was pretty good about putting his affairs in order, five years ago. I suppose he felt that the end was near when in fact it was not. Always the organized record keeper, the problem over the past five years was that he kept EVERYTHING. I have been sorting through reams and reams of paper, trying to sort out what is and is not important to keep. As one of the co-executors of his estate (my sister is the other one), we are the detectives who must collect all his assets for evaluation. I find myself going through all of Dad’s possessions. In one folder, hidden in a bottom drawer, I found letters from my sisters and me to Dad, written when we were little children. I found foreign coins he’s collected from his many trips abroad with Mom. I found old photographs of distant family members, along with copies of their birth certificates … why in the world would he have those? Shortly before he passed away, I brought some of those old photos to him for identification, and surprisingly, he was able to put names to most of the faces.
During his last months, I spent quite a lot of time down in Buffalo. Perhaps it was guilt at not having been around much for the past few years, or perhaps I genuinely felt that my presence was helpful. Dad slept for most of the day, but sometimes he would rally late at night. It seemed that in the wee hours of the morning, all the mundane hassles of life on a death bed would drift away, and his memories would re-surface. Certainly, there were the anecdotes I’ve heard a hundred times before - I’m beginning to do that myself, so I can hardly fault him for doing it at 98. But what impressed me about those midnight talks was that invariably, there was a story I hadn’t heard, an anecdote that was new. I learned a little bit more about his early days in Buffalo and about his family in those last few months than I’d ever taken the time to learn in the past forty or fifty years. I came to realize how much there was about my father that I did not and do not know. I used to grumble that my father didn’t understand who I am, but in truth that complaint works both ways. I think a lot of us are strangers to the ones we love. I’ve been philosophical of late. This house is almost finished, and the combination of its construction and the concurrent decline of my parents has been pretty hard. We put all our energy into these projects, and sometimes we lose sight of the big picture, whatever that may be.
Just out of college, I bought a very used Triumph Spitfire and, with the help of someone who actually knew what he was doing, I rebuilt the engine. Unexpectedly, it was one of the better learning experiences of my life. On top of the lesson that it is much better to let a professional handle certain tasks, I learned something about coping with the unsettling prospect of unfinished projects. The rebuild took much longer than expected. Parts were not readily available, others required machining. One night I went out to the garage, and there were all the components of the engine, laying neatly on the floor. Pistons, valves, lifters, push rods … everything. I looked at all of these pieces and felt like at that point in time, this unassembled labyrinth of parts was a pretty good metaphor for my life. I’m in that unsettled state again. I comfort myself by believing that it will all come back together again, and it likely will. But it’s a little like losing my wallet, or my compass when I’m hiking…that feeling in my stomach that comes from the fear of being vulnerable. We all know the future is unpredictable, but sometimes we forget or simply ignore what we know. I’ve learned that no matter how organized I am – and admittedly, I am not well organized – and how much I try to steer the great rudder of my life, there are storms that I never saw coming. Keeping that notion actively in the back of my head has been helpful when the wind begins to blow.
Meanwhile, the world continues to spin on its axis. Iran is in the midst of a political crisis, the H1N1 Swine Flu virus is still a global threat and, just in time for the hot weather, Toronto is in the midst of a garbage strike. Doesn't that stink?
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
During his last months, I spent quite a lot of time down in Buffalo. Perhaps it was guilt at not having been around much for the past few years, or perhaps I genuinely felt that my presence was helpful. Dad slept for most of the day, but sometimes he would rally late at night. It seemed that in the wee hours of the morning, all the mundane hassles of life on a death bed would drift away, and his memories would re-surface. Certainly, there were the anecdotes I’ve heard a hundred times before - I’m beginning to do that myself, so I can hardly fault him for doing it at 98. But what impressed me about those midnight talks was that invariably, there was a story I hadn’t heard, an anecdote that was new. I learned a little bit more about his early days in Buffalo and about his family in those last few months than I’d ever taken the time to learn in the past forty or fifty years. I came to realize how much there was about my father that I did not and do not know. I used to grumble that my father didn’t understand who I am, but in truth that complaint works both ways. I think a lot of us are strangers to the ones we love. I’ve been philosophical of late. This house is almost finished, and the combination of its construction and the concurrent decline of my parents has been pretty hard. We put all our energy into these projects, and sometimes we lose sight of the big picture, whatever that may be.
Just out of college, I bought a very used Triumph Spitfire and, with the help of someone who actually knew what he was doing, I rebuilt the engine. Unexpectedly, it was one of the better learning experiences of my life. On top of the lesson that it is much better to let a professional handle certain tasks, I learned something about coping with the unsettling prospect of unfinished projects. The rebuild took much longer than expected. Parts were not readily available, others required machining. One night I went out to the garage, and there were all the components of the engine, laying neatly on the floor. Pistons, valves, lifters, push rods … everything. I looked at all of these pieces and felt like at that point in time, this unassembled labyrinth of parts was a pretty good metaphor for my life. I’m in that unsettled state again. I comfort myself by believing that it will all come back together again, and it likely will. But it’s a little like losing my wallet, or my compass when I’m hiking…that feeling in my stomach that comes from the fear of being vulnerable. We all know the future is unpredictable, but sometimes we forget or simply ignore what we know. I’ve learned that no matter how organized I am – and admittedly, I am not well organized – and how much I try to steer the great rudder of my life, there are storms that I never saw coming. Keeping that notion actively in the back of my head has been helpful when the wind begins to blow.
Meanwhile, the world continues to spin on its axis. Iran is in the midst of a political crisis, the H1N1 Swine Flu virus is still a global threat and, just in time for the hot weather, Toronto is in the midst of a garbage strike. Doesn't that stink?
Written by Jamie Oppenheimer c 2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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