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| My Grand-parents with their three out of four children. |
My maternal grand-father.
He passed away a few days ago, in a hospital bed, facing Mount-Royal and the famous cross.
He was 93.
He wasn't an easy man.
He didn't give you warm fuzzies.
If anything, you feared him.
Most of his existence, he lived a reclusive life.
He had no friends.
Towards the last two decades of his life, HE managed to alienate each and every one of his children, his grand-children and shockingly his GREAT-grand-children ( He had three).
Up until my parents became grand-parents to my sons, I really didn't have a healthy concept of what it meant to boast the joys of grand-parenting. Witnessing my parents cuddle, play, feed, read, wipe away tears and kiss "boo boos" away, made me aware that grand-parenting is a blessing and not some curse.
My sons are lucky!
They are loved.
Most importantly, my sons feel the love.
I didn't feel the love.
I feared my grand-father instead.
I tip toed around him.
Most times, I even hated him.
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| My Grand-father with his four children, wife and a mystery person |
Our family celebrations usually involved someone cursing someone, someone crying, someone YELLING, followed by months of silence and then the YOUNG usually would have to meander their way back, pleading for forgiveness from the GRAND POUBA. Never mind memories of Brit Milas and Bar Mitzvahs with some dramatic twist, thanks to none other than my grand-father.
My perception of him?
A tyrant.
Most often, he would sit at the head of the table and dictate.
No one dared sit on Archie Bunker's chair.
He ordered his wife around.
He ordered his four children around.
He demeaned, berated and scolded his children, as if they were still five.
He was fond of "threatening his grand-children" with belts. Naively, I would stare at his belt, as he snapped it like some animal trainer. I won't mention how docile we were, as grand-children.
As long his grand-children didn't make too much noise, didn't create too much mess and stayed somehow "out of the way", and enjoyed watching countless hours of world news, all was well in his home. If you liked Walter (Cronkite, for you neophytes), you were in my grand-father's good books...for a few seconds, at least.
If he visited us in our home, my parents began to nervously circulate around their very own space.
My dad would automatically be "de-throned" from his usual seat at the table.
The menu in our home would reflect this tyrant's NEEDS.
And this heaviness would enter our space...all in the name of FAMILY.
Rosh Hashana and Passover celebrations (euphemism for torture) usually entailed HIM leading the entire service. I recall this one time, my father, in his late forties, barely gained courage to inform the Tyrant that he would like to start having the celebrations at his home, as he would like to officiate some of these holidays too, before he grows too old. For a few years, we didn't hear from the tyrant. He was fuming with the decision. Rather than pat my father on the back for being "ready" to handle the responsibility and passing the torch, he shunned him. From that day on, we had small gatherings at our home, as my uncles and aunties had no choice but to attend the Tyrant's "celebration" and leave us to fend for ourselves....All in the name of family spirit.
A few hours before he passed away, I entered his hospital room, suited in some canary yellow "lab coat" and watched this tiny framed individual, with laboured breathing and I found myself talking to him. Who are you? What did YOU like? Did you have dreams? Did you accomplish them? Did you have a passion? What was your favourite colour? I knew he liked Syrian food, and he loved his Arak!With all his longevity, I didn't have the opportunity to KNOW THIS MAN. Better yet, he was not open to the experience.
I finally had the courage to tell him "It is too bad you didn't have it in you to give unconditional love to your children. It's all they ever wanted."
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| My mom |
I barely stroked his index and walked out of his room.
No tears. How odd.
I teared when I saw my mom lean over her father's bed, after 16 years of having been alienated from this man.
I teared when I saw her stroke this man's bald head.
I teared when I saw her whisper words into his ears.
For that, I teared.
One of his grand-children referred to him as "PRIMITIVE", yesterday afternoon.
Interesting wording, I thought.
Truth be told, it made sense.
This man, came from another "civilization", travelled the world and refused to adapt, to change and to "blend" with every bold step he took to cross the Seven Seas. Up until his dying day, he stayed true to his 1918 timeline and brought that part of the world into the 21st Century.
Shalom Aba!
As we lay you down today for your final resting place, be grateful that today is Sukkot and eulogies are not permitted at this time. For it not for this blessing, few would know what to say in your honour.
Try to remember what my mother told you minutes after you passed away, "if in heaven they give you a new heart, learn to use it more kindly!"
