In Memoriam
His posture was straight and proud; his nose hooked, and his smile very warm. He had pilot’s eyes: sharp, intelligent, understanding. His speech, haunted by something only vaguely Dutch after all these years, seemed metered by a metronome – so precise, so rhythmic. Among the many topics upon which he could expound: patience in golf, woodworking, marine history, the internet, the call of the loon, life in the tidal pools, and the eagle. All of these captured my attention.
He and his family were always on the move. Military. It took them from Trenton to Greenwood, down to California, across the world to Australia, across a pond to Europe, ever in my memory in Halifax, although ultimately on the west coast in British Columbia. I think I may have only seen them just over a dozen times throughout the years, but they are always there as a permanent extended family: V__ and his wife and their two girls.
I remember their cottage, with its square outline and light-coloured timber. I remember the fact that the water there never seemed cold (and I am incurably not fond of cold water.) There was a giant toilet composter the size of a monarch’s throne. Daytime was spent swimming, picking berries and annoying Mr. Grumpy-pants and one of their daughters. Early evening, after dinner, V__ would identify the calls of the birds and his daughter would try to teach me how to make the sound of a loon call. And at night, the sound of V__’s snoring shook the walls of the cottage to their very foundation.
How do you capture the essence of a truly great man? How do you give it words, and which experiences do you use as examples of its existence? Do I tell you about the day I spent with only V__, where he taught me about the internet and took me to Swiss Chalet, all the while treating a twelve year old me as the perfect adult companion for a day? Do I tell you the valuable lesson in patience he tried to impart to Mr. Grumpy-pants out on a western golf course, while I caddied and Grumpy tried not to throw his clubs in the water after a miserable performance? Do I tell you about the hours we spent scouring tidal pools, overturning all the rocks and identifying all the tiny sea urchins and crabs?
How about this: V__ always held his wife's hand wherever they went. V__ always took the opportunity to lovingly tease his daughters until they shrieked for him to stop. V__ always showed you the latest pictures of his grandchildren. V__ always seemed wise and comforting and fatherly to me and Mr. Grumpy-pants, without seeming affecting or condescending. V__ always let you know just what balmy temperature it was out in BC while we wallowed in winter misery back east. He always let you know how many eagles he had spied from his favourite bench, on his favourite beach, while sipping his daily coffee with his wife. And when he got sick, he faced each day with optimism and determination and a love for the great life that he had made.
His daughters, both married with children of their own, often find themselves remarking with affection for their husbands “it’s like I married my father.” We should all be so lucky.
Rest in peace, V__. The eagles I see will always remind me of you.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
--Mary Frye
He and his family were always on the move. Military. It took them from Trenton to Greenwood, down to California, across the world to Australia, across a pond to Europe, ever in my memory in Halifax, although ultimately on the west coast in British Columbia. I think I may have only seen them just over a dozen times throughout the years, but they are always there as a permanent extended family: V__ and his wife and their two girls.
I remember their cottage, with its square outline and light-coloured timber. I remember the fact that the water there never seemed cold (and I am incurably not fond of cold water.) There was a giant toilet composter the size of a monarch’s throne. Daytime was spent swimming, picking berries and annoying Mr. Grumpy-pants and one of their daughters. Early evening, after dinner, V__ would identify the calls of the birds and his daughter would try to teach me how to make the sound of a loon call. And at night, the sound of V__’s snoring shook the walls of the cottage to their very foundation.
How do you capture the essence of a truly great man? How do you give it words, and which experiences do you use as examples of its existence? Do I tell you about the day I spent with only V__, where he taught me about the internet and took me to Swiss Chalet, all the while treating a twelve year old me as the perfect adult companion for a day? Do I tell you the valuable lesson in patience he tried to impart to Mr. Grumpy-pants out on a western golf course, while I caddied and Grumpy tried not to throw his clubs in the water after a miserable performance? Do I tell you about the hours we spent scouring tidal pools, overturning all the rocks and identifying all the tiny sea urchins and crabs?
How about this: V__ always held his wife's hand wherever they went. V__ always took the opportunity to lovingly tease his daughters until they shrieked for him to stop. V__ always showed you the latest pictures of his grandchildren. V__ always seemed wise and comforting and fatherly to me and Mr. Grumpy-pants, without seeming affecting or condescending. V__ always let you know just what balmy temperature it was out in BC while we wallowed in winter misery back east. He always let you know how many eagles he had spied from his favourite bench, on his favourite beach, while sipping his daily coffee with his wife. And when he got sick, he faced each day with optimism and determination and a love for the great life that he had made.
His daughters, both married with children of their own, often find themselves remarking with affection for their husbands “it’s like I married my father.” We should all be so lucky.
Rest in peace, V__. The eagles I see will always remind me of you.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
--Mary Frye
posted by nerdifer at 4:58 p.m.
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