This man.
This man who showed up in our driveway nearly 50 years ago.
This man who somehow found out that he had relatives that lived in Ontario. Who packed his wife and kids up in a car and drove for hours, without introduction, to meet us. Who, despite having made a successful life for himself in a new country, sought out old connections.
This man.
Here's what I don't remember: I don't remember him complaining.
Ever.
Here's what I do remember:
He worked hard.
Shift work and maintenance work and jobs around the house. He believed in working hard. He was not prideful about it. It was a responsibility, a way of life for him. Also, he could fix anything.
He loved to socialize.
He had a way of bringing people into a conversation, of making people feel welcome. To sit and talk. To listen to old stories. To share new ones. To commiserate, to reflect, to laugh. He seemed to be the happiest when there was a group of people sharing time together.
He loved to share food.
I remember how he'd smack his lips when he ate caviar on buttered rye bread. Or sour pickles. Or vine-ripe tomatoes. I remember late-night plates of garden fresh cucumbers that he ate with such gusto that we'd beg to have some too. He loved good food, but mostly it was about sharing. For others to know just how good, good food was.
I remember he had white shoes. And a white belt. Very stylish.
He had a terrific smile and laughing eyes.
He had great hair.
He loved family.
The mere existence of family. The very idea of family. Every thing he did ... every thing he believed ... every thing he looked forward to ... was about family. He was so proud of his family. He would have been a lost soul without you.
Ahh, this man. Such memories. I am so glad he found us all those years ago.
I thought he was going to live forever.
Maybe he will.