Comfort, Familiarity and Wisdom of the Aged

What I'm listening to: Break in the Road-Betty Harris

Last night I had the best sleep in recent memory. There's a new bed in my old room, and it is like you're sleeping on a cloud. Not to mention the central a/c, which no doubt did help. Last week, the lack of sleep was irritating enough that I had actually considered calling it a 'heat emergency', and I would have sally forthed and checked into the local Holiday Inn so I could sleep in an airconditioned room. Sometimes, a good night's sleep is just priceless.

There are a lot of things I miss about my parents' place. The office for one. My old room is on the east side of the house, and I used to enjoy sleeping with the drapes open in the summer time, so I could wake up with the rising sun beaming on my face as I snoozed away the early morning. That bright orange under my eyelids, coupled with the sounds of the birds in the morning, sleeping on a cloud, was sheer bliss.

Another thing I miss is the oh-so wonderful bathroom. It's nothing fancy, but very comfortable. The amount of esoteric thoughts that have come out of that space...even one of my cousins has said that there is something about my old bathroom, on the top floor of my parents' place. I hope they never sell this house....

My dad was waiting for me to wake up, so that he could make me one of his famous omelets, as he usually does when I'm home. I remember my mother stopped making pancakes as a regular weekend favourite when my brother and sister moved out, because then there was not enough people at home to make them. I have tried to continue that tradition, as when I have people over for brunch/breakfast, blueberry pancakes are usually the norm.

Conversation this morning of course surrounded the London bombings, and a general climate of fear. I could see the worry in my father's eyes. He was worried that he would be targeted, or rather accused of being guilty, just because he like to go to Friday prayers at the Mosque to see his friends. He was telling me that the Muslim community in Ottawa is getting worried that there are undercover CSIS and RCMP agents operating in the Mosques, to keep track on what's being said and what goes on. So if you present a seemingly atagonistic point of view, with the best intentions, you could be branded and under severe scrutiny. I suppose the witch hunt has started already...

Photography and art came up a lot this morning as well. I've been smoke-free since last evening, as more of a self-test. I smoke my pipe because I like to, not because I need to. If I feel that I 'need' it, then that's a bad sign. So I'll be smoke free until I return to Montreal, on Wednesday. So far, I feel fine, or rather I don't miss it. That's a good sign.

But, this morning the conversation was so engaging that I was craving a smoke. The puffs make for valuable rests in between every speech act. I could even see the imaginary cloud of smoke in front of me, as we talked, but knowing that I would never light up in front of my dad, even though he is an ex-smoker. It's a respect thing. They know you do it, but don't smoke in front of your elders, because it's disrespectful, culturally. So I made him tea, and we talked about various things. The shifting ownership of Rover cars came up, and so on. As well as how terms in the media are totally decontextualized. For example:

The term 'Madrasa' is an Urdu expression, that can be rooted to Arabic. And it means simply 'school', just like 'école' in French. But unfortunately it's become synonymous with centres ofreligiouss fundamentalism and hate.

Interesting link here. After the World Trade Center fell, we were all worried. I remember sitting in my living room, waiting for a brick to come through the window. But, when I went to work I was still a bit paranoid, but not as much. Friend would come into the lab from time to time to see if I was ok. One story in particular I'd like to tell.

In late August 2001, an elderly woman came into the shop looking to get copies made from some of her old photographs. I happened to serve her. I looked at the prints, which did seem to be quite old. I thought them to be interesting, then I looked at the signature on the prints.

"Where did you get this pictures from?" I asked.

"These are my ancestors"

"Do you know who took these pictures, and who's signature this is?"

"Unfortunately, I don't"

"These photos were taken by Nadar, one of the most famous photographers in the world. He used to photograph the Parisintelligentsiaa and other famous faces like Charles Baudelaire and Sarah Berndhart in the mid to late 19th century."

"Well, my ancestors used to mix with French aristocracy".

"I've done some academic research on Nadar. If you like, I'd be happy to pass along some articles to you."

"I'd really like that, because I'm always looking for information about my family history."

I went down to see the black and white printer, and showed him the prints in my amazement.

"She's a really interesting lady", he started. "She comes from one of richestfamiliess in the Ukraine. They were factory owners or something. Unfortunately, Stalin killed off her whole family, except for her and her brother. So whenever there's an exhibition onUkrainiann history, anywhere in the world, her old photographs go up on display, and we do the printing."

The next time I saw her was on September 13th or so. There was a big line up in the lab, and she was served by somebody else. She made sure to wait until I was finished with my client, and then came up to talk to me.

"Hello sir, I just came in to see if you were ok, with the recent world events."

"I'm doing ok", I replied. "Just taking things one day at a time."

"Just remember, keep you head held high, and don't be ashamed of who you are. You come from a rich heritage and a rich culture, and there are a lot of people out there who are ignorant and stupid, and there is no cure for ignorance or stupidity."

"I will. Thank you for your kind words."

And she left.

About a month later I kept on thinking that I haven't seen this kind elderly lady in some time. Within a few days of this thought, her husband came in to pick up the old prints. By then I had copied my Nadar information, as well as I found some other sources for her through some library research. As I passed along the Nadar info as well as the old prints, I asked how his wife was doing, as I hadn't seen her in the shop in some time.

"Not too well", he replied. "She fell in the house and broke her arm. She's in the hospital now."

Imanagedd to find out what hospital she was at, and went to see her with a flowerarrangementt. When I saw her, she wasconsciouss, but had a lost look in her eye.

"I don't know what I've done to deserve this", she would say over and over again.

I sat with her for about 20 minutes or so, then the nurse came in so I had to leave. About a couple of weeks later I realized that she hadn't been in the shop in some time. I went back to the hospital to see her. She had changed rooms. I walked in to see her daughter by the bed, and the elderly lady in bed, cheeks sunken in, all colour in her face lost, just looking frail.

"She has a brain tumour", her daughter said. "It's only a matter of hours now."

"You have my sincere condolences". I said. I couldn't think of what else to say. I bowed out, and left the hospital.

She died a couple of hours after I saw her. For some reason I told myself not to go the funeral. I regret that decision to this day.

She was one of those people that I only met a couple of times, but has had a profound effect on my life, and is someone who I will never forget.