For Those About To Leave, We Salute You!

By my 14^th birthday, I had already lived in four different countries and visited seven others. Nine years of my life were spent living as a foreigner and the last three were spent at home base. I must have gotten accustomed to living as an expatriate, which contributed to a sentiment of self-alienation while in Ottawa. It was similar to admiring a beautiful painting from the outside as an art enthusiast rather than being part of the canvass. I had given this chance my best effort to become part of the Canadian picture, something I felt I represented while residing overseas. My increasing shyness had made the adaptation slightly more difficult than previous transitions. English was customarily the language when the big four were together, French was for school and Maman, which remained unchanged in Ottawa. My intake of Spanish with friends outside of school became seriously limited. Juan Alberto and his parents (my adoptive uncles) were my source of Spanish and a culture in which I felt naturally comfortable. It also made me feel uncomfortable that in my own country, people often suggested I was an outsider when I was trying to personify the Maple Leaf and all it stood for in my life, feeling pushed away from a successful adaptation.

Ottawa friends: Eric Soublière, Alexandre Mehiri, Adriano Damjanovic and one of Adriano's buddies

In the past, time played an integral role as a medium to make sense of my new transition and ensure stability quickly followed suit. As familiarity with my surroundings increased, I made good friendships and I immediately began feeling I belonged. I was just one more kid among the many people making up a beautiful uniform local culture and society. My presence in the melting pot was similar to adding spice to the recipe to kick it up a notch. After two years completed in our posting, having adjusted to a sweet new life that I worked hard to make, I could never imagine my time would run out. Of course I never blamed these circumstances on my father or his job, but it happened every time without exception. Departure was inevitable. I was born into this type of lifestyle so I had no point of comparison. It was becoming difficult to settle in, knowing things were temporary, having to uproot every three years sacrificing a stable life. It broadened kids horizons, but there were always pros and cons. After becoming somewhat used to this routine, Canada seemed as yet another posting, but having my father’s family nearby was a definite advantage. Although they were not exactly next door, it made a significant impact to the way I experienced this country as they were supportive and committed to spending holidays and special occasions together as a family. Perhaps if I could have gone from school to my Grandad’s, my Uncle John and Aunt Amy’s or my Uncle Rick and Aunt Margaret’s on a regular basis, Ottawa could have been different.

In the spring of 1995, as was customary after a two and a half year stretch, news came home once more about another move. This time, my parents felt unusual pressure, as their two boys were older and treasured the freedom of their suburban lifestyle along with the small things that contributed to their stability. Their major concern was regarding our possible dramatic, maybe volatile, reaction to leaving on another posting once again. This marked an end to our monthly visits to Grandad, our closer and more frequent relationship with the Ontario Bickfords, our basketball net, street games and our friends. My Dad and Maman sat Brian and I down in the living room where for the past years we had helped to put up our Christmas tree and decorations, to share the news. My father started the conversation by mentioning we were being posted to Lima, Peru for two years. The first thing that popped up in my brother and my mind was Brian’s school buddy, Daniel Seminario. He was obsessed with Michael Jordan and the Bulls and sacrificed most of his responsibilities as a young adult for basketball – which he was not particular good at - and had lived far too long away from his South American homeland. We figured it was not the best point of reference for Peruvians. My mother proceeded to quiz us about our knowledge of the country and both Brian and I responded with the Incas - an advanced pre-Colombian civilization that saw its demise at the hands of the Spanish conquistadors. They proceeded with a basic overview of the political situation, mentioning Fujimori was the political strongman and the Andean nation was resurfacing out of a quasi civil war against the Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path).

I remember Brian was upset about the departure more than ever before. He had made some great friends, mainly Manu, Tariq and Grégoire who were great kids and were always really nice to me as well. They generally included me in their basketball games or outings to watch sports games. He had become quite the young entrepreneur in finding opportunities to make some money in our community, mowing people’s lawns, shovelling driveways and babysitting. Many Ottawa South residents knew him and this recognition was special for him. He was seen as the “go-to” teenager. Anything you needed to have done around your house, you could count on him. He saved his money to buy CDs, posters and other items indispensable to teens. With this new posting, he was witnessing his hard work slowly fading away helplessly along with his freedom of riding his bike anywhere he wanted. He did not want to leave. I saw my own life in retrospect and did not see a need to balance the pros and cons. My brother was two years older than I was, so the elements in his life affecting his attachment to the city of Ottawa had a much deeper meaning. My best friend, Juan Alberto and his family were also scheduled to leave for Quito, Ecuador (right next door to our destination), so this contributed to my nonchalance. If my best friends were going, not much point in me staying and perhaps the change could be for the better. It would give a jolt to a life that had become monotonous.

With my family during my confirmation in Ottawa

The last summer in Ottawa was short. It was relatively boring for me as usual since most of my buddies from school were off on summer camps and Juan was in solitary confinement as his family packed for their own posting. My Maman made her rounds putting stickers on household items each marked by transport method: air, sea and storage. I had grown used to seeing these tags. They marked the closing ceremonies of every posting. Eventually, the movers would show in a huge truck, sending our more necessary items in boxes by air, the heavier parcels in a container heading to meet us by ship and the furniture would rock out in storage until the owners would return - after two years this time around. Psychologically, it was easier to make this move because it was for a shorter duration than others. Two years can just fly by. The shipment however was always a burden on its own having to deal with customs upon arrival. After the house was empty, we hit the road one last time to our familiar Kingston, Varty Lake and finally, leaving Canada from the Pearson Airport, our point of entry three years ago. I was sad to leave my family behind and nervous wondering what Peru had to offer in my life’s adventures.

Summers With The Bickfords

This Canadian chapter of my story carried a rather different tune from the previous six years of sweet South American exile. Recession continued to linger over the Maple Leaf's wallet, sneaking its frisky hand into family budgets. As a consequence, people sought any avenue to generate household savings, cherishing every spare penny and slashing expenses. Many discount stores began to come out of the woodwork hoping to make a profit from hard economic times. The Bickfords were obliged to take a hiatus from frequent globetrotting due to this global downturn, but also because of losing our perks as expats. Our reach was reduced primarily to Ontario, yours to discover, specifically along the famous strip of the 401 highway. Our radius was now somewhat limited to communities surrounding the national capital area, close enough for day trips in our Plymouth Voyager. We discovered magnificent places suitable for family picnics, berry picking, sugar bushes and much more. We familiarized ourselves with heritage sights such as Morrisburg’s Upper Canada Village, picturesque towns such as of Wakefield, Quebec, the locks along the Rideau River, seizing opportunities to put some distance between us and the hustle and bustle of everyday city life.

The Old Man And The Fish

Having our long distance movement restricted to the ground level, having had our wings clipped also meant we could not spend time with my Maman's family. This was certainly a major challenge that took a toll on my personal relationship with my Mémé, but also my cousins, my Aunt Annie and Uncle Fernando. Three years was way too long without seeing them. Our annual visits were cancelled as international travel for a family of four was simply unaffordable. I began to have a feeling I would never have a chance to see them again so each night I prayed for them and cherished the memories. On the other hand, we were now in an ideal situation to strengthen our bond with the Ontario Bickfords as geography was on our side – mind you, the distances between one city and another continued to be significant, especially as an impatient pre-teen sitting in a car without much to do. We had traveled up and down highway 401, sufficiently enough to memorize strategic exits and rest stops, should the need to take a breather arise. I had identified this revamping of our lifestyle with a popular song hitting the radio waves at that time, Life Is A Highway interpreted by Tom Cochrane. These regular pilgrimages were packed with enthusiasm, as it was my chance to reunite with my family and share that distinctive, special ambience that these instances produce. It was moreover a temporary immersion in an English speaking environment for a change and to polish up my proficiencies in the language. The English component of the Claudel curriculum was not demanding.

Having Amherstview two hours south of Ottawa encouraged us to regularly visit Grandad - at least once a month. As soon as I crossed the front door and kicked off my shoes, he stood above the staircase smiling and waiting for us to come and I rushed, hoping to be the first to give him a hug. He usually proceeded to show Brian and I some demonstrations of Aikido self-defense tricks. He then giggled away and complemented us mentioning that we were beginning to "look as handsome as your grandfather." He was a true entertainer, even when he was not trying to make anyone laugh. Granny was no longer there bringing cohesion to his every day life but he had become very set in his ways. The best example to share was lunch. It had to be at 12:00. If the clocked turned to 12:01pm and there was no meal in sight, he begun to portray a more nervous persona fueled by a voracious hunger. He was in better shape than most of us, not a heavy man, but he was set in his ways. His meal preparation skills are a story  entirely all on its own. He treated us once to some wild ducks a friend had gifted him, a potential delicacy if cooked with love and patience. At the stroke of 11:00am, he bolted from his favourite living room chair headed to the kitchen, ready to cook those poor ducks. He was convinced they would be ready by lunch time. As we sat down to enjoy our meal at exactly noon, he cautioned us to mind our teeth as the animals still likely had buckshot in them. Duck n' Bullets: Grandad's special. The meat was pretty much raw and as he noticed this, he ordered that we carve off some chunks and cook them in a frying pan. This was perhaps not one of the best meals we had enjoyed as a family, but it is still a hilarious and priceless memory. I just wished he had his own cooking show on TV.

He was also the man of many gadgets. With some of his valuable down time spent in the comfort of his television room, he must have been bombarded by infomercials selling a myriad of weird appliances and accessories. He purchased an exercise machine which he probably did not use more than once, and it was also the oddest most uncomfortable gadget I had ever seen. He showed it off as if he had invented the thing himself. The most interesting purchase of his, though, merits a short mention. Before his series of strokes, he had developed a strong affection to coffee, so dark it looked like crude oil. I remember tasting some once and turned green for a few months. Due to his love for strong java, he bought an espresso coffee machine in hopes of making that ultimate cup of joe. He explained that it had several safety devices in order for the machine to cook the beans with some incredible amount of pressure. Regardless of these user friendly features, he still managed to make it blow up, only God knows how. Luckily, he was nowhere near the mushroom cloud as the explosion unfolded. From the day of that incident to the day we cleaned out his house knowing he would never return to live there again, there was a huge stain on the ceiling of the kitchen reminding us of that incident. He had returned the coffee maker after this life threatening disaster and the clerk could hardly believe he had been able to almost blow himself up using it. He always had that adventurous element in his personality, but his follow through was poor in form. It was admirable and hilarious at the same time. Our own Mr. Magoo. He refused to have his mug shot placed next to the definition of old fart in the dictionary, and I believe he passed that test with flying colours.

Brian and I feeding Canada geese

Through his many friendships as a greater Cataraqui community leader, he had befriended all sorts of fine people. One of his Aikido students introduced him to the world of computers and gaming. His friend worked in Future Shop - the equivalent of a Best Buy or other large electronic retail store - and imparted his expert knowledge on high performing computers, popular games for his grandkids, and obtained generous discounts on his purchases. This was when Grandad introduced my brother and I to such computer games such as Duke Nukem, set in a post-apocalyptic world where the task was to blow up the bad guys. I remember him laughing away and telling us to use pipe bombs. Once he came to our house and enthusiastically installed “Stacker Three” to increase the memory of our computer. We were all very excited until the computer crashed. He then (like a small boy) announced he had to go home now. A little knowledge can be dangerous. This mishap seemed to go hand in hand with important deadlines for my mom, such as translations she had saved on the computer. To her misfortune, she usually had to redo the entire translation due to collateral damage caused by Stacker and its many versions afterwards. I think Grandad's visits made Maman want to hide the computer or put it on lock down somewhere in the house.

Quite a unique man. He had an alter ego as well, known to a selected crowd as Reverend Bill Bickford. He put aside his sensei apparel and replaced it with a clerical collar. We attended his Sunday services when we visited where he proudly pointed out on each occasion to the congregation that his family was sitting amongst the flock. After mass, many of them approached us to meet and greet. This was when we met local tycoon and arcade magnate, Bob Joseph. He was a generous man and offered his cottage in Varty Lake, a cozy cabin in the wilderness, to the Reverend and his family for a couple of weeks. All of us found a great deal of enjoyment there. My grandfather taught me how to fish, using proper bait and releasing the fish back into the water. The cottage was equipped with a barbecue where Brian and I grilled some burgers – perhaps so Grandad would not try his hand at cooking. The beach welcomed flocks of geese looking for a bite to eat in the evenings, and we made the mistake of feeding them. They kept returning only to soil all over the backyard. There was a pontoon boat, our traditional summer opening ceremony vehicle which everyone young and old piled on board. Every year regardless of who was at the helm, the self-proclaimed captain gunned the engine full speed and the front sank into the lake. As the engine was brought to a halt, it would rebalance and everyone reacted in amazement, every single time. After seeing our hearts pop out of our mouths and relocate itself back to its familiar dwelling, we resumed the annual tour of the lake at a slower, more floatable speed.

On the pontoon boat touring the lake

Varty Lake was a wonderful place to spend quiet summers, in pure Zen relaxation. We had satellite television for evening distractions as mosquito activity consumed the outside world. Those pesky little flies overpowered any repellant for sale legally in the market, so as soon as the sun went down for a snooze, everyone took refuge in the comfortable, mosquito-free indoors. The closest village to the cottage was Moscow (yes, Ontario) with a convenience store and three houses making up the whole urban area. The population living in this mega city was anywhere from 4 to 10 inhabitants. The convenience store had videos for rent and the clerk's system was extremely elaborate. First, the customer picked out the movie to rent. Second step in the process was to carry it to the counter. Third, the clerk asked for the customer's first name: in my father’s case, David. Four, complete transaction in Canadian dollars. The following day as we walked in to return the rental at the store, he greeted us with a “Hello, David!” Guess he had great rapport with his varied and diverse clientele. At the cottage, Grandad positioned himself during the peaceful evenings to fish. Every summer, he kept catching a bigger fish than the year before. He was on his way of becoming a sport fisherman in his mind. Many of us presumed he continuously caught the same large mouth bass year after year. A relevant hint was that by the third summer, the large mouth bass seemed to be missing most of his lips. My Grandfather was not a man who paid much attention to detail, including lips, as he put the new beast into a bucket to happily and proudly display his accomplishment to everyone. We humoured him, although my Dad reflected on the moment saying: "That must be the dumbest fish in the lake." 

Remembering Two Great People

Grandparents are perhaps among the most treasured people in the lives of children. Kids can't wait for the moment to see them and the time involved in reuniting with them is never ending. The fact of just being close to them or hugging them is natural behaviour and gaining their attention at every passing second is the number one objective. Time just breezes by when you are in their company and if you don't stop and look around, that time will just pass you by. This was no exception with my paternal grandparents (better known in my little world as Granny and Grandad) who we barely had the pleasure to enjoy during the course of the year. My widowed maternal grandmother, Mémé, as I mentioned in a previous blog entry, was the only family member who periodically visited while we were posted overseas. I remember when December came around, I began counting down the days to heading to Canada to see the family, especially Granny and Grandad.

Grandad and Granny on a trip to England in the 80s

After our Polynesian tour, we resumed our regular pilgrimage to the frozen north without knowing what awaited us upon our return to Santiago. The end of the southern hemisphere summer naturally brought forth the mixed feelings of a cooler autumn. The end of February meant going back to school, replacing the excess leisure I cherished with hitting the books. My comfort was in reuniting with my buddies and hoping the new scholastic year would include interesting courses. I also was looking forward to my much anticipated birthday on March 2nd, only two weeks away from the inaugural schoolyard bell. I was particularly enthused that it would be on a weekend this year. However, the day before my special day, my perfect world was rocked once more. My Granny had been hospitalized due to a heart attack and was not able to hang on to the world we shared, and passed on the day of my birthday. I still recall this moment with great heartache. I lost a great person who blessed me with great memories, such as her love for Huck Finn and the incredibly amazing deserts served in gargantuan portions. This shock was hard to handle, especially as I could not be close to Grandad to give him a hug and support, especially now that he was alone without any relatives nearby. Furthermore, because we had already taken our vacation leave, there was no way financially or otherwise for us to attend Granny's funeral. That distance between North and South had become even greater. We could not pay tribute to Granny and say our farewell.

I am not sure how the next events unfolded, but some of the influencing must have been conducted by my Dad. The loss of his mother contributed to his cross-continental reaching out to his father, convincing him take some time for himself to heal the wounds and fill the void Granny had left in our lives. The four of us in Santiago did our share of reaching out, so I could relate to that father-son connection. The good news among the bad was that Grandad was coming to the deep south. Brian and I were delightfully surprised to have our grandfather all to ourselves, regardless of the fact we were back in school. After Maman's cancer, our Venezuelan curfews and other challenges, we were seasoned in finding comfort in family and coming together. This would be a great opportunity for all of us to join forces and help Grandad keep his mind on the positive and the magic of family. Once the news was out he was coming, another arduous waiting game began, hoping the day to go pick him up at the airport would come soon. I wanted all my friends to know he was coming and hoped they would meet him. I swear I must have even thought of organizing my GI Joes for a military parade welcoming him. My parents on the other hand were probably considering some fun activities, must-see events and locations.

The day finally closed in on us. Grandad arrived. The four of us were all present and accounted for at the airport to greet him and anxious to make every second of his visit count. The royal treatment we had previously extended to Mémé now applied to pampering Grandad. It was awesome coming home from school to see him. We also took him to our personal heaven in Reñaca where he seemed to appreciate the Pacific Coast. Once more we assumed the role of the most thorough tour guides in the region. We dined in our preferred restaurants, ventured around port area, and the Chilean navy even had a wonderful collection of war ships out on the waterfront, perhaps readying for a war game. My most precious memory of his trip was in the beach house during one of our quiet evenings together. Brian and I decided to turn the silence into entertainment. Lucky Grandad! In the early 90s, the song Black or White by Michael Jackson had taken the world by storm along with his unmatched abilities to moonwalk. Brian set us up for the opening ceremonies, popping in our tape of Michael Jackson's Dangerous as we scrambled to our places. Let the show begin! I performed some world class lip-synch routine wearing my huge dark sunglasses, my Terry Fox Run t-shirt bearing a massive red maple leaf and my gray jogging pants. Brian suited up in his fancy black nylon track outfit and busted every move in the dance move bible. Footloose had nothing on him. There is a video of this incident somewhere in the family records which I hope to share at some point on this blog before this priceless footage is lost in time. The Bickford performers were so unbelievably talented that my Grandad showed the tape to the family in Canada. What an honour! I know now what the Jackson 5 must of felt when they hit the big time.

Grandad leading the expedition through Valparaiso, Chile

Once Grandad returned home to Canada, reality, as it tends to do, set in. From here on out, every time I would see Grandad again, there would be no Granny. In fact, even until the last times I went to his house in Amherstview - for those who are not familiar with this place, it is a suburb of Kingston, Ontario - I never got used to not seeing Granny around. There was no dedicated tombstone or mausoleum where her remains rested. Grandad spread her ashes in the backyard of his house. Perhaps this was an idea to always be with her, but when his house was sold in the 2000s, I felt as if Granny had also been sold. My Pépé (my maternal grandfather) passed away when I was slightly over 3 years-old and now, my Granny at 11. It is impossible for me to say that I understood that this was a life process and our clock runs out when it has to. Actually, it was quite the opposite. I considered that I had been robbed of special people. On the subject of my Pépé, it saddens me that I do not remember much about him. Perhaps it was the age, the fact we did not live close by, or my age and having to keep up to constant wide scale changes. I have developed a mentality which adapts to tragic personal losses convinced that it is absolutely important to remember the good things about these people. As long as their memory prevails, they continue to accompany us through life. I like to think that when I reach a goal I set for myself, it was thanks to their positive thoughts, as they are my guardian angels watching out for me.