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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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."
