My Mother will be eighty eight years of age in about six weeks. In today’s world that’s about three and a half years older than the average national age of a woman’s life expectancy in Canada and about seven and a half years older than men. (Statistics taken from a 2011 to 2021 stats compilation from Statista.) Thankfully, Mom is beating the odds as are so many more seniors these days but, how long we live encompasses a multitude of factors. They are environmental and physiological, our genetic makeup, where we were born, when we were born, our financial and socio-economic situation, the quality and availability of our medical care, whether we have a pear shaped bottom or an apple shaped belly, how much we sleep, our eating, drinking and exercise habits, our stress levels and whether or not we live beside a constantly barking dog or work beside a construction site with back up beepers. (Those are enough to put anyone over the edge.) The list is extensive but one of the things we have learned, especially with the pandemic‘s isolation of our elderly, is that our physical, mental and spiritual well being is directly affected to konnection and community and much of that, as we grow older, means being able to tell our stories.
Our stories matter and the lives of the un-young often remain untold simply because there is no one around willing to take the time to listen to them which, to me, is such a shame. Hearing our elders speak their stories is an education. It’s time traveling into the past. It’s a teaching every time we are given a glimpse into their yesteryear and it’s information to cherish and pass on so their legacy lives on. It is an enlightenment and ensures that we have an understanding of the people we came from, from the people who built our families, our communities and how we’ve been impacted relative to them.
My Mom’s Father is a prime example of one who lived an interesting life. Grandpa was a Hungarian born in 1902 in Czechoslovakia which means he was a very young man in the First World War. When he turned 18 he was conscripted (compulsory service) into the Army in Czechoslovakia. He reluctantly showed up and soon found out the Army life was not for him and at some point into his service he went AWOL (Absent Without Leave). He just walked away with what he had and didn’t look back. He hopped a ship to Canada and the rest, as they say, is history.
Sadly, that history was never really spoken of. My Grandpa was such a quiet man He spoke very little and when he did it was either to Gran in Hungarian who translated to us in English or he was difficult to understand so we would just nod our heads, pretending we knew what he was saying, sorry Grandpa. I know he had stories to tell as often my Dad would take to talking to him and try to glean what he could. For instance, in Gramps early days he was a Pool Shark, hustling his buddies and strangers alike for extra pocket money. I mean hello Bad Ass Grampa. When he arrived in Canada he was sent to the prairies to toil on a farm, as many new immigrants were and eventually, at the age of thirty three he married my Gran whom he had corresponded with for two years from Hungary, marrying her two days after she arrived. He ended up taking his family from Saskatchewan to Edmonton where he opened Kensington Shoe Renew and it served the community for fourty years.
I really don’t know much else of his life. I know nothing about his parents, his siblings, his homeland, his loves, his dislikes, his thoughts and feelings. I know as a young man he went to a fair and was in line to take a ride on an airplane and the plane crashed as he watched. He would never consider flying after that until he was probably in his late sixties and my Gran convinced him to go to Hawaii. At least that was the story relayed to me by another relative who really wasn’t too sure about the details…? I know he and my Gran were very involved in the grassroots of the Hungarian Society in Edmonton. They welcomed in newcomers, found them homes and work and provided a connection from their homeland to their new home in Canada. My Grandparent’s home was always full of people, eating, drinking, dancing, singing, laughter and konnection. My Grandparents knew of and nurtured the power of community and how important keeping their culture and traditions were while embarking on integrating into their Canadian life.
Grandpa would come home with a pocket full of cash everyday and hand it directly to Gran, smart man. He had little say in the day to day household runnings. Theirs was a traditional arrangement of “I go to work and make the money, you do the rest.” Apparently it worked for both and although they were not wealthy people they did well for themselves and their family. They owned a business and a home and had five children who wanted for nothing. They had a beautiful garden and a basement stocked with preserved cans and jars, just in case. The worry of not having enough was instilled in them as they grew up in countries that were often in conflict and they were left wanting. My Mom, born in 1935 in Edmonton, said she had no idea there was even a war happening in Europe, true evidence of us being a product of where we are born and under what circumstances.
By the time I was to be married my Grandpa had dementia and wasn’t really able to communicate much anymore. He was in attendance at my wedding, smartly turned out in suit and fedora as always. He was proud as punch, even though I only know that by the smile on his face and the twinkling in his rheumy blue eyes, perhaps they were tears of joy. I was twenty two when I married and I was certain I was a mature and knowing woman. Funny how we see ourselves. Fourty years later I have learned that were I to know then what I know now I would (a.) Realize I knew very little about a whole lot and (b.) I would have sat down with all of my Grandparents to ask each of them to tell me about their life in their own words. Those are stories that are lost now. Stories that have not been passed down as accurately as they would have imparted to me. When I ask my Mom and Aunties and Uncles who are all in their senior years now, they do their best to try to recollect but often don’t remember things from their own lives let alone their parents.
Folklore is the oral passing of stories through word and song and I love that. I believe it’s important to encourage folklore in our lives, to mark and acknowledge the passage of every life because it is from them that we are us. My hubby’s Father had a fascinating tale to tell but he couldn’t tell it. His early life was difficult and sorrowful and he chose to not talk about his past. He literally walked away from his home (I see a trend here) in High Prairie, Alberta to Edmonton but, unlike my Grandpa, he voluntarily joined the Army. Waking up every morning to make his bed, shine his shoes, enjoy three squares a day and wear a clean uniform that was provided for him was, in his words, like being on holiday and he was getting paid for it! Isn’t perspective a powerful thing? My Father-in-law served in WWII and in the Korean War and he passed away at the age of sixty nine having said every day after those wars was the cherry on the cake. Most of his life stories passed with him and it was only at his Celebration of Life that my hubby learned he actually had an extended family. It was a revelation, it was exciting to konnect with all of his “new” family and it was heartbreaking all at the same time.
Can you imagine the tales just those two men had to tell? Imagine the library of history we can garner from sitting down with our elders to hear them relate to us who they were, what they did, their learnings, their wisdom, their perspective, their views? We are all products of our generation, our up bringing and our experiences. Some of us choose to be closed diaries, shut tight under lock and key, never to expose ourselves, while others can’t wait to tell us every single detail of their lives, even to strangers, while standing in the check out line at Walmart. Man, those lines are long and inevitably I get to learn all about how someone chooses the chocolates they eat, all while justifying eating chocolate, even though they have diabetes and are overweight and the Doc keeps harping on them to loose weight and get their blood sugar down, but it’s just a few chocolates, occasionally, while watching Family Feud and babysitting their grandchildren because their daughter split with her hubby and is working two jobs and the landlord evicted her because she wouldn’t give up her two dogs and a cat, one dog having a heart condition and needs meds daily and the cat is a sprayer, if you know what I mean. (Here’s where she takes a deep breath…)
Don’t get me wrong, I love hearing these stories and everything I hear is fodder for my writing and trust me, I will write about it if I can. I also really appreciate people who are happy to tell me about themselves, even if I haven’t asked. Sometimes it’s just a friendly smile and boom, they are off to the verbal races. It makes me feel like I’m someone they are comfortable with and that’s a good feeling. However, the stories I want to know about are things like what it was like when you took your very first ride in a car, when you only had horse and carriage your whole life? What was it like to cross the Atlantic on a ship to a new land without any family beside you, never knowing if you would ever see them again? What happened when your Mom passed and you and your siblings were put into a Convent in Alberta where you spoke Cree even though you were a white guy? Do you remember the sounds of the bombs when you were a wee boy in Glasgow and what happened when you were evacuated? What happened to your Dad who went to fight in Russia and came back 20 years later? How did it feel to marry a woman you never met in person? What was it like having children without the benefit of pre or post natal care, gas to help you breathe and no partners allowed? What did you think of Woodstock? Were you a woman who fought for equality? Did you read and who was your favourite Author? What was your favourite music? Who did you listen to for advice? Did you ever know your Dad after he left your Mom, you and your three brothers? Why did he do that? Where did he go? How did your Dad come to be a wealthy horse and ranch owner from Gage Town? Do you believe in God? How did you become a shoemaker? How did you learn to cook so well? Where have you travelled and what was your favourite place? What do you think of the world as it stands today? What is your best piece of advice for a young person today?
The list of questions is endless and I do think that given the opportunity, an hour of free time to just talk about their own past, who they were then and what brought them to who they are now would be fascinating for the listener and perhaps cathartic for the teller. It is a proven fact that we all wish to be heard. We all want someone to acknowledge us, to see us and to know that our time spent here will be remembered because of who were and that we did good.
Much of what I think, how I feel and who I am is open to anyone who reads what I write. That’s a choice I’ve made by being a writer though I think, most people, whether they write or not, have something to say. I encourage you to sit down with your Grandparents, your parents, your older family members and friends and take the time to record their lore. Whether it’s on voice recording or you have them write it out or you write it out for them, it doesn’t matter. Simply them knowing someone is interested, knowing that someone cares about them and what there life has been about is usually enough to have them open up and enjoy the telling and someday, when you are asked about them, you’ll be able to answer without having to dig into the ole long term memory bank and hope you have it right. Ask them to Speak Now, because at some point they won’t be here and they will forever hold their “piece” and their peace. Go on you young-uns, lend your ear, your time and your attention to the un-young and what they have to say.I know you’ll be better for it and I do believe, so will they.
Love Kiki,
xoxo
“I’ve learned; the best classroom in the world is at the feet of an elderly person.” —
Andy Rooney
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