About Hemingway...

Hemingway once said/wrote that 'in a story, you can leave something out and it is still perfectly plain to the reader'. Basically, I have been accused of being verbose in years passed with my writing. That, however, will not be a concern today.

I assume that my family is like most families. We talk, we laugh, we bitch and complain at one another. Just the other day I told my dad to F&%$ Off for the first time ever. It was great. He was asking me for a favour and I told him "No, f&%$ off". He laughed and said "Yeah, f&%$ you too, anyway. Here's what I need...." Things like that are new. They are fun. It's a boundary I have never treaded with my dad.

Bu then there are the things that we don't tread on. The things we don't talk about. In a lot of ways, the things we don't talk about, the things we NEVER talk about define our family more than almost anything else does. These are things that hurt, they hurt to talk about and they hurt not to talk about at the same time. If we do talk about it, it hurts you. If we don't talk about it, it hurts me. So, we get stuck in that void of almost talking about things that some of us are desperate to discuss and others of us will kill to avoid.

For example, there's that thing my mom did when I tried to show her this blog, that made me feel like crap. She asked if I had written about (insert taboo topic) to which I replied, "No mum, this is about me. It's not about that!" Well, that's maybe not the best example. Hemingway might not be totally right in this instance.

At this point I am a little worried that I might be being too vague. Yet when I think on Hemingway I realise that he was right and I need to trust him. I have to let the reader take away what they will from the writing, otherwise it is like being slapped in the face with a wet fish.

What I find really funny is that now, at the end of an era in our family history, what kinds of stories come out. You see, I can say with certainty now that skeletons in the closet do come out, but they come out decades after they get shoved in. And when they come out, you get excited and part of you shrieks inside at knowing something so hideous. I'll give you an example. In 1997, my grandfather passed away and we spent several months cleaning out the old farmhouse, the home where my parents now reside. We found lots of old stuff but the greatest find was, I think, my sister's. She found a box of old letters written by my great-uncle to his parents during the second world war. My sister put them in chonological order by their postmarks and discovered something odd. In the middle of the war, the letters stopped being addressed to 'Norman & Ada Augustine' and became addressed only to 'Ada'. Together my sister and I surmised that our great-grandfather must have died during WWII. When we asked my dad whether our great-grandfather had died, he nearly floored us with the answer.

"Yep, that was when he went out to the barn with a shotgun and killed himself."

I was 23 at the time I found this out, but I can understand why no one would have talked about it until then. After lots of questions were asked and answered, the skeleton in the closet ceased to be a skeleton and instead became a series of jigsaw puzzle pieces that we used to fill in bits of our family history we had never known. 'Shocking' turned to 'sad' which turned to 'puzzling' which finally became 'interesting', and all this happened rather quickly.

Now all this sounds rather dark but that is in fact not the feeling I wanted to convey. I think there are lots of reasons we don't talk about things, hurt is just one. There are also reasons like embarassment, pride, and shame.

Take for example each of my grandmothers. There were some rather interesting facets of their personalities that I didn't know until they were gone . My mum's mum had been totally and completely devoted to theatre and plays at her school growing up; my dad's mum had always dreamed of being a clothing designer. Why neither one of them talked about these parts of their lives I don't know! Maybe it was shame over goals not met, or perhaps embarassment at what they considered to be foolish dreams of their youth. But until I found these things out, I had believed I was the family oddball (pink sheep of the family?). When I was 15 I wanted to be a clothing designer and when I was 18 I wanted to be an actor! I wish now they had talked about these things with me when I was growing up.

Last night, my father laid a good one on me, something I had never heard before. He looked at me from across the room, where I sat by my computer with my reading glasses on...and he said that I was suddenly the spitting image of his grandfather, Norman, the one who committed suicide. I have no bad feelings about this, of course. (The idea of the suicide seems so matter-of-fact now) But then I realised that I had never seen a picture of him. Dad said there was a picture of him, only one in fact, but that we would have to find it later. I wish now people had talked about mt great-grandfather more. I never knew him. He died in 1944. But I could have known something of him a lot sooner if they had only talked about him.

Now I think on my parents and I smile to myself. So many traits that define me seem to have come from my grandparents and great grandparents. I look like my great grandfather, Norman, but I have my great-grandmother's eyes. I liked design and fashion like my dad's mum, but I wanted to be an actor like my mum's mother. In the end, my talent/aptitude for languages seems to be uniquely my own. It seems I haven't received any natural talents or tendencies from my mum or dad (except maybe sarcasm and humour).

If I had a choice though, I know what I would want to take from each of them. From my mum, it would be strength and ingenuity; from my dad, it would be patience and a gentle heart. These are qualities I have come to admire in each of them. These are things that we don't really talk about, though.

Sometimes, you don't talk about things simply because you don't need to.

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About Family....

It is no secret that I have a lot of problems with family. There is a dynamic that emerges within all families that you can never get any other time or place in life. Everyone knows these stories, and most people have several of their own. These are often like caricatures of the annoying neighbour and his nosey wife on reruns of any old sitcom.

But a nice thing about 'family' that everyone can appreciate is the oddball humour that also emerges. Families generate their own in-jokes and can talk about stuff that seems mundane to the naked observer(!), idiosyncracies you have that only come out when family are around make all the difference in how we relate to those close to us. I tend to channel my dead grandparents from time to time, imitating their strange banter. My father pesters our cat, accusing it of 'talkin dirty' when it hisses and growls at him. My mother has her little german-isms, things she says in the Schwabiche dialect that only she can understand. And my sister's patented petnames for us all "How are you, POODLE?!?!"

This morning I dragged myself out of bed and trundled downstairs to the breakfast table just as my dad was closing the washroom door behind him, mum was making coffee. Bleary-eyed, I sat contemplating my placemat when my dad came out of the washroom.
"Don't go in, just dropped a bomb!" he seemed to announce as though to a crowd.
I smiled and waited. Mum brought in the coffee.

"Do you want a piece of toast too, Marky-honey-sweetie-pie?"
"Don't call me that", I muttered, "Yeah sure..."

I waited the requisite 3-4 minutes before getting up to use the toilet. I poked my head in and nearly gagged.
"JEEEEEEEEEEEEESUS, YOU WEREN"T KIDDING!" I gasped
"GOD DAD, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN EATING!!! SKUNK?!?!" my face was contorted with the outburst.
"Why, it's all this HEALTHY food you been makin! THAT's what it is!" he retorted, with a smile, "ROSES! That's nothing but the smell of ROSES!!!" (I had recently re-introduced my parents to the notion of 'salad')
"Yeah", my quick tongue never failed the opportunity, "Roses next to the nuclear power plant up in Pickering!!!"

Enter my mother, a woman cursed with a tendency to want to fix everything, ...
"Oh you two, GAWD! Let me handle this!!!" With that, she took a deep breath and went into the washroom, quickly slamming the door behind her. I imagined her face turning blue. I had no idea what she might be doing to quell the stench. Moments like that really prove what love a mother has for her son.

"I LOVE YOU MOM", I cried out. I don't tend to say it often but she takes it where she can get it.
"There!" she returned unscathed, "Now give it a few minutes to clear out!"
An open window makes all the difference.
"Now, what are you two IMPLYING about me!!!" my father laughed
"Yoy, ish tanem! Allan ...you...?!" Sadly/thankfully, my mother never developed the 'sharp-tongue' gene that my sister and I have been cursed/blessed with.
"Why, you just don't APPRECIATE what real perfume is!" he nearly squealed.
"YOU can go appreciate it!" I interrupted with a smile, "it's not like it's fine art or anything..." I munched my toast and drank the coffee.
"Sugar?" my dad looked around. My mother passed it to him.
"Cream?" My mother passed it to him.
"Butter?" My mother passed it to him. I was smirking the whole time.

I could feel the spirit of my grandfather welling up within me.
"ERMA, WHERE'S THE GREASE!" -- that was his affectionate pseudonym for butter!
"Have we got Lorne here? Is Lorne joining us for breakfast?" My father never failed to get the joke. My mother rolled her eyes.
In my last job, I had to teach countless student about the necessity of using polite phrases and language to make requests and offers. Things like "Have you got any..." and "Could I please have the ...." were essential. At breakfast with my folks, I wondered why I had bothered.

Home is the place where people understand you. It's about shared history really...

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Today, my big job was to start cleaning out my grandfather's workshop.



I was only able to get as far as the scrap metal under his lathe. It took me the better part of the afternoon, but in conversation with my dad I found out something interesting. Packed tighter than a schoolbus full of fat kids en route to a day at the HERSEY'S factory, I asked my father when the last time was that shop had been empty. His answer? 1936!

It was then that I realised the real historical value of the place. Stuff in that workshop hadn't been moved through the 2nd World War, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, it had seen the rise and fall of the poodle skirt, legwarmers, the first moon landing, The Beatles, and Grunge Music. It had been there through the reign of Margaret Thatcher, Mao Tse Dung, Trudeau, and countless world leaders. It had seen the advent of television, cable tv, 8-track tapes, cassette tapes, BETA, VHS, Laser discs, and now it was being cleaned out in the age of DVDs, VCDs, the internet, and finally gay marriage. (WOOOO-HOOOO)

"HEY DAD", I yelled across the yard, "WE SHOULD SELL THIS WHOLE FUCKING THING AS A TIME CAPSULE!"
My dad laughed. He never fails to get the joke.

Though it started to snow late in the day, he didn't stop working. Welding a grain auger out in front of the shop was his job for the day.

Auction sale in less than two weeks...