Christmas past and present

Christmas Day 2018 is in the books, but for our family, whose lives are largely governed by the academic calendar, the days following Christmas remain a time of relaxation, loose schedules, eating, sleeping and reading.  It is a restful time, a time of reflection, a time to find space in the slowness of the days to think about the year past, and the days ahead. 

Of all the holidays in our largely Christian-centred society, Christmas seems to be the one with the most emphasis on family and friends, for remembering the past, and for missing those who are not with us.  It is a time of nostalgia, for thinking about Christmases past and traditions handed down through generations.

Preparations for Christmas are full of connections to family and friends.  My first Christmas task is usually writing and mailing our annual Christmas letter, a tradition we started in the first year of our marriage when we lived far away from all of our family and friends.  I look down the list of names and addresses, and think of each person on that list.  There are former students, of course, but there are also a couple of childhood friends, one or two friends from high school days, cousins and distant cousins, members of various churches where my husband ministered before Chaplaincy led us East.  There are a few mentors, although they are not as numerous as they used to be, former colleagues, campers from the summer camp where we worked a lifetime ago, and former roommates.  Each name on that list represents a connection from the past, a story on the timeline of our lives, someone treasured and remembered with love.  And every year, names are removed from the list, people who have moved on, or people who have passed into the next life.  These names are remembered with sadness for their loss and gratitude for their significance in our lives.

The next task is to decorate our tree, another connection to people and places and events as we sort through ornaments that have accumulated over time.  There is the ornament from a former Fine Arts student who suffered a devastating head injury and had to re-learn how to paint; the lovely painted paper pear that she gave us was one of the first things she created after her injury.  There are handmade ornaments and cards from another former student who lived with us for an academic year after her accommodation plans fell through literally at the last possible minute, and truly became part of our every day family life for a time.  My best friend’s mom, recently gone, cross-stitched a small ornament to commemorate our first Christmas as a married couple.  We each have ornaments from childhood.  My husband and I remember our tentative early relationship as we hang the ornaments we bought each other at The Bay in downtown Winnipeg on the spur of the moment; since then, exchanging ornaments at Christmas has become part of our tradition.  There are the lovely little ornaments that we bought together for our very first Christmas tree in Hamilton, glass and wooden ornaments from Sterrman’s, a little store across the street from our apartment in Westdale, and Eaton’s.  Other ornaments remind us of times spent in other places: the bison ornament from Manitoba, the origami paper doll that we brought back from Japan, the glass ball filled with the red sand and tiny beach treasures from Prince Edward Island, wooden lighthouses from Nova Scotia, and a Grey Cup replica to remind us of the excitement of being part of a Grey Cup winning team in 2016.  We have ornaments made by our children in various schools and Sunday schools as they grew, and others that I made with them, memories one of my very favourite traditions with them.  There are ornaments made by my mother and by me, ornaments made by friends, and ornaments made by other children we have watched grow, like the rice trees made by children who were part of our every day lives for a period of 5 years while their father attended Mount A; one of our favourite Christmas memories of them was the year they bought a Christmas lobster that was so large they had a hard time finding a pot to cook it in, and the children led their “pet” lobster around their kitchen on a leash.

I recall traditions we began with our children.  When they were smaller, and we had more people around our home, we started a tradition of asking visitors to draw their hands on a piece of construction paper.  The hands were arranged on the front door in a wreath shape, a visual reminder of our connection to others.  I still have those hands, and look at their sizes and shapes and the names written on them with affection.  Another tradition was decorating a Jesse tree, a young tree that we pulled from our yard and “planted” in a cement base in a juice can.  Every day we would read a story from the Bible, starting with the story of Creation and continuing into Advent, and place an ornament on the Jesse tree to help us remember the traditions of our faith. 

All of these tangible reminders of Christmases past lead to memories of particular Christmases.  When I was a child, my family lived in Kitimat, B.C. for several years, where my father was the minister of a church consisting largely of German immigrants.  My memories of Christmas in Kitimat are filled with deep snow, German food, immense church choirs, pageants, and a beautiful green advent wreath suspended by red ribbons over the communion table.  One special Christmas, my older cousin and her husband, who were expecting their first child, spent Christmas Eve with us.  That might have been the same Christmas when we went in search of a Christmas tree along the highway leading out of Kitimat.  The snow was so deep that we were able to cut the top off of a spruce tree in the ditch.  It was filthy from being beside the highway and had to be washed and dried before we could decorate it.

Because my dad was a minister and we lived great distances from any extended family, the few Christmases that we were able to share with family were extra special.  One memorable Christmas, we took the train from Manitoba to Mission, B.C. to spend Christmas with my grandparents.  The train trip was spectacular and a lot of fun.  My grandparents, who did not read English well, bought me a book because they knew I loved to read; it was a romance novel, highly inappropriate for a 13-year-old girl.  I’m sure my grandmother would have been mortified if she knew what kind of book it was, but I loved its illicitness.  Another Christmas, when we lived in Kamloops, my mother’s entire family came to spend the holiday with us in our small bungalow.  We walked the hills around Kamloops, ate a lot of food, and enjoyed the time spent together.   

When I got married, Christmases changed.  My husband is also a minister, and we lived in Hamilton, in between my parents in Manitoba and my in-laws in Nova Scotia.  We spent our first Christmas by ourselves in our little apartment, and ate Christmas dinner at the home of an elderly couple who were friends of our families.  Christmases in southern Ontario were filled with Hamilton Philharmonic performances of “Messiah,” the occasional professional performance of “The Nutcracker,” and other “big city” events. 

One of my favourite southern Ontario Christmases was when I was pregnant with my first child.  We decided to fly to Nova Scotia to spend part of Christmas with my husband’s family.  My husband had services on Christmas Eve and our flight was booked for late Christmas afternoon.  A neighbouring extended family who became our “family” invited us for Christmas breakfast.  We spent a lovely, relaxed, happy day with them, highlighted by a nap in front of their fireplace for my husband, and a peaceful walk through their snowy woods for me.  It was so pleasant that it was with great reluctance that we left them to go to the airport. 

Once our children were born, Christmas changed again.  My parents and brother joined us for our first Christmas in Sackville when I was pregnant with our second child.  Our 3-1/2 year old son, who woke very early on Christmas morning, saw the light on under the door of the downstairs washroom while my father was using it, and ran into our room to tell us that Santa was in our washroom.  Christmases were filled with the excitement and awe and enthusiasm of children, eventually evolving into slightly calmer holidays as they grew to adulthood (although this year was only the 2nd year that our now-24-year old daughter slept past 6 a.m.). 

Our Christmases for the past 25 years have been shared with various family members and students.  For several years, we had a small group of students from Africa who variously spent Christmas Day with us.  In my daughter’s Grade 12 year, we added an exchange student from Denmark who was in her class.  My nephews, who are younger than my children, re-introduced the joy of young children to our Christmas celebrations.  More recently, a young Syrian family has shared Christmas dinner with us; this year, with the addition of twin girls to their family last January, there were three small children in our gathering.

Food reminds us of people and days gone by.  Our traditional Christmas baking recipes include my best friend’s Cranberry White Chocolate Chip cookies, Nuts & Bolts from the  family of the former Baptist minister we knew from Brandon, Manitoba who later became my husband’s supervisor in St. Catharines, Ontario (we spent a lovely Christmas Eve with them one year complete with their Dutch tradition of lighting real candles on the tree, but only for a moment!), and of course, traditional Christmas cake and shortbread from my Nana and mother, and fruitcake recipes from both sides of our family which are very similar except that my family’s fruitcake is soaked in Jamaican rum which reflects their history there, and my husband’s family’s fruitcake in brandy. 

The spiritual remembrances of Advent and Christmas connect us on a whole other level to those who have gone before over centuries.  The carols we sing, the scriptures we read, the special services and cantatas we attend all remind us that we are part of a much larger tradition.

As we grow older, inevitably, there are bigger holes in our celebrations.  Both of our fathers are gone, and for me, Christmas is not as complete without my dad.  He loved children, and loved Christmas, and I think of him a lot at this time of year.  One day we will inevitably face Christmas without one or both of our children as they pursue their lives; perhaps they will have families of their own, or perhaps they (or we) will relocate to homes which make it more difficult for us to be together.  As the life cycle continues to evolve, and we become more secure in our own identities and strengths, we become mentors ourselves, names hopefully to be recalled with fondness and gratitude. 

Traditions can become meaningless or onerous, and for many people, the traditions of Christmas create stress.  But I find peace and connection in the continuity of the traditions of our family that remind me of times past, of gentler days, of friends and people we love. The memories and inspiration we find in the traditions and people of times past help us create a more meaningful and kind present, and possibly even a more meaningful and hopeful future.  I  hope that our traditions and celebrations will continue to inspire and encourage us, and that in turn, our lives might become a source of encouragement and inspiration for others in the years that lie ahead, whether or not we are together at Christmas.

Home sweet home

Sometimes, important anniversaries pass us by without notice, and we are reminded by random things like someone else’s Facebook post about a seemingly unrelated event.  That happened to me this morning, when I saw the notice from a friend that their son had celebrated his 25th birthday.

Twenty-five years ago, we sent off a moving van full of furniture and treasured possessions, and finished cleaning the Baptist manse in Paris (Ontario).  We realized that all of the things we had set aside to transport ourselves in our Ford Tempo were definitely not going to fit in the car if we hoped to be in the car as well.  So we drove to several Canadian Tires in neighbouring towns in search of a rooftop carrier.  We finally found an unassembled carrier, which we struggled to put together in the parking lot, right in front of one of those signs you’ve all seen informing consumers that they are not permitted to use the parking lots to assemble things that have been bought at the store.  I’m pretty sure we had no other option... how on earth does one transport an unassembled car top carrier if not on top of the car?

We finished packing up, and spent the night with friends in Paris who were imminently expecting their second child.  While we were eating supper, I noticed that she was grimacing, and I said, "You're in labour, aren't you?"  She assured me she was okay, but halfway through the night, she and her husband left for the hospital.  At some point during the night, their son was born.  We stopped for a visit on our way out of town, and spent the next night with our adopted family on their farm in Mountsberg.

The next day we travelled to Ottawa, where we crashed at my brother's apartment.  While he was at work, my husband fell asleep in the bedroom, and our 3-year-old son and I fell asleep on the sofa in the living room.  We must have been exhausted, because when my brother arrived some several hours later, he walked in to an apartment of sleeping people absolutely covered in concrete dust.  We had left the balcony doors open to try to get some air circulating (because it was Ottawa and it was hot).  We had all slept through workers jackhammering the concrete balcony above his apartment, and the dust billowed in.

After we left Ottawa, with our Tempo so loaded down with plants and other items that our son had to crawl through the front seat to get into his car seat, we drove through the night, until we got a flat tire between Edmundston and Grand Falls at about 5 a.m. We had to unpack our entire trunk at the side of the road in order to get to the donut tire, then repack it and continue on to Grand Falls.  We found a garage, which didn’t open until 6, so we waited around, unpacking the trunk yet again to get out the damaged tire, only to be to be told that they could not repair the tire, and we would have to purchase a new one.  Unfortunately, they did not have the tire we needed, so they advised us to go to the local Canadian Tire.

We finally found the tire we needed.  After, you guessed it, unpacking our previously carefully packed trunk yet again to put the donut tire back in its space, we were on our way, arriving at our new home in Sackville later that day.  The adventures continued; we became first-time home owners, the basement in our 4-year-old house started to collapse and had to be replaced (that’s another story for another day), and we eventually had another baby. 

Twenty-five years.... a lifetime for our kids, and a very long time in any circumstance.  I moved around so much when I was a child that I always told my husband that I could live anywhere, as long as it wasn’t forever.  This starts to feel a lot like “forever.”  Some days, that’s a good thing.

How does one reflect meaningfully on twenty-five years of life in the same place?  When we arrived here, we were a young, growing family, and we figured we would be here for 3-4 years max.  Now we are heading towards retirement and the so-called “sunset years.”  Our kids have grown up here, and so have we.  My husband has had an extremely challenging and rewarding career.  We live in the same house we originally bought, warts and all (although it has a new-er basement).  We have experienced birth and death in this place, joy and anger, frustration and satisfaction, belonging and betrayal.  We have lived our lives here, for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, for richer and, definitely after our basement incident, for poorer.  I think we mostly feel that we belong here, that we have a place in the community.  Many happy memories have been made in this home and this community, with all kinds of people.  We have created a home where I hope everyone feels that they have a place and where they won’t be turned away.

I do not know what the next few years hold for us, whether we will choose to stay here or go off in search of different adventures.  But for now, this is home sweet home.

Random update and other miscellany

I have not posted anything for a while, for a variety of reasons: a rough winter personally and being in a bit of a funk, lack of time due to a full-time job and an intense research project, and not being sure that I have anything to say that is of interest or value. 

I also took a bit of a break from Facebook in the sense that I have not been posting many statuses or responding to other people's posts much.  I found that I was responding to a lot of posts in groups or on other people's pages, posts made by people that I do not know personally, and I have come to question the usefulness of doing so. 

Although I have not been highly present, I have been thinking about many things.  Here, in no particular order, are some of the random thoughts that I have had recently. 

1) Trump is still President.  I am disturbed by this fact on many levels.  One is that so many people are obsessed with every word or tweet or appearance he makes.  Another is the fact that although he is clearly immoral, has clearly done several things that are illegal, and is a danger not only to Americans but to the world, there have still been no moves made to impeach him.  My theory is that there is little to no political will to remove him from office.  The longer he is in office, the better the Democrats (or even other Republican leaders) start to look.  I believe that at some level, the public, especially the American public, is secretly fascinated with the titillating leadership of Trump, and there is actually no real will to return to a less dramatic, pre-Trump state of things.  I fully expect that not only will he finish out his first term as President, he will also be re-elected, and although many people will claim to be upset and disappointed, in reality, the vast majority of people are living for his next tweet. 

2) The more headlines I see about what people should and shouldn't feed their pets, whether or not they should be swimming in lakes and rivers, how many ticks are between the paw pads of dogs, whether feeding them ice will kill them or not, the number of dogs left in hot vehicles, etc., the more I am convinced that animals would be much better off if they were not pets, and nature, not human intervention, was allowed to guide their lives.  (Yep, I realize probably no one is going to agree with me on this one.  I'm okay with that).

3) The older I get, the longer my to-do list gets, and the less time I seem to have to get anything accomplished. 

4) Somewhat related to #3, I am a bit panicky about how fast time seems to go these days.  I go back to work in just over 2 weeks... where did the summer go? 

5) This is the first year in at least 5 years that I will not make it to even one live CFL game.  

I also have some posts that I plan to work on in the next little while.  I would like to be more regular in posting, but we will see how that goes.  Here, as a bit of a teaser, are some of the posts that are percolating, in no particular order:

1) Riding Mountain National Park;
2) Why "church" and I are having a bit of a disagreement at the moment;
3) Train travel;
4)  Legacies (the meaning of life); 
5)  Baking bread; 
6)  Sackville, New Brunswick.

So, yes, I'm still here, in case anyone was worried.  I'm just spending a lot of time thinking about things, and trying to figure a few things out.  I'll be back soon.  

In search of wisdom, grace, and justice

I have been posting vague statuses on Facebook recently about a situation that has caused me a lot of grief and pain and anger.  I eventually apologized for doing that.  I really dislike it when people make vague posts, and don’t give details.  Unfortunately, although I would really like to, I cannot give any details because the situation involves other people who could be perceived as being vulnerable.

What I can say is that I was basically asked to step away from something that has really consumed my life for the past 2.5 years.  I did so immediately, because of the other people involved.  I was not given a reason or an explanation, and in fact, almost two weeks later, I still have not received any explanation.  The limited exchanges that I have had since then with those involved have been unsatisfactory because of a lack of honesty and transparency on their part.  I have been told that the organization has decided to “move forward” and that I will not receive any explanation.  I still have no idea what precipitated this request, and it looks like maybe I never will.

After feeling intense seething fury for almost a week, so much so that I felt physically ill and my blood pressure was sky high, I had no choice but to try to find a way to deal with the situation, and try not to let it keep me bitter.  Part of unpacking this bitterness and anger, I suppose, is to reflect on what I have learned over the past little while.  So here, in no particular order, are some thoughts.

1.      There are times in life when you do the right thing, for the right reason, and it turns out to not be worth it.

2.      No matter how old you are, and how tough you think you are, there is always the potential to have your heart broken.

3.      “Evil” and “vile” are spelled almost the same.  Maybe that gives them more power when they are used together.  There are evil, vile people in the world, and sometimes (in fact, often) they win.

4.      Being a good person (or trying to be) does not make you immune from suffering at the hands of evil, vile people.

5.      In the same vein, sociopaths and pathologically dishonest people do not just exist as criminals on TV shows, and they really do not have consciences.  And even though you can see them at work, and even though you can see it coming, when the people surrounding these evil, vile people are too afraid to address the situation, you are pretty much powerless to prevent it. 

6.      People who you have known, liked and respected for many years, and who you thought felt the same way about you, will stab you in the back with no hesitation.  Even people of faith.  That’s a bit strong, and I know in my situation, that some of the people involved, who I have known for years, did actually attempt to intervene, and that some of them share my sense of injustice.  But there were others whose betrayal has been complete.  They might think they had good reasons for their actions.  They might think they did nothing to deserve this condemnation, but to them, I would say that by their silence, they are complicit.  What’s that quotation?  “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”  Well, if you’re reading this, you know who you are, and you know what actions you did or didn’t take. 

7.      Anger and sadness are physically and emotionally exhausting.

8.      There are times in life when your children are wiser than you are.  There are times when you can learn a lot from them about how to deal with life.  Sometimes when they are in the exact same position that you are, they react with much more restraint and respect and maturity than you do.  I think that’s a good thing.  At least it is for them.  I’m not sure if that says much for me.

9.      It is not helpful for the person who has wronged you to say “I understand how you must feel.” You have no idea how I feel.  Either that, or you don't care. 

10.  “Confidentiality” is a good thing, for the most part.  But sometimes, binding honourable people to “confidentiality” makes a great cover for dishonourable people to tell a group of people whatever they want, without the person who is involved knowing what is being said behind their back, or being able to defend themselves.

11.  It is, I think, impossible to apologize for something if you don’t know what you are apologizing for.  It is impossible to forgive those who have so deliberately wronged you, without those wrongs being acknowledged and without forgiveness being sought.

12.  When you have no idea of what you have done in the first place, you find yourself second-guessing every well-intentioned action.  Instead of reacting according to your nature, you continually question your actions and your motivations.  Your first thought when you are trying to do something good is whether it is worth it.

13.  Sometimes there are serious consequences for other people from actions that you are forced to take.  Sometimes you have to relinquish your feelings of guilt and responsibility for these consequences, because even though you could possibly mitigate them, the other people clearly don’t want you involved.  In other words, sometimes people deserve their consequences.

As I write this, two weeks later, I am still hurt and angry.  The seething rage has mostly disappeared.  I have deliberately cut a few people completely out of my life, at least in terms of personal relationships, although this is a small town and it would be impossible to never see or speak to them again.  I will not be intimidated by them; I have no intention of avoiding places I want to go, and when I see them, I hope that I will be able to look them straight in the eyes and hold my head up high, even if I want to run to the other side of the town. 

Who knows, maybe in a few years, or months, or (highly unlikely) weeks, I will be able to think of this period in my life, and the people involved, with no bitterness or anger at all.  I’m still pretty far from that point.  I hope that I can eventually be a bigger person, and at least be gracious.  Also pretty far from there right now.  I really don’t know what positive lesson I am supposed to learn from this situation.  I’m struggling to live out my Christian beliefs through all this, and turn the other cheek, and forgive seventy times seven times.  I’m struggling to make the connection between justice and forgiveness, because nothing about this is just, and forgiveness just seems to say that I’m letting them off the hook, which also doesn’t seem just.  I’m struggling to find a place for grace. I'm struggling for wisdom.

Maybe it will become clear at some point.  I guess I can try to live in hope.

A tribute to my father-in-law

Just before Christmas, my father-in-law died.  He had been failing for almost a year, so in some ways, we had anticipated his death.  But his final decline seemed drastically sudden.  

My father-in-law was a university president for 13 years, and was known for his kindness and compassionate administrative principles.  He taught and administered at the same university for over 25 years.  He was involved in many community organizations, authored several books and edited many other books and articles, and was a respected academic and administrator.  He was, as his friend Alex Colville wrote, “a man of substantial intellectual accomplishment, of great energy, and of firm principles” and he was a man of faith.  He received 2 honorary doctorates, and was awarded a Commemorative Medal for Canada’s 125^th anniversary and a Queen’s Diamond Jubilee Medal. 

His funeral was a large and public affair, well attended by the community.  The funeral service remembered and celebrated his professional accomplishments, and his legacy as a community and institutional leader was recognized. 

He was an accomplished and respected man, and I respected him greatly.  And yet, in all of the public memorials following his death, I did not feel a great sense of personal connection to this public figure.  I did not know him as a community volunteer, or a teacher, or a pastor, or a university president.  I knew him as my husband’s father, and grandfather to our children.  The things that I personally know or remember about him are less connected to his public roles and his place in the community. 

My first memory of him is when my newly minted fiancé phoned his parents to let them know that there would be an addition to the family (me).  To put this into perspective, his parents lived in Nova Scotia.  We had a bit of a whirlwind romance, and had spent the summer working together, 4 provinces away, at a somewhat isolated summer camp, with no telephone (and before the days of cell phones).  Until I met my husband, I had never heard of his family, or his community, or the university where his father was then the president; before this phone call, they had certainly never heard of me, or my family. 

After my future husband broke the news that he was planning to marry this previously unheard of young woman, there was silence.  Then, in a moment of pure graciousness, my future father-in-law sputtered his congratulations.  Not just once, but repeatedly, as he struggled to react appropriately.  Later, when I knew him better, I realized that this news must have been a complete shock to him; I never knew him to be at a loss for words at any other time.  

The first time I met the family was several months later, when I travelled east to spend New Year’s with them.  By this time, they had all mostly recovered from the shock.  Both of his parents were kind and gracious, welcoming me into their family seemingly without reservation. 

 

I remember a very busy man, who made an 8-hour detour to see his first grandchild, just a few days after he was born.  He had been at meetings in Ottawa, and instead of returning directly to Halifax, he flew to Toronto, drove to our home which was about 45 minutes from the airport, spent a couple of hours with his grandson, and then returned to Toronto for the return flight to Halifax.

I recall a grandfather who quietly enjoyed his grandchildren.  When our children were small, whenever we stayed with the grandparents, the routine was breakfast with Grandpa.  As soon as the children were up, Grandpa would be in the kitchen, making morning tea as usual for his beloved wife, and then preparing bacon, eggs, toast with Marmite, and half a grapefruit for his grandchildren.  This was his time with his grandchildren, with no one else around.  As they grew older, the routine changed, but I believe that his pride in both of his grandchildren as they grew was limitless.  

I remember his retirement from the presidency at his university, which is in a small town about three hours away from where we live now.  He retired in 1993, about the same time that we moved to the Maritimes.  I remember his retirement party, and the number of town people at the party.  If I recall, there were at least as many town people as there were university people.  I have lived in a similar small university town for almost 25 years, and trust me when I tell you that is a remarkable sign of respect from the community. One of his greatest legacies was nurturing a cooperative and mutually respectful relationship between the Town and the University, which, based on our experiences in our community, is another remarkable accomplishment. 

When we were all gathered for his funeral, I spent a few moments in his study.  On his wall is a walking staff that the employees of the university’s Physical Plant created for him when he retired.  It incorporated items such as an antique doorknob, a piece of an oak railing, and other items from around the campus, all lovingly and thoughtfully assembled into this gift by various sections of the Physical Plant – electricians, custodians, groundskeepers, locksmiths, etc.  The accompanying letter explained the symbolism of the different components of the staff, and expressed appreciation for his dedication to the University, specifically, his support of the Physical Plant staff. 

 

I have heard a story from several people, most recently directly from the horse’s mouth, about a former student at the university, probably during the late 80s.  This student dressed as the Pope and “blessed” the football field before every home football game.  The former student recalled the day that a member of the University’s Security staff showed up at his residence room and told him that the University President wanted to see him immediately.  He wrote, “I remember being escorted into his office, thinking that I was about to be expelled for my alter ego shenanigans. He kindly introduced himself to me and we chatted. Then, he said, ‘I hear that you are planning to land in a helicopter at the football game on Saturday.’ I said ‘yes.’ He said, ‘You’re not flying it, are you?’ I said, ‘No, it comes with a pilot.’ He said, ‘You will not be carrying the Bible will you?’ I said, ‘No, I never do, it's a business law text book that I carry.’ He said, ‘Good.  See you on Saturday at the game, Good Luck!’”

These are some of the things that I will remember about my father-in-law.  A man who was serious about life, but not so serious that he did not enjoy it.  A man who enjoyed sports, but didn’t so much enjoy the analysis and would most aggravatingly turn the television off between periods of the hockey games or at halftime of football games.  A man who had a mind for details, so much so that when my husband’s older brother got married in Toronto a month earlier than we expected (when we were again working at the aforementioned camp with no communication), he wrote us a detailed letter about the family’s trip to Toronto, including where they stayed, what they were served to eat on the airplane, maybe even the name of their flight attendants, but neglected to tell us WHY they were in Toronto; the only clues we had were a brief mention of a rehearsal dinner, and the fact that the entire family (except for us) had made the trip.  Our suspicions were confirmed several days later, after a rare phone call home from the resort town on the other side of the lake.  He was a man of integrity who never forgot his working class roots; my husband often recalls that when his father became president, he informed the university community that budget cuts were inevitable.  He pledged that no one would lose their jobs; cuts would be accomplished through retirements and resignations, and he kept his word.  A man who took his profession and his academic and intellectual life very seriously, but was able to relate to everyone on a deeply human and personal level – from world famous artists and wealthy businessmen and politicians to the man who owned the local garage where he took his cars to be serviced to the woman who has cleaned for them for the past several years to the staff at the Physical Plant to a slightly intimidated young woman from the prairies who married his son, and everyone in between.  A man who deeply loved his wife of 64 years and called her by his own personal nickname until he died.  A man who took great pride in his children and his grandchildren, and all that they aspired to do and be. 

We will miss him.  I will miss him.  Requiescat in pace.