Becoming a Grandpa

As a parent, there were two things that I resolved not to do to my adult children.  The first was never to follow them around with a marriage license urging them to get married and the second was not to bug them afterwards about having children so that I could have a grandchild.  Having witnessed the result of parents doing so, the resentment it causes is never worth it.  I figure, that when they are ready to make those important decisions they might ask for advice but still make those decisions without any pressure from me.  Well, one of my children married but the other has not yet and in due course, I became a grandpa.

Without giving much thought as to when I would become a grandpa, I did wonder what kind of a grandfather I would be largely based upon my childhood experience.  My Dad's father I never knew existed until the day he showed up at our door to attend my Father's fifthieth birthday party.  Grandpa turned out to be a tiny, frail, old man already suffering from the debilitating effects of dementia.  His family never mentioned him the reason being that he had deserted them years earlier leaving them in difficult circumstances.  All that I remember him saying that night was,  "It is so good to be here!"  My other Grandpa, my Mother's father, I knew to be a bitter person largely due to some terrible tragedies he had experienced in life.  That may explain but not excuse the mean streak in him that caused him to play tricks on his grandchildren and then laugh at their childish gullibility.  Once, he sent me to the corner store to buy him some 'krumbumboli', a drink that never was, and then scolded me when I returned home empty handed.  These were decidely not the best role models.

Being Grandpa, or Opa as I prefer being called, has been a wonderful experience and I am determined to treat my grandchildren with love and respect no matter how young or old they might be. I can only hope that they will treat me the same way but it will be up to them to decide what kind of Opa I was to them.  If I can brighten their day, instruct them when it is mine to instruct, give them little surprises now and then, and help them in some way into becoming responsible adults, then I will have succeeded.

I still remember clearly the day my first grandchild, Gabriel, was born.  That middle of January day was dark, cold, and rainy.  We spent the whole night in the hospital but it was not until late afternoon the next day that Gabriel put in his appearance.  I can still see his Papa dressed in a green hospital gown holding his son for the first time.  Gabriel was wrapped in yellow and white receiving blankets and wearing a cap that made him look like a tiny smurf.  His eyes were dazzled by the bright lights in the recovery room and I am sure he was wondering what happened to him after being in the darkness of the womb for nine months.

What has blessed me in addition to being a grandpa is my son's love for his boys. He always told me when he was growing up that he didn't like children but I put that down to the inexperience of youth.  Gabriel, and later his brother Jacob, changed all that!

                                                                                       

Darryl and Gabriel (one hour old).

  Gabriel (one day old),

      Proud Opa and Gabriel

 Jacob and Gabriel now

    

 Gabriel and Jacob

(Puddles are meant for stompin'.)

                                         

                             

                                  

 Opa doing what Opa does best -  reading stories

The Strong, Silent Type

My Dad, Albert Kirsch, was raised on a farm in Springside, Saskatchewan just a few miles from Yorkton.  The German language was spoken in the home but Dad and his brothers and sisters were fully bilingual as they attended The White Sands Public School where English was the language of instruction.

Dad was a tall person of average build and always wore his hair combed straight back.  He depended upon my Mother to select his clothing which was ultra conservative meaning no jeans or bright patterns or colours.  He was not one to often voice his opinion but perhaps this was because his spouse willingly adopted that role.

The one thing that got his ire up enough for him to express himself was wasteful government spending. In his day, costly Royal Commissions were used to uncover wrongdoings of the government.  About these he would say, "It's only going to cost $100,000 to get to the bottom of it."  His emphasis was always on the word 'only'.  Today the same type of Royal Commission costs millions of dollars. 

The only time I ever heard him express a point of view that gave any insight into his personality was on the occasion of a wedding both parents attended.  The groom, a burly policeman, fainted during the ceremony and had to be taken into a back room in the church to be revived and then brought back into the sanctuary.  Concerning the groom's plight, my Dad observed, "When I saw the bride, and if I was the groom, I would have fainted too."

The follies of youth did not pass my Father by.  When he was sixteen, he was helping with the harvest on a neighbour's farm.  Becoming hot and thirsty, he went looking for some water to drink.  Finding a pail half full of a cold, clear liquid, thinking it was water, he drank some and discovered that it was moonshine.  He did not remember how much he drank but they found him lying next to a fence, passed out, with the pail beside him.

Most of his working days were spent at International Harvester Company, the maker of farm equipment and trucks. Some of the trucks had a design fault in that the ignition switch could suddenly cut out.  Dad invented a mercury switch that he thought would solve the problem.  He went to a patent office in Ottawa hoping to cash in on his invention and he was told that it was useless.  He made the mistake of leaving his invention there and somebody took it and after making a minor change, it did become the solution to the problem.  Dad was bitter over the way he was treated and  he never talked about it to anyone except to my eldest brother who told me the story years later.

I don't believe that my Father ever watched a complete television program.  He was a chanel surfer much to the annoyance of everyone else trying to watch a program.  In the same way, skimming over the pages was how he read books but his favourite author was Robert Frost.  Dad loved to quote from Frost's poem,  The Cremation of Sam Magee.  That poem created in Dad a fascination for the North that he carried with him all his days.

I would say that my Dad was the strong silent type.  He was a good husband, a good father and a good friend.  He never wore his faith on his sleeve but lived it out day by day in the way he treated others.

Dan                 Edwin              Albert

The Kirsch Brothers

A page from the Whitesands School Yearbook

Dad and his brothers names are on the list.

Mom and Dad Kirsch

(Florence and Albert)

Note:  This story was the result of an assignment in my Writers Circle in which we were to describe a parent.

                                                                                

A Heart of Stone

As a junior in Mount Royal College in Calgary, Alberta, I was required to participate in Gym class.  There was a variety of activities but one that I disliked immensely because I was a tall person was tumbling (gymnastics).  We had to take a run, bounce on a spring board and flip over a wooden horse.  I did it but when I landed on my feet after the flip, I landed with all my weight on my right leg.  There was a sickening crunch and down I went.  I had torn all the ligaments in my right knee.  That resulted in two weeks in the hospital, a near death experience due to an allergy to medications given to me, and then nine weeks with my entire leg from toe to thigh encased in a heavy plaster cast.  It ruined my year in college.

After the cast was eventually removed, the doctor decided that physiotherapy would be just the ticket to getting my knee moving again.  The arrangements were made and  I dutifully showed up at the therapist's office.  I did not know what I was in for but I should have been for warned when the therapist called out sternly as I walked down the hall, "You don't need to walk like that."  The therapist had not even seen me but must have had excellent hearing.

The therapist turned out to be an extremely beautiful young lady, the kind that makes your heart skip a beat, with a bright smile and a pleasant welcoming manner.  However, I soon discovered that it was all a facade and this vision of loveliness had a heart of stone.

She got me up on a table and slide a long plank liberally sprinkled with baby powder under my right leg. Then she took my foot and slowly pushed it towards my body so that my knee was forced to bend.  The pain was excruciating but I could actually feel the ligaments, still shrunken from the operation, begin to stretch like elastic bands.  This would restore the movement in my knee but for one awful moment, I was afraid that the ligaments would tear off again.  I don't recall how many times she repeated the movement but I still remember the pain and the fact she was not moved by it.

I was not the only patient in the room to experience her hard heart.  There was an elderly lady, probably in her eighties, who had been in a car accident and was in for therapy.  She was seated on a chair and had to lift weights attached to pulleys, with her legs.  The poor dear was in tears but our angel in white showed no mercy.

I did not know the nature of the woman's injuries but the therapist kept saying, "You will never regain your strength  to walk if you don't do these exercises."  The patients response was more tears.

I went back for several more sessions and with each one, my walking improved.  Now I realise, that on my own, I would have never accomplished that.  The therapist had to have a heart of stone in order to help her patients.