Not much going on

There isn't much going on these days. Not much positive anyway... Business growth has been extremely slow, despite ongoing marketing. Something needs to happen soon, because I'm starting to get a bit depressed.

Other than that, there's not much happening. Being very low on cash, there isn't much to do when I'm not working. And that's another cause for depression. I don't think it's reached the critical stage, but I'm keeping my eye on things.

How I spent Father's Day

It was a Sunday not much different than any other, except when I got home from morning prayers, my wife greeted me with Father's Day gifts and a card. The gifts were very appropriate, as they normally are, and the card was quite apropos. Afterward, she went to church, and when she got home, we enjoyed lunch together before heading out to a campers' trailer park to celebrate her father's birthday/Father's Day. Normally, I don't like being out in the woods with all the insects, but today, for some reason, the insects were less annoying, and I managed to enjoy the afternoon out by the lake.

While there, we met up with my wife's brother and sister-in-law. After leaving the campground together, we ate an enjoyable supper before going our separate ways. So now, it's early in the evening, and I get a chance to relax with no distractions.

I hope all you other fathers enjoyed your special day as well.

Unbelievable

Tonight, that give-away goal in overtime, allowing the Edmonton Oilers to score while shorthanded to avoid elimination is looming quite large. Let me begin by saying I am NOT a hockey fan. Except for the last 10 minutes of the aforementioned game, I have watched NONE of this year's playoff games.

I did watch the end of that last game, because it happens that Peter Karmanos, owner of the Carolina Hurricanes, also is the founder, CEO and Chairman of the Board of Compuware, a company I used to work for. Since I'll be visiting their head office next week, it seemed like it would be a good time to catch everyone in a great mood. Now, I'm not so sure what will happen if his team loses its third game in a row, and is robbed of the cup by the 8th seed in the playoffs. I imagine he will be quite inconsolable, and that several of his hockey management will suffer the same fate as those that disappoint him at Compuware.

I've got to hand it to the third-string goalie on Edmonton's team. After getting hacked apart in games 2 and 3, he has really settled down and is playing inspired hockey.

Living vicariously

I was there the day it all began...

The year was either 1977 or 1978, I can't remember for sure. I had recently been divorced, and was angry. Very angry. I figured the best thing I could do that was legal was to join the army and learn to kill people. To join the regular army would be foolish. I didn't want to die myself, I only wanted an outlet for my aggression. So, I decided to join the reserves. Living in Ottawa at the time, I had two choices: the army reserve or the navy reserve. I chose the army because I had discovered during my teen years at summer camp that I had a knack for shooting rifles accurately. I also didn't want to take the chance that I would become sea-sick on a ship somewhere in the ocean.

I found out very early in my training that the army is not a place for wusses. The guys who join these units are very gung-ho, and many come here as the first step in a planned military career progression. I was not cut of that cloth. Although I enjoyed marching, drilling, shooting, and learning all I could about the history of the forces and the tasks to be performed by members of the army, there was something I absolutely did NOT like doing - still don't like doing - and that is walking out front of a large group of people and taking command.

During the five years I served in the reserves as a junior officer, there was NOT ONE TIME when I led the parade procession. It was not by accident that I either scheduled other activities, or simply played hookie on the nights when I knew I would be called upon to lead the parade. Yes, I was embarassed. Yes, there were probably many soldiers who snickered behind my back for these antics, but I didn't care. I wasn't there to learn to lead an army. I was there to shoot stuff.

One day, a young (20 years old, I think) university student walked into the officer's mess and was introduced to us. He said his name was Andrew, and he quickly became the focus of the entire regiment. Andrew was a lad of many stories, all of them about the military. Within weeks of his arrival, we all knew that he was the son of a general, and whose father was also the son of a general. He told us that he would continue the family tradition and eventually become a general. Despite the gung-ho nature of his audience, there were probably less than a half-dozen people in the room who had aspirations to be fighting soldiers. We listened to his prediction with a large grain of salt.

During my tenure with the 30th Field Regiment of the Royal Canadian Artillery, I saw Andrew leapfrog me and several other more-dedicated officers in his ravenous quest for knowledge. Yet, he remained very personable - never making anyone feel like he had "climbed over" them. Rather, we watched him with the growing knowledge that this young man was destined for greatness.

Anyway, I left the reserves in 1981 and didn't really keep track of any of my ex-buddies until about six years ago. Using the power of the internet, I had decided to look up my old commanding officer. I actually managed to locate him (he was a government employee, but a civilian reserve officer - not regular forces) and we reminisced about old times. I then tried to recall as many names as I could and asked what had happened to them. When Andrew's name came up, I was told that he was a general in the Canadian Armed Forces.

A general at age 43? Could that be possible? I have continued to follow Andrew's career since then. In six short years, he has progressed from Brig-General to Maj-General and now to Lt-General (the equivalent to the American 3-star general). Typically in the Canadian Forces, you need a minimum of four years TIR (time in rank) to progress to the next step. And as you get to the top of the pyramid, your progression typically slows down, because there just aren't that many places ahead of you to grow into. In the years since I began following his career, Andrew has been the commanding officer of the Canadian Forces in Afghanistan (among other postings), second-in-command of all NATO forces, and has seen much combat. He also has progressed through the highest levels of military college strategy training - arguably attaining a level of military thinking that rivals the best of today's commanders anywhere in the world.

So we come to today's newspaper, featuring Lt-General Andrew Leslie taking over control as the leader of the entire Canadian Army. At age 49, he finds himself in the second-most-senior position in the armed forces. I imagine he has a counterpart on the naval side of the fence, but I can't imagine anyone with more experience, breeding, and enthusiasm. I don't know how old the picture is that accompanied the news piece, but it's hard to imagine him looking much older than 30-35 in that picture. If it is a more recent picture, then Andrew has aged quite well.

I'll continue to follow Andrew's career, and expect to see him as a full General in charge of the entire Canadian military when General Hillier (the current head honcho) is ready to retire.

1-5-7

This will probably be the last post about my grandson's funeral and followup events. At the funeral home, we left a guest book out for mourners to sign. I know for a fact that not everyone at the funeral home signed the book. But when all was said and done, there were 157 names in the book. That's at least 157 people who knew our families and thought well enough about us to attend and actually sign the book. We (i.e. my wife and I) have also received a great many cards from various individuals and families. I can only imagine that my daughter received at least as many herself. Thank you all for your expressions of support.

Also, through the generous donations of friends and family, I can report that my daughter was able to purchase a proper memorial stone for the grave site, and also received enough cash to enable the family to make their first-and-last rent payment to the landlord of the home they had hoped to move into. Come July, they will be out of the place that reminds them of their son, and will start fresh in their three-bedroom home, with a porch and backyard. I wish them well.

For anyone reading this blog who wishes to check the obituary and perhaps leave a message of condolence, please use this link.

Mixed bag

There are so few of us in the world, we barely rank a blip on census meters. Information on the internet suggests about 14.6 million total worldwide population, or less than 1/4 of 1 percent of the total world population. Only a small handful of countries in the world have Jewish populations that amount to more than 1% of the nation's total: Argentina, Canada, France, United States, and of course, Israel. I guess if the world was a school playground, we'd be the ones everyone picked on, because there just aren't very many of us to fight back.

While it is true that, as a people, we do our best to become educated and strive to attain the highest level of success possible within our capabilities, I don't see how that's different from the goals of any group of people. I know few people beyond certain religious orders that aspire to poverty. What few people know is that, as a group, a very large percentage of us still live below the poverty line in our respective countries. In Canada, for example, nearly 20% of Jews live below the poverty line.

With nearly everyone else in the world blaming us for everything that goes wrong, it's easy to form a persecution complex. So, I relish those times when people who have been particularly vocal about our destruction get their just desserts. Thursday, on the whole, was a good day. Both the U.S. and Israel bagged some really bad guys on the terrorist list; and that's a good thing. In Canada, on the other hand, a native-Canadian leader of the Assembly of First Nations tribe who had been convicted of spouting hatred against the Jewish people had his conviction overturned. Ahenakew will possibly face a new trial.

The Funeral and Beyond

We had the funeral today. Starting with a parents-only viewing before 11:00AM, it segued into the family viewing at 11:00AM, the public viewing at noon, the actual funeral service at 1:00PM and the funeral procession at 2:00PM. Interment followed at a local cemetery with a dedicated area for infants. Needless to say, the entire day was filled with emotion. The facial tissue boxes were emptying faster than a theatre where someone yells "FIRE!", and I saw the most grizzled of veterans bawling their eyes out. The death of a very young child will do that to you. My son-in-law delivered an inspired eulogy which made me very proud.

Following the funeral service, many of the people chose to continue to the cemetery; and of those, the majority came back to the church for a meet-and-greet. By the time all was completed, it was past 5:00PM. No one went home hungry and there were heartfelt displays of emotion and support from the most unlikely sources.

The hard part begins now... Trying to return to life as usual is not really an option. You can't unring the bell. But you can learn to cope, and that's what lies ahead for the young family. Grief counceling within the school system has already been arranged for the eldest daughter; and the younger daughter will learn more about her brother and his premature death as she gets older herself. Dad and mom will need to support one another, and perhaps seek professional support at some point. For the time being, however, they seem like they should make it.

My wife, too, has shown marked improvement over the past few days. Today, of course, was her day to grieve, but I can already sense that she's over the worst of the shock. She's already concentrating on ensuring that she focuses on the living, without dwelling too long on our grandson.

As for me, my task is much easier. Because of his youth and the limited contact I had with him, I never really got the opportunity to bond with my grandson to the same extent as my wife. His death saddened me. I cried very openly during the synagogue memorial service the day after his death. And I've sobbed a few times since, including during today's funeral. But I think I'm now over the worst of my loss, and will be strong for my wife, daughter, and son-in-law.

I'd like to publish a small headshot and memorial for my grandson on this blog, but I'll only do that with the permission of his parents. I have yet to ask for that permission.

An update

People can be so cruel. Despite being outgoing and previously respected, my step-daughter and son-in-law have had to endure accusatory glances from neighbors as police sealed off their apartment for the standard investigation that is done when a young one dies. It's been a depressing, horrifying, and degrading experience for everyone for the past couple of days. But now, the coroner has officially ruled the death as not being caused by any malicious activity. The funeral arrangements, which had been completed except for the availability of a body, can now proceed as planned. And the neighbours have again started coming forward with condolences and offers of financial assistance.

What a day

The forecast called for rain. The morning started out sunny and bright. As usual, I spent Saturday morning at my synagogue, with this particular weekend being the celebration of the end of the Jewish holiday of Shavuot (the holiday marking the day the Jewish nation received the 10 commandments on Mt. Sinai). As I mentioned previously, my birthday was May 31st, but by the Jewish calendar, I was born on the last day of Shavuot. Returning home from synagogue, I couldn't wait to remove my shaggy beard. Although I don't make a habit of shaving on a daily basis, I am not particularly fond of beards. The custom in my religion is to not shave or get your hair cut during the seven weeks between the Passover and Shavuot holidays. We had an appointment later in the afternoon to speak with someone about a rental property and figured the interview would go better if I looked presentable. So I didn't wait until sundown to cut off my unruly beard. It was only a few hours early - who would know!

As is our custom, my wife and I eat Saturday lunch at one of our favourite restaurants, and while we were there, the weather turned nasty. A torrential downpour began while we ate, but it slowed to a manageable shower by the time we were done eating. Stepping out of the restaurant, I glanced down to see a rain-soaked yarmelka. There aren't that many Jewish people in Windsor that go around with yarmelkas in their pockets, so I instinctively knew it had to be mine. A quick check of my pocket confirmed my suspicions. I picked it up and placed it in a blanket in the car. I've worn that yarmelka to prayers every day since the death of my father, and I wasn't ready to let it go. My plan was to dry it out at home and keep wearing it.

My step-daughter and her husband have been living in a small two-bedroom upper-duplex apartment for more than three years. Since they moved there, they added another beautiful baby to their growing family, and had been living in crowded conditions ever since. They've been trying to find a new place for over a year, but with the baby growing, their search took on new urgency. For the past couple of weeks my wife and I have been using the internet to search for possible properties (they wanted to find a house - not an apartment or duplex - with a fenced yard for the children). Miracle of miracles, we found an ad for a 3-bedroom home for rent that was big enough, clean enough, in a good neighborhood, close to schools, with a nice back yard, and within their price range. On Friday night, we contacted the owner of the property, and had agreed to meet her on Saturday afternoon with our daughter to look at the property.

There is an annual "Art in the Park" event in Windsor, and it was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. Because my step-daughter and her husband live near the art gallery, they have found from past experience that this is an ideal weekend to set up garage sales. The foot traffic of people looking for eclectic wares on their way to/from the gallery seems to work to their advantage. When my wife and I arrived at the house to pick up our daughter, we found them both out there with a number of their friends manning the sales table, huddled under tarps and umbrellas, enjoying the day.

As we drove off with our daughter, I asked whether she had authority and agreement from her husband to put down a deposit on the property should she find it to her liking. She indicated that she'd need to talk it over first, so I suggested it might be a better idea for both of them to see the property together. We doubled back to pick up her husband, and went off to view the prospective place.

To make a long story short, they both loved the place and put a deposit down on the spot. On the way back to their house, we were all so excited as we talked about what preparations would be necessary for the move, and how wonderful it would be to finally be in a home of their own.

When we got to their home, the sale was proceeding. The girls were playing on the porch and the babysitter reported that their youngest had remained asleep since being put down for the usual nap. My daughter went to the bedroom to wake her baby for his feeding only to find him face down in the crib.

Her baby had only learned within the past week how to roll over. And he chose that very unfortunate period to practice what he had recently learned. It cost him his life.

I can't describe the piercing scream I heard, even from the front yard, and the wailing that soon followed as daddy rushed up the stairs to find his only son unconsicious. The paramedics arrived in record time, but as I was to learn later, their frantic removal of the child with an IV, breathing mask, and blaring sirens was only an act for the benefit of the parents and the little ones. My step-daughter and son-in-law held out hope, because they felt their baby was still warm and could be saved. For anyone with medical training, it would have been obvious from the baby's colour that things were beyond miracle cures.

So here I sit, numb. No parent should witness the death of their own child, much less a grandchild. My wife asked me not to blog about this, so I didn't, yesterday. Today, I need to. It's my first point of release... the beginning of my grieving and healing process. Our kids are too grief-sticken to deal with the mundane details of funeral planning, so my wife and I are making arrangements. Overnight, our other children drove to town in the company of my step-daughter's "real" dad. We'll all be there to comfort her, but one wonders how you can really heal from such a wound.

As day turned into night, the rains came with a fury I haven't seen since ... the night my father died.

May they both rest in peace.