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Tag Archives: grandfathers

The Book Of Thank You ~ Post 7: The Canadian National Exhibition

01 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by duckykoren in Childhood, Education, Entertainment, Family Stories, Father, Grandmothers, Ice Cream, relationships, Rock And Roll, Thanks, Toronto, Tourism, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Children, Family, ferris wheel, grandfathers, Grandmothers, grief, midway, Music, Platters, Stories, Toronto, Travel, Writing

 

The month of August always brings thoughts of a family tradition started by my Father in 1966.

That is when we would make our annual visit to the Canadian National Exhibition, or more commonly known to the people of Toronto as the C.N.E.

On the last day of school in late June, every child would be given a free children’s pass to this annual event.

Father was never one to let something free pass him by.

Set in the middle of downtown Toronto and bordering on Lake Ontario, the C.N.E. covers 192 acres of ground filled with a stadium, bandshell, coliseum, midway, fountains, picnic areas and much more.

Using Toronto’s public transportation, Father and I always went on the first Saturday after the grand opening. This usually coincided with the annual grand Scottish Tattoo parades where the sounds of bagpipes could be heard at every turn.

My Father didn’t care for bagpipes, and I remember how he would cover his ears and whisk me off to a quieter venue, a building perhaps, one of the many which would showcase countries from around the world, cars, or home shows.

The food building was a grand concourse featuring kiosks of cuisine from all over the world. I was partial to the corn dogs, while Father always contented himself with a cardboard bowl of spaghetti which cost only twenty-five cents.

Throughout the course of the day we collected free magazines, brochures, samples and souvenirs. By the time we left at the end of the day we would usually have three full bags of treasure to take home. I carried one while Father carried two.

I was allowed to purchase one souvenir of choice which was usually a punching ball, or an invisible dog leash.

The last time that I went to the C.N.E. with my Father was in the early 1990’s.

We brought my two young daughters to share the experience with us.

What I remember the most about that day was when we went to the bandshell where their was a rock and roll revival being held hosted by Bowser from the group SHA-NA-NA. We found a patch of grass to stand and watch. While the Platters were on stage singing their hit UNDER THE BOARDWALK, my daughters and I twirled and danced to the music.

Those were very happy moments.

In 1969, while my Father was away on business, my Grandparents took me for my annual pilgrimage to the C.N.E.

All these years later, it’s hard for me to decide which memories of that day are dearest to me.

Is it the memories of going on the Ferris wheel with my Grandmother?

She handled my rocking the carriage very well. I could be a handful at times.

Shortly after that, as I took another turn on the Ferris wheel alone, she won me an orange stuffed teddy bear. To this day, I think she paid off the carnie just so that she could see the joy on my face as she presented me with a new toy. I named the bear Godfrey.

We were very fortunate that day as our visit to the C.N.E. coincided with the visit of Canada’s current Prime Minister, Pierre Elliot Trudeau, who was there for a cinematic premiere at the Queen Elizabeth building.

My Grandmother and I stood less than ten feet from him as he stood for photographs and welcoming speeches.

At one point, he turned his head left, looked at me and smiled. I smiled back.

Now, my Grandmother has always been of the opinion that the Prime Minister was smiling at her and not me.

Indeed, every time that we found ourselves together in the following thirty-five years we would lovingly spar  with each other over this:

“Trudeau was laughing at me…” she’s say.

“No, he was laughing at me…” I’d respond.

Then we would end the discussion by laughing at ourselves.

One of the last times that I visited the C.N.E. Was in 2005, seven months after my Father had passed away. I brought my two daughters and a good friend.

We made new memories as we walked our way through trapeze artists, upside down rides, tall cups of lemonade, tall ships, log flumes, ice cream, all behind the beautiful backdrop of the Toronto skyline.

It was good to be reacquainted with one of my childhood joys and be able to set aside my lingering grief.

Thank you C.N.E. for those new memories.

May there be many more.

 

 

❤

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 133: There’s No Excuse…

04 Wednesday Mar 2015

Posted by duckykoren in clothing, DIY, Education, garments, Learning, Sewing

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Clothes, cross stitch, darning, excuse, grandfathers, mending, needle, sewing, stitching, thread

I’ll never forget the time when I walked by my Grandfather while he was reading the newspaper in our living room. No sooner had I passed him, when I could suddenly feel him freeze.

Even at the age of ten, I could sense when there was something about me that did not meet with his approval.

Setting his newspaper aside, he took off his glasses and asked me to come closer.

I did as I was told.

My Grandfather pointed to a rip in one of my sleeves.

It was then that he told me that there was no excuse for wearing a torn garment.

No excuse at all.

He was right of course.

It’s a matter of self respect for yourself, and maintaining the respect of others.

In his early years, my Grandfather was apprenticed to be a tailor before he received his call to enter the ministry.

I know for a fact that he was an exceptional tailor because even after his retirement, he continued to enjoy sewing for the family. My world was a happier place whenever I had the pleasure of seeing my Opa sitting in a comfortable chair hemming, stitching and darning. His contentment was obvious whenever there was a needle in his hands. My Grandfather’s meticulous nature thrived on perfect stitches.

I was about five years old when someone put a sewing needle in my hand for the first time.

It was my Aunt Elsbeth. I was visiting her house one day when she sat me down at her kitchen table along with her own three children. We were each given a threaded sewing needle and one of her husband’s old shirts. Then, we were shown how to sew in a straight line using medium sized stitches,

That is how I learned to sew.

Now, fast forward several decades.

When my eldest daughter was in grade one, I sat her down and introduced her to a needle and thread as well. Before she knew it, I had her doing cross stitch on a stamped piece of linen using coloured embroidery floss.

She still has this project, or she tells me.

Of course, this makes me very happy because this little piece of cloth that holds my daughter’s first precious stitches, tells me that as her Mother after all these years…

…I at least did something right.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 130: Judge Not

01 Sunday Mar 2015

Posted by duckykoren in Education, Geography, spirituality

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Earthquake, Family, grandfathers, Mountains, Yugoslavia

My Grandfather was a Baptist minister.

Now, in order to be a good minister you need to be able to tell a good story.

Even better if you can tell the same story in several different ways.

It recently occurred to me that one story he told me was a variation on a theme.

Perhaps you will recognize it:

When my Grandfather and his Sister, my Great Aunt Sophie were still quite young they went for a motorbike ride in the Yugoslavian mountains. When they reached the top, they stopped.

Getting off their bikes they paused for a few moments.

My grandfather told me it was a beautiful view.

The vista was intense with all the mountains that surrounded them.

Yet it was not the natural beauty that brought them to this place.

Over the edge and way down below from where they stood, a sea of monolithic boulders told another story.

Several years earlier this had been the sight of an earthquake

Grandfather then went on to explain that as lovely and as serene as this setting appeared, beneath the boulders below one thousand victims still lay buried.

“So it is with the people in our lives,” he said to me, sadly shaking his head as he finished his story:

“No matter how pristine, craggy or beautiful people may appear to be, we never know the tragedies buried below their surface.”

In essence…

Judge not.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 103: Grandmother’s Ice Cream Money

02 Monday Feb 2015

Posted by duckykoren in Food, God, Heaven, Ice Cream, Money, Stories

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Aunt, blogs, Cousins, Double Dip, God, Grandchildren, grandfathers, Grandmothers, Heaven, ice cream, Ice Cream Cone, love, money, Treats, True Story, Writing

I loved my Grandmother very much.

She knew instinctively what it took to make her grandchildren happy.

Ice cream was one of those ways.

When I was a little girl, she would quietly take aside, look around to see if anyone was watching, and then carefully slip some money into the palm of my hand. Then she would whisper to ensure that no one would hear…

“This is for ice cream…”

…Don’t tell your Grandfather.”

With an obeying nod, I solemnly gave her my promise.

I’m sure my cousins share these same memories…

Yes, we loved ice cream, but Grandmother loved ice cream even more.

My Aunt once shared with me that when Grandmother came to visit the family for several weeks, she always left a little rounder than when she first arrived. I have no doubt that this stemmed from sharing her love of ice cream with all of her grandchildren.

So, now that she is no longer with us and has been taken up to heaven, I cannot help but wonder if she is in any way able to get a double dip.

As Christians, we were always taught that “God will provide.” Some would say that God will provide us with our needs.

Well, I know for a fact that for my Grandmother ice cream was a necessity.

So, when I get to heaven, I fully expect her to immediately take me quietly aside.

Then, like before, she will carefully slip some money into the palm of my hand and whisper:

“This is for ice cream…

…Don’t tell God!”

My.Daily.Diversion ~ Post Ninety-Seven: A Journal Entry A Day Keeps The Blues Away

27 Tuesday Jan 2015

Posted by duckykoren in Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

bible studies, daughters, desk, grandfathers, Journals, purpose, Writing

image

It seems that I have an ongoing affinity in regards to writing journals.

I cannot get enough of them.

Indeed, it would be a rare day when you did not see one with me at work, or on my coffee table at home.

I can only guess this writing romance began when I saw the joy and comfort that journaling gave my Grandfather.

No doubt, it gave him a sense of purpose.

Every day… twice a day, usually the same time we would see our Grandfather, a retired Baptist Minister and Missionary approach his large wooden desk. He would even dress for the occasion too.

It was understood by the children, grandchildren and great grandchildren of the family that he was not to be disturbed. For at least the length of an hour he would sit by his desk content in his writing studies on the word of God.

And if you were to observe Opa studying at his desk you would get a definite sense that it was well with his soul as it was with the souls of his entire family.

How could I not want to aspire to this?

His journals now take up numerous bookcases throughout my house. Indeed, they are very precious to me.

My daughter encourages me in my journaling and I am very grateful to her for this.

Every few weeks she indulges me by treating her Mother to a shiny brand new journal filled with empty bright white pages.

She has an uncanny ability to sense when I find myself in a writing slump.

She knows all too well how much a brand-new journal inspires and motivates me.

How lucky am I?

When I have left this earth, my daughters will be free to burn my journals with my blessings.

That is if I don’t burn them first of course, to spare them the work of sorting out the many dozens of journals that account for the past three decades of my life.

It is my hope that by then, the journals would have served their purpose. Both they and I can be content in the knowledge that they have served me well…

…By being the vessel of my thoughts right up until the time that you read them.

Thank you for reading them…

My.Daily.Diversion ~ Post Eighty-Nine: Hospitality

18 Sunday Jan 2015

Posted by duckykoren in Church, English, Languages, Religion

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animated, benediction, Church, congregation, English, eyes, Family, feasting, German, grandfathers, Hospitality, innocent, Luncheon, mistake, morning, practice, pray, Prayer, pulpit, sermon, sick, Singing, speaker, Speech, storytelling, visit

HOS-PIT-AL-IT-Y

hos·pi·tal·i·ty n. pl. hos·pi·tal·i·ties

1. Cordial and generous reception of or disposition toward guests.

2. An instance of cordial and generous treatment of guests.

……………………………………….

It was an innocent mistake.

Really.

My grandfather had been invited to travel out of town for the weekend to preach at an English speaking church.

He and my Grandmother arrived on the Saturday and were invited to stay as guests of honour at the house of the Pastor and his family.

It all went so well.

His morning sermon was delivered perfectly. After all his years of practicing, his English was easy to understand even though he spoke with an undeniable German accent.

He was well known for being a powerful and animated speaker.

The sermon had been well received and he met many new people, and made as many new friends.

After the morning church service, there was a grand luncheon served in his honour.

There was feasting, story telling, and singing.

Later that day, after the evening service had been given by the regular pastor, my Grandfather was asked to come to the front of the church and give the closing benediction and prayer.

Arriving at the pulpit, he closed his eyes, and began to pray.

He prayed for the sick.

He thanked God for all of his blessings.

He thanked God for loved ones,

And then, with his eyes still closed in prayer, he thanked God for the kindness of the entire congregation and then proceeded to thank God for their…

…Hostility.

My.Daily.Diversion ~ Post Eighty-Seven: Lost In Trans-Atlantic Translation

16 Friday Jan 2015

Posted by duckykoren in Culture, emmigration, Family, History, Humour, Writing

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Atlantic, boat, desk, Ellis Island, emmigration, Family, grandfathers, Immigration, New York, Officer, pheasants, shawl, ship, Stories

I don’t remember very many stories that my Grandfather told me when I was little. However, I never forgot this story and it became one of my all-time favourites…

Here it is:

Ellis Island, New York City
Circa: Late 1940’s

A tired and weary husband and wife had just disembarked from a ship after a long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean. They had decided to leave the old country and emigrate to North America in search of a new and better life.

The husband and wife were systematically submitted to medical checks, with routine questioning and all the usual scrutinizing. This took a great deal of time. They waited in one line-up after another and learned that you needed a great deal of patience while being processed through the never ending channels of American immigration.

At last they were summoned into an office and there behind a heavy wooden desk sat an important looking immigration officer.

He asked them to sit down and they immediately obliged and sat down in the chairs provided for them.

“Please tell me your names.” He asked the both the man and the woman

They both told him their very long and European sounding names.

His next question was:

“What country were you born in?”

The husband told the officer where they were each born.

For his third question he turned his attention to the pheasant lady in the long cotton skirt and old woolen shawl…

He was highly doubtful that the woman would be able to understand the following question being asked in the English language:

“How old are you?”

She thought for a moment, wrinkled her nose at him and blurted out…

“I am dirty.”

“No, madam, I asked how old you are.”

“I am dirty.”

The immigration officer was beginning to get annoyed with this pheasant woman.

“Yes I understand that, but what I’m asking you is your age.”

“Dirty, dirty, dirty… I tell you I am dirty.”

Frustrated with this woman’s lack of communication skills the customs officer turned to the husband.

Trying to keep his risinge temper in check, he then asked the man…

“How old are you?

The husband’s expression did not change as he looked right at the immigration official and answered:

“I am dirty-too.”

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 66: Peace On Earth

20 Saturday Dec 2014

Posted by duckykoren in non-fiction, Peace, Stories, Travel

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blogs, Cleveland, death, flags, grandfathers, Grandmothers, grief, Happy, Hospital, Italy, lights, loss, love, Niagara Falls, pace, Pantheon, Peace, Peace on Earth, Rome, Writing

As I get older, I’ve begun to notice that I observe holidays and occasions with a different focus lens than the ones I used in my earlier years.

Further, it is with sadness that I take a few moments to remember my loved ones who are no longer here.

My grandfather always had a wonderful way with words.

I remember asking him if he had one wish, what would it be?

“Peace on Earth,” was his reply.

He would say these words often and with meaning.

If there was an uncomfortable pause in conversation during a stressful family moment, he would break the silence with the words…

“Peace on earth.”

After listening to disturbing news coverage, again, we would all hear him say…

“Peace on earth…”

as his own resounding amen to the state of the world, the country, mankind.

And then came the sad day, when we laid my grandfather to rest in late January 2000.

Driving back from the memorial service my heart was searching for a healing balm to take away the pain of losing him.

I did not have to search long.

Maybe it was only a coincidence.

Maybe it was because of a forgetful maintenance man.

Some might even say that it was serendipity.

Because driving by a lit up hospital during late night January, I saw his very own words emblazoned in white frothy Christmas lights all over the hospital’s front entrance…

‘Peace On Earth.’

Look up the word ‘serendipity on Wikipedia and you’ll find the following definition:

“Serendipity is when someone finds something that they weren’t expecting to find. In the simplest of words, it means a “happy accident”.

I believe in serendipity. Every now and then something seems to happen to me in the form of “a happy accident.”

Only, I know it isn’t an accident. Rather, it’s a push or a nudge from forces far greater than myself signalling that miracles do happen to those who are open to the experience.

Take for example my next story:

I remember when I was about six years old, my paternal grandparents from Cleveland were visiting us in Toronto.

One day, we took a day trip to Niagara Falls.

As I sat in the back seat of the car next to my grandmother, she taught me the song: ‘Dona Nobis Pacem,’ which in English means

‘Peace on Earth’.

After singing a few choruses with her, and after I had learned it well enough to sing by myself, my grandmother and I then sang it as a round, again and again.

It is such a beautiful song, which I love deeply, even to this day.

And so, it was during a very happy time in my life when I found myself in Rome. We had just left the Pantheon and were making our way back to the hotel.

I looked up to a balcony and saw a flag hanging from a window that brought a happy mist to my eyes.

The flag bore only one word.

‘Pacem,’

This word, of course, is Latin for Peace, or…

better known to me as:

Dona Nobis Pacem

Give us peace.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 41: Angels Are Not Slobs

29 Saturday Nov 2014

Posted by duckykoren in Bible Studies, Crafts, DIY, Education, Religion, Sewing, Stories

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Angels, Easter, Family, grandfathers, needle, sewing, Stories, tailor, thread, tomb, visits

Before my grandfather received the call to enter the ministry, he was apprenticed to be a tailor.

Whenever he would come to stay with us for an extended visit, he would look for something to sew. That would be how he kept busy. He was always asking us if there was anything that needed his attention. And thus I would always find him in a comfortable chair sewing this and mending that.

He had a penchant for needle and thread. Further, he would not tolerate any hole or fray in his grandchildren’s clothing. I can still see him looking me in the eye and telling me there is never any excuse to be seen wearing something torn. He regarded this as sheer negligence.

Whenever I found him alone and sewing, I’d place myself at his knee, and ask him to tell me a story. His rule of thumb was always one story a day. However, sometimes I managed to get as much as three stories out of him.

Good times.

After agreeing to tell me a story, he always thought for a moment to decide which one he should tell.

“Do you remember the Easter story,” he asked, as he returned his attention back to stitching a pant seam.

“Of course I do,” I answered back quickly.

“But Opa…”

(which is the name I called him)

“…it’s not Easter.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said…

“Do me to tell you a story or not?”

“Yes Opa.”

“Okay,” he continued…

“Now, tell me what happened on Easter Morning?”

The answer was almost too easy for me… he knew full well that I was well versed in the Easter story.

This was obviously leading somewhere. Curious, I decided to play along.

“The three women went to the tomb.” I answered.

“What did they see?”

“They saw that the stone leading to Jesus’s tomb had been rolled away and that the tomb was open.”

“What happened then?” he asked me.

“There were angels sitting on the stone and they told the women that Jesus was not there.”

I was beginning to get bored, but I tried not to let it show. That would put any further stories in jeopardy.

He continued his story with, “What happened then?”

“The women went into the cave.”

“And what did they find?”

“Opa, can I have another story?”

“No, answer the question….

“Did they find Jesus in the cave?”

“No, he was not there, just like the angels told them. They only found his burial cloth.”

Then at last came what would be Opa’s final question…

“And did they find Jesus’s burial cloth on the ground?”

“No,” I replied, “the women found it neatly folded lying on stone.”

All at once he dropped his sewing, raised his hand and playfully pointed an accusing finger at me.

“And let that be a lesson to you,” he gently chastised me. “Angels never leave anything lying on the floor. They always neatly fold and put everything back in their proper place.”

I must admit…

I never saw that coming.

My.Daily.Distraction ~ Post 17: The Blue Fuzzy

15 Saturday Nov 2014

Posted by duckykoren in Archives, Family History, Stories, StoryTelling

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Archives, Dishes, Family, Graceland, grandfathers, Grandmothers, Hoarders, memories, Photo Albums, Precious, Souveniers, Stories, United Nations

It was a common practice to sit with my grandparents at the dinner table, after all the dinner dishes had been cleared away and go through a few hand selected photo albums that my grandmother picked out just for the occasion.

Doing the dinner dishes are not important, my grandmother insisted.

Sharing our common memories are.

However, I don’t call these fat, over stuffed relics photo albums.

I think the term archives is much more suitable.

These archives include reams of journals, pictures, postcards, letters, newspaper and magazine clippings, pressed botanicals, paper napkins, swizzle sticks, matchbooks, records of expenses, speeches, sermons, prayers, songs, stamps, travel brochures, receipts, ledgers, telegrams, sugar packets, ticket stubs, menus, programs, cut-outs, notes, personal diaries, travel logs, photo albums, paper place-mats, food wrappers, coasters, travel papers, money, invitations, military documents, and more.

Page by page, we would stop and remenisce over the people and places depicted within the pages. I was about to turn one of these pages when something most unusual caught my eye.

After lifting it out of it’s plastic and sticky photo album cover, I held up a simple piece of blue fuzz to my grandmother.

“What is this?” I asked her.

“That is from the U.N.” she answered, blushing with pride.

“Yes, but where did you get it from?” I asked again.

It was a simple blue fuzzy. I know for a fact that gift shops do not sell fuzzies, with the exception of the one next to Graceland of course.

She then described how on a tour she had scratched this humble blue piece of blue fuzz from a rug when no one was watching.

I must have been so shocked by this revelation because the next thing that I knew was that I was no longer holding the blue fuzzy.

I had by accident dropped it onto my grandmother’s dark brown rug.

My grandmother immediately let out a cry.

The next thing I knew was that my husband and I were on our hands and knees searching around and under the dinner table trying to find my grandmother’s precious blue fuzzy laying somewhere amidst the shaggy dark brown rug.

Within minutes, the renegade fuzzy had been found and safely returned to it’s pages within the photo album.

About ten years later, after my grandparents had passed away I was given many of these archival photo albums to take care of.

Of course, I slowly went through them, one by one.

I was surprised to discovered however, that the blue fuzzy was no longer within it’s album anymore. It had altogether disappeared.

In time, I had made my way through all the photo albums, and began to go through all of my grandmothers knick-knacks that were entrusted to me to keep in storage.

Inside a brown wooden box, I found a small vial of wooden matches from the Detroit Plaza Hotel, a small souvenir sewing kit from Stuttgart, a large Apollo 11 round metal pin featuring a photo of astronauts Armstrong, Collins and Aldrin, and a curious little pink round plastic container, much like a lipgloss case.

Curious, I unscrewed the case.

Can you guess what I found laying inside?

You’re thinking that I found the blue fuzzy, right?

No.

I did not find the blue fuzzy.

I found a green fuzzy.

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