As I Remember

As I Remember

My earliest recollections of my grandparents are of a woman who seemed anxious to hold me on her lap and shower me with love, affection and admiration, and a man who always seemed delighted to see me, but gave me a comfortable amount of space. I responded by shying away from grandma and being drawn to grandpa. He did fascinating things (he smoked), so I always stayed close by and kept an eye on him. I never knew him not to have Chicklets in his pocket, which he was always willing to share.

This first memory would have happened at a little house in Sherwood Park sometime in the mid 60’s. I’m sure there were earlier meetings, but that’s the first one I remember. Since we lived just outside of Edmonton and they lived in Regina, we were lucky if we got to see them more that a couple of times in a year. Moving to B.C. in 1968 only increased the distance between us and reduced the frequency of visits. None the less, my memories are sufficient and remain vivid all these decades later.

It is difficult, in my memory, to separate grandma from the kitchen. She spent a disproportionate amount of her life in the kitchen for which we are all grateful beneficiaries. When I consider what came out of her kitchen (which was whatever kitchen she was in at the time), I marvel at the order, organization and cleanliness that she maintained. I, personally, can decimate the room in the act of making a sandwich. The products of her labours will endure in memory as long as I’m allowed to tarry on this earth. I often said of my mother-in-law, “if the angels of heaven could taste her cooking, they would take her home to heaven immediately”. The same could be said of our grandma Ursaki. Hospitality came so naturally to her, that I wouldn’t be surprised to find her in some celestial kitchen cooking to her heart's content to the joy and delight of all of our dearly departed. I hope, that when (or should I say “if”) those angels come to collect me, they’ll bring a plate of her apple strudel. I don’t know if I’d be smart enough to go toward the light, but I know I’d follow that strudel to extremities of God’s creations.

Grandpa was no less useful to have around. I like to believe the streak of handyman in me comes through whatever genetic material he passed down. Don’t get me wrong, he couldn’t hold a candle to grandma when came to tending to domestic necessities, but he was always looking for something to fix, finding it and fixing it with whatever resources were at hand, a budget of $0 and a lot of practical skill and common sense. Grandpa had other useful skills and advice for anyone smart enough to listen. He once taught me how to throw an elbow at a pick pocket. That timely lesson was offered as we were leaving for the exhibition during one of our summer visits to Regina.

When you’re young, you think you’re immortal (which explains extreme sports). The passage of time, that finite commodity of our lives, slowly reminds us that this life was never meant to be permanent. In retrospect, I now understand why, with each successive visit, the time of parting became more difficult. I have, indelibly etched in my mind's eye, the image of grandpa standing beside grandma waving good bye with a pinched smile and tear on his cheek. The last such parting would have been when I was 15 years old. I had spent the summer in Ottawa and a week long stop over in Regina had been arranged. They were loading me onto a jet bound for B.C. I remember that last embrace and I will never forget how bitterly I wept knowing that we might not be together again in this life.

Grandma’s sense of her own mortality was less acute. Not that she was in any way morbid about it, but she always seemed ready and waiting for a chariot of fire to take her home. I wonder if her life’s greatest trial was living to the age of 93.

Never content to idle away her time, she prepared for her day of parting by doing what she did best, working. I do not know any person so willing to live and let live, so uncritical of others, so prepared to put on an apron and pitch in, as was our grandma Ursaki.

I’m not so naïve to think that grandpa and grandma didn’t have some character flaws. I may stand corrected when it comes to grandma though. Maybe the fact that I saw so little of them has something to with my lack of memory when it comes to any faults they may have had, or maybe they were just on their best behavior around me and my young impressionable mind.

Memory is like opinion. It is correct only in that it offers one person’s perspective. The absolute truth lies in the collective perspective. I would love to see my grandparents through your eyes.

- Michael Ursaki