While I can't be entirely sure what my Dad would have been like at 79, I'm pretty sure it would have been much like the guy he was a 39, 49, 59 and 69 : a tenacious straight shooter who had the remarkable ability to cut through life's crap, get the job done and give some damn good real talk advice and opinion, even when you sometimes didn't really want to hear it.
It's this real talk that 7 years later I've come to miss the most. Well, aside from all the other things about him that I miss the most depending on what time of day it is and where the memory of my mind happens to take me. His skill at talking my Mom off the ledge of worry, or bringing my brother and his big dreams back down to Planet Earth was nothing short of legendary. A silent pause, hands folded in front of him, concentrated stare and a simple "Cool it, Pat" or "Gus, Slow Down" would snap the both of them back to reality. Me? I got "Calm Down" quite a bit. ;)
I'm sure my Dad would have some (and by some I literally mean 5 or 6 well chosen words) sage advice for my current life situation - Homeless & Jobless 2014, Remember?! He'd probably have told me to run for Mayor "You know you can do that job, Olga", and he'd have gotten tons of mileage out of his "Suitcase Olga" nickname for me (the best, right?), but I think he'd mostly have said something he told me years and years ago that I'll never, ever forget: "You, I don't worry about." When the most hard working, tough as nails dude tells you something like that, you know you're going to be okay. I'm going to be okay.
But today is his birthday. And I miss him. I miss the FamJam celebrations we used to have on this day as we celebrated his combo birthday and Name Day as a first step to the holidays. I miss his smile. His laugh. And his little brushes of sentimentality which would slay me with their surprise and sweetness. I'm tortured that my niece & nephews got short changed on having the most doting and fun Papou. Christmastime now has a slight vibe of melancholy as these thoughts drift in and out of my mind, and I try to forget them but I don't want to because I don't want to forget him. Tricky.
So I think of things he did that made me laugh and made me happy and after I cry about them, I smile and then cry some more. He used to put together these ridiculous illustrative notes reminding us to do very simple, responsible stuff like lock the door at night, my favourite one is packed away in the boxes that are my life right now, so of course I'm sad that I can't exactly locate it. But I did find something that made me happy, because it made him so happy.
When my Dad turned 70 my brother and I put together a little trip for him & my Mom to Halifax, Nova Scotia to see Pier 21 , Canada's Museum of Immigration. This is where my Dad's ship had docked in 1951 when at the age of 16 he left Greece and embarked on a new life full of hope and tons of hard work. We had commemorated his passage, as they say, with a brick on the Wall of Honour and we wanted him to see it himself. The trip was perfect - full of memories, emotions and even a casino! When they returned, my Dad couldn't stop talking about it - how amazing the museum was, how he found his name on the ship's manifest, his brick, the videos of other immigrants telling their tales. He went on and on. He was so happy. So appreciative. So moved.
A few weeks after their return, I found an envelope with my name on it written in his handwriting on the kitchen table. I remember smiling - I knew what it was, one of his infamous cards. Painstakingly picked out, writing lined up with a ruler.
The writing's a bit askew on this one - my Mom said he was crying when he wrote it. So much for the quintessential tough guy. ;) - and I guess it's really nothing special. But it is. Because while we did make the trip possible, he made who we are possible. Our work ethic, our attitudes, our characters, our everything.
So today, on what would have been his 79th birthday, I'll remember what was and try not to bog myself down on what could have been. I know for sure that's exactly what my Dad would tell me to do.
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