Opa

In my family we tell stories. We tell stories about things that have happened to us, or things that we’ve done – but all to one purpose. We’re always trying to make each other laugh. So being asked to write something about my Opa when he’s not here any more, well, all my stories about Opa end with people laughing. Somehow that seems inappropriate for the occasion, and yet totally, perfectly right.

For the past year, I’ve tried to explain to people who’d never met him, how strong my grandfather was. Everything about him was strong. His back. His opinions. His love. His hands. His accent. His will. His head. His appetite. His character. Strong, hard and solid. I joked that he was made out of concrete and rebar. I told stories about him carrying a half a cow on his back. About how he’d pinch the spot right above your knee with his giant hands and make you squirm. About him moving his entire family to the prairies of Alberta in the 50’s without knowing any English, and not having any family here. About him heaving a bundle of shingles up onto a roof when he was in his seventies.

It was the kind of strength that seems invincible when you’re a kid.

And for all that strength, Opa was a very loving man. Not effusive. Never sentimental. But he loved all of us. He’d pet my hair and tell me I’d look classy with French braids. He wrapped the playhouse in plastic in the middle of the night, because he was afraid all of us grandkids were going to freeze camping out there. He stayed up, and peaked out windows at boys dropping off his daughters late at night. He’d tuck you in, head to toe, until you were mummified in the blankets. He was proud of his kids, and the families they have created.

And my Opa loved my Oma. Married almost 60 years. After dinner, after the dishes were done, and everyone was sitting around the table, still telling stories, he’d pull Oma to him, and she’d sit in his lap. How many times they had done that I don’t know, but even with my toddler eyes, you could see that he loved her. There is a picture somewhere, and she is sitting in his lap, he has his giant hands and strong arms around her, and they are both smiling. And it’s so obvious. The kids, so many kids, and the hardship, and the poverty, and the strange country – they did all of that together, and he still wants her to be as close to him as possible, on his lap. And he’d watch his kids and his grandkids with a look on his face that said, “We did this. And it’s good.”

My Opa was a patriarch. He started this dynasty of beautiful women and strong men. He taught them how to work hard. He made sure they knew they were loved. His family was so important to him. We are his legacy. And we will miss him.