Throwback Thursday: Vestiges

(Reflections on the passing of Michael Jackson, not quite six years later. Originally posted June 27, 2009.)

With his recent death, Michael Jackson is again the King of Pop, with his albums selling faster than they have in years. He also dominates a huge portion of the news cycle with retrospectives, analyses, and conjecture, as well as other articles on just how much bandwidth this latest bit of celebrity mortality is occupying. I'm sure if he were alive, Jackson would be pleased with all the attention.

I certainly can't call myself a fan of his music, but like Paula Simons said in the Edmonton Journal this morning, his tunes have been a part of the soundtrack of my life. From watching the old Jackson 5 cartoon show on Saturday mornings and getting my first exposure to the Motownalicious "ABC", through the ubiquitous 80s videos like "Billie Jean" that helped to define both the decade itself and the advent of Music TeleVision, and on to multiple comebacks and increasingly deranged behaviour and descent into self parody, Michael Jackson has been there: singer, actor, news item and punchline.

When I was working at GE a couple of years ago, they had a company talent show at lunch one July 4th (since that meant it wouldn't be very busy), and a group of 12 new hires came out with an air-guitar/dance schtick that had them keeping their hands behind their backs until they snapped them forward in unison to reveal the single rhinestoned glove they all wore, after which they proceeded to do about two minutes of the zombie shuffle from the Thriller video, still one of my all time favourites.

I was struck by two things: first, that this was a gutsy group that I immediately liked because I can assure you, none of them had danced professionally. Secondly, since most of the group were under the age of 25, that meant very few of them had even been alive when the video made its debut in 1982.

What will Jackson's legacy be? As a record-breaking entertainer with a reputation as one of the last century's most electrifying performers, or as a disturbed creep whose fame may have allowed him to re-visit his childhood torments on other innocents?

Anyone who knows me knows that the abuse of children is a topic which holds considerable anger content for me, and not a lot of grey areas. My hero is Andrew Vachss, a man with whom I have almost nothing in common with except a hatred of those who prey on children. But the truth is this: we will probably never know whether Michael Jackson's bizarre behaviour was evil, misguided or just naive. While it is true that those who experience torture as children are at an increased risk to do the same to others, and that Joe Jackson is a long ways from winning any celebrity parenting awards, it is just as true that the King of Pop's wealth and fame made him a target for all manner of extortion and blackmail. While I do think it was incredibly irresponsbile for parents to leave their children in the care of a man with so many obvious idiosyncracies and warning signs, it is not impossible that here was a person just trying to recapture the childhood he felt he never had. It is not beyond the realm of possiblity that the sleepovers and such were no more than that, and that he viewed children as peers because they were the least likely to exploit him or seek to gain anything.

But, like I say, we'll never know, and without knowing, those parents who ran to the media first and the authorities last have a credibility gap that Evel Knievel would have a hard time getting over. There are certainly a lot of law enforcement types in southern California who feel he crossed the line, but were not able to prove it. Jackson's dream team of celebrity law were not really able to dis-prove it either, so make of that what you will.

So, what do we know? Not much. Even now, rumours are starting of how Jackson's admiration and emulation of Elvis Presley (including but no limited to marrying his daughter Lisa Marie) may have led him to fake his own death, which has a kind of appeal to it I have to say. Lord knows the man was no stranger to having his face worked on, so returning to the public eye wouldn't even be out of the question. How long before someone reports seeing Michael Jackson eating a Creamsicle on a park bench in Orlando, or playing chess in Washington Square Park?

I think most of us can agree with this: the man had a troubled childhood tied inexorably to early fame which catapulted him into a level of celebrity that may never be equalled as our media continues its fractured mitosis. This fame made us privy to an increasingly bizarre continuum of behaviour that ranged from the amusing ("Your best friend is a chimp named Bubbles?")to the terrifying ("What the hell is he doing on a balcony with a baby...holy crap!").

How do I feel? Strangely saddened. The world has lost an enigmatic entertainer who made a lot, and I don't mean a lot as in 'there were a lot of people at the mall today' but millions, of people happy. To his friends and family, fans and followers, I give my condolences, and wherever Michael Jackson ends up, I wish him peace.

Throwback Thursday: Small Things

As I was driving to church this morning, there was a lane closed in the road coming towards me for a bicycle race, or so the signs said at any rate. At first, there were no bikes in sight, but after a bit I saw some school age children peddling up the mild grade on Boudreau for all they were worth. Some of them had better bikes than others, and some of them were clearly more competitive or better equipped; one little girl not only had the drop down racing handlebars that were standard issue on the ten-speeds of my youth, but also had the additional posts facing upwards for further positioning options. One young lad had a number written on his arm in black marker, which made me wonder if I had wandered into a mini-triathlon of some sort, an "Ironkid", if you will. As I approached the Fountain Park Pool and saw more kids, including some running ones, I felt sure this was the case.

As I watched them running and biking, I had to wonder what would push a kid into that kind of competition. I mean, I swam competitively as a child, and largely enjoyed it, even if I wasn't too serious about it. But I enjoyed the meets and even training, as a lot of my friends were there. But triathlons are heavy duty, and I had a hard time picturing a 7th grader watching grown men and women pushing themselves beyond the limits of human endurance and collapsing in tears at the side of the road and then saying, "Hey, I want to try that!"

I was still stuck in my reverie when a girl of perhaps ten came peddling along. There was nothing extraordinary about her bike or equipment... except for the pinwheel she had jammed into her handlebars.

She had a big smile on her face as she peddled her way up the hill, and she singlehandedly made my morning. Fenya is close to that age, and I am sure that she would have second thoughts about putting something that 'childish' in view of her classmates, but this girl clearly didn't care. She had her pinwheel, and she was happy, and it was spinning so hard I could see the stick bending in time to the whirring and clacking.

Back in high school or junior high math class, I once became entranced with a wooden ruler I had perched on top of my pencil through the binder-ring hole in its centre, and was slowly turning it, trying to keep it as level as possible. The teacher came up from behind me, grabbed the ruler and put it firmly on my desk. That's fine, I was clearly day-dreaming, but I thought her comment, "small minds are amused by small things" was a bit out of line, and I still do.

There were a number of supportive adults spectating and volunteering along the route, clapping and cheering on these young triathletes, and I hope some of them enjoyed seeing that girl and her pinwheel as much as I did. I think if more of us allowed ourselves to appreciate or be amused by small things, whether they are miniature tri-athletes or their pinwheels, we might be better off.

Throwback Thursday: That's About the Sighs of It

(Originally posted May 25, 2009, this post from a simple morning encounter when Fenya was 10 years old (where the hell does the time go, seriously?) remains one of my favourites.  I hope she doesn't find this recollection or raw sentiment too embarrassing, but this, too, is part of a father's role; sorry kid!

They say bloggers need to be content with the notion that they are writing for an audience of one, and going back to this post both justified and invalidated that position: I'm glad I captured my thoughts on it shortly after it happened, and I've received some lovely comments about it as well.)

This morning, as we all went about our morning ablutions and general ante meridiem routines, Fenya wandered into the kitchen with no shirt on.

This is not really a big deal; so much not so, in fact, that it took me a moment to notice. With four people sharing a single bathroom, modesty is something we have never really bothered with in our household, frankly. When you gotta go, you gotta go, and if that means stepping over someone on the biffy whilst en route to the shower, so be it. Many are the bedtimes where I have been bowled over by 1-2 clothesless children screaming "NAKED HUG!" at the top of their lungs, and we wouldn't have it any other way. The girls are still discreet in public and self conscious enough not to streak in front of the living room window, and they generally refrain from naked hug charges while company is over, and that sort of thing, so it has never been a cause for concern.

I know it can't last, and that the time for casual household nudity will draw to a close, and that's fine. Fenya has already started to ask that I wait for an answer before entering her room, which probably has more to do with her beginning to wear a training bra than any kind of shame about nudity. Her appearance in the kitchen this morning sans blouse really drew it into sharp relief for me though; there are probably not a lot of sunny mornings left where she will drift into the kitchen with no top and casually feed the dog, and I probably won't even notice the change until it has come and gone.

With a little luck, my children will keep a certain degree of childish outlook throughout their lives, much as I have tried to do. I worked with a fellow years ago, who maintained "Maturity is not acting like an adult, it's knowing when it's appropriate to act like a child." But childishness and childhood are very different in my estimation. Time is running out on so many things; things like a trip to Disneyland, funny faces, being dropped off at school within sight of their friends, general silliness, stuffed animals, naming and anthropomorphizing everything they come across, talking to animals like they are going to respond in kind, asking questions and not worrying about looking foolish, singing along with music or shows, et cetera, et cetera.

I can get pretty maudlin about matters like this. It is so vitally important to me that my kids look back on a childhood full of love and fun and support but most of all childishness, and I wear my heart way out on my sleeve in this, as I do in so many things. So much so, in fact, that I have started to withhold what I am actually feeling at times like these so I don't inadvertently make my daughters feel guilty about growing up!

And so it was, when Fenya stumbled into the kitchen this morning, wearing just her jeans, as she collected Nitti's water dish and brought it over to the sink to refill, and I looked but I didn't see her. I saw sand dropping through the neck of an hourglass, and every grain was a diamond of exquisite clarity and brilliance and I thought briefly about how best to catch them, when Fenya interrupted me.

"Daddy? What's the matter?"

I thought about telling her, but again, she already knows that as much as I love to watch her grow up, I miss the child she was yesterday, and just how selfish do I need to be anyways? Moments like these are like the chalk mandalas they draw in far flung monasteries, full of effort and detail and beauty, but ultimately ephemeral, like childhood itself. I'm still learning to enjoy the flower where it grows, rather than picking it and taking it with me.

I smiled and said, "Nothing, I was just thinking."

Throwback Thursday: Nothin' Goin' On But the 'Rents

(Originally posted May 10, 2009; John Goodman continues to be awesome to this day.)

This is not a movie review, but I watched Speed Racer with my family the other day. I have never seen the cartoon it is based upon, nor, to the best of my knowledge, have any of my friends. The extent of my Speed Racer experience was limited to hearing the theme song on the "Saturday Morning Heroes" CD at Games Workshop and seeing it mocked on "Robot Chicken". Needless to say, I wasn't expecting much.

Which was good, because I didn't get a lot either. Don't get me wrong, I see what they were shooting for, and it was a very clever homage to innocence and simpler times, despite its theme of corruption and intoxicating over-the-top visuals, and it was fun. Seriously though; I have never dropped acid, but if I did, I hope it would be as deliriously colourful and creatively realized as some of the scenes in this movie. But just past the middle of the film, I'll be damned if John Goodman (who can't redeem every movie he's in, but you can see him hefting like Atlas every time without fail) doesn't go and drop in one of the best parent speeches I've seen in a long time.



Speed is leaving home against his father's wishes. When we see his brother Rex doing the same thing years earlier, to work for another racing team, Pops Racer (Goodman) tells him, "If you go out that door, don't bother coming back." When Rex dies in a suspicious crash a short time later, it's a pretty bad scene at the Racer household, with super-size servings of guilt and misplaced feelings of responsibility. Speed's departure is shot in the exact same way as his brother's, so you are waiting for the inevitable replay. And it doesn't happen.

"I didn't lose Rex when he crashed," Pops confesses, "I lost him here. I let him think that a stupid motor company meant more to me than he did. You'll never know how much I regret that mistake. It's enough I'll never make it again. Speed, I understand that every child has to leave home. But I want you to know, that door is always open. You can always come back. 'Cause I love you."

Out of a lot of other mouths, these words drop to the floor like lead weights, but not Goodman. He plays the melodrama straight, no chaser, and it works. And he's not finished:

Pops Racer: I couldn't have been more proud of you, son. Not because you won, but because you stood up, you weren't afraid, and you did what you thought was right.
Speed: It didn't amount to anything. It was completely meaningless.
Pops Racer: How could it be meaningless? I saw my son become a man. I watched a man with courage and integrity drive the pants off of every other driver on that road. This is not meaningless. This is the reason for a father's life.

When a popcorn film based on a ludicrous premise, written by the same guys who brought you the Matrix sequels (and, to be fair, The Matrix) can throw something like this into the mix and make it credible, it's not just a surprise, it's positively staggering.

Whatever my occupation may be at any given time, being a father is the most important job I will ever have, so anytime I catch even a glimmer of a similar sentiment in a medium that typifies most dads as bumbling morons, if not outright selfish ingrates, I sit up and take notice. I certainly wasn't expecting to sit up in Speed Racer. What a pleasant surprise! A dad who has humility enough to recognize a past mistake, honesty enough to admit it, and courage enough to let his son go, with the assurance that he is loved and can always come home. And this is after beating up a ninja, no less. Although there might not be as much competition as I would like, Pops Racer strikes me as one of the great movie dads.

I realize this probably seems a bit incongruous, what with it being Mother's Day and all, but hey, parents, we are all in this together. We had a great Mother's Day here, with my Mom and Dad and sister coming out for brunch and me making mimosas and eggs benedict for everyone and chilling out all afternoon.

I am so grateful for not only my mother, who set a great example for me as a parent, but also my wife, who sets the bar for me now with our own fantastic children. These two women who make me think of something my favourite writer, Andrew Vachss, said once:

"Mother is not what you are, it's what you do."

Throwback Thursday: The Path Less Listened To

(Originally posted May 5, 2009, this is not necessarily an excellent or insightful piece, but I only recently discovered an actual music video for the song referenced below and could not resist updating it.)

Me old china, Island Mike (aka rufus.baseball in the comments section), and I have a longstanding and willful misunderstanding of each others' definition of musical value. It has provided us both with a lot of entertainment over the years, or I have really missed my guess and it has been driving him completely mental ever since I once referred to him as a 'musical Nazi'. Maybe it only provides entertainment for one of us at a time, I dunno.

I have, on occasion, characterized him as a reactionary, hidebound dinosaur, revelling in the glories of ages long past, a musical conservative with about as much inclination towards experimentation as the caterer for the Leduc Alberta Wednesday Night Lions Club. He, in turn, has regarded me as a shallow, musical dilettante, prone to auditory self-injury, who is about as discriminating as Paris Hilton's social secretary and who displays a horrifying tendency to tolerate admittedly bad music simply because it is fun or danceable, which is ironic and (perhaps even horrifying) when you consider that I dress out at more than an eighth of a ton, and am hardly light on my feet.

That said, I appreciate all music much more because of Mike. He schooled me up on the blues roots of bands like Cream and Led Zeppelin that I might have dismissed as the sole provenance of the kids in school who majored in shop class and wore lumberjack shirts instead of jackets. He and my friend Rob taught me the joy of liner notes, and the subtlety needed to appreciate quality session musicians. In exchange, I exposed him to things like Suicidal Tendencies (through the Repo Man soundtrack), Sinead O'Connor, Yello and most recently, Corb Lund. I have much wider parameters than he does in terms of listenability, but he is unequivocating in his criticism of dishonest or lazy music and musicianship. Our "What is best in radio, Conan?" discussion continues unabated to this day, and leaves its smoldering hoofprints in the comments section under my post "In Defense of 80s Music".

Driving home tonight I heard this band, Christian Hansen & The Autistics, and their song "Cocaine Trade". I am still not sure if he is referring to cocaine or disco in the chorus:

"Oh my god, it's comin' back, comin' back
It was lame the first time 'round
Oh my god, it's comin' back, comin' back
I can't stand to hear the soooouunnd"

... but I am leaning towards disco, and for a song that opens with the word "Cowbell", that is ironic and funny, and it made me think of Island Mike immediately.

I also read an article about the band and it's founder, a former folk singer who still hasn't made up his mind whether or not he hates dance music or not, but who hasn't let that stop him from playing it. They are an Edmonton group who were the Sonic Band of the Month in February, and have started to get a little traction and I wish them well. There is no motion in the 'video' (snort) link below, but it provides an opportunity to hear the tune without endless radio scanning, and it may bring you a smile.  Yes, rufus, perhaps even you.

(Update: the group moved to Toronto in 2012, have dropped 'And The Autistics', were active as recently as January, but are not yet massive.)

Throwback Thursday: Metal-Aged Guy

(This shameful re-run of a re-run was originally published April 5, 2009.  I have subsequently brought my youngest daughter to a metal concert in Calgary, while Island Mike's son (14 at the time) has grown into a strapping young lad who attends university and played baseball with the Edmonton Prospects last summer.)

Today's post will be familiar to some, as I sent it around via e-mail in December of last year. It was the response I got from this, however, that prompted me to start the blog in the first place, so I had always intended to include it. Besides, with half the household up all last night being sick (on Glory's birthday no less), it was either this or a posting called "Happy Birthday to (hugh)". What follows is an exhortation to my friend Mike who lives on Vancouver Island to cross the Strait with his 14 year-old son to see the "Ultimate Beatdown Tour" that was playing in Vancouver the following evening.

Warning: the following post does contain traces of pottymouth. Forewarned is half an octopus.
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Why should you see the show? First of all, you have a serious obstacle to overcome in the form of a major waterway just to get to the show, and I respect that, but remember that you will not have to deal with waiting for 45 GORRAM MINUTES in MINUS 25 DEGREE COLD. Damn, that was awful, I could barely remember the sensation of even having a big toe by the time we got in to the Edmonton Event Centre (formerly Reds at WEM). And as soon as we are in the doors, it is the mandatory coat check, which slows the line up AND keeps us close to the soul-chilling temperatures of the great outdoors. And then we find out that the only food in the place is the Funky Pickle pizza stand, AND because it is an all ages show, you can't take your beer out of the cordoned area in front of the stage, so if we want to beer it up (and, not surprisingly, we do), we are going to have to go and stand by the bar where Pete has at least recce'd us a sweet spot and made friends with the bartender. So, in short, at least your venue will not suck nearly as badly and you probably won't freeze to death waiting for the doors.

Secondly, the opening acts. I had not heard of either opening act, so I was prepared to listen to two sets of badly produced amateur speed metal with no sense of either grandeur or irony in order to get to Dragonforce, who are pretty cool and clearly have a decent understanding of that "take your work seriously, don't take yourself seriously" thing. so when the first band comes up on stage wearing the oversized Frank Frazetta shoulder pads with spikes and all, I'm rolling my eyes and thinking, "oh brother, 'ere we go...", when they rip into a big instrumental that not only sounds well played, but strangely familiar. Is it classical? No, more like folk music...Russian maybe?

Then it all clicks together: I am listening to a speed metal interpretation of "Kalinka", a Russian tune most famous for being the music from Tetris, and the band is called Powerglove (like the old Nintendo accessory), and they are the premier purveyors of "video game metal". Possibly the sole purveyors, but it matters not. And they are a riot: they introduce themselves and state plainly that they are here to "fuck up your childhoods"; no vocals to speak of, except the finale, and they play bits of Sonic the Hedgehog, Super Mario and Final Fantasy VII. After asking if there are any warriors in the crowd (to an enthusiastic response), the frontman says "good, because we need about 15 skeleton warriors to wield these INFLATABLE SWORDS!" and the crowd goes apeshit, "And this MIGHTY CLUB!" which is an oversized neon pink inflatable baseball bat. About midway through the set, Pete notices that frontman's shoulder pads are actually the turtle shell thingies from the Mario games, a nice detail. For the finale, Powerglove rocks up the crowd with a stirring rendition of the "Power Rangers" theme. A great time, and I bought their disc.

So then the second act comes on, and Mike, Pete and I have reconciled ourselves to the fact that the other opening act could not POSSIBLY be as cool as Powerglove. So the lights go down, the stage is black and a Finnish accent booms out "Edmonton.. are you ready for BATTLE METAL?" and from the response, apparently a number of the crowd really are. So this band, Turisas, hit the stage, rocking the Battle Metal with what I would call a significant hardness, with a six piece band, all decked out in furs and red and black striped warpaint reminiscent of the hedonism scene from Conan the Barbarian's. They've got a vocalist, bass, lead guitar and drums, as well as a crazy ass guy with a cut down violin and.. a female accordionist. I know, I know, you've seen one Finnish folk-metal band with a female accordionist (or as Mike says,'accordionatrix'), you've seen them all; and yes, she was cute; Pete compared her favourably to Sandahl Bergman in the aforementioned Conan, but I think that sells her a little short), but I am new enough to the world of international metal that it was still a novelty for me.

And this band really does rock. Yes, I bought their CD, "The Varangian Way" too, and not just because it references the Varangians mentioned in those John Ringo 'Kildar' novels. They remind me of a less orchestrated, rougher version of Rhapsody/ Rhapsody of Fire. The folk influences are deffo there (violin and accordion, hello?), but the vocals are growlier, and there are a lot of sing along choruses that would not have been out of place in a Viking mead hall. Early in the set, I turn to Pete and say, "You know, these guys would do a positively kick ass rendition of Rasputin, eh?" and he agrees emphatically, so when, not three songs later, a familiar beat is followed by "There lived a certain man, in Russia long ago..." Pete is convinced I am psychic.

Their lead singer and warlord, according to the liner notes, ran a very thin line between getting the crowd warmed up for the headliners and formally inciting a riot. "these guys up front look bored, I'm sorry to say. They are security, and it is their job to keep the stage secure. You aren't giving them very much to do, ARE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS? they are getting paid to do nothing, and it probably pisses them off. I KNOW IT PISSES ME OFF!! START SOMETHING!!!" But thankfully, order was maintained, even though Turisas have enough of a presence in the metal community that a number of young fans were kitted out in warpaint and furs as well.

And Dragonforce? Just an excellent show with absolutely breathtaking guitar work by the two leads. Great crowd participation, band interaction, the works. There are enough videos and the like on YouTube that you can certainly get the idea (esp. "Operation Ground and Pound") of what to expect, but I maintain that watching highly trained and skilled professionals who clearly love their work are a joy to watch in just about any field, doubly so in music, and even more so in heavy metal.

One of the guitarists is named Sam Totman, and Mike has informed us that it is a rare enough name in England that who knows? they may be related. Watching Sam onstage and seeing a multitude of Mikely mannerisms manifest themselves was just about enough to convince me, and there is certainly a passing similarity, even if Mike is about a foot taller. After the show, we ended up talking to both Sam and the accordionatrix while we waited 40 minutes for the coat check tide to subside, so Mike and I got our Turisas discs signed, and Mike got his picture taken with Sam after telling him the relativity theory. Sam wished his Dad was there "because 'e'd be all 'oo,er, family tree" et cetera, but yeah, nice guy, funny, sarcastic, and enough like Mike that I would not bet against them being related to some degree. Oh, and Pete and I read on Wikipedia that the accordionista is a step-in player filling in for the original bloke who "disappeared under mysterious circumstances while in Amsterdam." No shit.

Had I taken Fenya, she would not have been close to the youngest person there at age 10. I saw a lad of probably five riding on his dad's shoulders, wearing a Dragonforce t-shirt. And aside from a gratuitous amount of f-bombs and the occasional lewd gesture, there was nothing in the show I would have called age-inappropriate, unlike the previous show I saw at Reds, which was Gwar(!). Fenya had asked to come, as she likes the non-growly metal in general and Dragonforce in particular, and having experienced the show, I wish now I had taken her along. You have an opportunity to go and experience with your boy the spiritual inheritors of the music of your youth. they are no Iron Maiden, but very decent musicians with great showmanship and tremendous humour. It could be a year or two before another show like this comes to your neck of the woods, making your son 16 by then, and either insanely busy in the family tradition, or just unwilling or uncomfortable doing such things with his dad. I just don't want to see you down the road, listening to Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle" holding a picture of better days while a single tear tracks down your unshaven cheek, et cetera... but I think you get my point.
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Unfortunately, with the limited amount of lead time they were given, Mike and his son were not able to attend the show, but he let me know that he appreciated the heads up, and that my experience had given us both a lesson in terms of seizing opportunities. On the other hand though, I am helping some friends arrange the music for their wedding reception this summer, and since playing "Rasputin" is practically an obligation in such circumstances, it is nice to know I can spice things up a little bit, courtesy of Turisas, and my mates who brought me along to the show.

Throwback Thursday: The Cycle Repeats Itself

(Originally posted March 31, 2009)

And now, a slightly comic denouement to the previous post, to serve as a virtual sorbet and make the transition to future silliness more palatable...

Mark is a friend of mine (former boss, actually) who lives in the U.K. and is a tremendous history buff. He sent me an e-mail telling me he enjoyed Opa's story, and added this: More WWII info for Fenya; apparently if German tourists get 'uppity' (a habit they find hard to break) in Holland the Dutch say 'can my grandad have his bicycle back?' as the occupying forces left in such a hurry they stole every mode of transport they could get their hands on!

Needless to say, I found this pretty funny, and told a few people at work, a few of my mates, the wife and so forth. That evening, she was on the phone with my father-in-law to thank him for the tale, and put me on the phone to tell him Mark's anecdote, which I related with glee.

"It's true," he said. "I had a bicycle near the end of the war. It was old, and worn out, and all the leather had come off the seat. Springs were all sticking out of it, so it hurt my bottom to ride it. But near the end of the war, a drunken German soldier came to the farm and just told me, 'Kid, I need that bicycle.' And I said, 'Take it.' And he rode off, and that was that."

Now, I figure a dilapidated bicycle is a small price to pay to hasten the departure of occupation forces, sad as it is to be taking a toy from a 12 year old Dutch boy. But there had to be some measure of satisfaction in knowing that if you wanted to, you could probably track the guy down by his funny walk after he rode it all the way to the border in a semi-anesthetized state, right?

And I am just waiting for the inappropriate moment when my daughter asks some visiting German person, "Can my granddad have his bicycle back? No, seriously..."

Throwback Thursday: Family Connections to The Holocaust

Notwithstanding how many people may have stopped perusing my ramblings since I began blogging here back in 2009, I understand that at least two people have started reading it since then.

Given my proclivity towards whimsy and nonsense, I thought it might be useful to go back and re-post and re-share some of my favourites from a half decade ago.  This is one of the stories that prompted me to start keeping a blog in the first place.

Original Title: Theories of Relative-ity, March 29, 2009

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My daughter, Fenya, is in the 5th grade, and has recently started a Social Studies unit on the Holocaust. Knowing that both of my wife's parents were in Holland during the war, she asked my wife to inquire if Oma or Opa knew anyone who had been taken away during the occupation.

Now, like a lot of people, I have a hard time categorizing my relationship with my father-in-law. Do I tell you we have drastically different ways about experiencing the world and the people in it? Or the fact that the very first words he said to me after being introduced and shaking hands was, "Soft hands"? Despite all that, however, he can be an easy fellow to respect. What he may lack in diplomacy he more than makes up for in honesty and clear language, and is an intelligent and inquisitive man with tremendous memory and insight.

He wrote the following to Fenya, and for a man of few words who does not have a lot of cause to write, he tells an important story about values, and risk, and familial connections to historic events in a way I can only describe as brilliantly succinct, and I wanted to share it with you.

March 27, 2009

Dear Fenya,

You asked your mom whether I knew people of the Jewish religion who were taken by the Germans and died (or were gassed) in a concentration camp in Germany or Poland. I knew an old Jewish couple who came to Mom and Dad’s farm periodically for some food. My Mom knew them very well because they had a small store from where they sold yarn to knit socks, vests, sweaters etc. I picture them as being in their seventies and were marked by a yellow star (the Star of David on their clothing). The Star of David, King of Israel from the Old Testament, and is mentioned in the genealogy of Jesus Christ in the New Testament. From about 1942 on until they were rounded up they were to be identified by the Star of David and a curfew was imposed on them; they were not allowed on the street between 9 pm and 7 am by the German occupation in Europe. They knew that they were earmarked for destruction. The man said one time to my Mom, ‘there is no reason for us to ask anybody to hide us, we are old anyway.’

There were several Jewish people in our town who had small businesses from which they eked out a living. Your Great-Uncle Hendrik Torsius and his wife took a Jewish family into hiding for 3 years; a man and his wife and their two teenaged daughters. They lived in an out of the way area at the time. He built a sort of chicken coop and made it appear for anybody’s eyes like a big pile of straw which would be used for bedding for cattle in the wintertime. They lived in very close quarters but survived for 3 years by hiding in this way.

One time the German army came around checking the area farms. Your Great-Uncle asked the soldier who was to check out his place what he was looking for and told him there was nothing to be found; ‘You might as well leave.’ Luckily, he left.

After the war, the family was given the distinction by the nation of Israel as being Righteous Gentiles, and a tree was planted in their honor in Israel.

Your Great-Uncle’s family put their lives on the line to save that family. If that Jewish family would have been found, both families would have been shot dead.


from
Opa Top,
(Gerrit Top)
High River, Alberta

Opa and Oma both experienced some terrible things during World War II. Opa barely missed being deported to work in concentration camps like Neuengamme and Birkenau in 1944. Over 600 young men and boys were shipped out, and only 49 returned after the war. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Putten)

I hope he can be convinced to write about that experience at some point, but I will certainly understand if he doesn't. In fact, this warcrime is so well known, he rarely even identifies himself as being from Putten.

At any rate, I am very grateful to my father-in-law, for connecting my daughter so directly to an act of heroism during a historic tragedy, and for reminding us that we are not so far removed from its effects as we might like to think.