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He met Jesus too...
That Christmas Day afternoon almost three years ago now, we were all huddled around a large table at my dad's house, watching the weightless snowflakes amble down to create a winter wonderland around us.
Opa--my dad--wanted a real family Christmas, and this was as close as he got. Maybe he had a premonition it would be his last Christmas; he died the following May.
The “family” he had assembled were Tony and me and our three children, Laura, Grace and Graziano. Maybe even more important in his life in his final two years were his neighbours: Mohammad and Zoolika, Gerry, Dimi, Cora and the neighbour’s Bulgarian mother-in-law.
When my mother, Helene, was still alive, it was just her and him—and he made Herculean efforts to make sure she was able to stay at home until the end. It wasn’t until after she died that he began reaching out to those around him.
This complicated genius of a man had a hard time showing his emotions and often repelled those closest to him. During his working years he invented numerous machines that cleaned oil and other waste from water using gravity-based technology. He was also using digital technology when this field was in its infancy.
But there we were, shivering like Sam McGee just before he got cremated, with the 80-something mother-in-law shrinking ever more into her coat with her hands turning ever bluer. My dad was happy that day. The solarium with its huge windows and elegantly appointed office, which he designed and built himself, was filled with life, laughter and compassion. We had helped prepare all the treats, all on his Verboten list naturally—all with too much potassium, too much sugar, too much salt. They were prepared with some irritation among the camaraderie: he was a very close micro-manager in both English and German. But the love had to be there, too, or we wouldn’t have been there at all.
When we left to go to the other in-laws’ Christmas party, everyone else left too—to thaw out at home, I’m sure—but Mohammad stayed behind.
“For the laughs,” he said.
Laughs, with this old man who had become stern and bitter? But Mohammad and my dad, Werner Huebner, whom he called Papa, hit it off. Mohammad had lost his own dad in ethnic unrest when he was a little boy in Pakistan. They developed a special bond. Mohammad would automatically walk his snowblower over and clean my dad’s driveway whenever it was needed. He offered him rides; he kept him company. Mohammad and Zoolika visited my mother when she was housebound and he documented their visits with many photos. He came to help when my mother fell for the last time.
Gerry did numerous renovations around the house for my dad; he would visit often, just when my dad needed it most. Cora came to bring homemade soup, baked goodies and a smile and human warmth. The kindness of these neighbours enabled my dad to stay in his own house almost to the end.
And I often think that my dad was one of the lucky few to have met both Mohammad and Jesus before he died.
Jesus—that’s what it said on his name tag—was one of the staff at the retirement home where my dad stayed less than a day before he died. Jesus went out of his way to make my dad feel welcome, to feel cared about. He and the other staff treated the residents like fellow human beings.
My dad died just a few hours after we took him to the retirement home. Shortly before we left he said, “I think it was good that we came to Canada.”
After my dad died, we cleaned out the house. I felt good that my relatives and Mohammad wanted to keep many of his things. Whenever we visit Mohammad and Zoolika, we see his furniture, his vases and other treasures.
My dad was a very lucky man to have these neighbours and a son-in-law like my husband who went to my dad’s several times a week. Tony went beyond the call of duty to help him under the most trying conditions.
And my heartfelt thanks go out to every one of them.
(This story was first published in the Stouffville Free Press December, 2011.)
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