When I was going through university, Dad was really supportive. He took me aside one day, gave me a hug and said, "You can be anything you want. I'm so proud of you." Mom would occasionally make a snide remark about me not having time for a career and children. When I reminded her that she also had a career and raised a child she frowned but didn't have anything to say. All that changed when Elektra and Xavier were born and from then on, Mom doted on her grandchildren and was always ready to babysit when Manil or I got tied up at work.
Dad was an avid reader. There are hundreds of books, on trains, cars, ships, but also novels by Mordecai Richler and Robertson Davies. There is an autobiography by Pierre Berton and some humour by Will Ferguson. There are only a few Polish language books, and these are really old.
A lot of memories of childhood come flooding back. I keep telling Manil, although it's all foreign to him. Mostly, he just nods in sympathy.
"My parents had a tough time when they came to Canada. There was a lot of implicit racism. In the seventies, Polaks were the butt of a lot of mean jokes."
This time, Manil sparks up. "Try being East Asian! That wasn't easy."
I put my arm around him. "It's better now though, right?"
He sniffs a bit. "Yes, it's better."
I go back to sorting books. Almost all of them we're dropping off at a women's shelter, although I'm not sure how many women fleeing an abusive partner will have inclination to read Pierre Berton or Robertson Davies. There are some newer authors---Richard Wagamese, Miriam Toews, Yann Martel---maybe some of these books will help someone.
Then I find an unmarked album and flip it open. A tear runs down my cheek as I realise it's Dad's old collection of mint corner blocks. So, he never sold it to make his fortune. I flip to a page that contains stamps from the early 1970s. One catches my eye. Cornelius Krieghoff, 1972, eight cents. A long-forgotten memory surfaces. I remember a winter day: the Polish deli, the post office, sliding down a snowy slope with my dad. I'm amazed that in those days our parents let us play in the school park by ourselves. And then, Mr. Kennedy. Has his type died out? I hope so. I think so.
I can hear my kids running around upstairs, yelling something about Super Mario. I follow Manil up the stairs. Maybe it's time to take a walk around the old neighbourhood. This isn't such a bad place after all.
