Yesterday Lori and I went to Kelowna for our friend Lyle’s 99 birthday party. It was the second one he’s had since the weekend. For the first one, which was held on Sunday, he was treated to a belly dance from two nubile young ladies, friends, I think, of one of his grand-nieces although I’m not really certain about that. But certainly it was a great idea, however it came to pass…we watched the video…he was as charmed as he could be and no doubt deeply appreciative of the attention.
You may remember my blog of a few weeks back about Lyle and his struggle to make it to 100 so he could be recognized by the Queen…apparently she sends out congratulatory notes to centenarians as they come of age throughout the Commonwealth.
Remember the Commonwealth…as in the British Commonwealth? Does such a thing still exist I wonder. Am I still a British Subject? I remember being told in my elementary school days that I was indeed such a thing. All Canadians, I was told, were British Subjects, that the Queen of England was the Queen of Canada too… as well as of Australia and India and a collection of lands too numerous to mention, but upon which the sun never set. Yes…The Sun Never Sets Upon the British Empire…that was it…Empire…then Commonwealth…then…what? The English speaking chunk of the Eurozone?
No wonder they’re Brexiting.
Anyway, Lyle would have grown up a British Subject, and proud to be one too. He joined the Canadian army at age nineteen, right at the beginning of WW II to go fight for King and country, to be part of a great adventure, of something so much bigger than any life he had known on the dusty farm in Saskatchewan; although, to be sure, his family had done well during the dirty thirties. They had a some bottom land on which they dug irrigation ditches and were able to grow potatoes which were immediately purchased by the government. But they held back enough to feed any neighbours who were not lucky enough to have productive land during those bleak years.
He still likes to tell stories. You have to lean in a bit because he doesn’t have a lot of breath but it’s so worth the effort. I wish Lori and I had visited more often when he was still able to be chatty. He told us yesterday about how he had kept photographs and a personal historical record of his WWII experience. Apparently he was quite a photographer and had a very good camera and a passion for recording his life. But it was all lost in a flood caused by teenaged pranksters when he and his wife were away from home for a period. The kids broke into the basement of his house where all his photography stuff was kept and turned on the water and left. Neighbours noticed water coming out of the basement windows and were able to stop the flood but it was too late. All that history was ruined along with his camera. I guess he never had the heart to start over.
Lyle was born one day after my own father. My Dad has been gone for so long that it feels almost impossible that they could be the same age, but there it is. There’s no accounting for longevity really. Perhaps it’s largely genetic (Lyle’s sister is 92 and looks 72) but perhaps it has also to do with how much you like being in the world. Lyle still wants to walk again and I think probably still spends more time imagining life than death. He has bad days for sure but has, so far anyway, managed to slough them off and keep going. I doubt that I would be so tenacious were I in his position…I think I’d be asking for the ‘rubber hammer’ as the Dutch say.
Still, I look forward to the next visit. I’m sure there are infinite stories should he be in the mood.
I brought my guitar down last week and sang for him. He asked if I knew any Bing Crosby.
“I used to sing like Bing Crosby” he said.