Hello world, I’m here.
On October 7, 1947, in a hospital in Athens, Greece, I experienced my first day outside my mother’s womb. I do not remember any of it. What I know about my early years, I learned from stories my parents and relatives told me much later in life.
I learned that when I was eleven months old, I had acute peritonitis. This is an inflammation of the peritoneum — a silk-like membrane that lines your inner abdominal wall and covers the organs within your abdomen — that is usually due to a bacterial or fungal infection. The Mayo Clinic says treatment of peritonitis usually involves antibiotics and, in some cases, surgery. And, if left untreated, peritonitis can lead to severe, potentially life-threatening infection throughout your body. I was one of the lucky ones who got the surgery and I ended up with a scar to prove it – in fact, one that grew with me until I stopped growing.
In those days, parents were not allowed to stay in hospitals with their children. I was told that my father hid under the bed to be with me. Whenever I think of that, I cannot help but be assured that my father loved me from the very start. I tried to model that kind of devotion for my own children, and grandchildren, although one would have to ask them as to how well I succeeded.
[As an aside, on my 70th birthday, one of my children wrote the following on social media:
Happy birthday, Dad! I told you in person but wanted to honor you here too. I wouldn’t trade you for anyone. You’re strong and smart and honest and ethical and you want to help anyone and everyone who needs you, and you endeavor to honor God in all that you do. Thank you for the example you set for me and my kids. Wishing you many, many more. Xxoo. {and she added a heart emoji}
My response was:
Thank you, sweetheart. I appreciate that. And you know how much I love you and all my kids and grandkids. I want to be a good example to you, especially as we all try to put God first. Love you lots and I pray all goes well this week with the big event at work. Your loving and very thankful and blessed, Dad.]
I only share that because I want you to know how seriously I take parenting and the importance of modeling good parenting for our children and grandchildren, just as my parents did for me. But at the same time, while things turned out well for me and so far for my children and grandchildren with respect to their role model(s), I can’t help but think of the millions of children that had to grow up either without a role model or one that they would have been better off without.
My knowledge of my experience in the hospital while still an infant also causes me to think of the millions of parents who wanted to be the desired role model their child needed, but due to war, illness, death, or divorce, were never given the chance. It is hard for me to identify with that kind of missed opportunity, the awareness of which one wakes up to every morning. And I am aware that such a loss can be felt not only by the parent who has lost a child in this way but also by the child who has lost a parent.
From pictures, I also know I was often taken to special places in Greece by one or another of my relatives who could afford doing such things more than my own folks could. I was told of my disgust at any garbage, especially the kind left behind by our four-legged friends – all of which caused me to gag and sometimes vomit. I understand my mother, for some crazy reason, used to go ahead of me whenever feasible to “clear the path”. Thus, began a ‘life of privilege’ – the privilege of being an only child; something that my wife still thinks didn’t do me any good in the years that followed.
When I was about three years old, my father, a trained cabinet-maker, left Greece to emigrate to Canada. Due to the lack of English language skills, I remember him telling me many years later that when he arrived in North America, he started working in Greek-owned restaurants washing dishes. He had washed so many dishes in two years, that if put side-by-side and they were able to support his weight, he could have walked back to Greece to get us.
Instead, two years after he had left us behind in Athens, he sent us enough money to take the Greek ocean liner, Nea Ellas, and make our own way, in early 1953, to the brave new world.
One other story that I will never forget was that my father, for the first year or so of his life in Toronto, had never been told about how the public transportation transfer system worked, and each time he had to transfer from a bus going one direction to one going in a perpendicular direction, he would drop another fare in the ticket box – an unnecessary cost.
His story of the dishes engrained in me an understanding of how loving parents so often sacrifice themselves so their children could have a better life. I don’t see that similar sacrificing as much these days, especially from second and third generation immigrant parents.
His story regarding transfers on the public system helped me to understand the needs of new immigrants to any nation and the importance of taking the time to show them how things work in their new homeland. Who knows, had someone taken the time to share with my dad how to use transfers, he may have saved hundreds of dollars over the period and brought us over earlier.
When my mother and I left Athens, heading for the now famous Pier 21 in Halifax, Nova Scotia (the ocean liner terminal and immigration shed from 1928 to 1971 where over one million immigrants came into Canada, and the last surviving seaport immigration facility in the country), we were leaving behind many beloved relatives that we may have never seen again – either because of affordability, or because of their age or health. They tell me the tears both on the dock and on the ship’s deck were flowing freely and sometimes to the point where people had to be escorted by others away from the scene. Such was the way my first journey across the Atlantic began.
It would be great if you would share your thoughts or questions on this blog in the comments section below or on social media.
