Beautiful Ordinary People
This is the original story that was reworked to fit the narrative in Hope from Stone. March 1992 Revised 2012
I ran into Fredrik today and he told me of an incident that happened to him. It really struck me I had to write it down.
Fredrik was Swedish, an accent to prove it, even after 40 years in Canada. But still fit and spry. Everything about him was genuine, age appropriate. He was in his 70’s and had been, still was, a hard worker. Had been an iron worker and was well into retirement by time I met him. He was a former union man of many years, and always said his piece although not overly exuberant about it. Nor under. I knew him from a support group. He was well loved and attended regularily, was always present, and humbly participated. He had a quiet lifestyle, his wife and him. Their only child Fredrik Jr. came to visit from out of town and was always well regarded and would come accompany his dad, as did his grand daughter on occasion. In short, they were a lovely family.
Fredrik very recently had lost his Swedish wife of 41 years. A sudden unexpected death that left him devastated. We met along the beach promenade – a brick walkway along the bay. We stopped and chatted. He spoke of the love of the group and his relationship with God, how he is getting on with life as he must. He believes that worst is now over.
It was a bright sunny warm spring day – the first one after a typical long grey winter. The seagulls were culling cheerfully as children and dogs were exploring the wonder of the early spring seashore.
We talked a few moments about the joy surrounding us, but it wasn’t long before the conversation drifted back to his wife. And his family. In particular, his 12 year old grand daughter. He dropped her at the ferry terminal the day before sending her home after spending a few days with Grandpa.
“You know what she said to me?” he said.
“No, tell me.”
“We were driving to Tsawwassen and I was telling her how much the group has loved me, and pulled me through so much, that I wouldn’t have known what to do without them.”
She reached over and put her tiny hand on my shoulder and gently said,
“Who couldn’t love you Grandpa?”
As Fredrik retold her words, a soft tear came to his eye and not only did he again feel the love God had intended for him that day but was able to share that love with me.
***
Several years later, Fredrik Sr. passed and it was his Celebration of Life. I was never so proud of his friends.
All his friends rallied together generously and unselfishly. They did all the legwork since his son lived out of town. Upper town hall was rented, a United Church minister booked. Men set up tables and chairs, arranged the floor microphone, made sure the ghetto blaster was working and cords were taped down. Ladies helped put together some photo boards together walking us through the years. They helped pick out some of his favorite music and cued up the songs. A steady stream of food arrived, each prepared by loving hands.
It was a glorious bright sunny day. Fredrik Jr. and his daughter, now 16, Dolores and all her family were there. Dolores was a woman he met after his wife died and who he spent the last few years with. He spoke kindly and often of her. Not surprising all her grown children and their families were there. In addition, a few union members, co-workers, other odd friends all showed up. In all a fine collection rounded out a crowd of about 60.
The afternoon flew by – it started with 20 or 30 minutes of formal bits with the minister, the son, the granddaughter doing their bits, ending with a few songs. Fredrik and his wife loved to dance so they made sure Louis Armstrong was there to croon Blueberry Hill from the round speakers. You could envision Fredrik and his wife gliding across the dance floor to the familiar refrain.
Then the floor mic was opened up for stories and memories to be shared. And shared they were. Between snacks and nibbles, pondering the photo boards, folks got up to share a funny, a tragic, a gentle, a Fredrik story of their own. On the job, in the kitchen, on the dance floor, driving somewhere, at the union meeting, behind a podium. I spoke of casually running into him on the promenade that day. Stories and memories came and came. It was so casual, yet so classy. No one wanted to leave. Everything felt so honest and authentic. True to who he was as a man. The afternoon flew by. Of all the people attending more than half had something to say.
It was late in the day, the sun had moved completely around cooling off the room and now sending late day rays streaming in the back door. Very slowly and reluctantly people began to gather their belongings hug a final farewell to the family.
Being out for dinner that night with my own friends all I could remark on is how beautiful ordinary people can be, just being their honest, authentic self.