Wonderings

No Dolus

Many years ago, as part of an unnamed institution, involving an anonymous colleague, for an unidentified student, I helped execute a deceit which helped that person achieve his educational goals in spite of seemingly arbitrary rules. No need to implicate anyone but myself, so the details will be vague.

In brief, the student was participating in a new and precedent setting program to gain entrance to a university. At issue was his past performance. He had failed the majority of his courses in a first attempt at university and was using our program as a second chance. The receiving institution claimed the poor experience made the student ineligible, a “rule” which I discovered the hard way when an earlier participant was denied in spite of my promises and efforts. In conferring with another colleague, we were determined to ensure this current student, a very bright young person, would not suffer the same fate; he deserved the opportunity. The colleague instructed the student not to divulge, in any form, his academic history; and I ordered the accompanying transcripts to print only the current grades, a little known procedure since eliminated but worked to my advantage at the time. The performance in the program, as per our signed agreement, was intended to be the sole measure for continuation. That student was accepted without question, excelled in all the courses, and graduated with honours. He found employment in his field immediately. I lost track of his career years ago.

I remembered this story during my most recent visit to the archives in Freshfield and Oosterbeek searching through records to trace the life of Fr. Kees de Cock. I was combing through pages of material from the different Mill Hill schools, hoping for information specific to his experiences, items such as reports or grades or evaluations. Cornelis de Cock appeared on some class lists, in one document about fee payments and on a preliminary list of students eligible for the priesthood. There was one succinct assessment from a July 1939 report of Class 4 where Cornelis de Cock was described as a “zealous worker, calm, good in sports, inclined to be easy going (not lazy), manners and speech ought to improve, rather fond of dialect”. Nothing more. I did uncover numerous documents regarding curriculum, school rules, instructions to parents and letters to the Superior General on current matters both routine and problematic.

“13 April 1946. My dear Father Mclaughlin, Again a letter; you cannot complain about my not keeping you busy with affairs of Missiehuis etc. 1. re our student … enclosed letter to the P.P. of Dokum and our petition to the Bishop of Breda tell you the case quite clearly that he is ‘illegitimus’ – – as is now fully established also by the new baptismal certificate… This student has been in our Colleges Hoorn, Haelen Tilburg, Haelen Roosendaal from 1934…. he took his temporal oath…and he is due for Perpetual oath on the 18th of May ’46 and for following ordinations. I cannot accept him without your knowledge etc. of the case. And because this is an extraordinary case I prefer to put it before the Council separate from the list of candidates I shall forward to you shortly. Re – his health – I am waiting final medical certificate. Re. his character and studies and other qualities – I don’t think there are any objections, – on the contrary.”

The student’s crime, as revealed in a follow-up letter, 25 April 1946, was to be born to parents wed according to civil law but not in the Catholic church. Moreover, the marriage document on file, acquired in 1938/39 when the student was enrolled in the fifth class already, appears to have been altered with someone changing “1931” to “1921”; and, the previous baptismal certificate on record declares him to be “filius legitimus”, contradicted with one more recently acquired. The student’s father converted to Catholicism after the student’s birth and did eventually marry in accordance with the faith. The priest of the local parish understood the “family circumstances” and served as his sponsor. Apparently the Rector was made aware. Every other priest involved (and there are at least nine others named) appears to have merely accepted the legitimacy of the student’s enrolment without a review of his file. The student himself never discussed the matter assuming Mill Hill had accepted him in spite of the situation. In the lead up to his Perpetual Oath, misgivings about a discussion with the spiritual director prompted further inquiry leading to what Father Mclaughlin would later describe as “a thoroughly nasty case”.

One of the challenges with archival letters is the researcher only reads one side of the conversation. I was not able to view every response of the Superior General, Father McLaughlin, except in what Father Padberg subsequently writes. In the letter dated 18th of May 1946, Father Padberg quotes the Superior General who is nonplussed with the entire matter. “It seems to us that DOLUS has entered in somewhere and if he has been admitted to the Society – for the probation on the occasion of his Temp. oath-DOLO, whether dolus on his part or on the part of the parochus or Superior admitting, then HIS WHOLE TEMP. MEMBERSHIP MAY HAVE BEEN INVALID, which would be bad business and, I suppose calling for another dispensation of some kind.” Father Padberg then proceeds to address each of the specific questions. A copy of the old baptismal certificate is provided; specific priests know nothing about the marriage certificate date change; a letter to the Pope via the Bishop, seeking special dispensation, has been sent; and canonical advisers “are fully convinced that no DOLUS has in any way entered into the case”. I wonder about the latter, because based on my own personal experience, the student would not have gone undetected for so long without key people turning a blind eye to an apparent breach in practice.

I did not uncover any more correspondence about the matter, the record incomplete, another challenge with archival material. The outcome remained a mystery until my arrival in Oosterbeek, attending a funeral and searching for familiar names of priests in the cemetery for Mill Hill missionaries. There it stood, closer to the rear, half engulfed in foliage, that student’s grave stone; born 26-5-1922, died 29-5-2011. He did become a priest somehow. Perhaps he received the dispensation from the Pope; perhaps the Superior General accepted him regardless of the new information; perhaps his actions as a seminarian convinced Mill Hill of his worthiness to become a priest. It was when I surveyed the wall of graduating classes later, inside Missiehuis, that I discovered he was a fellow student and priest of my Uncle. I sought out the photo from the Klasgenoten van 1947, the class ordained on July 6, with Father Kees de Cock, second from the left, middle row. And there he stood, the so-called filius illegitimus, positioned third from the right. An individual picture insert listed his postings including teaching assignments and a stint in Africa. Mill Hill had deemed him worthy in spite of the family circumstances, celebrating 63 years in the priesthood before his death at the age of 89.

That April 13th letter quoted above would suggest many of the teaching priests praised his character and devout nature which I suspect is the reason his “family circumstances” were actively overlooked. In him, they saw a budding fellow priest worthy of the opportunity to rise above a circumstance not of his making. In a class of only 19, I imagine fellow candidates were aware of his predicament. What did they think of their classmate, fellow seminarian, kin priest? They would have had a more intimate experience with him as an individual, and be either supportive or disgusted depending on their own approach to the teachings and Catholicism. What was Uncle Kees’ reaction? Equally a product of his time, church going, working class, did his feelings and understanding change over time?

I think about Fr. Herman Hofte, one of the nineteen from the 1947 class, who, in an interview about his experiences, characterized his approach to missionary work as focusing on the intention rather than the letter of the rules. According to Dr. Cees van Deursen, who knew my Uncle well, he would have operated in the same manner. I think about my cousin Margaret, who thought of Uncle Kees as intelligent, wise and open minded, suggesting a modern approach to faith. On that basis, he would have exhibited compassion for his classmate’s circumstances, supporting his desire to serve. Finally, I think about a comment from Stephen Dhizaala who escorted me on a tour of the Kamuli parish in 2017. In the front room of the rectory stood a safe to store the money for the parish. “This is where your Uncle and I cooked the books.” He did not elaborate; I did not ask. We simply shared an understanding laugh. No dolus here. Based on the response I received during my Uganda visit, whatever was concocted was for the benefit of the community and the parish, not for Fr. Kees de Cock or necessarily in strict accordance to the rules of the Mill Hill Mission Society. I believe he was a practical man, a kind and generous person, who found the priesthood as a vehicle for faith and for service.

In fact, I believe he is watching, nodding in agreement, quietly smiling at this story.

Across the Universe

Ler Devagar is ranked number three in the list of the 5 best bookstores in the city according to The Hidden Secrets of Lisbon. The store has set up shop in the ” hipster-chic LX Factory project, occupying a former warehouse lined with bookshelves”. For those from Toronto, picture the Distillery District; or think of a gentrified section of a small industrial area in your town. The complex boasts of artisan crafts, trendy clothes, and cool restaurants for the discerning tourist.

For me, the bookstore was the attraction, an always satisfying saunter sifting through shelves of soft and hard cover editions, fiction and non-fiction, eyeballing titles and authors, stopping on the ones in English, pulling out the Portuguese translation of a Canadian author. I am not necessarily interested in purchasing any more. I own the Dutch version of The Sisters Brothers by Patrick De Witt. It languishes on my shelves along with other foreign language editions, unread, unable to sell, unwanted by anyone else. My interest in a bookstore in another country where English is not the official language, is both for curiosity and entertainment. I hope to discover which authors from Canada, aside from Margaret Atwood, are popular in other cultures .

Olga and I wandered into different sections. After a tour of the records and posters on the second level, I meandered down the stairs, pausing in front of tables, noting a larger number of English language books than we viewed in Portugal’s second oldest bookstore, Livraria Ferin, a few days earlier. Booker Prize nominees were on display, reprinted in soft cover by Bloomsbury Press, all with a 2024 shortlist label on a redesigned cover. James by Percival Everett, Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner and then Held by Anne Michaels. I had forgotten about Held with its Booker Prize honour and its capture of the 2024 Giller Prize. I had delayed my purchase when it was nominated and could only find a third printing making for an easy decision to forego adding it to my incomplete collection of Anne Michaels’ other works. For some unknown reason I was compelled to pick up the book and randomly opened it to page 61 :

There are so many ways the dead show us they are with us. Sometimes they stay deliberately absent, in order to prove themselves by returning. Sometimes they stay close and then leave in order to prove they were with us. Sometimes they bring a stag to a graveyard, a cardinal to a fence, a song on the wireless as soon as you turn it on. Sometimes they bring a snowfall.

Wow. I thought immediately of my uncle, Fr. Kees de Cock, who I have been researching. Have I been missing clues along the journey or has the amount of time been a message itself? Was attending the funeral in Oosterbeek part of his showing? Or maybe this paragraph is about my mother, the cardinal being her favourite bird, engraved on her headstone. Olga would often comment that Mom was visiting every time one flew into the trees; and when a robin lands in our yard, she would say hello to Tato, her father. Whatever the sign, I wanted to share the passage with Olga.

“Oh my gosh” she said. “Now I have to show you another book which caught my attention. Over here. I was browsing when I saw this one. I picked it up for the title, The Soul Catchers, and because it is the translated version of a rediscovered Japanese classic by Naoko Higashi. Here. Read the inside cover”

What if you could come back after death to watch over your loved one, installing yourself in a treasured mug, for example, or perhaps in your mother’s hearing aid, a diary, or even a climbing frame, to feel the clambering limbs of your beloved sister. Eleven recently deceased protagonists find themselves floating in the afterlife, where a nameless ghost offers them a joyous reunion with their loved ones. But not as you would expect.

“I thought about the moment when I picked up embroidery again”, continued Olga, “sitting in the sofa chair, with my Ukrainian cross stitch pillow and then the bookmark. I could feel Tante Toos sitting in the blue chair across from me, with a smile of approval that I was working on those pieces to share with family, exactly as she had done her entire life.

You need to buy both books.”

I knew it as well and thought the same. Somewhere from across the universe, a message was being sent. I don’t understand, I don’t, at least not yet. Perhaps the reason will become clear at some point; maybe there will be another sign.

“You need to read them both. You need to write about it.”

I will.

Buoyed by the synchronicity of our discoveries, I clutched the two works under my arm and continued to browse. The big, bold letters spelling out Ben Okri called me to his latest book, Madame Sosostris and the Festival for the Brokenhearted. He is a Nigerian born, British poet and novelist, winner of the 1991 Booker Prize. I had read the follow-up work, Astonishing the Gods, with its profound passages of creativity and love and reaching that highest version of ourselves. I picked up Madame Sosotris and turned to the last lines on the last page:

‘Nothing happens that is not what we want, or what we need, or what we deserve.’
‘There is no such thing as chance.’

Going Home

Centrale Begraafplaats West, Hoflan 150, Tilburg. Section 16,Grave number 10402483. Father Kees de Cock was buried there January 8, 1981. You will not find a stone; it was removed in 2002. If you visit the website and type his name in the search field, no results will appear. I wrote to an address listed in the contact section asking for any information. An administrator responded immediately, provided the coordinates and a set of pictures to guide me. The spot is immediately behind a couple, Henricus and Allegonda, the woman buried in 1991. In the Netherlands, you don’t purchase a plot, you rent it. Clearly the van Belkom and/or the Berens family have kept up the payments, usually in 20 year increments.

I am assured the body was not removed and it is still in the same place. The stone was Zwart Graniet. The coffin was hermetically sealed, metal lined, hard wood, flown by air aboard KL902, to Amsterdam Airport, with an outer protective wrapping of hessian. Inside, the Reverend Fr. Cornelis Johannes de Cock was dressed in his religious vestments.

I had been thinking about Uncle Kees’s burial place during my March-April visit to the UK-Netherlands, after the funeral for Fr. Fons Eppink in Oosterbeek. The small chapel was filled with family, clergy and close friends. I watched the Dutch mass in the overflow lounge with an even larger number of people. Two priests and two seminarians flew from Cameroon, the former concelebrated the service, the four contributed a traditional hymn at the end. The entire congregation followed the processional cross approximately 300 yards to a secluded cemetery nestled in the wooded surroundings of Missiehuis Sint Josef. Everyone took their turn scooping a hand shovel of dirt onto the coffin before leaving the family with their final prayers. I returned later for a closer look at the grounds, at the final resting place for these Mill Hill missionaries.

I found the names of seven 1947 classmates of Uncle Kees, including his close friend Fr. Jan van de Laar, spread towards the rear, placements corresponding to the date of death. Fr. Herman Hofte, a fellow travel companion on the very first journey aboard the Boschfontein, Fr. Joseph Willigers, the first Bishop of the Jinja Diocese, and Fr. Gielissen, an older priest who acted as a mentor are also among the approximately 600 Mill Hill missionaries there. I discovered many other names from my archival research who had been stationed in Uganda. Had Uncle Kees spent his retirement years in Oosterbeek, or in the Netherlands, he would have found a place here, marked by a simple stone engraved with only birth and death dates, the briefest of details. Visitors searching for his particular grave would have found it listed on the board. I would have been able to pay my respects in front of his headstone. Had Uncle Kees died in Uganda while serving as pastor in the Kamuli parish, I suspect there would have been a monument on the grounds to commemorate his service instead of his name fading on the walls of the catechist training hall.

Mill Hill Missionary’s policy is for the body to be buried in the place of death. Fr. Kees de Cock was found at 11;45 am slumped in a chair, Breviarium Romanium II open in his lap, awaiting for surgery in London, England on January 2, 1981. Official cause of death: Coronary thrombosis due to atheroma. “He was in good form while he was [at St. Joseph House] and enjoyed his Christmas very much. Everyone took to his unassuming manner and good-hearted ways. I believe he stayed up for the New Year Eve’s party. He went to bed at twelve midnight…. On New Year’s Day he was present for the small New Year’s Party in the Superior General’s room and Kees still had two beers that morning. In the afternoon he was taken to the clinic in preparation for the operation.”¹ He had missed meeting family in Brussels as part of a stopover because of flight delays. The last of his relatives to see him were Corrie and Henriette because they made the trip to London before Christmas.

Last photograph of Fr. Kees de Cock, seen here with two nieces, Corrie and Henriette, before Christmas 1980.

Under ordinary circumstances, Fr. Kees de Cock would have been buried in the cemetery adjacent to the Mill Hill House in London, England, lost, for all intents and purposes, to everyone who knew him. The building has since been sold, the plots remain. Instead, the de Cock family insisted his coffin and body be shipped to Tilburg where a funeral was arranged at O.L. Vrouw Koningin van de Vrede and buried in the public cemetery nearby. The viewing, the funeral, the burial, all taken place within several blocks of the old family home on Herstalsestraat. The majority of the remaining de Cock family live within a half-hour radius except of course for those of us in Canada. I expect my aunt, Tante Toos, probably the closest to Uncle Kees, the only sibling to visit him in Uganda, spearheaded all the arrangements and worked with the others to pay a considerable portion of the costs. Already reeling from the devastating news of the imminent death of Tante Jo, only 51, from cancer, Tante Toos would have wanted to keep Uncle Kees close to the remaining family regardless of the expense, drawing him back into the circle living around Tilburg, bringing him back home.

The decision to not renew the display of the headstone was likely a collective one, in keeping with that of other relatives, including my grandparents. You won’t find them or Uncle Kees, or anyone else, I suspect, who passed away earlier than 2006, assuming there is a grave site. In a country of limited land and high population density, the practical value of short tenure for signage and the ability to reuse the space has a utilitarian logic. Apparently, earlier renters are not necessarily evicted if a new tenant pays to occupy the same spot. The previous occupants can stay, without a sign on the mailbox, just another six feet deeper.

Given the reality of diminishing visitations with each passing year, perhaps the Dutch are right. If Uncle Kees was buried in England, I suspect the only visit would have been the time of the burial, or maybe on the occasion of an anniversary. Oosterbeek would be “close enough to make the effort, far enough to make excuses”,² analogous to my own relationship with the burial site of my parents, 160 kilometres away. Their headstone, however, is permanent whether anyone cleans up the lilies planted in front or not, The space was a purchase, not a rental. They are there with places of birth and death included with the dates on the stone itself. The best documentation of my parents’ lives exist in photo albums, stored in boxes in my basement. They are scanned, digitized on my computer, available while I am still around. I cannot vouch for what happens afterwards.

One of my other objectives to return to Herbert House in England was to donate two albums of old photographs of Uncle Kees in Uganda which were part of my parents’ collection. They have been digitized so I have a record to share with anyone interested. I know the originals are in a safe place, stored and catalogued in the archives, a permanent record available in the future. When my research is complete, I will ensure all other documents find a place in Fr. Kees de Cock’s file in the Mill Hill archives. You will be able to find him there. My postings in Wonderings serve as a digital record, searchable on the internet, an electronic source for the curious and the interested, perhaps even more attainable with AI. The work is my small contribution to his legacy.

In truth, however, neither the tombstone nor the pictures nor the other varied documents match the memories shared by the people whose lives Fr. Kees de Cock touched. My efforts to uncover the story of his life in Uganda has generated stories of laughter and tears, love and gratitude, warmth and generosity of heart. I last met Uncle Kees in 1972, when I was 12, reminded only because of a handful pictures and the sparse stories from my Dad, stories of a memory. In my encounters with other family, with fellow missionaries, with colleagues, with friends, and with Kamuli parishioners, I have come to learn of his impact on others. In one those conversations, Brother Wubbels said if everyone tries to be a little bit like your Uncle, the world will be a better place.

Maya Angelou captures it best: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” If the memories, the stories and the feelings Fr. Kees de Cock engendered are transformed into our own interactions with our immediate world, then his life will have risen to some permanency, his soul will live forever.

Going Home
On the wings of angels
Going Home
On the wings of a snow white dove
Going Home
On the wings of angels
Going Home
On the wings of love
^{Going Home, the BoDeans, from the album Black, White and Blood Red}

¹Letter to the Jinja Diocese, dated January 15, 1981. Retrieved from archives

² Line from Spirit of the West song, Keeping Up with the Joneses

Beatitudes

10:55 am. Time to lock up and head over to the chapel, a quick jaunt across the small parking lot between the archives and the Herbert House residence.

I am back in Freshfield, England almost two years to the day, combing through the files of the Mill Hill Missionary Society which may hold more information to fill in the empty chasms of knowledge about my uncle, Fr. Kees de Cock. On this occasion, Fr. Stephen Giles, the archivist, has pulled boxes of material from the Mill Hill magazines published from 1947 to 1981, Aanalen for the Netherlands, St. Joseph’s Advocate for Ireland, as well as documents from the schools in Tilburg, Haelen, Roosendaal and London. A fellow, amateur Dutch historian found valuable material for her uncle missionary priest in Aanalen and suggested it as a source for my research. My challenge is translating the contents of Aanalen into English. I eyeball the pages for familiar words: Oeganda, Kamuli, de Cock, other names of fellow missionaries. If an article appears helpful, I utilize the camera on the Google translate app, read a paragraph to assess potential applicability, then scan with another app on my phone, turn the page and continue. The procedure is laborious. Published six times a year, thirty pages each, 33 years – you do the math. This search will require considerable time.

It is March 19, the Feast of St. Joseph, patron saint of workers, patron of the Mill Hill Missionaries. An important day for the society, celebrated with a mass at 11:00 am followed by a social soiree and an invitation to a special, hot lunch. I had donned my black corduroy pants, pink shirt and beige suit jacket, packed for these kind of circumstances, to attend the early morning breakfast, allowing me to efficiently continue my work in between scheduled events without stopping for a change of clothes.

The small chapel is near full so I am forced to find a lone seat at the front, followed by eyes looking up from prayer wondering about this outsider. The quiet ends when the entrance hymn is announced suddenly. I do not catch the number. Fr. McCluskey stands, begins singing. Everyone else joins. No music, no angelic voices, just a small group of elderly parishioners struggling to stay in tune. I know the hymn immediately from my days in the choir at Mary Immaculate Parish and begin to sing along. I cannot recall the title, cannot not find it in the hymnal, yet I know the words from memory all these forty plus years later: “…And I will raise you up , and I will raise you up, and I will raise you up on the last day…”. The celebrant walks down the center of the chapel, turns to face the congregation of fellow missionaries and external visitors, sings along until the five stanzas are complete. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Mass has begun.

_{Inside the Herbert House chapel}

The service is intimate, conducted in English (a change for me from the Ukrainian mass at St. Nicholas parish in Toronto), following the familiar proceedings. Without a prayer book, the content of the Reading and the Gospel, the scripture from which they are extracted, are quickly forgotten. Then Fr. Frank Gowan unfolds his papers, straightens them on the lectern, and begins the homily. His words are directed to his fellow missionaries although the message is broadly applicable. It is simple and effective, describing the characteristics and appeal of St. Joseph. He worked hard, stayed faithful, and through patience and endurance was able to serve his mission and his calling. Even though we don’t know many details of his life, we are inspired by his skills and his deeds. As Fr. Gowan speaks, I keep thinking of my Uncle Kees, how appropriate for him to have been a missionary for a society whose patron is St. Joseph. For the remainder of the mass, that feeling reverberates within my mind and my body.

At the end of the service, I make a brief stop to say hello to Fr. Jim Daley stationed at the front in his wheel chair. He does not remember me from the previous visit, his mind and physical state deteriorating. Jim still laughs and warmly holds my hands. Then I wander into the lounge where everyone has gathered for a glass of wine or liquor or beer or soft drink. I take my Guinness to a circle which includes Fr. Gowan. The conversation is about Fr. Vincent Oates, the rector, who succumbed to a sudden fall the day before, taken to hospital and kept overnight for observation. Fr. Gowan was pressed into service for today’s mass and scrambled to write the sermon. Eventually other topics ensued and as the gathering begins morphing into lunch, I approach Fr. Gowan, thank him for the homily and ask for his notes. He apologizes that they are a hodge podge of thoughts hastily assembled, but he will retrieve them for me.

After lunch, I return to the archival room to resume my search. I find almost nothing specifically about Uncle Kees. There are articles about life in Uganda from other missionaries; a fiftieth anniversary edition of Mill Hill in the Netherlands; pictures of the first African Bishop for the Torroro diocese. I stumble upon a section at the back of each edition of Aanalon from the early 1950s listing the initial of donors and the amount of Dutch guilders donated to specific missionaries. Here I see several for Fr. C. de Cock from G. de C., probably my grandfather; from J. v. d. W., perhaps his brother-in-law; from M.K. in Haelen, a complete unknown. The amounts are not insignificant for the time. I don’t see a pattern. Interesting yet they don’t reveal any insight into Uncle Kees.

Before supper ends, Fr. Gowan wanders over to our table to hand me a couple sheets, apologizing again, hoping I find them helpful. I don’t look and promptly place them in the inside jacket pocket, still on from this morning. Thank you. I really appreciate your generosity.

It’s not late. Jet lag is still lingering so rather than continue in the archives I retire to my spartan room for the evening, withdraw the folded paper and sit at the desk. There is no title or date to mark the occasion. No name to ascribe to the author. One and a half, large type written pages, with scribbles and hand written injections, underlined parts for emphasis. I re-read, listening to Fr. Gowan’s voice from the morning. and there, in the fourth paragraph, the line which struck me in the moment and now echoes loudly as perhaps the most profound statement reflecting Uncle Cees:

St. Joseph shows us that even quiet, hidden lives
can have a lasting impact when offered to God.

The statement is a perfect description of the work of Fr. Kees de Cock. I have learned as much about him in those few words as I have gathered in all the pages of archival research.

Words of guidance.
Words of encouragement.
Words of hope.

The Waiting

“I guess Mom is leading her volunteer Yoga class.” Olga telephoned earlier, hoping to check in on Olena before Zooming with the five to seven people online every two weeks. We had been connecting every day for the past week leading up to the due date. How are you feeling; what did the obstetrician say; any plans; has the baby been active; how is Daniel; how is Midge?

“You just missed her. The class started fifteen minutes ago. It runs for another hour. How are you doing?”

“My water broke.”

Stunned momentarily, I calmly respond, “It’s happening.”

Olena went on to explain her morning, starting at 6:30 am wetting the bed, waking Daniel, heading to hospital where she was examined. All was in order; best to return home and let the remainder to happen naturally and return at 6:30 pm regardless. If she had not progressed far enough by then, the doctor may need to induce.

Now it was my turn to ask the questions. “Are you feeling any labour pains?”

“Not yet. I read the water breaking happens before the pains begin.”

“I don’t know. When Nicholas was born, your Mom was feeling the pains frequently so we went to the hospital. Her water broke there, gushing all over the floor. With you, the water broke at home just after we had gone to bed, then the pains came. So I think the timing varies… at least based on my sample size of two almost forty years ago.” We both chuckled. A few more questions, some more details.

“I will get Mom to call you. She will be so excited,… not like I am not.”

“I know.”

Now that the birth is imminent, I am still in restrained disbelief. I carry on with a few tasks on the computer, catch up on my journal writing, waiting. Olena texted in the meantime that she was lying down for a nap.

“Did Olena call earlier?” asks Olga as she joins me by the gas fireplace. “Is everything good?”

I want Olena to pass on the news herself so I answer the first question and avoid the second by directing Olga’s attention to an item in the local newsletter. “Did she say everything was fine?”

I mumble a quick yes before pointing out another item from the back page which ventured into a curious viewing condos for sale, on line, in our neighbourhood, just down the street.

“It’s after 1:00 o’clock, Olena will be awake now. I will give her a call.”

When they connect, I inform Olena that her Mom is not aware yet.

“Aware of what?”

Olena relates the story from the beginning, adding a few more details, Olga injecting questions here and there, some only a mother can ask.

“Sounds like you are prepared, or at least as much as once can be. Now all we can do is wait.”

“That can be the title of your next blog, Dad. The Waiting is the hardest part by Tom Petty.

I sing the line out loud, thinking to myself the hardest is yet to come based on my limited experience providing moral support, not the one giving birth. Olga did not comment either. Olena will find out soon enough.

“We will be talking.”

Olga and I continue to go about our day, wondering to ourselves, wondering out loud, wondering together. The time is approaching 6:00 pm when a text and a photo pop into our phones.

“We have checked in [to the hospital] because it’s been 12 hours since my water broke. The good news is everything is fine. The bad news is that I haven’t dilated much. All to say: it’s going to be a loooonnnngggg night.”

Then nothing more. We sit in the front room listening to a podcast with Fr. Richard Rohr before watching the first episode from the new season of the Lincoln Lawyer. Still no word. Olga texts Daniel at 10:30 for any updates. Nope. The contractions have not increased; Olena is fine. All good. Except on our end; we are starting to be concerned although neither of us say it out loud.

We keep the ringer on Olga’s phone, beside the bed, awaiting any news. Olga can’t sleep so she texts Daniel at 3;00 in the morning. I awake from the response sound. Olena has had her epidural as she slowly progresses. All good. Sure. The night continues, half asleep, ear open for the next alert which does not arrive until 7:00, from Daniel.

“Morning! We have a healthy baby and momma! Both are exhausted and sleeping. Photos and updates to come soon, but first: it’s rest time. Don’t want to leave anyone hanging, though!”

But we are! Boy or girl? Weight? Time of birth? When can we visit? We need more details about our first granchild!

Olga and I attempt to carry on with our typical routine, wondering again, watching the clock.

“Let’s go Henry. We can pick up flowers and by the time we park and venture onto the maternity ward, Olena will be awake, probably feeding.”

As we walk in, Olena is smiling, contented, just finished nursing, baby lying comfortably on her chest, looks to Olga, “It’s a Kozak.”

Leo Andrew Decock Fish, our little miracle, was welcomed to the world at 4:05 am, 7 lbs. 8 oz., healthy and beautiful. All is good in our corner of the universe.

The Waiting … is over.

The Power of Love

The card arrived two weeks before Christmas, 1987.

The handwritten message from my Mom and Dad read, “Merry Christmas Henry, Olga, Nicholas & ?” The answer to the question mark was expected on December 25.

We had moved into 12 Sigmont Road on November 30 after selling the condominium, riding the wave of escalating values, leveraging the money for our first house. Nicholas was born in the two bedroom 9th floor West Mall condo, our home for three years, about to become too small had we remained much longer. Sigmont was in the same neighbourhood, an area we could afford by stretching our mortgage limit to the maximum at the comparatively cheaper 9.5% interest rate. Olga was working for Metro Children Services; I was in the midst of my first teaching contract at Seneca, hoping for another. Money was tight.

The furniture from the West Mall would need to suffice in the immediate months, spread amongst the additional rooms of the three bedroom bungalow. That old brown pull-out couch found its way to the narrow recreation room in the basement in front of our twenty inch TV. The deep red wing back chair became the main piece of our living/dining room accompanied by a crooked plant stand, a potted palm, and the walnut, cedar lined hope chest. The room was bare, plenty of room for lounging on the wall-to-wall carpet and lots of space for a real Christmas tree, tied strategically with fishing line to ensure the Scotch pine remained upright. The teddy bears of old and candy canes were among the paucity of ornaments spread among the branches, a circle of poinsettias as the topping.

Past Christmases followed a particular rhythm, consisting of an evolving set of typical proceedings. Olga and I would sing and play at the early Christmas Eve mass of Mary Immaculate Parish in London as members of the choir. Afterwards, gifts were opened into the early morning hours at my parent’s house following the traditional Dutch feast of blende vinken. When we moved to Toronto, the pattern remained the same, except we found our seat among the congregation to enjoy the beauty of the music. Nicholas’s arrival altered the sequence of Christmas celebration, limiting the late night gift opening to one item and the content of the stockings. The remaining presents were shared with the Decock family in the morning spurred by the inevitable early awakening of a young child.

Opening presents with the Decock family on Christmas morning, 1985

Christmas of 1987 broke new ground. Olga was very pregnant, ready to give birth imminently. It would be the first year not visiting my parents for the holidays. Instead, the 24th would be an evening by ourselves, in our new Toronto home, wondering and waiting and anticipating. Olga was not examined with an ultra sound. It was not mandatory in those days and we wanted the sex of the child to be revealed at birth. We had a name picked out for a girl and were still debating one for a boy should Olga give birth to another. Olga was almost two weeks late with Nicholas, perhaps accounting for the hefty nine pound, twelve ounce size after 24 hours of labour. How would this experience be different? There were plenty of questions about the next baby.

On the night before Christmas, Nicholas was asleep, snuggled into bed as we gathered a couple chairs into the middle of the room, in front of the tree, to settle in for an evening of music. The radio dial of our cassette boom box was tuned into 102.1 CFNY for Don Berns’s Christmas Eve special. The station played alternative rock/punk, a genre appealing to our sensibilities albeit seemingly sacrilegious for the season. Renowned for being the Spirit of Radio, the playlist included old familiar classics such as Bing Crosby’s White Christmas, Canadian masterpiece God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen/We Three Kings sung by the Barenaked Ladies/Sarah McLachlan, and the irreverent ditty, Christmas Wrapping by the Waitresses. In between, Don Berns would speak of joy and hope and love in his baritone voice, unscripted, expounding on his own emotions and experiences.

Then without introduction, sweet melodic sounds began to float from the speakers,
Ay, Ay, Ay
the unmistakable voice of Frankie Goes to Hollywood surrounded by uncharacteristic lusty orchestration.
I’m so in love with you, Dreams are like angels, They keep the darkness at bay
We looked at each other in silence. Surprised wonderment. We were familiar with the song, the ballad in sharp contrast to their popular bombastic sound. It was a hit years earlier. The band was incongruent with the season; and yet, it was perfect.
The power of love, A force from above, Cleaning my soul
I held Olga’s hand, resting on her protruding belly.
Make love your goal
A Merry Christmas. A kiss. A lasting memory.

Olena was born three days later, December 27, in the afternoon, after 12 hours of labour, a healthy 9 lbs 4 oz. The Decock family also arrived that day, in Toronto, to celebrate the new birth.

Last week, a Christmas greeting card arrived in the mailbox. They are increasingly rare and are, therefore, ever more appreciated. This one engendered a broad smile of joy for both Olga and myself. It was addressed to Baba and Opa Decock.
Love with tongues of fire, Purge the soul
The salutation is a couple months premature although we are both glowing in anticipation, counting down the days.
Love is the light, Scaring the darkness away
The answer to the previous question mark is now expecting. This year, we are not waiting for Olena; we are waiting with her. And with Daniel, and Nicholas, and Chiu. Olga and I are not aware whether the grandchild will be a boy or a girl. We would rather not know.
Love is pure, the only treasure.

Make love your goal.

However you celebrate, I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and a Happy Holidays shared with the people you love.

Creating Beauty

The first flowers I remember giving to you happened early in our dating days. I was playing hockey on Sunday mornings in the Dorchester Men’s No Body Contact League. You even drove out to the arena on occasion to watch. Helmets did not require cages and as a result, an inadvertent stick struck me in the mouth. No issues with the teeth but my lips were cut and swelled to twice normal size. The next day I dropped off a pot of red tulips at your apartment with a note: “These are for the two lips you will be missing.” Corny. I know. It made you laugh and smile; and when you smile your eyes sparkle.

In our first year of marriage, we had little money with you in full time attendance at Western and me working for Jansen’s Greenhouses delivering plants for $6.25 an hour. Purchasing flowers was a luxury we could not afford, as you well know. Instead, on my Saturday delivery route, I would drive by our little apartment to drop off a potted mum or spring bulbs or a mixed pot, depending on what I knew would go unnoticed missing from the truck. The flowers added to the simplicity of our life together on Victoria Street in London.

When we moved to Toronto, I knew how much you loved to receive flowers so I found ways to purchase them spontaneously if there was a sale, purposely on special occasions, sometimes just because, never on Valentine’s Day because that would be too prosaic. And each time, you were as thrilled as the first time, smiling, finding the perfect vase to display them.

It would be in our yards at home, particularly this one on Mill Road, where we co-created ever expanding gardens so we could enjoy flowers from spring to fall. Planting, nurturing, pruning, replacing, watering, caring, admiring. My favourite moments were those weekend sunny mornings, warm and inviting, when you and I would walk with a coffee in our hand to tour the estate. “Look at how the peonies have blossomed, and the buds on the hydrangeas. Oh! The rose is in bloom!” And you would stop to smell, close your eyes, soak in the fragrance, invite me to do the same. Inevitably a butterfly would visit, a cardinal or a robin would fly into the yard, and a neighbour would walk by to declare we had the most beautiful garden on the block. You thanked them graciously and smiled.

For 42 years you and I have been creating beauty in each other, together, in our home, with our families, for our children and soon our children’s children.

I hope you enjoy the flowers arriving this morning and they make you smile. Just a little something to say I love you.

Happy Anniversary Olga.

Scrabble

I expect when Mom and Dad immigrated to Canada in 1958, their grasp of English would have been quite limited. Sure, they had learned some very elementary words years earlier in grade school, mandatory language lessons along with German and French. They may have even picked up a few classes in preparation for their flight across the Atlantic. In reality, however, their knowledge would have been scant. And like many immigrants, their early years were spent largely within the Dutch community, friends and employers.

When Dad began working at Kelco and the family moved to Kostis Avenue, the need to speak English became more pronounced. There is evidence of both enrolling in ESL classes at Clarke Road Secondary school which helped. Dad working in an English speaking environment forced a growing vocabulary. Mom on the other hand was a stay-at-home spouse with three children under the age of four, the last child arriving several years later. Her world was smaller, the opportunity to hear and practice English were few. Mom would need to acquire the language through radio and TV and the newspaper. She subscribed to Readers Digest, purchased a dictionary, and would complete the crossword puzzle in the London Free Press every day. She was a determined woman, a proud woman, a woman not to be deterred by the circumstances. At some point, Mom purchased the game of Scrabble.

Second only to Rikken, a popular Dutch card past time, Scrabble was her board game of choice. She attempted to engage Dad, but he did not have the patience to mount a real challenge. Mom would be frustrated by his lack of strategy, putting down words without any thought to the board. She would often play herself, picking tiles for two people, akin to a chess champion moving pieces from both sides of the board. I became her most willing and competitive match. She actively sought to engage me in a game for the spirited contest and the opportunity to improve.

Under official Scrabble rules, each player places a word on the board from the seven tiles selected blindly, connecting with the existing configuration. If the new word is questioned for the spelling or its existence, the dictionary is consulted as the arbiter. If the challenge is upheld, the perpetrator loses the points and the turn. Mom never played by these rules. For her, the dictionary was a tool to be consulted in a player’s attempt to maximize their score or complete their turn. Every person was encouraged to utilize the dictionary for the benefit of moving the game along, cleverly filling sections or opening up new ones. The dictionary was a tool for the benefit of the game, not a judgement on vocabulary. Over the years, Mom became the champion of the two letter words, even discovering the word, “qi”, which is the only combination with a “Q” not requiring a “U”. Look it up.

I would win the games in the beginning, my own competitive juices figuring out how to take advantage of the triple word or triple letter squares, less concerned with finding words within my tiles but finding spots on the board to accumulate points. Mom taught me that strategy. And I utilized the dictionary often, adding to my language advantage; nevertheless, she kept insisting on another game. Mom would win a game once in a while, a shot of encouragement. Eventually she would be successful more often, regularly emerging as victor. Yet Mom was a gracious player at the same time. modestly noting you need to have the letters regardless of how skilled, and explaining there is a bit of luck involved. When Olga began participating, Mom was generous in her support. Olga did not grow up with games in her house and consequently lacked the competitive zeal or strategy to score big points. Mom would often look at Olga’s tiles to suggest alternatives even to her own disadvantage. She wanted every participant to be within reach of a victory. Mom wanted a good game for everyone.

I think about Scrabble today and all that it represented in my Mom because it is the 20th anniversary of her untimely death. Scrabble has become the game of choice for Olga and myself. We remember Mom fondly for her quirks and generosity, her fierce thirst for learning, her love of family, and devotion to her children and to her children’s children. Her soul lives in both of us.

Welcome to the End of the World

Finesterre. It was the end of the world as they knew it. Back then.

Predating Christianity, people journeyed to Cape Fisterra on the Costa da Morte (Coast of Death) where they believed the sun died, bringing the worlds of the living and the dead closer together. Finisterre is now the traditional end of the Camino Santiago, although some will continue to Muxia. Maybe next time.

Santiago to Finisterre would have been an additional four day walk. We rode the 2.5 hour bus ride with numerous stops picking up and dropping off passengers along the way. Our destination was a small, six room boutique hotel, family run, attached to a restaurant priding itself on home grown vegetables, local beef, and fresh fish. Hotel Da Natureza Mar Da Ardora’s most appealing feature is the view of the ocean and the sunsets. We can lounge on our balcony, watch and listen to the waves crash the shore, and soak in the last remaining sunshine of the day. The restaurant next door fills with people and visitors from the town for a drink and a dinner and a view.

Olga and I retreated to Finisterre for a few days of nothing. Lazy hours filled with catching up on our journal writing, lounging in the hot sun, strolling down to the beach; an early evening drink followed by a delicious meal capped with a glorious sunset. The hotel also hosts a small spa with a hot tub, sauna and pool. We enjoyed it’s pleasures.

Today was our excursion to the lighthouse point, the end of the world. It is a rugged, rocky terrain overlooking the ocean, too treacherous to wander close to the water. Apparently pilgrims would burn their shoes to mark the conclusion of their journey. A bronze shoe is mounted on a boulder to signify the now defunct tradition.

I had been porting a stone unearthed in the stage walking towards Melide. A quartz boulder separated itself from the road’s ledge offering a trove of splinter pieces to the passing pilgrims. One muddy chunk molded into my hand and found a pocket in my cargo pants. Olga questioned the additional weight for walking. I planned to toss the stone here, at Cape Fisterra. I ventured as close to the edge as I dare and threw the stone into the ocean, releasing the weight, shedding the burden; a symbolic end to our journey.

On our return from the end of the world, we joined a noon Sunday mass in progress at Santo Christo de Fisterre, a deteriorating block structure holding about 60 people in unadorned walls of stone. The parishioners appeared to be responding to a series of statements about faith, typical of a ceremony involving one of the sacraments. From the back, searching between the standing congregation, we caught a glimpse of the priest pouring water over the forehead of a dark haired baby, offered by the young mother and father. We were witnessing a baptism. Simple and intimate. At the end, the father raised the child in the air facing the congregation; a round of applause to welcome another birth into the community. A new beginning.

On Tuesday we begin our trek home leaving by bus to Santiago, then by train to Madrid for an overnight stay and a mid-morning flight back to Canada.

Nosotros comenzamos de nuevo.

Santiago de Compostela

“We made it.”

My voice cracking, my eyes welling up, Olga crying in joy.

“We made it.”

An emotional moment that overwhelmed us.

We asked a fellow pilgrim to snap a photo in that instant to capture the end of our journey so we could send it out immediately to our family. Then Olga and I found a spot in the glorious sun of a beautiful day to soak in the feeling for the next half hour. We spoke quietly, reverently. We made it.

Our approach to Santiago began the day before, a 23 km walk from Salceda to San Marco. The stretch was the least appealing to date, walking around an airport, groups of people behind and in front conversing unabashedly, constantly, shattering the silence. I was the Hare, hoping to break free from the crowds.

The morning is my best walking time; fresh energy, fresh air, fresh determination. After my cup of strong coffee at 8, I motored along at a heightened pace, stopping only to shed my jacket, forgoing my usual breakfast break. No church to visit and ring a bell, only a couple stamps from enterprising artisans. I rolled into San Pao at 11:30, 15.5 km along, deciding I do need to sit down for a rest and a bit of food. The first bar/cafe was crowded and noisy – no thanks. 200 m further on I spotted St. Ignatius Church, open, advertising the opportunity to visit and and obtain a sello (stamp). My kind of place.

An Italian volunteer was manning the table to imprint the small, decorative impression into my passport. It would be my last for the day, and the most coveted. The church is tiny, simply adorned, quiet. Only a handful of others found their way inside. My donation was larger than usual. “Gracias” and a sign of the cross; then I left. I wandered onto the grounds, sat on the low stone wall surrounding it, unburdened my backpack for some smoked sausages and water. I turned around ten minutes later. The church was closed up, the signs disappeared, the volunteer vanished.

I arrived in San Marco before 2:00 pm, surprising Olga who spotted me through the window of the coffee shop across from our hotel. San Marco is only 5.1 km from the Cathedral, purposely chosen for a short walk into Santiago in order to be assured enough time to attend the noon pilgrim mass the next day. The location had the additional advantage of allowing Olga the opportunity to walk the remaining distance if she had recovered sufficiently. Her ankle/shin have improved considerably but the initial long decline out of San Marco would be too difficult. Not a wise idea. Yet we wanted to fulfill her vision of walking into the square so conjured a plan to make it happen. I would leave, walking, at 8:30; Olga would order a taxi at 9:45. We would rendezvous on the grounds of the San Domingos convent in front of the Museo de Pabo Galego to continue and finish.

Olga and I walked the last kilometre, together, into the court yard of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

“We made it.”

The noon mass was filled to capacity. Advice from a security guard to line up early helped us find a seat near the back of the section facing the altar directly. When the Spanish mass ended, we assumed everyone would be streaming out. The famous swinging of the Botafumiero only occurs once a week, on special sacred church days, or for groups paying for the privilege. We didn’t expect it today. Suddenly the priests gathered in front of the altar, the thurible lowered and the incense began spewing as some monks started a rhythmic tugging of the rope. Swaying back and forth, higher and higher, the Botafumiero flew from side to side for several minutes, enchanting the people, in awe, cameras recording. The ceremony capped our visit. The vision was complete.

We have been moving almost every day on this journey. We will continue tomorrow by bus to Finisterre for a few days. Together.

Buen Camino

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