Immigrant Song

As the dust settles, white fluffy feathers float about the large building. A suffocating heat and stench make breathing almost unbearable. Low hanging lights illuminate the vast room, the house of many chickens. The noise was consuming, but this was their home. Stepping outside, the bright sun hurt the eyes. There was Opa, he had a way with these chickens as no one did, this was his life, his profession, his work. The work was hard, never ending, demanding every ounce of energy, yet his tenacious spirit was not easily broken. Persistence was his strong work-ethics best friend. After all, not only did he have thousands of chickens to take care of, he had seven children to feed, support and educate. Life was hard. (Isn’t it usually hard for someone in a new country.) A new language, culture, the whole way of life was radically different. He had immigrated to Canada, met my grandmother (Oma) and settled in a small southern Ontario town. Though life was not ideal and far from easy, they had each other, they had family. I fondly remember the simple times, driving several hours to see Oma and Opa. The old house, a large pond, Mennonites lived all around. We would make almond butter and applesauce, collect eggs and eat lots of food. Then curled up on Oma's lap, Opa would tell us stories. Stories of the far country that have since become legend in my mind. He would tell stories of the war, adventure, work and his pursuit of love. If I had not fallen asleep by this time, Oma would dust of her mandolin, tune the strings and we would sing some songs. These were songs in their mother tongue, old hymns, folk songs, songs that told stories. I could see in their eyes, memories being re-lived. These were songs of life, immigrant songs. Life had been hard, but now, they had a new one, a large family and a place to settle down and call home.

About two months ago, I was sitting down for lunch. I had some friends around, we were laughing and deep in conversation.  A text alert went off on my phone. The message was from my uncle, "Opa has unexpectedly died this morning." I put my fork down. I stared motionless at the wall ahead. "Moses, hey, Moses, you okay?" Brittney asked from her corner of the table. "Yeah. Just heard my grandpa died. Don't mean to be a mood kill, but thats what happened." I left lunch, went to my office and shut the door. For ten minutes I cried. Drying off my tears, I reflected on Opa's life, on the things he had learned and what he had taught me. In the end, while it was sad, he had lived a full life, full of memories, successes, defeats, triumphs and years. He taught me that with determination I can achieve my dreams. His hard work and persistent effort to succeed was inspirational. He inspired loyalty and a family that was always by his side. At the end of his life, he planted a garden, met with his children, told stories and rode a bike around the neighborhood without a helmet.

Wherever life takes me, I hope I can be a bit like Opa. Regardless of what life determines to be successful, will I take time to empower the community around me, work with abandon to drive the success of those I care about; will I find fulfillment in the things that matter most? Though Opa is gone, I know that his legacy will live on in my life. For two months I have struggled to process what his death means. I have found that there is joy in reliving the legacy of one I love. There is no more chicken barn, old story or immigrant song, just an allegory, a memory, a legacy worth reliving.