Chike Use - In memory

Yesterday I received an email from a cousin telling me that Chike had died and his funeral is today. I immediately checked map quest to determine if my 19 year old baby car would be able to travel the distance. It would not. It was too far. So, I called to order flowers from within the town. To my surprise in this day and age, 2015, someone in a small town trusted me to send them a cheque at their request, for an arrangement of flowers. I wondered if I had dialled a wrong number and someone wanted my money. Was I going to take the chance? However, I was even more surprised that someone in this day and age would trust a stranger from Toronto to send a cheque after the flowers were delivered. I immediately went to the post office to mail the cheque, wondering how in this day and age when at least once a week someone is trying to rip me off, either by email, at the front door, or on the telephone innocence can still exist? Could it be that in some town in Ontario, honesty is the norm? Could it be that in some town where Chike died there is a community of people who do not need to be suspicious that someone will not do what they say they will do, when it comes to money? It had been years since I had been in that town. Is this why I like small towns I wonder, as I type away in the city? I remember Chike’s mother. She was a Matriarch sponsoring many Italians who came to Canada, my father one of them. He in turn worked hard so his wife and daughter (tiny me) could come to this new land, the land of opportunity. Zia Carolina was her name and she was bigger than life. She owned a farm on top of a hill that I thought was a huge estate with a grand house. My mother respected this woman and used to tell me stories of how many people she sponsored, an entire generation of immigrants that exists here now because of her. I would roam through her big house in awe of everything I saw. I would dream of growing up and buying this grand property. I knew that one day I wanted this to be mine. Zia Carolina had a steady stream of relatives at her house on weekends and any weekend we were there she showered us with attention. She didn’t say too much to me. She spoke mainly to grownups. However, as soon as I walked in and sat down, she would bring out a feast and I would indulge to my heart’s content. Good meals were always important in my household. Chike was her son. He was already an adult when I first met him and I believe that when I first met him, he terrified me by taking out his teeth and stretching his arm out towards me, a full set of teeth exposed. I was horrified and screamed. He would be chastised and then all was normal. I still do not like false teeth to this day when I see them. Is that why? However, Chike was a very nice man and always helping his mother. This is what I was told. He always had a grin and was very funny and playful. I never quite knew what to expect from him and was always cautious that he might remove his teeth again. When I was older, I drove there to see my aunt and Chike was there feeding the chickens. They were all free to wander. They sold the eggs and again I marvelled at watching all this. Zia had a lot of trees with fruit and during the summer my dad would help her to pick the fruit so she could sell them (I presume). Chike looked intently at me, his blue eyes sparkling letting me know that I should be going to the farm more often. I was busy as we all are in the city. I had a career that took me places and time at home was not always consistent because of that. He knew better than I did. So that last time, I helped pick from so much land full of delicious pears, her harvest. That year I went to visit and in my older eyes, the house was big but now as big as when I was young. As I walked through the manor, I realized that there seemed to be more grey than I remembered and the rooms seemed less and smaller. Zia had difficulty walking. There had been deaths in the family. There was one woman who had died when I was a child. I think her name was Rosy and she was getting married. Her young death was tragic. Chike had a brother, I believe who lived in Ottawa and I remember him visiting me when I was working there. He was the calmer one, the older one, the more serious one. He had died years earlier and I remember going to visit his brother shortly before his death, with my dad and another relative. As, I type this, I marvel at how lucky I have been to be surrounded by such wonderful men in my youth, who aside from playful pranks, never once hurt me. They all were wonderful towards me, and there were many. After Zia had died, I went one more time to her farm years later. It was for sale. That once beautiful house now stood crippled on top of the hill. Hoodlums had broken the windows and weeds and bush had grown throughout the property. Only the elegant door remained firm and solid, a reflection of the beauty this manor was. As I drove up the hill, the once manicured hills, with fruit trees lined up as soldiers, stood no more. The barn no longer held life. In my younger self, I felt a loss and if I had the money, I would have bought that house on the hill with its many acres, and would have wanted nothing more than to restore it to its former place. I would have wanted to be able to furnish it and garnish it and love it, with all the memories it provided in my childhood. However, it was not possible. I certainly did not have the money and I had a career that fulfilled me. Could I really live in the country? As I drove back down the hill, this place no longer felt safe. It had been vandalized, something it had never known, because this manor had been filled with love and food and lots of people, when relatives meant something huge. In an hour distant relatives, many who I do not know and would walk by without recognizing them will be gathering around to celebrate his life. I am sorry Chike that I cannot go. I can see your blue eyes twinkling that you know better, that you do not believe me any more than when I was younger. Chike, I have been thinking of you, and you are a great loss. I think you have seven sons. Again, I may be wrong. It was always my mother who clarified everything for me and by now you should all be having a wonderful celebration in heaven within a grand heavenly manor. So, as you look down at how people celebrate you today, you will only have some flowers there representing myself. I was assured by the lady who trusted a woman from Toronto, that the arrangement would be wonderful. Forgive me for not being there, because I would have been if my car was not as tired as the old manor, I could not buy. God speed!