“There are,” as a philosophy prof once began a lecture, “two kinds of people.” While she, and everyone in the class who wasn’t daydreaming at the time, knew there were infinitely more than two kinds of people, one of those kinds piped up from somewhere near the back of the class, “Those who dichotomize and those who don’t.” The class sniggered, the prof shot back, “And those who will pass this course and those who won’t.” Point taken, lips sealed.
One such easily grasped dichotomy is those who seek recognition and those who don’t want any part of it. On some level, all of us want recognition in some form or another. But for some, it’s an all-encompassing life force. They want to be the centre of attention, want to be the first to speak up, want to have as many eyes on them as possible as often as possible.
Taken to extremes, those people are difficult to be around very often. Obnoxious some would say. But they’re also frequently entertaining. They’re the spark plugs that get things going or maybe steer them on to a better path. Like so many personality traits, a fault if carried to extremes, a pleasure other times.
And then there are the ones who are most comfortable outside the spotlight. The ones who do what they do and prefer to remain anonymous, or at least in the shadows. Perhaps they noticed at some point in their lives it is the tallest trees in the forest that meet an untimely end as the result of a lightning strike. Their wheels don’t squeak. And if they start to, they undoubtedly have some grease handy.
Some travel so far into anonymity they vanish and live a hermit’s life. Others lead rich lives known only to those close to them. They may have stories and accomplishments that amaze those few who find out about them, the ones they let in a bit further than most everyone else.
One of them, the remaining half of a dynamic duo, took his step into whatever comes after this life last week. If there is a spirit world where those no longer living haunt those who are, I’m probably letting myself in for a serious haunting just writing this column. But it’s a chance I’ll gladly take.
He admonished me, his children, his grandchildren, his friends over and over again not to make a fuss after he was gone. No obituary, no eulogy, no celebration of life. If he could have simply vanished in a puff of smoke, that would have been a perfect end to a storied life.
Yet, he sat for a number of hours a few years ago, sharing a couple of wee drams of good scotch I’d brought to his house for it’s salubrious effects and spoke in the presence of a small recording device, knowing full well I’d likely make use of it some day. In all those hours the most frequently repeated phrase was, “Not a word of any of this while I’m alive.”
I kept up my end of the bargain.
But last week, Howard Goldsmid decided his first 102 years were rich enough and decidedly better than the next hundred and quietly, with close family by his side, took his final journey into the unknown.
Howard was a quiet force of nature. Perhaps less quiet in his younger days. There is a bit of mystery about those 102 years. It seems there was a difference of opinion about the exact year he was born, his mother holding one opinion and the Canadian government, via the armed forces, holding another. But after 100, does it really matter?
Howard knew how to cook and knew his way around a carcass and that knowledge made a lot of Canadian and American soldiers happy. It also set the table, so to speak, for his new rank—“Sergeant Almost”—not that he cared to make the military a career.
But he did care deeply for other people and innately understood the value of goodwill and high spirits. So much so that when seconded to the U.S. military and stationed in Alaska as part of the Royal Canadian Air Force—a vital outpost to thwart any Japanese invasion—he took advantage of his culinary skills, raw materials and understanding of chemistry to assume the role of morale officer. It wasn’t part of his job as a provisioner and it wasn’t anything he volunteered for. It was just his way of making life a little easier for the people pulling hard duty.
Potatoes. That was the key. And potatoes he provided to the mess. A mess of potatoes. As anyone even vaguely familiar with Russian literature knows, potatoes, heat, time and not much else except a bit of equipment you can easily MacGyver together from odds and ends in a commercial kitchen yield vodka. And the salutary effects of vodka on soldiers far from home pulling stressful duty is well known.
But not always well appreciated by everyone. “They busted me,” he said. And thus ended—well, not really—Howard’s bootlegging career.
Howard, along with Lil, a.k.a. Nana G, who blazed the trail to the afterlife for him seven years ago, ran a number of butcher shops in Vancouver after the military. But he was a divided man and sunk deep roots in Whistler when just getting to Whistler was a travel adventure.
Being a skilled butcher, one never carved meat or fowl in his presence but instead sat back and watched the master at work. It was a bit like watching a magician perform. Those who were members of the tight inner circle enjoyed gifts of his presentation piece: a boned, stuffed and rolled turkey. Some Christmases he prepared more than 20 of these choice turkeys for friends in the Whistler community.
Whistler was richer for its eldest veteran. An early adopter, Howard and Lil juggled work with weekend warrioring. Active in ski racing, an avid climber, a builder, helpful neighbour, Howard blazed a trail in Whistler’s early years and humbly gave back to the town as long as he could, putting in long hours at the food bank. For their 65th wedding anniversary, they held a town party, not an anniversary party, at Dusty’s and raised over $12,000 for the food bank, refusing to accept more than a thank you for the effort ... and a quiet thank you at that.
Like Lil, Howard doesn’t want anyone to make a fuss about his departure. So, like with Lil, I won’t. But as with Lil, someone, maybe me, will announce a time and place in the fall, maybe around the first snowfall, when those who remember might just find themselves in the same place at the same time. Maybe with good scotch. Definitely with good memories. Yes, another unmemorial. Richly deserved.
I’ll let you know when.
