About a dozen years ago or so, our family was
uprooted while my husband sought work in our nation’s capital. He had just
graduated from an IT course and felt his chances for a good position were best
in Canada’s Silicon Valley. Because things were tight at first, we chose to
rent an older style townhouse on the border of Ottawa and Nepean, in the middle
of a large community of recent immigrants who came to our country from all over
the world. It proved to offer a literal
smorgasbord of education for us all as we slowly got to know all of our new
neighbours.
Not
too long after we moved in, our son, who was about three-and-a-half, started
playing with a little boy who was the son of one of those new neighbours. They
were from Turkey and the little boy, a smiling and giggling, happy little
fellow, was their first and only child.
In the first few weeks
after we moved in, our son had a few adjustment issues, including the odd
nightmare. Like any good Christian mother would, I tried to nip it in the bud
by explaining to him that each time he had a dream, he could exercise power
over it. I said he could tell it to go away in Jesus’ name. Each night, as I helped
him say his prayers, I would go over what I thought would both reassure him and
eliminate the nightmares. He listened closely to every word, agreeing to do it
if he had a one again. Predictably, as
he made friends and got busy with new adventures, the nightmares seemed to
abate and I forgot all about what I had told him.
Have I mentioned that
my husband’s father is Greek Canadian? And that would make our son one-fourth
Greek? Just thought I might throw it in for good measure.
So, one day, the two
boys were playing in the courtyard behind the townhouses while I watched closely
from a lounge chair perched on the postage stamp bit of green that was our back
lawn. I was largely pregnant with our second child and it was horrifically hot
and humid.
I had learned very soon
after our arrival that this kind of weather was typical of south-eastern
Ontario. One morning previous to that, we had awoken to temperatures in the mid
nineties Fahrenheit and there was actual fog until the midday sun had burned it
off. Even our African immigrant friends, whose home countries knew mean
temperatures of close to 100 degrees Fahrenheit, said they found the National
Capital Region beastly hot because of the humidity and continual lack of what
would have been a merciful breeze.
So, you have to
understand, unless I absolutely had to, there was no way I was going to get
actively involved in the play activities of preschoolers. But I was making
certain, at least, they were safe and happy. At one point, they disappeared around a corner
of one of the townhouses for just a moment, and as I started to raise my girth
to get up and follow, as I did not want to leave them unsupervised, the air
suddenly became riddled with the shouts of the two boys. I wasn’t sure what
they were saying, but whatever it was, it sounded pretty intense. Just as
suddenly, they whizzed back around the self same corner around which they had
disappeared, flying like the wind, with our son chasing the little Turkish boy.
They looked like a miniature Mutt and Jeff. Our son was very tall and slim for
his age and his little friend was extremely short and stocky, his rapid but
clumsy gait no doubt encumbered by a pull-up.
It was then I realized
little boys really do listen to their mother’s instructions.
Because, see, as they both
ran by me, our son waved a stick and I heard him yell at the top of his voice, “Go
away in Jesus’ name! Go away in Jesus’ name!”
I thought to myself, How succinct – the Greek chasing the Turk while
yelling holy invocations at him.
I tell ya, history
really does repeat itself.
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