This is a Saturday morning in
mid-August 2025. I find myself drawn to the keyboard and just typing away. What
began as a simple exercise has turned into a small mission. I'm listening to
the headphones I successfully paired with my computer on the first try. I’m
already having a good day with technology. How much better can life get?
I am listening to Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto, or as
it is appropriately known, Piano Concerto No. 5. Most people probably recognize
it instantly. To me, it reminds me of my father, who passed away ten years ago.
The day he died, my wife and I visited him at the hospital. He looked unkempt,
dishevelled, and unshaven—something he would never have accepted for himself in
any of his nearly ninety years. Dad was always impeccably clean-shaven and
often overdressed.
The nurse on duty explained the different breathing
stages at the end of life, and we were only one stage away from the final one.
The last stage, once it began, would give us time to get back to the hospital
to say our final goodbyes. The nurses would call us once the final stage
started. My wife, Donna, and I decided that, because the dog at home was alone without
a break to go out and pee, and she would be suffering, we needed to go back and
would return once we received the call. We drove the forty-five minutes back to
the house in mid-afternoon, with me thinking about how badly Dad looked, and I
felt uncomfortable leaving him like that.
That uncomfortable feeling worsened throughout the day.
By ten thirty that evening, I was too restless, so I had to go to the hospital
to shave him. I arrived after eleven. He was still breathing the same way as
when we left him earlier that afternoon. He remained uncommunicative, but I
understood that we could still communicate with the patient, even if we didn't
know exactly what they were taking in at that moment; they were still receiving
it.
I started shaving Dad
and chatted with him about the Leafs' win that night, a rare occasion, but I
figured, as a long-time Leafs fan, he would appreciate hearing about their victory.
I also played the Emperor Concerto, knowing it was one of his favourite pieces.
The other was a
song written by my son Chris and his cousin Adam called ‘Sailing Home.’ Chris
was in British Columbia, 4,500 kilometres away, performing a gig at the Grey
Cup for the Atlantic Schooners. When they heard it was time to say goodbye to
“Pops,” they rushed back instead of staying for the rest of the party. They
never did make it, but Tara had called Chris, and he said his goodbye remotely.
Sailing Home has become a
farewell song, played in memory of loved ones who have passed away. It has
since touched many lives. It was even honoured with a special choreographed
dance to honour Chris.
Once I shaved Dad, I felt better; he looked presentable
in a way he would have approved, given his situation. The nurses reminded me
that the next stage was still a while away and told me to go home and rest, as
the following day would be long. I did as they asked.
I was home for just half an hour before I received that
dreaded call. We got into the car and headed back, only to discover that he had
passed away a few minutes earlier. I suppose he wasn’t ready to go, despite how
he looked. My shaving his stubble was, in hindsight, a way of saying that we’ve
got this — that we will be alright — and that Mom was also in good hands. Not
that he ever needed our permission to do anything; it was a thing people think
is thoughtful.
Brampton
Hospital – the last time I visited with Dad
That was ten years ago, and many times throughout a week
or even in a single day, something happens that reminds me of him. Sometimes
they bring a smile or even outright laughter, while other times they make me
feel a little sad. Either way, it makes me think that he is still with me. He
is still walking with me in the way he infiltrated my mind, and indeed shaped
who I am to this day, even though I am now in my seventies.
What follows are several stories, interactions, and
conversations we’ve shared over time. I wanted to write them down so my
children and their children will remember what life was like. In recording
these anecdotes in written form, I am quickly discovering that the way I
behave, in fact, the very essence of who I am, is a sum of all these
experiences. Some I learned formally, others by osmosis, and some by observing
both my parents in action. I am a sum of all my experiences up to this point.
No apologies or rewards are necessary; that’s just how it is.
Children are always a mix of their parents. They are a
combination of physical, emotional, and mental aspects. For example, Chris, my
son, has my long trunk and Donna’s long legs, so he stands at 6’3”. His sister
Tara has my short legs and Donna’s short trunk, making her nearly six inches
shorter than her brother.
It doesn’t end there; children also mirror the best and
worst qualities of their parents. If you want to spot a character flaw in
yourself, watch your children; they will magnify it, making it visible to
everyone. Conversely, any positive trait you possess is also there for you to
recognize.
Let’s go for a walk with my father.
A couple of stories occurred before I was born. I've
tried to keep the stories in chronological order as much as possible. Some are
out of sequence, and a few are from other people, but most are my own
recollections.
As a final note, I repeatedly re-read and edit this
content. However, most of it focuses on interactions with my father; it is
quickly becoming my journey shaped by those interactions.
YOUNG SAMI
Sami was a genuine ladies' man and a true bon vivant.
He was always popular with the girls—many thought of him as an Omar Sherriff
clone. One of his closest friends was Alfred Hakim. They would go out dancing
and partying, but they always returned to Alfred’s house, where Alfred’s
younger sister would spoil everyone and make sandwiches for them. The story
goes that Sami found the sandwich maker, Lucy, much more appealing than the
other young women. They eventually got engaged, then married, and remained
inseparable for 63 years.
Sami was self-taught in many subjects, mainly foreign
languages such as English and French. He also learned some Italian and a bit of
German, all to impress the ladies. He was a very competitive player in tennis,
swimming, and bridge. He was good enough to become the club champion at the
Cairo Sporting Club in many of these disciplines.
His main passions, apart from Lucy, were becoming a
lawyer, and he was one of the youngest to be called to the bar at that time; he
was also passionate about classical music, tennis, and bridge.
STABBING
During one of Sami’s past curfew evening runs, he
decided to return through the bedroom window. The only challenge was that his
brother, Mounir, had a desk beneath the window. The route from the window meant
that the desk was used as a stepping stool. That usually wouldn’t have been an
issue, but on that night, Mounir was sitting and studying. When Sami stepped on
his stool and Mounir’s desk, it upset him. He warned Sami to get off the desk.
Sami laughed and said, “What are you going to do about it?” Mounir grabbed his
letter opener and stabbed his brother in the foot with it. I’m guessing Sami
never stepped on that desk again. What remains a mystery is just how much
damage was done.
MY EARLIEST MEMORY
Our home was very close to the military base in
Heliopolis, a suburb of Cairo. We had to relocate and sleep on the floor in
Dad’s office in the city centre. As a three-year-old, I needed entertainment. I
remember my dad making a briefcase for me from a large brown Manila envelope,
folded in half, taped on the sides, with a slit in the middle to create a
three-compartment briefcase. I proudly carried it around the office, pretending
I was a lawyer heading to court. I joke about it, but my jobs, even in retail,
involved carrying a briefcase or folder; they were all just fancy folded
envelopes.
RED SEA ADVENTURES
& NAGUIB VOWS TO BE A GOOD COOK
“What happens at the Red Sea stays at the Red Sea.”
That was the rule of engagement sixty-five years ago, and I still seem to live
by that mantra today. That has been beneficial, as my entire livelihood as a
financial planner and investment advisor depended on keeping client information
confidential when necessary. The reality was that nothing inappropriate
occurred; it was just the ongoing joke. (But don’t tell anyone, or it would
lose its aura and mystique.)
One must consider the environment at the Red Sea that
we experienced in the late fifties and early sixties. Imagine beautiful,
crystal-clear blue water. Add a sandy beach and a one-lane road, ranging from
ten metres to a hundred metres away. Sometimes, the roadway was covered in
sand, leaving only one lane clear. On the other side, the same situation, ten
to two hundred metres or more of sand. Finally, there were hills, ranging in
height from 100 to 500 metres. One notable aspect was that, as far as you could
see in either direction, there were no trees.
A few events at the Red Sea helped shape who I am. Dad
was a terrible cook who often improvised out of necessity or his tendency to
cut corners and make things simpler. For example, one of the most famous dishes
in Egypt is called “Foul Medames.” It is made with fava beans, oil, lemon,
garlic, salt, and pepper, seasoned to taste. It is a staple food for most of
the population. Sami wanted to reduce the mess he caused. He would place the
unopened can into a pot of water to heat it. By opening the can afterwards, he
avoided a big cleanup with the saucepan.
Another well-known incident was when we were running
out of drinking water. Dad was worried about running out on the last day of the
trip. Dinner was spaghetti, which needed salted water to cook the noodles. What
does one do? We had an entire sea of salted water available. That dinner was
terrible – that was the day I vowed, as an eight or nine-year-old, that I would
learn to cook better than dad. There are a few times when I cook and don’t
remember that story.
Another food story was on one of the few weekends Mom
left Dad to go somewhere overnight in their 63 years together. We lived in the
other half of a semi-detached house with my parents. That Saturday morning, I
felt badly for my father and I promised to make sure dad was fed.
I went next door at breakfast time and asked Dad what
he would like for breakfast. His reply was, “Eggs.” The following is as close
to the rest of the conversation as possible.
Me, “One egg or two? Dad, “Two”
Me, “How do you like them cooked?” Dad, “Fried”
Me, “Do you want me to cook them sunny side up or
down?” Dad, “Up”
Me, Soft or hard Yolk?”
Then a surprised retort, “What is this? An inquisition?
What’s with all the questions? Your mother asks me a question: 'Would you like
eggs for breakfast?’ I say yes, and she makes them.” I’m still chuckling at
that as I write the tale of the eggs.
TWO FLAT TIRES IN
THE DESERT
We lived in the suburbs on the east side of Cairo, in a
neighbourhood called Heliopolis. To go camping at the Red Sea, we had to head
straight east to the town of Suez at the canal. Then turn south and drive a
short distance to our camp in the desert. The entire trip from the lush Nile
Delta to Suez also passed through the desert. This time, one of my father’s
best friends, Adel El Kardani, was treating us to a ride in his red
convertible. It was an old convertible but still flashier than my father’s Volkswagen
Beetle. Despite its flamboyance, the car still needed maintenance. Adel didn't
pay much attention to such trivial things, so it wasn't much of a surprise when
we ended up with two flat tyres in the desert. Fortunately, it was not in too
remote a location; within the hour, a bus came by. Adel boarded the bus,
promising to come back to us as quickly as possible. It didn’t matter much how
long he took; in the sweltering heat of the desert, it felt like an eternity. During
that time, Dad taught me to always stay on top of maintenance issues. My
mechanic has instructions never to risk my car breaking down on the road – I
have always been proactive during fifty-five years of driving in my maintenance
schedule.TIME OFF FROM SCHOOL TO WATCH A FOOTBALL GAME
Football, also known as soccer, is the national sport
of Egypt. We were fortunate in Egypt to be among the "haves" in the
population. As a result, we had the very first TV on the block. It was a large
console model, with a twelve-inch black-and-white TV built into the centre. One
afternoon, a significant game was on TV. I don’t remember if it was an
international match or a championship game. It was important enough for Dad to
write a note to get me out of school early.
I got home, and there must have been 12 to 15 men
watching this little TV. The moral here is that while school is vital, some
things are even more critical; life experiences are worth taking a day off for.
I can’t remember which lesson I missed that day, but nearly 65 years later, I
still remember getting out of school and watching the game. Dad understood that
balance. Stephen Covey called it “taking time off to sharpen your saw.”
COMING TO CANADA
The human condition means we constantly strive to
improve our lives for ourselves and, by extension, our families. My parents
recognized that a combination of circumstances prompted our emigration to
Canada. They decided that whatever it took to be good providers, they would do
it unconditionally. They left behind a really good life and a familiar comfort
zone to travel almost halfway around the world and face the challenges of an
uncertain future with no guarantees.
I've experienced that turmoil firsthand as a passenger
with my parents and, more importantly, with Donna, my wife, in our lives. I had
been working in retail at The Bay, Eaton's, and Sears for nearly twenty-five
years. (Ironically, all three are gone now!). I loved working in retail and was
always fortunate to have great colleagues, some of whom have become some of my closest,
dearest, and most enduring friendships. We had some incredible times. I'll
share a couple of stories later.
Within the familiar and comfortable life at Sears,
Donna and I bought a house and a cottage, and enjoyed a wonderful life. We
could buy anything we wanted. These might not have been extravagant, but they
were what we desired. We had two children that we were good providers for, and
while not lavish, it was a happy life.
I developed an interest in finance and took industry
courses because my broker exploited me, and I vowed never to expose myself to
more risk. However, one fateful day, everything changed.
Everything I touched that day turned to dirt, and I was
no longer enjoying my work. It wasn’t the colleagues; it was that all of a
sudden, I didn’t wake up looking forward to going to “work.” I am sure that the
final straw was the exchange with a lady – she was not nasty, in fact, she was pretty
nice and thoughtful. It was what she was there for that did me in. She wanted
my advice about a classical music CD that she was after. On questioning her,
she didn’t know what she wanted; she didn’t know whether she wanted a full
orchestra or a quartet. She didn’t even know that. When I pursued that line,
she told me it was for her plants. I gave her the Vivaldi Four Seasons disk.
That did me in at the time.
That day, I was planning to see my beloved Blue Jays play.
As luck would have it, we got stuck in traffic. I buried my face in my hands
and said to my friend Myrwood, “That was typical of my day, as everything I
touched turned to dirt. I am tired of playing store. I wish I could do something
else, like become a financial planner.” It was then that I realized I was done with
retail and wanted out.
I’m almost certain that Myrwood picked up his cell
phone within thirty seconds. It was the era when phones were the size of a
brick. He dialled a number he knew well. When the person on the other end
answered, Myrwood began the conversation with, “Hi, you horse’s Patootie, how
are you?” After some small talk, Myrwood then shifted gears and said, “Naguib
Kerba is in the car with me and wants a career change; he wanted to go into
financial planning. Will you talk to him?” Myrwood then handed me the phone and
said, "Meet Ed Tower. He is my best friend and a branch manager of an
investment company.
That was a Tuesday afternoon, and after a brief chat
with Ed, we scheduled a meeting for two days later. During that meeting, Ed
greeted me very warmly and said I didn’t even need a resume, since Myrwood’s
recommendation was so strong that all I had to do was pass a mutual fund
license exam. Once I completed the exam, I was to reconnect with him; they
would cover half the course cost and hire me immediately.
On September 2, 1992, I handed Ed my successful exam
results, and I was hired immediately. What followed was a never-ending series
of exams and the pursuit of designations for 33 years. I saw my dreams come
true, but not without making tough decisions, including leaving what I had
built in my comfort zone. I was at the top of my game. However, just as my
parents discovered, life was not going to be easy for them and their family.
They had to leave that familiar world behind and pursue an unknown future. Much
like my parents, we made the most difficult decision of my life and changed
careers in our mid-thirties. Ironically, I was the same age as my father was
when he made that tough change of uprooting the family from the known and
ventured into what may have felt like a different Universe.
Thirty-three years
later, when I look back at that comfort zone I was in, it resembles a padded
cell. I climbed over the wall of that cell. I am now so far removed from it.
Thank you, Myrwood. I will be eternally grateful for that phone call. As another
friend described it, I flourished.
As an aside, with
time and distance, I learned another valuable lesson. Remember that woman who
wanted to buy that CD? To her, that problem was a big one; she wasn’t evil or
crazy. She had heard that playing classical music for her plants was beneficial.
What can be more beautiful than a request like that? I had no right to belittle
her concern, now, after thirty-three more years under my belt. I was wrong.
ROBERT BISHBASH
My father was a real prankster. When I was a young
teenager, I was sitting in the back seat of the car. We were heading to a
family picnic, and as usual, several vehicles were in the caravan. The cars
stopped at a red light, with our truck behind Robert’s. My father noticed his
cousin was engrossed in a heavy conversation; his window was open, with his arm
hanging out. Dad said, “Watch this.” He got out, ran ahead, and slapped his
cousin on the back of the head. It was a playful slap that had its intended effect
– he frightened his cousin badly. I thought that was the funniest thing, and I
have always wanted to do the same thing.
The only issue was that the opportunity took almost
fifty years to present itself. I was a passenger in our car, returning from a hike.
We were heading to meet my son and his friends at a local restaurant. As we
turned left, a vehicle coming from the opposite direction also turned left. I
recognized it as my son’s vehicle. I asked my driver to pull up behind their
car if we stopped at a red light. It did, and we paused behind it. I took the
chance that had taken fifty years to arrive.
I undid the seatbelt, leapt out of the car, and
approached the front passenger side. The window was shut. So, I did what comes
naturally when a window is closed—I tapped it with my best drum roll. Imagine
my surprise when the front passenger rolled down the window, and it wasn’t my
son or his friend. I was so stunned, as was the passenger, who said I almost
gave him a heart attack. I apologized profusely and confirmed with him that his
heart was still beating fine. We both chuckled.
The moral of the
story is that while history repeats itself, it’s not always the same. I am
still unsure whether my failed attempt fulfilled my dream of repeating that
prank or if it should still be on my to-do list.
PLAYBOY MAGAZINES
My father was old-fashioned in many ways. While we
talked in general, we never really had the chance to discuss the birds and the
bees. That was left to circumstances that arose naturally.
I was around twelve or thirteen at the time and very
innocent. We lived in an apartment building. We didn’t have recycling bins back
then. The superintendent’s son, Mike, and I were very good friends. Mike’s
father paid us each a couple of dollars to put the elevator on service and go
to all the floors picking up large items.
One Saturday morning, we found a goldmine for
thirteen-year-old boys. There was a box that contained the proverbial
treasure—fifteen Playboy magazines, all neatly stacked. Now, what do we do with
this newfound treasure? One thing's for sure: we weren't going to toss it out
as garbage. I had a brilliant idea.
My father, who wasn't a handyman but always tried,
built a cabinet similar to the lower kitchen cabinets. It was placed in the
two-car garage. The door was secured with a simple padlock. Dad’s construction
materials were never of top quality, so he used lightweight plywood. Thanks to
that cabinet, we now have a storage space for our treasures. We went to the
garage, pried open the door enough to pass magazines onto the shelf one at a
time. I had no idea how tidy the stack was; my main concern was that they all
fit in. At that age, out of sight was indeed out of mind.
About four or five days later, with just Dad and me in
the room, he was somewhat serious. I sensed something was going on, but I
didn't know what it was. He asked me to sit down, and once I was seated, he
slid a key across the table to me and said he thought I might want to use it. I
couldn’t figure out why I would like a key to the garage cabinet, so I asked
him, “Why would I want that key?”
He chuckled and said, "It's for the magazines I
put in the cabinet." He discovered my treasure, neatly stacked it on the
shelf, locked the cabinet, and now it was accessible to me. I wasn’t finished, so
I asked him why he thought it was me.
Well, he knew some things. It wasn’t him, my mother and
grandmother certainly didn’t do it, and my brother never went down to the
garage! That left one candidate—“little ole moi.” As a result of all that
damning evidence, I confessed.
The biggest takeaway
was just how nonchalant his delivery was—calm, matter-of-fact, and very
understanding. Ironically, forty years later, when my mother and father moved
out of their house, they left everything behind for my daughter to go through.
Lo and behold, in the basement was my treasure from all those years ago.
I couldn’t fit all
the stories into a short story. There are more stories to share, but I wanted
to share the Nuggets from this part:
There is no end to the big decisions or challenges we
face throughout our lives. My dad taught me to see challenges as opportunities.
The biggest and scariest challenges we face will provide us with the best and
most tremendous success when we overcome them.
When we know in advance that it's part of life, we can
gain perspective and respond in the best way possible. Besides, life isn't
about the challenges; it's how you react to those challenges that truly counts.
Treat everyone equally; your social position doesn’t
matter. It doesn’t matter if they are the CEO or the Janitor—everyone deserves
respect.
Seize the day;
every day is special. Enjoy yourself, have fun, play a joke on someone, or
simply call someone to connect. I call them random acts of kindness. Just
“LIVE”
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