Al Zylstra

It has been 3 years since the world became slightly grayer and sadder.  We lost my amazing sister on this day.

Here is a transcript of my eulogy to her.  It is one of the few pieces that I have written that I am incredibly proud of.  Hope you like it.

So, we are here today to celebrate the life of my sister. Wow, never thought those words would be coming out of my mouth.

To try and sum up her life in just a few words is impossible, but, I am going to try.

Anna was an intensely private individual. She rarely showed what was truly going on in her life. But, when she let you in, you were in her life forever or at least until you pissed her off….

My earliest memories of Anna were when I was very young (and I am regaled with this tale by my mother on many an occasion). Apparently, I was angry with everyone at home and decided I was going to run away. So, Mom packed up a lunch for me, gave me my favourite blanky, my teapot (I have no idea why a teapot, but, what the heck… shades of my future self perhaps?), a fistful of pennies, a sandwich and some Koolaid.  Off I went. I didn’t wander far, just around the block, as I knew I wasn’t allowed to cross the street. I eventually came home, but, I am told just for refills….

Anna had to follow me from a discreet distance and make sure that nothing ever happened to me.

That is who my sister was: She was my protector.

Anna was funny. When I was 10 or 12 years old, the family went on one of our BHUTAN DEATH MARCH vacations. You know the type of trip I am talking about? The trip where the family patriarch gathers kith and kin into the car at the crack of dawn and begins the never-ending journey to wherever it was that we were going at break-neck speed just to see if he could beat the traffic.

“You needed a bathroom break? Hah! We just had a rest when we filled up for gas 5 hours ago. And you need to go AGAIN? Hungry? Eat some beef jerky that we scored at the last gas station. Carsick? Meh, just roll down the rear window of the station wagon and let ‘er rip on the car following too close behind (that did actually happen to me)”

But, I digress. We were eventually in Disneyland: The Magic Kingdom. The land of eternal joy for kid and adults alike. Unknown to us, it was also the land of pervs dressed in costumes.

Anna, being young and pretty caught the eye of one lecherous looking Goofy. He proceeded to chase her around the park wanting a “Hug”. Anna wanted none of it. She started darting around people, screaming “Mother” at the top of her lungs all the while Goofy was lurching after her, arms open. Eventually, she lost him in the crowd and I sat there and laughed, as this was the funniest thing I had ever seen. She got her revenge on me, though by dragging me on to the Matterhorn. And thus began my life long fear of amusement park rides. Thanks, Sis.

Anna was my cohort at family functions. Case in point: when my aunt would come to a Zylstra family function, she would often zero in on a family member who had somehow given her a self-perceived slight at some point in time between these visits. That person would be cornered at some point in the evening and my aunt’s ginsu-sharp tongue would leave her victim in a pile of blubbering mess on the floor.

One year, it was my turn.

As I walked in the door from my flight from Vancouver, Anna grabbed me, a bottle of Black Tower wine (Yes, black Tower…) and we hid in the basement until my aunt left. We sat there in the semi-darkness, giggling and passing the wine back and forth daring each other to go and find my aunt. My aunt would eventually give up and went home. A major tongue lashing avoided.

Anna was my confidante. When I was struggling to accept who I was, she was the first family member I talked to. She simply hugged me and told that it was okay. She still loved me and nothing would change that. With that simple statement, I felt like I could breathe. If Anna could accept me, then everything else in the whole world could suck and I would still be okay.

Anna was the first family member I introduced Alex, my then future husband to. Back in June of 2003, we made the treacherous journey from Vancouver to Edmonton to meet the family (insert dramatic music here)… The first person we saw was Anna. We met for coffee when Anna was still working at West Edmonton Mall.

After a very friendly coffee, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and she looked over at Alex and said with nary a thought, “You’re a couple, aren’t you?” Alex answered quickly, “Yes” and with that, she hugged him, welcomed him warmly into the Zylstra fold and told him she was “glad that Al had someone in his life, finally.”

When Alex and I decided to get married, Anna was the first family member we told. She was thrilled for us. Almost as much as we were.

Anna was smart, funny, brave, considerate and stubborn. And she could fight the best of us. When the Zylstra men got into our usual Christmas Eve family gatherings, or as I liked to call them, “the WWE Main Event”, the discussions were frank, loud (really loud) and passionate. We argued over politics, religion, politics, news, politics, human rights, politics…. Did I mention “Politics”?

When the arguments became too much for Anna, she would call on us to stop being so “REDUNDANT”. I am not sure if she knew what “redundant” meant. But, the over-riding concept was for us to stop being juvenile, argumentative and just get along.

Redundant. A good word and one she used a lot. The real meaning of the word redundant is:

1. Characterized by verbosity or unnecessary repetition in expressing ideas.
2. Being in excess; exceeding what is usual or natural
3. Having excess or duplicate parts that can continue to perform in the event of malfunction of some of the parts.
4. Being characterized by redundancy; being predictable.

So, I am going to tell you today in Anna’s words: Don’t be REDUNDANT.

Don’t go through the rest of your life being unnecessarily repetitive. Say it once and MEAN IT.

Don’t be a duplicate, a copy of everyone else. Be unique. Be yourself.

Matter to someone….anyone!

Don’t be predictable. Shake up your life and make it matter.

 I miss you so much, big sis.  Be at peace.  Know that you will never be forgotten.

This weekend, I am heading off to Edmonton to visit my mom.  She will be celebrating her 90th birthday on Monday.  It is a monumentous event.

My mother has always been one of the smartest, toughest, most resilient people I have ever met.  I got my sense of humour, my passions and my drive from her.

I have always been in awe of her.

My most vivid memories of my mom are when I was very young.  She stood guard over me.

My oldest brother, Hans, my brother Ted, My mom, Me and my sister, Anna.

Mom and my BFF from high school, Sharon back in 2012

Back around 10 years ago, we noticed that my mother was struggling with her memories.  Sadly, she was diagnosed with dementia.  While her long term memories have been solid, her short term memory was suffering.

I have begun to record my mother’s memories as a testament to her.  I am not a sound engineer, but I think I am able to capture her essence.

I asked her a lot about her childhood and her side of the family as I am just learning about it.

As you can tell, she is pretty good at remembering her childhood.

Her marriage to my dad was always an adventure.

I will continue to record her memories for everyone but, most importantly for me.  I treasure my time with my mom and hope to do so for a long time to come.

 

My earliest memories of my father were always fleeting.  I knew who he was but he was never around much.  It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized he worked two full time jobs.

He worked at a meat packing plant from 5:00 am to 2:00 pm.  From 2:00 pm until sometimes 8 or 9 pm at night, he worked as a landscaper and gardener.

It was this work ethic that he instilled upon his children, including me.  We were taught that no one was going to take care of us unless we took care of them first.

My father was a strong, but, quiet individual.  Quiet until you got to know him or piss him off.  Then, watch out.  He could take you down with one glance or a carefully worded insult.  My father was not a man to be trifled with.

He was born on April 21, 1920.  His parents had 8 children and lived in a small community in the northern province of Friesland, The Netherlands.  He had a busy childhood, helping his father on their dairy farm.  My father’s history is vague as I was not able to collect as much information about him and his family.  Something, I truly regret.

This is a portrait of my father’s parents.

My paternal grandfather was killed in the Second World War – leaving his wife with 8 children to raise.  My grandfather’s death is still somewhat of a mystery to me.  I will try to fill in those blanks when I manage to speak with my mother.

My father was left being the head of the household after this tragic event.  He helped raise my aunts and uncles until the war ended and then, in 1953, he, my mother, my oldest brother, my sister and my father’s two youngest brothers all packed up to move to Canada.  In the spring of 1953, the family boarded the S.S. Groete Beer passenger ship

The passenger list shows my entire family at that time.

I was able to find this information when Alex and I traveled to Halifax, Nova Scotia back in 2012.  This was an amazing journey and I was filled with goose bumps when I saw my family’s names on the passenger manifest.

After a brief stay in Halifax, the family bundled up and headed West, stopping everywhere between Halifax and finally stopping in Edmonton, Alberta.  This is where my family began to put down roots.

They lived in Edmonton until 1966 when we moved to our home in St. Albert, Alberta – just five minutes north of Edmonton.  A very small bedroom community.

This is the home that I remember the best.  I felt safe here, I felt protected here.  This was a great place to grow up.

My father did that.

My relationship with my father has always been one of contrast.  He was never overly demonstrative to me – I always suspected that he knew I was different from his other children.  I was more artistic, less athletic, more into reading than playing sports, more into film, books, music.  My father never knew how to deal with all of this so we just didn’t.

More my fault than his, I suppose.  I never trusted him or the rest of my family to accept that I was gay.  I had read so many horror stories about people being disowned by their families.  That filled me with such dread.  What would happen to me if I came out and they threw me away?  What would I do?  Where would I go?  How would I cope?

These questions forced me into striking out quickly on my own.  I moved out when I was just 18 years old.  My other siblings all stayed home until they were married.  Some of them were in their late 20’s before that happened. Not me. I needed to be able to be independent for fear of them discovering my secret.

So, I remained in the closet and suffered greatly for it.  I drank too much, I smoked too much, I didn’t eat well, etc, etc. So, in 1986 when the opportunity came to move to the West Coast, I jumped at it.  If I could put enough distance between me and my family, I could begin to take those tentative steps out of the closet.  If and when I told my family, I would be established in my own life and I could carry on without them – or at least that was the plan.

My father would have none of that, though.  My parents would begin to come out to Vancouver every 4 or 5 months just to visit (I believe it was more to check up on me).

They would drive out, spend a week or so with me, filling up my cupboards with food, bringing me small appliances like a microwave oven or a vacuum cleaner.  Every day that they were out, we would be out touring the sights and sounds of the West Coast, but, invariably, we would wind up at a store where they would buy me another item because, in their words, “If we are coming to visit this much, we are going to be comfortable!”

Even though I proclaimed loudly that I was independent, I still had my parents as a safety net.

When it came time for me to get a new vehicle, my parents co-signed the loan without a second thought.  When I was running short on groceries, my father would slip me a hundred dollars and tell me to take care of myself.

Normally when I would call my parents, my father would answer, ask about the weather and then ask if I wanted to talk to my mom.  He would then hand the phone over to her and that would be the end of our conversation.  This made me frustrated.  I was desperate to have a relationship with my father, to seek his approval but, it wasn’t every going to happen

We would continue this slow building of our relationship right up until December 2002.  Out of the blue, he called me on Christmas Eve.  I was on my way to my friend’s house to celebrate Christmas with her and her family.  My cellphone rang, I answered and it was my father.

I asked him if everything was okay.  It was so unusual for him to call.  He had only ever done it once before.  He said, everything was fine.  He just wanted to wish me a merry Christmas.  I thanked him and said, I was good.  There was a brief pause and then he said, “I just want to know one thing:  Are you happy?”

I was floored.  I started shaking.  HE KNEW!  OH GAWD, HE KNEW!

I stammered out, “Yes, dad.   I guess I am! I have a great life here.  I have friends.  I have people who love me.  What more could I ask for?”

He said, “Good, because you know all I ever wanted for you is to be happy.”

Another blow to my stomach,

I reassured him that I couldn’t have been happier.  He then told me that he was getting ready to go out with Mom to see my brothers and sister.  That conversation was the last one we ever had. That conversation will stick with me for as long as I live

By the last week of January 2003, I got a phone call from my oldest brother advising me to get home.  My dad was in the hospital and it wasn’t looking good.

My father smoked for 40 years.  He had emphysema and it was getting worse every year. The last 5 years had my dad on Oxygen 24 hours a day.

I got to Edmonton that afternoon.  We drove straight to the hospital where my father was comatose.  My entire family was there, except my youngest brother and his wife.  My father demanded that they go on their planned trip to Las Vegas and so they went.

I acknowledged my family, kissed my mom and went to my dad.  He was struggling for every breath.  I held his hand for a few minutes and talked to him through a veil of tears.

I went and found his doctor who told me that my dad was fading fast and that we should be prepared.  A massive weight just dropped on me.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t react.  I just stood there frozen for what I thought was an eternity.

Eventually, my world came back into focus.  I went back to my dad’s bed.  I leaned in and whispered very softly to him, “Dad, I love you.  I think you want to go somewhere else.  Anywhere but here.  You need to know that you can go if you want.  We will be okay.”

I left with my oldest brother and we went to his house.  I was exhausted.  I went to lie down and fell asleep.  I was jolted awake at just after midnight.  It was the hospital calling to let us know that he died.

I found out that he passed away, about an hour after the last of my family left to go home and get some rest.  Perfect timing on my dad’s part.  I honestly believe that he planned it that way.  He wouldn’t leave knowing that someone was watching him. Typical of my dad.  He never wanted to burden anyone.  This was his way of making sure that didn’t happen.

Writing this, I feel a wave of sadness.  I had so much I wanted to say to him.  I wanted to show him so much.  I wanted him to meet Alex, who I had started dating the year before but, had only gotten serious in the latter part of 2002.

Somehow, though, I think he knew that I was embarking on a new chapter in my life with someone I truly wanted to spend the rest of my life.

My dad was a good dad but, he was the BEST FATHER.  I will always treasure the time we had.