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Respect
In 1966, my grandmother passed away. Annie Durning was an immigrant who came to Canada with her family for a better life. Her life in Canada was difficult, but it was better than it had been in Scotland and in her birthplace, Ireland. She was my paternal grandmother. My maternal grandfather attended her funeral that day. Seeing Grandpa sitting alone made my heart ache. Grandpa Curio was an old man. He had made is way over to the service on the TTC, or so he said. I imagine he had walked the two miles because he could, and would have time to think. No one in the Durning family expected him to be there. As if it were yesterday, I can see him sitting quietly in the chapel. He wore a grey suit. It was the first time I’d seen him dressed up, so to speak. I suppose he hadn’t worn that suit since my parents’ wedding in the ’40s. It was an expensive, double-breasted suit, smelling faintly of mothballs and cedar. He said he didn’t have many reasons to be “vestito,” but he always had his suit to wear to show respect. At the time, I suppose I didn’t understand respect. Being a teenager, I always had a reason to dress up. What did showing up and showing off have to do with respect?
It was about two weeks ago that LOML and I, while tidying our closet, noticed most of the clothing we now own falls into a few oddball categories. Clothing that is in the active wear category, clothing we could wear to mow the lawn or paint something and clothing we could wear to the grocery store. And we have clothing that could be considered vintage. Later, as we sipped our coffee, we talked about how grateful we were that we didn’t have any clothing challenges on the horizon. In other words, no weddings and no funerals in the offing. Then, as if a divine being heard us, we received a message that an old friend had passed away. Amy McGregor was 96 years old. We’d known her for decades. She was a lady, in all respects. Always dressed appropriately. Always combed and brushed. Always with the right amount of lipstick. Had we not just realized we didn’t own anything to wear that would be remotely appropriate to show our respect for someone we respected and loved? We looked through our closets again. Who knows what lurks in those garment bags at the back of the closet? Funny thing was, as we waded through, we noted we still had clothing we had once worn to work. One of us had retired almost 15 years ago and the other of us hadn’t worn office clothing since 1996. Let’s just say, what we did find—which could (in a pinch) pass as a funeral outfit—was beyond out-of-date, not to mention we’d changed a bit, size-wise. Do women still wear hip-length jackets with padded shoulders that make you look like a linebacker. LOML had dress slacks with pleats! How many pleats are still in style? Who knows? So, shopping we went. A challenge it was. It was a challenge to find something that wasn’t going to languish in the back of the closet until the next occasion and a challenge to find something that didn’t cost an arm and a leg. Pensioners, we are. Respectful pensioners.
And, for a few moments, while we were shopping, I thought about my grandfather in his suit. He was there to show respect for a woman he rarely saw, even though both my mom’s family and my dad’s family had lived in the same neighbourhood. He’d always had a suit, a white shirt and a tie, hanging in his closet for such an occasion. To my grandfather, respect wasn’t just showing up for the service, it was showing up appropriately dressed. LOML and I bought what we needed and the next day made the trip to Woodbridge to show our deep respect for a woman we’d know since we were teenagers, and to her family. Amy McGregor’s family was surprised to see us there. They were touched that we had driven all that way for their family. Amy McGregor had touched our lives. The least we could do was show her family we cared enough to be respectful.
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