One Hundred Years Ago Today...

April 16, 1916.- The US Army was chasing Pancho Villa in Mexico while, in Europe, the opposing armies were preparing to fight the second battle of Ypres. But the only news of importance to Jacob and Esther Lutsky (née Tanksy) on this day in history was the birth of their first child, Louis (Eliezer) Lutsky.

The earliest picture that I have of my Dad is a group photo, taken when he was nine years old. He is in the back row, standing between his cousins, Saul Rabinovitch and Sophie Tansky. In the front row are (left to right) his cousins Arthur Tansky and Debbie Rabinovitch, and Dad's younger brother (and my uncle) Moe Lutsky. My Uncle Marvin, arrived a few years later.

Dad was considerably older in this next picture, and quite handsome. It's easy to understand what Mom saw in him, the first time they danced together.

Dad went off to war in 1941 or 1942. He was in the quartermaster corps, and drove supply trucks in Italy and the Netherlands. He spoke very little about his war experiences, but liked to tell the story of his demobilization. According to Dad, the officer handling his discharge discovered that his records were incomplete; Dad had never been given a driving test. Never mind that he had driven supply trucks in Italy; never mind that he had driven trucks through the Netherlands. He could not be discharged until he had passed his driving test! Dad's final assignment was to undergo and pass his driving test. His discharge followed promptly thereafter.

Dad and Mom married on March 10, 1946

They were a twosome for three years.

Until I came along in 1949.

And the twosome became a trio.

Barbara came on the scene four years later.

Hmmm. What am I supposed to do with this little baby?

And our family was now complete.

Seven years later, celebrating the 50th wedding anniversary of my grandparents, Mary and Jack Quint.

Dad was a reader and loved fiction, whether in the form of a novel or a newspaper. Wonder what he would have made of the headlines on the day of his birth?

When Lou Met Gertie

They were as different as Harry and Sally. Her family was Litvak - from Lithuania and Latvia via England. His family was Galitzianer - from Ukraine and Minsk. Her father was a Union man in the garment industry; his parents owned and operated a small grocery store. Lou's cousin, Debbie, was Gertie best friend. He often was at Debbie's house when Gertie was visiting. They disagreed about everything, just like Harry and Sally. Until...

Lou and Gertie happened to visit Toronto on the same weekend. Gertie was there to attend a wedding. The bride asked whether she knew anyone in Toronto whom she would like to invite as a dancing partner. "Well," Gertie wrinkled her nose, "Lou Lutsky is in town. I suppose I could ask him."

Lou agreed willingly enough. "I guess so," he replied when she telephoned him. "There's nothing else to do in Toronto on a Sunday."

When they stepped out onto the dance floor, and Dad took Mom in his arms, a seed was planted that grew into a lifelong love. They dated frequently until Dad joined the Canadian army during World War II. He served in the Quartermaster Corps, driving trucks that supplied the fighting units in Italy and the Netherlands. Mom saved one of his letters - written during a lecture on correct use of gas masks. The words of love were unspoken, but filled the spaces between the pencilled lines that described the effects of mustard gas. She also saved a birthday card that he'd sent to her from England. The front cover was replete with flowery references to 'three little words' which, when the card was opened, were revealed to be, 'Phooey, phooey, phooey.' He was such a romantic!

Mom and Dad were married on March 10, 1946, seventy years ago today.

The Empty Chair

It was always his chair, the deep-cushioned recliner with the pop-up foot rest that dominated one corner of the room. He did everything in that chair. Well, not quite everything. But it was his reading chair, his talking chair, his TV-watching chair, his snacking chair, and his snoozing chair. The recliner followed Mom and Dad from house to house, from living room to living room. It shed its upholstery periodically and grew a new covering, like a reptile shedding its skin and emerging glistening and freshly clad. It wasn’t always pretty, but it was always a part of home. A part of him.

The chair didn’t empty suddenly. The process was a gradual one - a subtle stealing away. Nor did the chair empty in any physical sense. Dad still sat in it; he just didn’t inhabit it anymore. The conversations faded first as Alzheimer’s insinuated itself into and through his brain. Reading was next to go; although he kept up the habit of holding a newspaper or book, he never turned the pages. As the months and years marked the infiltration of the leading edge of his illness, he would stare blankly at the TV screen, his book or magazine held forgotten - often upside down - in his hands. Eventually, even the pretense of reading vanished along with his memories, his laughter, his love of life and his awareness of his wife and family.

The chair is gone now. It broke down soon after Dad died. He and it had grown old together, had grown tired together. The chair mourned the loss of the familiar contours of his body and refused to form a relationship with anyone else. Mom had the chair removed, and the corner where it once stood remained empty for a long time. 


When Mom moved to her new apartment, she purchased a new chair - one without Dad’s imprint. Mom’s chair was her throne. She sat in it to watch TV, to nap, to snack on her tea and muffin, and to bask in the joy of receiving visitors. Especially family. She would sit proudly, the center of attention, trading quips, puns and jokes with anyone who would listen. But not any more. Mom’s chair is empty now. We lost her last month, just six weeks after she celebrated her 93rd birthday surrounded by her children and grandchildren. She and Dad are back together again, sitting peacefully side-by-side as they used to do. Holding hands, trading stories, and basking in their mutual love.