Gerry

Dear readers, today, I invite you into the world of my father Nicolas' older brother, Gerasimos, known to us as Gerry. Join me as we explore the intricate layers of a man who was as enigmatic as he was devout.

In the heart of a neighbourhood suspended in time, on 14th and Vine, stood my Uncle Gerry's simple white house with its steep roof and even steeper steps. Dominating this modest property was a cement driveway leading to a large garage that served as Gerry's workshop and realm of solitude. The house, divided into multiple suites for tenants, saw my uncle and aunt residing in one of the smaller ones, an area brimming with an eclectic mix of possessions.

Melina and Gerry’s suite, though compact, was a labyrinth of memories and relics. It was as if each book, magazine, rug, and piece of oversized furniture was a silent custodian of their life’s story. Crystal bowls filled with wrapped candies sat collecting dust, while the sink seemed perpetually full of dishes. Their home was a vivid illustration of their life – one where the accumulation of objects embodied the accumulation of years and experiences.

Gerry himself was a character of contrasts. Dressed perpetually in clothes that whispered tales of better days, his shoes were often mended with newspaper, speaking to a life of apparent frugality. Yet his wallet seemed full of crisp 20s and 50s. He lived like he had taken a vow of poverty, but his finances told a different story. This paradox was not lost on those who knew him, painting Gerry as a man walking a fine line between need and want.

One of the tenants, Thomas was a man of intense convictions, especially about his Old Calendar Greek Orthodox faith. In reality, he was a glutton, a bully, and a sloth. Thomas, who seldom worked and lived off welfare, had a penchant for sharp, often hurtful remarks. His interactions were tinged with a dogmatic fervour.

A memory that stings to this day was the time he proclaimed with unsettling certainty that my attending a Catholic elementary school (St. Augustine’s) would lead me straight to hell. It took my father, Nicolas, stepping in with stern words to settle the upheaval that Thomas stirred. Meanwhile, Gerry, ever the enigmatic figure, remained detached, an observer rather than a participant in these spirited exchanges.

Gerry’s past held chapters of quiet introspection and dramatic escape. The most striking was his stint at a Greek monastery, where he sought refuge and meaning. When my father and grandfather found him there, he was a mere shadow of his former self, emaciated, clad in a burlap robe, yet holding a sense of pride in the wooden toys he crafted. This image of Gerry, content in his monastic simplicity, often made me wonder if my father and grandfather had truly rescued him - or had they pulled him away from a life he had chosen?

The garage, Gerry's kingdom, was a contrasting space to my aunt and uncle's cramped suite. It housed not just his tools and religious tomes but also his collection of hot wheels cars, each in immaculate condition. Here, amidst his treasures, Gerry’s life of contrasts was most evident. The garage was a silent witness to a man who lived between two worlds - the material and the spiritual.

Gerry, even after years in Canada, remained a puzzle. His life, a blend of old-world traditions and new-world realities, was as compelling as it was mystifying. His story, like many in our family, stands as a reminder of the complex web of personal beliefs, family dynamics, and the legacy we carry forward.