We Are What We Choose to Remember

When sending my writing out into the world, I have no idea how it is going to affect other people and I am often surprised at comments that come my way. 

In April 2018 I wrote a blog post about the Greek singer, Nana Mouskouri, and her amazing energy. At age 83 she was doing a 14-day cross-Canada tour.  After I published the post, I received a long and emotional response from Hardy's cousin, Klaus Froese, in Germany. 

Both Klaus and Hardy enjoyed working in other cultures in their younger years; Klaus with MCC in Greece and Hardy with our church's board of missions in RD Congo. Their friendly outgoing nature, their love of languages, and their adaptability to difficult circumstances were an asset. 

In his long email comment, Klaus told me how Mouskouri's music had affected him after he left Greece. The people he had worked with gave him a bouquet of white roses as a farewell gift before he returned to Germany. Soon after he arrived back home, he went to get a haircut. In the barber shop the barber was playing Nana Mouskouri's "Weiße Rosen aus Athen" [White Roses from Athens]. Klaus was overcome with emotion and tears began streaming down his face. 

Now a 79-year-old man, Klaus recalled this moment of his youth as if it happened yesterday -- and his emotions welled to the surface once again!

https://youtu.be/fDV98mkueYU

Hardy and Klaus were very much alike and they remained in touch throughout their lives, first by visits and later by phone. Had it not been for World War II, the cousins would have grown up together. When they were five and seven years old, Klaus's family remained in Germany and Hardy's family emigrated to Canada.

In July, Klaus experienced a sudden weakness in his spinal chord and soon he was unable to hold up his head. Sadly (and far too soon), he passed away in November at age 82. We will miss his friendship and I will miss his enthusiastic support.

Klaus eating a last meal, his favourite potato salad.
After this meal, he was put on fluids because he lost his ability to swallow.

I recall a visit with Klaus and his wife Gudrun in Germany in 2011. We were in a beautiful park in the city of Hannover. As we left the park, we passed the main building. On the steps lay an empty wine glass. Klaus picked it up and handed it to me. "Keep it as a memory of your visit," he said with a smile. I still have it, and whenever I see it I remember our visit to Hannover. 

Do you have memories that make you smile, laugh or weep?

This blog post is dedicated to Klaus,
who was one of my most faithful readers.