Franz is an intelligent person, not only professionally, but also socially. He does not like to talk about himself. Not that he keeps his conversation painfully superficial, but he prefers to discuss world affairs and business generally. He is amused by cultural differences. He is an affectionate person without being gushy, much in the way of healthy, open affection that characterizes a sympathetic person. He listens to what others say, and he is quick to follow their meaning, especially when a deeper thought is behind the words. It also seems to me that he is struggling with something. His dislike of talking about himself probably means that he keeps a great deal of his personal concerns locked up. But there is always that deeper meaning to his actions, actions which betray his superficial firmness. His actions are his attempts at communication.
I also rather suspect that the intensity of his involvement with his patients is his outlet for his genuine depth of sensitivity. I doubt that he has anyone with whom he can share himself, even Terry. He is a man who is bound to live with his own thoughts, and perhaps even feel trapped with them. May 6, 1986.
Franz really shone around the dinner table. And in the kitchen. His first house in Almonte, which like my first house was rented, was just across the park at the back of my house. It was but a short walk (or bicycle ride - for Franz was constantly doing something energetic!) for him and Terry to pop across for dinner, and vice-versa. Franz had clearly spent far more time preparing meals than I had ever done. It must have been my years of living in residences, and travelling to great halls and dining rooms, that robbed me of that education. Franz, on the other hand, had far more than a passing acquaintance with food preparation, and Louis Audette and I frequently commented and agreed that his skills were beyond gourmet. Through Franz, I learned many tricks not only about food preparation but also about what food to prepare. He had a seemingly endless repertoire of relatively simple, but extraordinary dishes (and, by the way, I have never to this day seen any recipe book for any one of them). For example, one year for my birthday, Terry and he gave me a crucible with a candle holder below it. A simple device such as this had been used by them often to prepare a “banya coda” (literally, hot bath) consisting of heated olive oil, into which you put masses of crushed garlic, anchovies and fresh ground pepper. The mixture was enjoyed before dinner over drinks as a dipping sauce for bits of crusty bread speared onto the ends of little two-pronged forks (a number of which they also included in their gift).
On Saturday last, I picked Louis up at his house, and we drove to Franz and Karen's for lunch. Louis is really showing his age, and he looks a bit of a mess (typical old man with dirty grey flannels). But the lunch and visit with the Ferrarises was wonderful, reminiscent of my lunch in Brittany with Jean-Luc Meyer when I was seventeen at his summer home, with crayfish, salad, brandy and cigars. Franz and Karen served a fresh homemade asparagus soup, lovely salad and delicious vinaigrette, eight-grain bread and fresh rhubarb bread pudding with whipped cream and granulated sugar, and coffee and excellent sherry. The day was perfect too! Fresh breeze, blossoms of lilacs and crab apples, sunny with pretty clouds. I hated to leave, but Franz was called back to the hospital, Louis was starting to fade, and Karen was becoming aware of her motherly duties (Erin was beautiful to look at and talk to, and the young Marco was as amusing as a six-month old child can be). May 26, 1993
Of Franz' other many talents, not the least of them is his ability to write. In fact, he even studied the subject of writing for a brief period. I was first alerted to this talent when I received a post-card from him. The card was of necessity rather terse, but nonetheless thoroughly entertaining, compact and pithy in substance and style. For a time, we amused one another by exchanging bits of prose which each of us had undertaken on one subject or another (laughingly, for example, about subdivisions, that urban equivalent to what MacDonald's is to food!). And I have encouraged him more than once to take pen in hand seriously, but the prospect has been neatly interrupted by his second marriage to Karen the arrival of their two beautiful children, Erin and Marco, who are of course a book onto themselves.
While I would never think of stopping by Franz' office without an appointment (mainly because he is always either so busy, or in surgery), he on the other hand makes a positive point of dropping in my office for a chance bit of gossip, which I rather like. These sessions are invariably pleasingly animated, spiced by all that is good in such circumstances, bits of mockery, discussion of past or upcoming trips, and maybe even some idle or (in his case) not-so-idle speculation about real estate purchase or development. If others happen to come into the office at the same time, the conversation immediately takes upon itself geometric dimensions, translating casual repartee into sometimes frantic mental posturing and hilarity. All makes for good fun in the end.
One Christmas Eve stands out particularly in my mind, and it involved Franz:
Christmas Eve, we had dinner at my house. There was me, Mother and Dad, Carolyn McLaren (her son, Scott, and his buddy, Scott, later arrived; and I made the mistake of giving them each TWO rye and coke - Carolyn's boy had reminded me that I had given him a drink last year; I would have stopped at one, but I then discovered them at the bar helping themselves to a second), Franz Ferraris and his South African friend, Peter, from Alberta. Franz and Peter arrived late because their chauffeur for the night (and for the next few nights) had driven his own car into the ditch outside Franz' house, when Ian LeCheminant (who had been delivering some sticks of furniture to Franz' house) was leaving Franz' house. I guess the departing car startled the arriving car (being driven by Steve O'Keefe's brother, John). Franz was unable to get the car out of the ditch even after repeated efforts with his Jeep. Still don't know how that one resolved itself...So Franz and Peter were late. Which meant that Mother and I had more than we needed to drink. Mother ended up without an appetite, and sleepy; I ended up getting crankier than normal. Dad ate all the peanuts. Carolyn wanted to know what's for dinner (she had a great appetite). In fact, what we were having was both prepared and brought by Mother: FRESH oyster stew (Dad shucked them in the garage over old newspaper); tourtiere pie; Waldorf salad; lemon souffle with raspberry sauce for dessert. Sherry with the soup; red and white wine with dinner (choice); porto with coffee. We just helped ourselves from the dining room, then ate casually in the back room, where the Christmas tree was, and the fire- place lit. Mother was so tired form all her work (and from having to prepare for the big breakfast and dinner the next day) that she just couldn't stay for the midnight (11:15 p.m.) Church service. Franz and Peter went off into the night with their chauffeur, to visit people whom the SHOULD have seen at nine o'clock that morning for a meeting, but didn't because they were both out so late the night before, and I understand Franz was quite ill. So, I attempted to drive to Church myself.
The rain must have begun around ten o'clock, just as everybody had been leaving. But when I headed out for Church at eleven, I had forgotten about it. But not for long. As I headed DOWN the street outside my house, I put the brakes on, but nothing happened. The car just kept going, like a rock on a curling rink. And I was headed straight for another car. I just couldn't believe it was happening - and my NEW CAR! But it stopped. I then proceed to CRAWL back to the house, and put the car into the garage. On my return, I exhorted my neighbour, Maj. Wm. Anderson, and his three boys, to put their car back as well, and walk. Which we all did together. One of the boys fell twice, but didn't appear to have hurt himself. December 28, 1986.
Franz is also a great traveller. He would consider it but a jaunt to go anywhere for as little as two weeks. He often extended his trips to up to six weeks (though in fairness, this was before his two children arrived on the scene). Being from South Africa, where he liked to return to visit his parents from time to time, he was quite accustomed to long-distance travel. And he also had a keen eye for the exotic - like travels to the interior of South America; or aboard a sailing yacht in the Caribbean; or, for that matter, staying at their rustic cottage in the “bush country” of Renfrew County. These adventures, combined with his enthusiasm for sports (he and Karen even went to Greece to participate in an Olympic type running race), did much to clothe him with the aura of a true gamester and one who lives by his wits. He would migrate to any enterprise which promised a challenge and good measure of difficulty (I was his “coach” for a triathlon, for example). In spite of his many talents and successes, however, Franz is a hugely modest and private person. He actively shuns attention and praise. This does not mean to suggest, on the other hand, that he excluded people from his life. On the contrary, no one could have been more willing to share of themselves, their time and their stores. But I think he rightly saw flattery and attention as little more than the net they are before another man's feet; and, woe betide the person who transgressed! He did not suffer such things gladly.
Franz and I naturally have many things in common, those unwritten things that tend to keep a relationship going, in spite of what are sometimes lengthy lapses. As the saying goes, “We think alike”:
Franz came into the Office today, and we both agreed we would sell everything and move to some tropical island to wash dishes and eat shrimp. February 14, 1991.
The year 1992 marked the first of my three hernia operations, and it was Franz who put me under for the surgery each time. In keeping with very out-dated and traditional values, Franz did, however, far more than might have been expected; after the surgery he drove me home, kept me company while I got something to eat (for the first time in about 16 hours), and delivered the requisite pain killers. If fact, hernias aside, it was not uncommon for Franz to make house-calls upon me or many of his other patients.
No comments:
Post a Comment