Yankov Kopel ben Pinchas Hersh v Bluma Sara
November 22, 1914, Krinki, Poland - July 18, 2004, North Vancouver
Jack Clement lived a full life, a good life. Survived being orphaned at birth in a poverty-stricken shtetl. His grandmother died when he was 5 and he became a street kid with a bunch of other orphans. Never went to school even one day in his life. Remembers crying himself to sleep hungry every night of his childhood.
At age 13, the old women of his village, contacted an uncle, Moses Kaplan, Jack’s mother’s brother, in Montreal - who paid his passage to Canada in exchange for 1 year of labour in a clothing factory. He had to lie about his age to get on the boat. He soon was fixing sewing machines and taught himself to be a machinist, eventually running a little business which supported 4 families, his own and 3 employees.
He got his first pair of new shoes at age 16 and was so excited he polished even the soles. He could work with wood, with leather, with steel. He invented some machines in his business, and when my brother and I were cleaning up his belongings a few days ago, we found several attractive pairs of shoes he still wore with leather soles which he had cut, trimmed, glued and nailed on to replace worn out soles. He travelled to Europe to import sewing needles and machines to service the textile trade. He taught himself to read and write and spoke a beautiful literary Yiddish, and as well had a working familiarity of Polish, Russian, French and English, and basic Hebrew. He was an avid chess player, and after his Alzheimer’s and poor vision prevented him from playing chess anymore, I still could not ever beat him in a simple game of checkers as recently as 6 months ago.
He joined an active amateur Yiddish theatre scene in Montreal as a young man, and was quite good, winning numerous accolades and honours for acting and directing in Yiddish and English. I saw him on stage several times, most memorably in Bontche Shveig, where he mesmerized audiences with a compelling performance . . . even though he had only a very few lines. He also did his own makeup and taught others how to do make-up. He "acted" all his life . . . using his skills to sometimes delicately and classically steal a kiss here and there, and to get out of jams, because his mouth sometimes got him into hot water.
He was an old-world gentleman, making up an honourable life without immediate role models. He married into the Nachshen family and was married to my mother, Tanya for 60 years when she died 8 years ago. My Zaida, Reb Moishe Nachshen was a learned and pious man who loved his son-in-law. Together they had often had heated debates over religious teachings.
He was never bitter about his childhood and touched many people in his life with his joie de vivre, and his big heart. He sang beautifully and loved to dance and entertain. He provided amply for his 4 children and often lent his neighbours and family money when he had to go and borrow it himself. He supported himself until the day he died on his own earnings.
He numbered his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and children-in-law at over 30 and kept track of all their birthdays on a calendar, remembering to call every one, and also sent Chanukah gelt yearly well into his 80's.
When I adopted my two daughters, he posted an official notice of "grand-adoption" of them in the newspaper, proclaiming them to be his full and legal granddaughters together with all of his other grandchildren. His interest in his great-grandchildren was no less enthusiastic . . . and all the ones old enough to know "Zaida Jack" felt a special relationship with him, which he initiated and nurtured.
He was a little guy, with a very big heart . . . and we miss even his annoying habits now. A good life, a good death . . . mercifully without too long a period of discomfort. He outlived all his peers, and we are lucky to have had him for so long. He gave us many gifts to celebrate life, and although a simple and uneducated man, was a very kind and caring man, and a great mensch.
Thanks for everything, Dad.
[WRITTEN BY PETER]
One of the songs I loved to hear my father sing was a lullaby called sleep Yankele close your beautiful eyes... I always thought the song was about him, today it is for him.
Shlof zhe du shein yankele du sheiner di eigalach di shvarzinke mach zu.
The last few days since it became so very clear that you are on your way I kept imagining your meeting with Mummy.
She will look at you and say Jack what took you so long?
And he’ll say: Ahh Tanya, cho nisht gekent lozen di kinder.”
She’ll say: Sit down, rest, we are going to the theatre tonight."
I bet you a nickel you will be wearing white shorts, a psychedelic bright blue shirt and some fantastic shoes on with thick soles, as if to say Hey I'm here, look I’m here I'm here. You will have permanently misplaced the cane; because heaven forbid someone should know you need a little help. You will put the radio on the classical music station, but not too loud because maybe the neighbours don’t like classical music and say:
Tanyeh call Griesha, I haven’t had a really good chess game since . . . “
Yankele you came into this world alone. Your parents both died when you were an infant, and from the time your grandmother died when you were 5 you were literally on your own. You never had any formal schooling, but you learned. You never took a course in literature 101 yet you knew and loved the great Yiddish writers. You talked about Mendele as if he were your personal friend. Shalom Aleichem was almost a neighbour. And Peretz is doch Peretz. A good Goldfaden operetta gave "taam" to life in the new world. Not only were you famous for crying at the movies, but an evening at the ballet could move you to literally standing ON the seat of the theatre and shouting bravo, much to the embarrassment of your companions. Your favourite book was a dictionary; it was as if you had to learn all the words there, none should get away. So go play scrabble with a man who knows a dictionary by heart. Your greatest joy in Florida was going to school and all of us had to listen to your long spiels and each one of us got copies of lectures on tapes as you discovered Shakespeare. I feel as if I personally know your favourite bible teacher and what he had to say about Avrom Avinu.
When I was in L.A. many years ago I took an evening drama class. The teacher was Benyamin Zemach who had directed several plays in the Jewish theatre in Montreal. “Clement” . . . he said to me. “I know the name. There was a little man in Montreal who had a big acting talent.”
Life was not always kind and there certainly was no one to give you a head start. What you have is what you created with your own two very strong hands - ask the twins about arm wrestling. You certainly were not always easy to live with and your shtick would drive us up the wall even when we were already grown up. But you were the best father you knew how to be considering you had no one to learn from, you were extremely generous even in the years when you had very little to be generous with, and I always knew with 100% certainty that if I were in trouble or needed you, you and Mummy would be there.
You came into this world alone but you left surrounded by music and love from a large family.
And then I hear Tanya say: Nu Jack, finish getting dressed already we have to leave for the theatre. So shlof shtil Yankele, un gris di mame. Goodbye Daddy, we love you.
[WRITTEN BY NECHAMA]
Our Zaida had 10 grandchildren and 8 great grandchildren, but still it wasn’t enough. “When are you going to make me for a grandfather already?” he would say. “Zaida”, I would tell him, “You are a grandfather, my grandfather.” _ Ach, you know what I mean. If you don’t do it soon I’ll have to show you how it’s done,” he would threaten.
Our Zaida was one of us. A kid, not an adult. From early on he sided with us against the common enemy, our parents. He would always tell us “Whenever you want to run away from home you come straight to me.” Then he would let us steer his enormous tank-sized car while perched on his knees.
Our Zaida was a chess master and made sure that all his children and grandchildren understood all the nuances of the game. He would lean back in his chair while playing, scratch his head and say “Are you sure?”, insisting we take back moves we made while rushing.
Before any of us were born someone told our Zaida that if he shaved his head his hair would be sure to grow back thick and dark. The Zaida we knew never had much hair.
Our Zaida loved us so much. He loved to pinch our tucheses. We would scream and say “Zaida!” and he would say, “But you’re my kinderlach. I have licence.”
Our Zaida was a strong man who could build and fix anything. He had no idea where the oven was in the house he lived in on McCubbin Road for 35 years. He was also an empath and a crier. If one of us skinned our knee or bumped our head or had our hearts broken, whether near or far he would shed tear after tear for us. He would feel our pain so intensely that he succeeded in taking it away from us by making it his own.
Our Zaida didn’t care for movies or TV shows with lots of violence. He hated when they would swear on-screen, but if there was a child or an animal or a Disney character he would cry his heart out, rating the movie by how many boxes of Kleenex or t-shirts he soaked while watching it.
Our Zaida loved all women. He was married to our beloved Bubby Tanya for 60 years. He loved and admired his daughters, granddaughters and great-granddaughters. He flirted with nurses, doctors, waitresses, even my mother-in-law. Our Zaida couldn’t let a woman go by without admiring her beauty or her bottom.
Our Zaida smelled like Old Spice. Our Zaida wore red suspenders, bowties with fringes and pointy-toed Italian shoes. Our Zaida would stand on his chair at the theatre shouting “Bravo” and “Beautiful” if he liked it, and heckling loudly if he didn’t. Our Zaida loved Mickey Mouse and Chinese food. Our Zaida would never sit down at the dinner table unless he was sure everyone else had a seat first.
We love you Zaid, you are missed.
[WRITTEN BY DORI]