Mr. Ozechowsky (R) with his father Ozzie (L) and son Braeden (AHPS 2020).
IT’S ALL ABOUT THE OLIVES When I was in high school I read Kafka’s novella “The Metamorphosis’’. It’s a tragic tale of a young man who woke up one morning only to discover he’d changed into a giant insect. At the time, I’m pretty sure I didn’t have a clue what the metaphorical transformation was all about.
Now, after years of reflection, I think I have a better understanding of what the story means to me. Olives.
My metamorphosis did not involve “monstrous vermin.” It was olives that transformed me. Let me explain. My father was a businessman, and my family moved PAGE 22
around a bit when I was young. We hopped from Montreal to London, then to Ottawa and finally Toronto. For a while it felt like I was always saying goodbye to friends, and hello to strangers. I was the new kid a lot. When we moved to Toronto, it was already the summer. Most of the kids on my street were gone, visiting their cottages or working summer jobs. It was a bit lonely. So I gravitated a bit to books and video games. I think my father saw this. Now, he was a busy guy, travelling around the country all the time, so he wasn’t always home. But when he was, he spent his spare time puttering in the garage. Inevitably, he would holler into the house, “Scruff”, (that’s what he called me) “Scruff, can you help me in
the garage for an hour?” So, with a grunt of disapproval I would step away from my Apple II computer games and head out into the garage. Sawdust hung in the air like a curtain, and the smell of power tools and grease assaulted my nostrils. And there, I would
hold lumber, sweep dust and search for Phillips screwdrivers for what felt like an eternity until my mother called us for dinner. Eventually summer turned to fall, and I headed off to high school. I made some friends, and life moved on. Soon my free time was devoted to street hockey, football and the occasional Dungeons and Dragons game. For me, the garage time dwindled. But my father still came into the house every Saturday night with sawdust in his hair. The days stretched
