Dolores's Funeral Surprise

I didn't really get to know my sister Dolores until 1992 when I had more time on my hands.

My sole childhood memory of Dolores was after I was driven back to the city from summer camp without being told why. At home Dolores sat me down, clasped my hands and explained why everyone in the house was crying. My dad had died.

I was nine. She was already married. While we lived close by for the next six years, there was no relationship across our 15 year age gap.  Then I moved to LA with my mom.

I arrived back in Toronto seven enjoyable years later. For the first year I worked for my brother selling wigs retail followed by two years in the UofT MBA program. Infrequent Friday night dinners meant some visiting. But no connection with Dolores.

For the next 20 years there was some but not much contact. She ran a small dry cleaning outlet in The Path. When nearby I visited to talk and take advantage of free dry cleaning. Those visits were nice but we were interrupted by customers. So brief. Our families saw some but not much of each other. And there could be no alone time even if we were in the same room.

It was after 1992 that I really got to know Dolores. I started working from home then, in charge of my own time. 

Many of my clients were downtown so I was still able to drop in on Dolores at work to say hi. More lengthy visits materialized when she stopped working and was home during the day. Since I wasn't anchored I was able to visit her at home for long conversations for the first time. Her children were grown and there were grandchildren in the picture. Lots to talk about there. Our mum was in a Toronto nursing home so details to review on that file. But mostly we talked the talk of people getting older; aches, pains, family dynamics, politics, regrets, complaints, bucket lists. She edging toward seventy and me fifty-five. No shortage of topics. 

Then a massive stroke killed her in April 2001. She had been overweight and smoked. No surprise that she passed relatively young. Sad for me. I really liked her and knew I would miss our time together. It was nice to have made friends with her. 

Her burial was at the small Lambton cemetery on Royal York Road. 

As the long procession walked the casket from the hearse we passed gravestones going back dozens of years.

One caught my eye. Someone who had died November 25, 1947. 

That's the day I was born. 

My first instinct was to consider whether his soul became my soul when he died. I rejected that notion immediately. He could have died later the same day so someone else would have got his soul.

Then I was pulled back to the funeral and forgot about my discovery for the moment.

But I never forgot entirely. About three months ago I took a break from my busy schedule and went to the cemetery to pay respects to Dolores and find my soulmate's grave.

His name was Joseph Baker. Born April 13, 1886.

A week later I went to the Metro Research Library to look up obituaries and see if I could learn about Joseph Baker. No luck. Nothing in the Star, Telegram or Globe and Mail microfiche files. 

I did discover that a few other people died in Toronto the day I was born. Eeery. Maybe one of them was the previous owner of my gently used soul.

Later I was able to research Joseph Baker on Ancestry.com. I discovered he arrived as an immigrant from Poland in 1907. In Toronto he worked as a tailor and lived on Chestnut St. His eldest son Max would be 100 years old if he's still alive. 

I have relationships with Dolores's children, a nice legacy. And the discovery of my birthday partner adds to that legacy.