When I was a young girl – no more than eight or nine – my grandparents came to visit in the spring. This was a big deal. My parents had immigrated from England in the mid-60s, part of the exodus of recent science grads looking for a better life in Canada. We didn’t see my grandparents often, so each visit was a treat. As a grownup, I realize it must have been difficult for my mother, seeing her parents only every three years or so, but those infrequent visits have left indelible memories with me.
My grandfather was special. Looking back at him with grownup eyes, he must have driven people – especially my grandmother – crazy. But for a young girl full of imagination and wonder, he was the perfect companion.
I remember from what must be an earlier visit, sitting on the bathroom counter, fresh from an evening bath, with my newly scrubbed feet in the sink, gazing into the mirror, with Grandpa standing behind me. I was captivated by what he was telling me. There was a special land beyond the mirror he explained, and proceeded to spin the tallest of tales of the people who lived there and the lives they led. There was no other grownup in my life like my Grandpa.
On one of our trips to England, we stayed at their cottage – a deconsecrated church – on the Yorkshire moors (during which, I slept in the postman’s cot with three drawers under the back to prevent it from tipping over!) I must have been no more than 5 and Grandpa took me to a local farm to collect the milk. I’m told I made quite an impression on the locals when I exclaimed, apparently at the top of my lungs, “Gee whiz, roosters!” I don’t remember that, but I do remember an enormous sow, her piglets and the sheep. What fun Grandpa and I had climbing stone walls and chasing the sheep.
One afternoon we went for a drive and got “lost”. How amazed I was when Grandpa stopped the car, gazed over the moors and declared that he could see Granny waving a tea towel to guide us home. I imagine this was to get me out of the cottage so my brother could nap (and perhaps more likely to prove you really could see the cottage from that distance!), but to me, it was another of his grand adventures.
When I was really a little old to be read to, but still loved it, Grandpa spent one summer visit reading The Wind in the Willows to me. We would curl up together outside on the patio in the shade on a reclining lawn chair and read each afternoon. I don’t remember if we made it through the whole book, but if I close my eyes, I can still feel the slight weight of the white knitted throw as I listened to the fantastic adventures of Toad of Toad Hall and his friends.
But my favourite Grandpa story is from that spring when I was eight or nine. My best friend lived two doors down the street and I was preparing a great April Fool’s joke for her. I had dragged out the typewriter, set it up in the basement and started hunting and pecking to get my story down on paper. Aliens would land in her front yard, I had decided, and I wanted to write all about it. I didn’t get far before bedtime and added only a few sentences the next day – April 1 – before heading out to school.
Full of excitement from keeping the secret all day, I bounded home to discover my story had magically been finished. It was full of whimsy and intricate details of these aliens and why they were here. I was thrilled. Grandpa understood exactly what I was trying to accomplish and had helped me get there. I think he’d be happy I’m still writing.
I don’t have that story today and I’m sure my friend doesn’t either.
While it was fun for her to read on that day, whether she even remembers it today is doubtful. But for me, it was proof that not all grown ups grow up. Grandpa’s sense of humour and off-beat enthusiasm has stuck with me forever.
When my grandfather passed away in 1998, I accompanied my mother back to England for the funeral. Newly pregnant with my second child, I brought my firstborn – the first grandchild – along with us. I remember talking with my cousins about our recollections of this amazing man. I think distance and short visits meant hyper-memories for me because while I don’t have the huge inventory of memories they do, the ones I do have are in sharp focus, as if my mind knew it had to hold tight to them until we saw each other again.
My grandfather was born this month in 1911. He would have been 104 in a little more than a week. Happy birthday Grandpa.
