My grandfather died this evening.
My grandfather died this evening.
My grandfather died this evening.

Maybe by typing this out it will sink in. I can’t say this is entirely unexpected. My grandfather was 4 months shy of his 90th birthday. We found out in January that he had lung cancer, and he pretty much steadily declined until today. He died at home, in his bed, attended by my 14 year old nephew, in between the time it took my mother to kiss my grandfather goodnight and go to get her pajamas on. I can’t believe he is gone.

I feel this immense need right now to tell people about my grandfather. To mark his life in some way. I don’t know if I can find the words, but here goes. I am sure I will be writing more about this in future.

Who was my grandpa? Well, he was the youngest of 9 children. Here they all are:

Grandpa is about 8 years old here. He’s the little boy with the short pants sitting in the chair.

He was a twin, so I always found a bit of a connection with him in that way. Here he is on his 21st birthday with his parents and twin sister:

He used to scare the crap out of us when we were little. He was this big, bold, loud man, with a shouty British accent, a propensity for swearing, a bristly crewcut and 5 teeth. If we acted up and were naughty, he used to threaten to tan our asses with his belt. He’d even go so far as to start unbuckling his belt, which would make us scream (laughing but just that little frisson of terror!) and settle down right away. He never would hurt a hair on our heads, as much as he would bluster and threaten.

He was not religious, but deeply spiritual. I remember walking along behind him in the garden one summer, helping him weed, and he got so much out of that. Feeling and smelling the earth, feeling the wind on his face. He would turn to me and say that this was truth.

He was also a trickster. If there was some gossip going around, you could bet that he knew it. He used to make two rounds downtown. Once in the morning to chat everyone up, and once in the afternoon to get the paper, and to see what else had stirred up. If there was a prank going on somewhere, chances were he was involved in it. I mean, how awesome is it that he rode through the main street of town, dressed as Lady Godiva?

He loved my grandmother so very much. They would have been married 68 years as of this November. The last time I visited, a couple of weeks ago, he would sit in bed and ask my mum or my sister-in-law “Where’s my little girl blue?” when he would want my grandmother to go and sit with him. And my sister-in-law asked “Why do you call her that?” and he lay back against the pillows, his eyes a million miles and years away and said “She was wearing a dress as blue as her eyes the day I met her.”

Here they are on holiday in Torquay.

He took care of my grandmother, these last 12 years or so, when she became too frail to pour the tea or cook meals or run the household any more. He rolled his shirtsleeves up, tied an apron on and waded in to the kitchen and treated her like a pampered princess. In January, he was in the hospital for some tests for the cancer, and the nurses all came over to chat with him. Four of the five of them were divorced, and they asked him what his secret was, for being married so long. Devilish twinkle in his eye, giant smile plastered across his face, he said: “What’s the secret to being married almost 68 years? Hand over your paycheque and say yes, my dear.” Incorrigible.

When I was up to visit a couple weeks ago, he hadn’t eaten at all the day before, and my grandmother was worried about him. So she asked him if there was anything he wanted. He said that he wanted some thin porridge. Grandma came out into the living room, with her walker and said that Grandpa wanted porridge. Now, we didn’t know if he wanted oats and milk, or cooked porridge. So I went back in and asked him what he wanted. He looked at me and said “Who’s making it?” and I said “Who do you want to make it, Grandpa?” and he said “Your Granny!”. Mind you, Grandma hasn’t been in the kitchen in like 12 years at this point. So I was going to make it and just say that my Grandma had made it, but then I thought I would ask her and see what she said. She perked up, but was nervous about doing it. But she did it, despite saying she couldn’t remember what to do. She filled the pot with water and milk, managed to scoop out the oats, stirred it all up. I transferred it to the bowl, and then she put the sugar and cream on top. She was so darling, her tongue was sticking out in concentration as she carefully mixed it up.

Then it was a triumphant procession down to the bedroom, me carrying the tray with the bowl, Grandma following with her walker. Grandpa’s face lit up like a beacon as she came in the room and perched on the side of the bed. “Now, Ivan. I made this for you, so you need to eat it!” Grandma said. She sat there and he spooned up that mixture of milk and oats and sugar and love and it was one of the best memories I have of this awful few months. She was so pleased to be able to do something back for him. And he ate that porridge and drank her in with his eyes like he was starving.

He was a man of deep conviction, and endless generosity.

He loved politics. He used to become a member of each political party so he could talk shit equally about every one of them. If someone got testy, then he would always say that he was a member, and so he was free to say whatever he thought. A staunch Tory, he was so pleased to be able to cast his vote in this past election. He was estatic that Harper got in to office – in his mind, there was finally a good Tory in there again instead of all those Liberals.

He was a man of great courage. He fought for England in WWII.

He decided that he wanted a better future for his children, so he decided to move from England to Canada with my grandmother, mother, aunt and their cat in 1955. His dream was to own land, to have a little piece of his own instead of renting, and to pass it on to his children. I definitely wouldn’t be who I am without him.

First Christmas in Canada, 1955.

67th Wedding anniversary, November 2005.

Throughout this last little struggle, every night he would say:

“I’ll lay me down and bleed a while,
And then I’ll rise and fight again.”

Good bye, Grandpa. I love you.

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