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Gramps is ninety-four years old. He moved out of his old folks’ home about five years ago—It was full of old people! he said. He now lives in his own apartment in White Rock. I try to make sure to call him every week—actually, he calls me, usually during one of mum’s regular visits out to see him. After his hip replacement, he never really walked again. Just ten years ago, Gramps got up on my roof in Halifax and fixed it for me. Just a year or two earlier, he built me a huge chicken coop. Gramps taught me to ride a bike. Gramps did everything for me. Now he rides his scooter up to McDonalds everyday for a muffin and a coffee. When I drove out to pick him up yesterday, he wasn’t feeling well, and had decided not to come back to Vancouver for the birthday party. Treva and I sat with him for a while, and we chatted. I microwaved one of his dinners for him, and he showed us a photo of him and Grandma when they were in their early twenties. Look how handsome I was! He said. I know Gramps, you really were, I said. I wish I’d known that then, he continued, But I didn’t. I just thought I was “little old Ralphie” like everyone said.
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There is a lot of criticism of the “positive thinking” movement, and I get that. Then there’s Gramps, who has refused to see anything but the good in every situation, and in every person. Throughout his entire life, he has been unflaggingly kind, generous, and good. At ninety-four, despite his quirks, despite his occasional moments of memory loss, despite his decrepitude, Gramps radiates joy and gratitude and real grace. After the wedding ceremony in the beautiful gardens, gramps sat in the sun-room foyer at Shaughnessy restaurant where the reception took place, and chatted with Conrad about his new invention: a way to design the hull of a cruise ship, that created less drag, and therefore saved fuel. The old wheels keep turning, eh Conrad! Gramps said, beaming. They sure do, Gramps. I was a bit horrified to see that he wasn’t wearing socks with his tuxedo, but mum just said, oh, he never wears socks anymore. Everyone understands.
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Gramps was feeling better after we sat with him for a while, so he decided that he would come back with me to Vancouver for Treva and my brother John’s birthday party after all. I helped him downstairs with his walker, and then into the car. He slept for the entire drive, and then when we arrived at mum’s house, I held both his hands and faced him, walking backwards, through the gate. Look at this gramps, I said. You used to help me walk like this when I was a baby just learning how, and now I’m helping you. You sure are, sweetie, he said. You sure are.
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The party was fun and short, and I hated every minute of it, roiling with anxiety and sadness—my life, my family, our imminent return to New Brunswick, all the things left un-said and un-done. Gramps wanted to go back home again pretty much right away, so Lee and the kids and I all drove him back to White Rock, and on the drive he told the kids about being a ship’s captain, and about his plane, “Oscar Sierra Bravo”, the Cesna 172, that he kept in a hangar at Boundary Bay. I told the kids that Grandpa had take me out on flights many times (I was his co-pilot) and we would stop at a little airport across the border, share a piece of pie from the cafe there, and fly home. I could fly that plane tomorrow, he said, and I believe him. In White Rock, I got him out of the car and after Treva jumped out to say goodbye. Bye Great-Grandpa! said Treva and the kids. You make me great, Treva, said Gramps. I helped him to the front door of his building. He said he didn’t need me to accompany him up to his apartment, and because I was already crying, I didn’t insist. I gave him a huge hug and a kiss, and he said, I’ll see you later sweetheart. I’ll see you later. And he was crying too.
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I can’t bear the thought of Grandpa dying, and I’m worried that maybe the sight of him in his white wool navy cap, walking slowly, bent over, down the hallway towards the elevator will be the last. I don’t think I’ll be able to survive the love I have for him, in his absence. But I guess we all do—survive love, and not survive the world, eventually. I’ll call you, Gramps.
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such a beautiful piece! I too have grandparents in their early nineties still living in the house where they raised their eight children. I recently got to see some movies they made of summer adventures when my dad was little – it’s funny how I never really viewed them as people, as parents, as lovers, as me!!! until just recently
Sounds like your trip home has been a lovely torturous trip which is just what is to be expected spending time with family 😉
xo
Aw, thanks so much for this message Melissa. The movie sounds like a pretty incredible gift to have, and to be able to show W. And yes, our trip was fabulous, and awful, and perfect. 😉 xo
It’s not a navy cap, it’s a veteran’s beret. When he and his brother Eric ran New Method Welders on 3rd Ave off Burrard, they would have story time and regale us with the exploits of the Stacey boys. These were tales of skill, courage and resourcefulness, mostly at sea and always exciting. Yolande, look at that hull design, the old fellow might have something there. By the way, no Stacey, in my experience, feared anything. I miss those men. Your grandfather’s constant good cheer owes itself to the extreme hardships he endured as a child and young man. During the war he was the writer on an RCN ship on the North Atlantic convoys; worth a VC in and of itself. God bless him, and don’t count him out; his dreadful father lasted to almost 100. He won’t believe it, but I miss him and his world. God save him.