My grandfathers letters

March 2020

I was 11 when my grandfather died in a truck accident.  Needless to say, the news of my grandfathers death was a great blow, especially at one of the most difficult times of my life. As an army brat I had moved  from one place to another across Canada in those first 11 years. Having memories of changing schools and friends 9 times by grade 6 and narrowly avoiding reform school left me with an attitude that my grandmother described as being "good as gold when I was sleeping". However, spending each summer on my grandfather's farm in the Eastern Townships of Quebec still generates warm and happy memories that remain in my thoughts today. Living in the wake of a moving truck on one hand and spending those summers on the farm was a cycle that seemed so strangely normal back then.  Having to repeatedly experience the stark  contrast between these two may have lead me to having this "chip on my shoulder" as was written and underlined on my grade 5 report card. His death may have added to my sense of being a victim of life but on reflection was also the end of a chapter, one that I was able repress for decades. But for any end there is a new beginning. This also proved to be the beginning of yet a new chapter, one with a better ending.

This was a tipping point in my parents life as well and seemed to trigger something life-changing in their chaotic lives. My father decided to leave the Armed Forces and return to his roots in the community where he grew up, probably looking for something that he was missing in his military career.  East Clifton isn't a place easily found on a map but was and is a small community where many  generations farmed,  raised families and created indelible memories my family and friends still talk about when we meet. I learned many things there. Among them were, the value of hard work and lasting friendship, learning from your mistakes and moving on, and most of all it's a choice to be a victim. Most importantly though, I learned that along with those choices I need to accept the consequences, good or bad.

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My mind now drifts back now to those early days in Vancouver. We moved to Vancouver after my father had returned from Korea and I remember my heart aching for my grandparents and the farm. Especially my grandfather, who raised me  for the first few years of my life while Dad was away. Vancouver was a big city with no farm animals and chores to keep me occupied so when my parents weren't looking I would escape the front porch and go exploring on the railroad tracks or along the beach which was only two blocks down. I don't remember if I was running away from home or just exerting my need to be independent at age 4 or 5.  Now that I look back at this time in my life my grandfather became my role model by teaching me things that are still with me today. He worked hard, endured hardships, and never let himself be consumed by thoughts of being a victim to any challenge that confronted him. A bad crop year or the death of one of his prized cows cut deeply into his soul but he would always find a way to show optimism in the wake of what for some people would be a disaster.

Of the good memories I do have of those few years in Vancouver were the letters that I would get about once a month from "Grandpa" back in Eastern Canada. They were written on lined paper, never overwritten or respelled and always told a story of what had happened on the farm since he had last written. The piglets were doing well, the calves that I had been feeding were growing big, and King and Queen the team that he taught me to drive were out to pasture for the summer. These and many more stories still stick in my mind, but the one that stands out most is his many lines about the Big Rock Candy Mountain. He often mentioned this in reference to the Rockies that he knew I had flown over and seen through the windows of a train. Strange but I always got the sense that he longed to see them but I don't think he ever ventured farther than coming to Camp Borden one summer to visit. There are many things I still don't know about my grandfather but I do know that he always seemed to be satisfied with seeing the world through other's eyes by hearing their stories and telling lots of his own.

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Which leads me back to my adult life. About twenty years ago my mother gave me a stack of  letters that my grandfather had written to me while we were in Vancouver. I had forgotten about them, stored the thought of them away in the back of my mind, maybe intentionally. The day that my mother gave them to me  I put them in the nightstand beside the bed and never looked at them again ...... until recently.  I think I knew they were there but they represented that chapter in my life that I had repressed for the better part of my life. Maybe the thought of going back to that time of my life was too much, I don't know. As the years went by and I was slowly coming to grips with aging (and I'm still working on it)  I had some time on my hands so I went to the drawer and found them under a mound of other things that I had forgotten about.

At the very touch of them my mind drifted back to those happy times buried in the very depth of my conscious, not knowing why but accepting that it made me feel good about myself. I opened each one and placed them in order of the date at the top. I could feel the warmth of  my grandfathers spirit that came out of them even before I read a word. The paper was old and faded but the memories and emotions were  as clear and vivid as if it just happened yesterday.  My grandfather had a way about his writing, a way that a three year old could understand. He would remind me of things that we had done together. He told me stories about what was going on around the farm, each letter picking up where the last one ended. The writing was flawless with few spelling mistakes. I've always wondered how anyone could sit down and write a letter without whiteout, spell checker or auto correct.

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Fast forward to today. Most of us, if not all, have shaped our current life (whether we know it or not)  around our past experiences and what we may have learned or felt from them, consciously or subconsciously. These memories or experiences may have either made us stronger or  recede into our inner self with a sense of guilt and self doubt, eating away at who we really are. Many seek help to go deep into the depths of their mind to figure out why they feel or act the way they do. For some it can be the end of a lifelong burden when they figure out why they are who they are today. I never really thought about it that much, for the most part accepting that it was a ball of yarn that had too many  tangles for me to straighten it out......... or so I thought till I finally read those letters that sat in my nightstand for twenty years.

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