by Ian Haysom
Mary Paige Field—UVic grad and maternity ward nurse
It’s hard to imagine my childhood without Grandma and Papa. They were so involved from day one. Some of my fondest memories are being picked up from elementary school by Grandma and Papa when my parents were at work. My brother Kenny would excitedly ask, “What’s for dinner?” Grandma would always respond with “liver and onions” though that was never actually served. For my thirteenth birthday, G&P took me out for dinner saying I could choose any restaurant I wanted. I picked Costco for chicken strips and fries. On my first and only trip to Saskatchewan, we stayed at the Tropical Inn in North Battleford (where my Grandma was born). It was far from tropical. As a kid I was excited about the indoor pool and water slide that the hotel offered. Unfortunately, there was a water advisory. The pool and slide were out of commission. Our family often talks about Papa and his “Garrett Klutz gene” due to all of the bumps and bruises he has given himself over the years. Although I am not officially a Garrett, I certainly inherited this gene as I am always going up the stairs and bumping into things myself.
Trevor Watt—UVic grad, sales rep, and hockey coach
I have so many great memories of Grandma and Papa as I grew up. Two things that will always stand out are their commitment to my minor sports career and a trip to Palm Desert. Whenever I stepped onto the ice (from age four to eighteen) I would look up into the crowd and see Grandma wrapped in a blanket and Papa talking hockey with other parents in the stands. They always showed interest in my athletic journey, and for this I am forever thankful.
Palm Desert has always been a special place for our entire family. Later, when Grandma was unable to make the trip due to Alzheimer’s, I had the opportunity to join Papa and a group of his lifelong friends for two weeks of fun in the sun. What a great trip. Several rounds of golf, cribbage and gin and tonic at happy hour, and countless hours by the pool. The trip coincided with the early stages of Papa writing his book. It was a true honour to get a sneak peek and help him organize his ever-so-cluttered laptop files. Everyone says they have the best grandparents, and I can certainly say that about mine. The lessons I have learned and knowledge I have been able to absorb from such an impressive couple will stay with me for a lifetime.
Gord Eastwood
Gord was my city editor at the Ottawa Journal and was a first-rate newsman and great friend. He is now retired in Nova Scotia.
When our eldest grandson Zac was a two-year-old, he always wanted to be taken outside in his stroller if a garbage truck went by the house. He watched in awe as the truck picked up refuse by the curb. Was it an omen? When he was in college, he drove a Toronto Transit Commission bus to earn a few dollars. When he graduated, he became a Toronto firefighter. Guess what job he has now? He drives the firetruck.
Another grandson, Justin, was with us on a trip to England. For breakfast he discovered Coco Pops and ate a few bowls before we took off for a drive through the Yorkshire Dales. The roads were twisty and hilly, and we hadn’t gone very far when the two-year-old threw up all over the backseat. We stopped by a babbling brook to wash him down and clean the car. His clothes were a mess. We drove into the nearest town and stopped at a clothing store. We walked the kid, nude, into the shop and said, “We need clothes for this child.”
His naked condition prompted quick service in front of other customers, and we continued our tour with a smartly dressed young boy.
Our teenage granddaughter Paige was left in my care for an afternoon while her mother and grandmother went shopping. This was a fantastic opportunity to tell many of my old war stories to a brand-new audience. Several hours later, when her mother returned, she asked her daughter how she had made out with her grandfather. The granddaughter said she had a great time hearing all these wonderful stories and then gave me the ultimate teenage tribute.
“Grandpa is cool,” she said.
When our youngest grandson Josh was about six years old, we took him, his parents, and older brother to a family restaurant in Halifax, Nova Scotia. He announced that he wanted to be a waiter and asked our server if she would show him how to do it. She took him to various tables where they took diners’ orders. When they came to our table, Josh politely asked, “What would you like to eat, sir? And you madam?” When he got to his brother, he said “And what’ll you have, kid?”
That ended his early career, but he became a server at a steak house while going to college.
Chris Edwards
Chris is my half-brother who lives in Newcastle, Australia. He has many grandkids and great grandkids. I’ve lost count.
We regularly used to travel to Sydney on a Sunday afternoon on train to collect three-, then four-year-old, Caspian—with a stentorian voice for his age—and bring him home to stay with Nanna (too chic, modern, and brisk to be called grandma) and Pa. On one return journey, Caspian wants to use the toilet, so I dutifully take him, wait outside of the cramped cubicle peeping around the door to see if he had completed his mission with instructions for him to make sure he washes his hands. He finally exits from the cubicle with wet hands and shakes them everywhere. We return to our seat—still kindly left vacant by considerate fellow passengers—and I am just settling down to enjoy the flitting scenery whoosh by and settle into my crossword when, in a voice that stunned, amazed, and eventually amused the travellers, Caspian yelled out, “Pa! I forgot to wipe my bum.”
Peter Ottley
Peter and I have been friends for many years. We play bad golf, talk about soccer a lot, and also talk about our grandkids.
I went to watch my grandson Owen, who was playing football with his local team in an end of season cup final. The venue was unlike their usual local authority pitches that they played on, and came complete with grandstand and was a good setting for the final.
Owen was sixteen years old at the time but had the stature of a twelve-year-old and was the smallest player on the pitch. However, this did not stop him being a little terrier in midfield, with tenacious tackling and a good eye for the right pass to his teammates.
I was very proud of the way he played and thought that he was one of the best players on the pitch. I even overheard this fact being stated by other members in the crowd who were there to support the opposition.
Owen’s team won the game 1-0 with the winning goal being scored in the last minute of the game. At the conclusion, Owen came over to see us, and as normal, I leaned forward to give him a hug; however, he stepped back and then offered me his hand to shake.
The unspoken message to grandad: I am a big boy now.
Andria and Mike Gillespie
Andria, Mike, and I have been our friends from Ottawa days. They now live on Protection Island. Andria asked if she could write something about her grandfathers.
Papa Murchison’s wooden arm with the black metal hinges hung on the dining room wall of the summer camp that looked out over the St. John River. My favourite story as we sat together on the front camp porch was the one about “The Bear.” It seems one day he headed out into the woods behind the camp to do some hunting when a hungry bear came up behind him and grabbed the top of his arm in its big jaws and tore it completely off! However, Papa managed to shoot the bear dead before it ate him up completely. It was a thrilling tale that explained why Papa’s right sleeve was always pinned to his shoulder. It wasn’t until after he died that I finally learned the truth. You see, both my grandfathers’ lives had been shaped by war.
Grampie Murray had a long, deep red valley extending down his leg from just below his knee to just above the ankle. There was a hole in the middle. When I was visiting Saint John, I would help my Grammie remove the bandaging, wash the wound and smear white salve along the raw flesh before rewrapping his leg in gauze. Although he never discussed it, I always knew how Grampie got that horrible injury.
No, Grampie was a man of few words, but his hugs were warm and genuine. I especially took great pride in rolling him th
e perfect cigarette. It would involve sitting at the dining room table in front of a metal contraption where I’d stuff tobacco from a green tin into white paper and roll it as tightly as possible to make a good firm cylinder. Finally, I’d bring down the metal arm that had two sharp blades and voila—three identical cigarettes at once! Every year when I visited him in Saint John it took a few “goes” to get the tobacco good and tight to Grampie’s satisfaction. But I loved to see the glint in his eyes and the big smile when I got it just right.
Growing up, I was fortunate to have the deep love of all four of my grandparents. My grandmothers had their own interesting life stories, but luckily they didn’t fight in a war.
Mike McRanor
Mike is former executive editor of the Vancouver Sun. He is a larger-than-life Scotsman and one helluva journalist, with a rough-tough exterior and a heart of gold.
My friend Vic Wittenberg said of his grandchildren: “If I’d known how much fun they are, I’d have had ’em first.”
His affection was profound: when his son’s family moved to California, Vic sold his Vancouver electrical business and joined them.
Son Graeme and partner Tina presented us with grandson London McRanor on August 29, 2008, the day before a holiday flight to Maui; I was so smitten that I proposed cancelling the trip. London is now eleven, wife Pat and I having shared daycare from infancy with the maternal Johnston family.
He sat on my lap while showing an early interest in reading, skipped the so-called terrible twos, and showed no desire to kick, throw, or hit a ball as we dallied on the walk home from kindergarten. Primary school required afternoon pickup, and that’s where he blossomed. By request, Bieber replaced Beethoven on the radio, and between music and periods of contemplation, he would chatter with brushfire intensity—quip, question and observation tumbling randomly, as in this sample as a seven-year-old:
“The most fascinating thing in the world is your mind. And Lego. There’s no future in broccoli. Why do some people fall when they feel love—it makes me want to dance. Some solutions are just as hard as the problems, don’t you think? I haven’t fallen asleep yet, but I’m already bored.”
Reluctant to acknowledge error, he’d often counter with a plausible argument that nevertheless suggested he could be right. He dazzled with insight, solved for me the riddle of the smartphone, and declined the editing hand of the veteran journalist, insisting that nothing be changed in a school essay that began:
“The watermelon is truly an unbelievably extravagant fruit of hope and peace. The rind and flesh are edible but for some reason people do not eat the rind. How could you waste such food? It’s unbelievable! It’s inhumane!”
Recently, London and family moved to White Rock, severing a decade-long daily contact. I didn’t follow, but I see him regularly when, in a sense, he restores the melody to a long lyric of attachment. Mostly, he remains a rainbow potted in my heart, etched by the sweetest of his sentiments: “If I knew you as a child, I would have been your friend.”
London unbound: “Sometime in my life I’m going to wear an eyepatch. How about I change my surname to England? My favourite thing is your voice. When you speak to me it sounds like love. Except when you’re angry. Then I like your hair more. When I say ‘I love you’ pretend I’ve never told you before, so it feels brand new? Okay? I wonder why you forget? I think it’s because your body forgot but your memory remembered. You know how vampires talk? It’s like speaking French except they are vampires. There’s some days you want to share your popcorn. And some days you don’t. Today I’m sharing. That’s all you need to know. What I’m about to tell you is very rare. It’s only happened to me twice in my life . . . and I’m only seven. I’m not the type of kid to stay still. My body was made to move.”
Bob Stall
Bob is a legendary Canadian journalist. He has worked for Weekend magazine and written beautiful—and funny—columns for the Province newspaper.
Thank you, Greta Thunberg and your millions of cohorts, for milling and yelling and waking me up.
I am a seventy-seven-year-old, white, anglo North American male. I am too old and comfortable, lazy and slow to rouse. I am what is wrong with the world today.
I have been a Canadian journalist for almost sixty years and have never written about climate change or the increasingly imminent doom of this planet for which my generation remains in stupefying denial of both our culpability and responsibility to fix it.
If we are like too many we elect or select to work for, we are worse than lazy and slow. We are greedy, venal, and corrupt. We continue to dig, suck, belch, and emit because to abate would reduce the short-term profits of the most bloated of our fat cats.
Greta, you and the kids have ensured that henceforth I will think, act, and vote as green as I can. Down the road and over the horizon, I vow to keep my eyes on David, Zev, Olive, and Waylon who are my grandchildren. They’re the ones for whom I belatedly fear because for too long I neglected to think of them. They’re the ones who will suffer from our sins of emission.
For too long, billions like me forgot what brought us here. It was this verdant planet, Mother Earth, who gave birth and worth to us. She nurtured and grew us, evolving her brood. Always she knew us and gave us our food, grass, and trees for shade and shelter and ships to sail and anchor. We never had to help her, and rarely did we thank her.
Instead we ignored and then we abused her, poisoned her skies and seas, raped her soil and ripped the trees, melted the ice and twisted the tides until flames roared and species died. Very late, some of her children awoke, their voices at first swamped in the swill of the spills, choked in the smoke, and buried in the ashes of the fires of the liars and deniers.
But keep yelling to be heard, dear Greta, for the sake of all our grandchildren. Thank you for being there for them.
Roger Hope
Roger is a veteran cameraman for Global News in Vancouver. His wife, Deborra Hope, is well-known as the former anchor at BCTV, and later Global. Roger and I are close friends. We both play music and are writing a musical.
My granddaughter Ella and I were driving in my car the other day, listening to some songs that I’ve written for a musical that I’m writing with my friend Ian.
Now, I have three daughters. It’s my joy, and my curse. A hat trick you might say. Ella is my first granddaughter with my oldest daughter. She’s eight.
My two younger daughters were helping, by singing demos of the songs I’ve written. Ella and I were listening to her aunties sing when she turned to me.
“Why isn’t my mother singing one of the songs?”
Why, indeed.
That night I gave Ella, who was in the front seat, and her family a ride to dinner. After playing the songs for my oldest daughter, I turned and asked if she’d like to sing one?
“I’d love to,” she said.
Ella and I glanced at each other, but never said a word.
It was at that moment, I realized, that my eight-year-old granddaughter Ella was smarter than I am.
My grandson Joe is three years old and is totally infatuated with airplanes. You’ve never seen anything like it. My father, Joe’s great-grandpa, was a pilot in the Second World War with the RAF. He did two tours of duty, crashed three times, and always walked away without a scratch.
One afternoon, I was sitting on the couch with Joe’s dad telling him the story of how my dad kept running out of gas when flying. Joe was sitting between us with his head turning from side to side following the conversation intently.
After I’d finished the story, Joe sat quietly for a few minutes, then looked up at me with great concern.
“Ga ta on.”
I said, “Pardon me, Joe what’s that?
“Gat ta on.”
“What?”
“Ga Ta Ton!”
Suddenly I realized, he was saying, “Gas Station.”
; Joe had figured out what Great-Grandpa needed to do to avoid crashing his airplane. Why, fill up with gas at the gas station of course. Out of the mouths of babes. We were all astonished.
On Halloween, Joe wore a pilot’s costume. The kids in the neighborhood followed him from door to door. My daughter thinks it’s because he was wearing a uniform.
I believe that sometimes, people know at a very young age what they want to be, and if their parents recognize it, and encourage it, that the sky’s the limit.
Chester Grant
Chester is a great journalist, and lovely man, working on the assignment desk at BCTV News and Global for many years. He told me this story about his grandson Malcolm, and I loved it. He had his daughter-in-law Candace provide the official version.
On a typical Port Coquitlam rainy afternoon, I (Mom) arrive at the Hyde Creek Recreation Centre to pick up my four-year-old son, Malcolm, from a recreation class. Like any four-year-old, he loves to goof around and run as fast as possible, sometimes showing off how similar he is to “The Flash.” And like any typical Mom, I enrolled him into this class to a) burn off energy, b) have some Mom alone time, and c) it’s naptime . . . and the kid isn’t gonna nap!
The door opens, and the instructor is there—a lovely, patient lady—and she catches my eye.
“I have something to tell you once Malcolm has his shoes on.”
Oh no. What happened now? Did he have a run in with another child? Bracing myself (a bit), I walk up to the Instructor.