Today, as it happens from time to time, I am preoccupied with thoughts of Freddy. My Grandfather passed away almost eight years ago. This September would have been his 100th birthday. But, it isn't thoughts of loss that are occupying me at the moment, but rather thoughts of abundance. My Papa and I had a magical relationship. He was my friend and my mirror, as much as my elder and ancestor.Sometimes, I sink into old memories, the way I would sink into his sweaters in the months after he died, wanting to smell him again, to find something tangible that I could hold onto, when I could no longer hold onto his hand. The old memories are better than the smell of his sweaters though, and I think sometimes they need to be brought out, recycled, and replayed, because only that will prevent fading. The smell of the sweaters are long gone, but the memories, I can most certainly keep.
Freddy was a great story-teller, like my father, and myself I suppose. When my sister Kristen was very young, she started asking him about his childhood, growing up on the farm in the early 20th century. In response, he wrote and illustrated a book, dedicated to my sisters and I, titled 'From Papa With Love'. He gave us each a leather bound copy; our individualized books had photocopied photos of ourselves. I was about two when he finished it. The book chronicles his early days, before he met our Grandma, and before he left for the mines in Sudbury. He wrote about his
one room school house, his pets, wildlife, and all the ways he got up to trouble. He even gave us step by step instructions on how to make our own pea shooters and sling shots. By writing those memories all down, he ensured that it would never be forgotten, and I thank him for that. I cherish his book and his words.
Freddy was also a letter writer. Last fall, when I was packing to move, I came across an old stack of letters that he had sent me. I sat and read through each one, laughing, and crying a little, loving his syntax, his voice coming through so clearly in the pages. I had a great many penpals in my youth. Freddy was my favourite. When I was about 9, I asked my Grandparents for a subscription to 'Disney Adventures' for my birthday, and instead, every month, Freddy
would write me a letter, and mail me the magazine along with it. WAY better than a subscription, if you ask me! Some months, he'd forget that he'd already sent me a copy, so I'd get two letters. I didn't mind.
More than anything else though, Freddy just loved his Grandkids. The day Kristen was born, he quit smoking and heavy drinking on the same day. He now had a reason to live, and he certainly did. He was a lighthearted, laughing, happy person who always had a twinkle of mischief in his eye. He was generous to a fault, but sometimes would combine generosity with pranks, such as when he taped $20 to Michelle's foot in her sleep, so she woke up with tape wound between her
toes, but $20 when she could get it off. I think he did this mostly because she was such a deep sleeper, and it was amusing to him to see how much harassment she would take before she woke up. (Sidenote, my dad once woke Michelle up by shaking the whole mattress and yelling that there was an earthquake... she didn't wake up until the mattress shaking rolled her out of bed lol).
Freddy and me were kind of our own thing though. We got each other on a totally different level. I believe that people can have many soul mates, and my grandfather was certainly one of mine. We used to laugh, talk and share secrets like co-conspirators. He treated me like an equal long before I was grown. When he died, I felt like a part of me was gone. To lose that relationship, with someone who understands you so completely, and loves you all the more for it, felt like a painful severing.Now, many years later, I don't see it quite the same way. I feel like I've sort of absorbed Freddy, by holding tight to the memories of him. I love to look for new people to share my stories about Freddy with, because there is a finite number, and well, I know people hate hearing the same anecdotes all the time. Sharing these memories are really my way of spending time with him. They make me smile, sometimes make me choke up a bit, bring my heart to my throat, and fill me with beautiful emotion. With all my energy, I send all my love out to him, in memory of him, and I feel it come back to me. I breathe, and sink into that cyclical flow of love, and know that wherever he may be, he's happy I'm thinking of him today.
