Grandfathered Read online

  Grandfathered

  Dispatches from the Trenches of Modern Grandparenthood

  Ian Haysom

  Praise for Grandfathered

  “Grandparenthood is the most important period in our lives. Hard-won life lessons are a priceless legacy to the next generation, and in passing them on, we are rewarded with nonjudgmental, unconditional love. Ian Haysom’s delightful vignettes take us through the increasing number and ages of his brood of grandchildren and elicit chuckles, nods, and tears.”

  David Suzuki

  “I must admit I was quite worried about Ian’s retirement. What would he do without news anchor egos to soothe? But I think he’s really found his calling as ‘Grandad.’ There is pure joy in his words about Mayana, Emma, and Linden . . . and his whole family, come to think of it. Ian’s writing is full of love and humour and wonder at the miracle of grandparenthood. Grandfathered is such a pleasure to read—even for someone who has no children or grandchildren. This book is a gift his grandkids will treasure forever.”

  Sophie Lui, anchor, Global BC News Hour

  “Baby Boomers don’t like the word ‘old.’ They prefer ‘classic’ instead. Classic Rock, classic movies, classic cars. This book is about a new way to look at the old—sorry, classic—members of a family. It’s true that today’s grandparent is nothing like past grandparents. Just as someone once pointed out that 70 is the new 60, and 60 is the new 50, and 50 is the new 40, and so on, Ian Haysom has shown us that grandfather is the new cool uncle.”

  Squire Barnes, TV personality, Global BC

  “I couldn’t put it down. A gifted writer that I read religiously in the Times Colonist, Ian Haysom has delivered a gem with Grandfathered. I’m not a grandfather, but as Ian points out in the book, ‘Grandchildren always laugh at your jokes.’ So for that reason alone, I hope I become one soon!”

  Ed Bain, host of The Q Morning Show at 100.3 The Q! and CHEK TV Victoria Weather Guy

  “Written with the sure hand and wandering eye of a veteran journalist, Grandfathered lives somewhere between heartfelt memoir and hilarious instruction manual. Ian Haysom has written one of the most thoroughly charming page-turners I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. You’re going to enjoy this book, and you’ll be surprised how many times it makes you laugh out loud or moves you to tears ... often on the same page.”

  Ian Ferguson, author of The Survival Guide to British Columbia and winner of the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour for Village of the Small Houses

  “We are all suckers for a good love story, which is what Ian Haysom has written here. He has a deceptively light touch, wry and cheerful, while finding insight in little human moments that will leave even non-grandparents nodding their heads in recognition.”

  Jack Knox, Stephen Leacock Medal–nominated author of Hard Knox: Musings from the Edge of Canada and Opportunity Knox: Twenty Years of Award-Losing Humour Writing

  “Ian Haysom has written a humorous, touching, and engaging meditation on what it means to be a grandfather. His skillful storytelling, powerful prose, and thoughtful insights had me laughing and thinking, often at the same time. While I’m not quite yet a grand-father myself, I feel so much better prepared in the wake of this fine and funny book.”

  Terry Fallis, two-time winner of the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour

  “I know what heaven is. Heaven is my granddaughter, who lives next door, playing in the street with her friends. When I see that, that’s heaven. I don’t think heaven can be better than that.”

  Clive James, writer and broadcaster, shortly before his death

  “There are fathers who do not love their children; there is no grandfather who does not adore his grandson.”

  Victor Hugo

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  1. Becoming a Grandfather My Grandparents

  What Grandfathers Want

  You Don’t Always Get to Choose

  2. The Scream Child of the Century

  3. Fun at the Fair I Won’t

  Food, Glorious Food

  4. My Summer with Mayana [Part One] A Slow Walk with Mayana

  Underducks

  I Wanna Hold Your Hand

  Take Me for a Ride

  5. Getting the Call Babysitting Emma

  Squeals

  The Joke’s on Them

  6. My Summer with Mayana [Part Two] TV Time

  Cabbage Patch Fantasyland

  Monsters in My Room

  The Dress

  The Ring

  What I Learned That Summer

  7. You’re Going Grey and Very Hairy, Grandad Musical and Magical

  Bedtime Stories

  Birthdays

  One in Seven Billion

  8. An Early Christmas Gift The Grandfather Clause

  Toys, Toys, Toys

  9. Losing My Religion

  10. I Need a Pee Okay Boomer

  Car Seats

  The Quiz

  Small Children Are Messy

  Sleep Training

  11. The Pier and the Charity Shop Too Shy

  Upside Down

  Riding a Bike

  Imagination

  Granddogs

  12. Go, Red Team Coaching Sports

  Too Many Screens

  Playing Dress-up

  13. New Normals

  14. Past, Present, and Future

  Other Grandfathers Donald MacGregor

  George Garrett

  Gord Eastwood

  Chris Edwards

  Peter Ottley

  Andria and Mike Gillespie

  Mike McRanor

  Bob Stall

  Roger Hope

  Chester Grant

  Randy McHale

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  STOP THE PRESS!

  About the Author

  Introduction

  We are not our grandfather.

  We are Grandpa and Grandad and Bubba and Gramps. But we are not our grandfather.

  We are twenty-first century grandfathers, baby boomers who never really grew up and still haven’t quite figured out how to be parents, let alone grandparents.

  Our grandfathers had World Wars and Frank Sinatra and Charlie Chaplin. We had Vietnam and the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix and Robert Redford (who we are kind of happy to see is beginning to look his age, meaning he’s human too).

  Right. We are not our grandfather.

  Not in our heads anyway. The stereotype of the grandfather is a white-haired, kindly old man who wears slippers and sits his grandchildren on his knee and has a wrinkly smile. That’s not what we see. We still see ourselves as vibrant, useful, relevant participants in the world. Then again, that’s probably not what our grandchildren see. They see white-haired, kindly old men. They have better eyesight than us.

  We are going to live longer than our grandfathers too. If we are lucky enough to live in parts of Asia, Western Europe, Oceania, or North America, we might live well into our eighties and beyond. We’ll likely get to know our grandchildren a lot longer and a whole lot better than our grandfathers knew us. If we live in other parts of the world, where the life expectancy for men hovers between the mid-fifties and mid-sixties, then we may not make it to the weathered shores of Grandfatherland. Still, across the globe, people today are living twice as long as they were in 1900.

  And, on average, we’re a whole lot healthier. Most of us don’t smoke. We eat more wisely than our grandfathers. We kayak and ski and run and play tennis (or pickleball) and curl and play golf and we ride bikes, even if some of them are battery powered.

  This book is about being a grandfather in the twenty-first century—and also about being a father. I have inc
luded a few favourite newspaper columns I wrote about being a twentieth-century dad. To be a grandfather you usually had to be a father first. So, you know, we’ve got some experience.

  Despite the angry, sometimes helpless and hopeless world we seem to live in these days, with all the chaos and fake news around us and all the noise, this is a mostly optimistic book. Because, sim-ply, children are the future. They still have innocence; they still have hope. And we grandfathers, often sidelined in the past, suddenly have a more important role to play. Even if that role is telling bad jokes and picking our grandkids up when they fall down.

  I was in the changing room at the gym the other day (warning: modern grandad story) and an older chap hailed a younger guy.

  “Hey, how’s it going? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Well, that’s because I’m a new dad. I’ve been a bit busy.”

  “That’s fantastic. Congratulations,” said the older man. “Boy or girl?”

  “A girl. She’s three, no, four weeks old.”

  “Beautiful,” said the old man. “A new girl. And new hope for the future. Maybe she’s going to be the one who finds a cure for cancer.”

  I smiled at that. Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. But the old man was right. Where there’s life, there’s hope. And where there’s new life, there’s magic in the air.

  Especially when you’re a grandfather.

  What you’re about to read is a journey through grandfatherhood, from baby steps (theirs and mine) through to a kind of grandfatherly maturity. Ten years of thoughts, reflections, and memories, collected in the shoeboxes of my mind over this past decade. A bit of a jumble, perhaps, but that’s where we store our memories.

  And just for fun, because this is not all about me, I asked some of my friends who are also grandads or grandpas to send me some anecdotes or thoughts on being a grandfather, and they are contained in this book. Some are hilarious. Some joyful. My very good friend, Donald, who is a pediatrician in Scotland, emailed me his contribution with the following addition: “Ian seems keen on coincidences—he’s especially keen on the apparent coincidence that his first grandchild is the best granddaughter ever and apparently she also has the best grandfather ever!”

  That’s true of just about every grandfather. There have been grandparents beyond count before us, and there will be countless more after we’re gone, but all grandfathers have had—and will have—one thing in common: they all believe theirs are the best of grandkids.

  Donald also makes note of the fact that every time he’s with his grandchildren he can’t stop smiling. I know what he means.

  Enjoy this book if you’re a grandfather, a grandmother, a grandkid or somewhere in between. I hope you find yourself in here somewhere. And smile some.

  1. Becoming a Grandfather

  The week that my first grandchild, Mayana, was born, I wrote this diary entry:

  SATURDAY: I am on Salt Spring Island watching two first-time, very young-looking grandmothers cooing and laughing and giving beaming smiles to a one-day-old girl without a name. One of these grandmothers is my wife, Beth.

  I call the child, temporarily, Molly, until her parents stop dithering and pick a name for this little wonder. By week’s end she will be Mayana.

  My daughter is beautiful, glowing as she cradles her first child. The child’s father looks proud and happy. The sun is shining and a beam of light falls on the baby’s face. She blinks a little and then opens her eyes wide and looks around at us, her new family. Her besotted, beaming family.

  In our lives, our journeys begin as babies, as sons or daughters, as brothers or sisters, then as husbands and wives and partners, then, perhaps, as mothers or fathers, uncles or aunts, then, if we’re lucky, as grandparents.

  Each of us playing our part.

  Today, for the first time, I am a grandfather. Another new role.

  My wife looks down at the child. “You are surrounded by so much love.” She got that right. May it ever be so.

  Mayana—pronounced My-Anna—was born at home on Salt Spring on a beautiful winter wonderland of a day in January. My daughter Amy had a midwife, a partner, and her mother to help out. It was all very Salt Spring–alternative. Candles and meditative music and water and calm. Well, it was supposed to be, but the electricity failed and they couldn’t heat the water that was needed for some kind of spiritual immersion bath, and the candles, far from offering a special atmosphere, failed to provide enough light, so there was much frantic rushing around, and Amy, who was supposed to be in a sort of yoga-calm-Om kind of state, after one severe contraction, let out a loud, primal yell.

  Also, I had baked a blackberry pie for after the birth because it was Amy’s favourite. She had put it in the freezer. Where it was left, forgotten, when the business of giving birth arrived. In one of Amy’s final, intense contractions, just before her baby arrived, she let out another primal howl and then turned to Beth.

  “Mum, quick, get the pie out of the freezer.”

  She knew she was close. And ready for pie.

  I wasn’t there, but in Vancouver at work, which in hindsight was probably a good thing. The other young-looking grandmother mentioned in the article was Lakhi. She and I got on a very slow ferry and were there to bill and coo and feel like a billion dollars within a few hours. It was a magical time.

  Mayana did that little thing with her mouth when I first saw her, pouting and popping her lips, probably looking for food like a little bird, but—oh my—did she look wonderful. Lots of dark hair and dark eyes, and light brown skin, a mix of Caucasian and Indian. I immediately felt a bond with her. And wanted to hug her. And did.

  Home births were nothing new to our family. Both our sons, Tim and Paul, were born at our small blue home in West Vancouver in the eighties. Midwifery was not totally accepted in North America in those days; it resided in a sort of legal grey area. Today it’s much more common. And legal. We had a super midwife and a supportive doctor. And my wife felt strongly about a natural home birth.

  Both our daughters, Amy and Jani, were born in Ottawa, at Grace Hospital, which was fine, if somewhat antiseptic. I was there for both births, and they were very efficient, and I did my supportive coach/husband thing very well, if I say so myself, and didn’t faint. My wife had no complaints, but her feelings at the time were clear enough.

  “I don’t know why I’m in a hospital to give birth. I’m not exactly sick.”

  I must admit, I did disgrace myself at Amy’s birth when Beth was being wheeled into the delivery room.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You can back out now if you like.”

  There was much laughter from the nurses. “Bit late for that sweetheart,” one of them said.

  Oh no, I tried to explain, I meant she could have an epidural if she wanted, she didn’t have to feel like a failure or anything, but I was drowned out by laughter, and now it’s part of family folklore, and I’m an idiot, which is the natural order of things.

  When it came to baby number three, Beth said she’d like to explore the idea of a home birth. We’d emigrated from England in the early seventies where midwives were common and a crucial part of the health system (just check out the BBC’s Call the Midwife) and we were comfortable and confident that all would be okay. And it was.

  Beth delivered Tim, and within an hour or so, we were all at home together and it all felt, well, natural. Ditto with Paul. So when Amy said she’d like to have Mayana at home, she came by it honestly. Even in Canada, it’s not so unusual anymore.

  And my wife was right. Mayana was, in her first few days on the planet, surrounded by so much love.

  By her besotted, beaming family.

  Pure. And simple. And perfect.

  My Grandparents

  Becoming a grandparent, of course, naturally casts one’s mind back to their own grandparents. We remember them, usually with unquestioning affection
. They are part of the furniture of our lives, comfortable sofas that we often jumped on, as they smiled at us and cuddled us and mussed our hair.

  We had no expectations of them, except to be there. And even if they lived a long way away, which is more usual these days, we knew they’d come to us with gifts and hugs and wrinkles and huge smiles. Because a grandfather and a grandmother were more special than just about anything.

  And they let us get away with murder. Or at least we got to do things and eat things—mostly chocolate—that our parents wouldn’t let us. Plus ça change.

  I had two grandfathers but never knew my paternal grandfather. He died when I was a baby (as did my paternal grandmother). And my father never spoke about him. I recently asked my stepbrother, sixteen years my senior, why that should be.

  “He was very strict towards Dad,” he said. “I don’t think Dad had the happiest childhood at home.”

  My mother’s dad, my grandad, was also strict. With his own children, that is. But not towards me or my sisters. He was a Yorkshireman who served in the army in India in the First World War. He was a small, wiry man, Tom Edwards. Or “our Tom” as my grandmother—Nan or Nanny—used to call him.

  They lived in a terraced house on Mersey Street in Hull, like a location right out of Coronation Street, with an outside lavatory—the lav—and newspapers cut into small squares for toilet paper. Going to the toilet in winter was an uncomfortable and scratchy ordeal.

  There was no bath. Only a sink in which to strip wash. The only sink in the house was in the small kitchen, or scullery. My grandfather would wash and shave there and comb his hair in front of a tiny mirror, sometimes cracking jokes at me.

  “You’ll be shaving soon, lad. You should start with the top of your head.”