Grandfathered Page 2

  A small tin bath was sometimes moved into the middle of the back room, in front of a coal fire. I never knew where my grandad bathed, though the local swimming pool—or slipper baths—offered baths for three pennies.

  My grandparents were proudly working class. My grandad, in a flat cap, went out to work as a warehouseman in a factory. My grandmother always worked in the home, scurrying around my grandad, cooking his meals, making his tea. In all the time I knew him, he never once cooked a meal or made a drink. Men didn’t do that.

  The past is another country. They do things differently there.

  I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, even though I lived then in the south of England, and they in the north. I would head to their house with my sister for summer holidays, sometimes a month at a time. I loved being there. It was very different from my own relatively modern suburban life. Grittier, more real in many ways. Hull was a fishing port, and there was a fish-and-chip shop on just about every street. My nan would routinely send me out to pick up fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. Or, more often, patty and chips—a sort of battered fishcake. I only discovered recently there was no fish in the patty. So I was eating battered potato and fried potato. Hmmm . . . no wonder I loved dinners there. Vegetables were a rumour. Mushy peas were a luxury.

  I remember my grandad with absolute affection. He was always generous to me. Sometimes, when I left for home, he’d pull a shiny half-crown—two shillings and sixpence—out of his pocket and put it in my hand.

  “Go and buy yourselves some treats, lad.”

  It was a fortune and I treasured my fortune.

  He was a fan of rugby league and, more specifically, Hull Kingston Rovers, the local team within walking distance of his house. He took me to see them a few times when I was seven or eight years old, but he had a word of advice that has stayed with me ever since.

  “Watching sports is for old men and cripples,” he said. “While you can play you should play.”

  I still feel guilty lying on a sofa watching hockey or soccer. But I still go out and play, albeit badly.

  He also took me to see a cricket test match, an international between England and Australia. We travelled on a bus—or coach, as we called it in England—to Leeds together for two hours either way. On the way home the men trooped into a pub, and I sat outside. My grandad brought me an orange juice and a bag of crisps and sat with me on a bench. The day had been thrilling, magical, exotic. Inside, the men were singing songs, and I looked up at him.

  “Nice day, lad?”

  “Smashing,” I said.

  He died when I was fourteen. He went upstairs for an afternoon nap and never woke up. He was only sixty-four. My nan never got over losing him, and she lived to ninety-nine. He was her one and only true love. “Our Tom.”

  When I think of my grandad, I realize all he had to do to be special to me was to be there. Sitting in his armchair in the corner of the room, his eyes twinkling as he looked at me, ruffling my hair every time he walked past me. We romanticize our childhoods. And that’s as it should be. Our grandparents should be part of the furniture of our lives. Very comfortable. And very old.

  There was one moment, when I was about thirteen, that I felt embarrassed. I saw my grandfather coming home from work, trudging along the long street. He was wearing his work clothes, including a hat and a tie and a somewhat shabby jacket. Men in those days always wore ties. It was part of who they were. I meanwhile was dressed in a T-shirt and sky-blue jeans, which were fashionable at the time. I hadn’t seen my grandfather in some time, but he looked old (he was only in his early sixties) and worn and I felt silly and somewhat shabby and disreputable in these new sky-blue jeans. Incongruous perhaps. And, worse, I was almost as tall as Grandad.

  “All right, son?” he asked, and gave my arm a squeeze. Then he looked at my jeans. “You look a right dandy in those.” He gave me a smile, nonetheless, and we walked together back to his home.

  I never did work out whether his description of me as a dandy meant I looked ridiculous or if it was meant as a back-handed compliment. But the smile never left his face as we walked on.

  What Grandfathers Want

  I once wrote a column on Father’s Day. Actually, I wrote a bunch over the years. Grandparent’s Day or Grandfather’s Day is also apparently a thing, but not in our house. Grandfather’s Day? How many pairs of socks can one man take?

  That said, in the column I pointed out that dads don’t need stuff. And grandfathers need even less stuff because they’re downsizing and moving into a condo. And all their good stuff went in the garage sale.

  So here are a few things your dad really wants for Father’s Day. [And what your grandfather wants too. Every day.]

  Laugh at his jokes. This sounds easy, I know, but think back over the past year. How often did you really laugh at his attempts to be humourous?

  Now, I know the jokes weren’t funny. Dad’s jokes aren’t meant to be funny, except to him, which is why after he tells them he begins laughing uncontrollably until, inevitably, he realizes he’s the only one laughing.

  But did you really need to roll your eyes, groan, shake your head, call him pathetic and ask him to go away if you happened to have friends over? And then did you really have to say to your mother, “Mom, can’t you stop him?”

  [Grandfather’s Note: Grandchildren never roll their eyes when you tell them jokes. They never call you pathetic. In fact, they usually laugh long and hard. I think this is because kids have more respect and kindness for their grandparents than for their parents. Either that, or they just feel really sorry for you.]

  Listen to one of his stories about when he was young. You’ve been faking this listening to his stories for a few years now, punctuating your non-listening with “uh-huh” and “wow, really” and “you don’t say,” but we know you haven’t heard a word.

  We’ve seen your eyes glaze over, we’ve seen you glance repeatedly at the clock on the wall and we have even seen you yawn.

  So concentrate and listen hard, just for Father’s Day, and then ask a related question that proves you’ve been paying attention.

  Saying, “wow, Dad, you really have lived,” doesn’t cut it. We can sense sarcasm at a thousand paces.

  [There’s not a lot of difference here. But since nobody usually listens to grandparents anyway, give the old man a break . . . even if the story does sound, as it will, highly improbable. Many things improve with age, including tall stories.]

  Ask him to play his favourite record. Records are those things that used to produce music before cassettes, CDs, and iTunes. Listen with him. If he plays “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin or, worse, anything by Barry Manilow, you should probably call in professional help.

  [Listen to your grandfather’s music, but if he starts to dance, make an excuse and leave the room.]

  Let him win. You know all those years when he lost to you at tennis, when you scored goals past him, when you just beat him in foot races, well, he let you win.

  He said he didn’t, but he did. It was very difficult for your dad to fake losing. You’d say, “you let me win that point Dad,” and he’d say, “no I didn’t, I just couldn’t handle the speed of that shot.”

  Think about it. You were four years old. You were also very gullible.

  At about the age of, oh, fourteen you started to find that you could beat him more easily at tennis. At twenty or so you could start to beat him at golf. If you’d listened closely you might have heard sobbing.

  Your dad isn’t gullible, so losing to him and making it look like it’s for real is going to be very tough. You might as well work at it now. You’ll be a dad one day too.

  [Grandfathers still like to win. But make it something non-physical, like Scrabble or Bananagrams. And when you play, park your brain for a while and slow down. Cough loudly if he nods off.]

  Mow the lawn for him. Y
ou should preferably do this while he falls asleep in front of the final round of the US Open. The lawn mower is that thing in the shed that you have to climb over the bicycles to get to. The lawn is that green and brown thing in the backyard covered in weeds and those nice yellow flowers called dandelions.

  [You’re lucky. Grandpa’s moved into a condo.]

  Teach him how to play a video game. Preferably Tiger Woods Golf or NHL. Be patient. Be gentle. Don’t teach him how to play those war games. You’ll just scare him.

  [Ditto.]

  Fish out a very old picture of the two or three or four or more of you. Ask him to tell you when and where it was taken. Watch his eyes mist over.

  [Yes. Though he may not remember where it was taken.]

  Make him a sandwich. Fully loaded.

  [Just make it easy to chew.]

  If all else fails, give him that hug. He’ll probably smile, maybe crack an embarrassed joke (remember to laugh), but that’s all he really wants: Just a tiny piece of you. Little boy blue and the man in the moon. Some things, money won’t ever buy.

  You Don’t Always Get to Choose

  When you first become a grandfather how do you pick what you’re called? Gramps, Grandpa, Grandad, Opi? The truth is, I’m afraid, that you don’t always get to choose.

  My Australian brother-in-law is a grandfather, and his grandchildren call him Grumps.

  Grumps? Alan doesn’t strike me as a grumpy old bastard. Well, sometimes maybe, but that’s not a name I’d automatically use to define him.

  I ask him if that’s an Aussie thing. No, his oldest grandchild started calling him Grumps, and it stuck. He likes it because it’s different. Sets him apart from the grandfatherly crowd. The Gramps. You mean the others are all quite affable and warm and loving and you’re just a nasty old sod, I suggest.

  I leaned towards Grandad because my grandfather was called Grandad. Mayana’s other grandfather is called Grandpa, so it avoids confusion. Except my second grandchild, Emma (you’ll meet her later), has two grandfathers, both called Grandad. We’ve given the poor child a lifetime of chaos. Though she has now started calling us “Grandad with a Beard” and “Grandad with a Moustache.” Guess we’d better not shave then.

  Grandad is not the coolest of titles. It makes me think of a song that was a big novelty number-one hit in the UK in the 1970s. “Grandad” was sung by Clive Dunn, who played the doddery Corporal Jones in Dad’s Army, a hugely popular TV sitcom about the Home Guard in the Second World War. The song—do find it on YouTube if you must—spent twenty-eight weeks in the hit parade, three weeks at number one, hitting a sentimental nerve.

  I was delighted that Mayana at first called me “Grangrad.” It always made me smile, but Grandad? Maybe I should rethink. The song’s reference to the grandad's days being gone stopped me cold. Thanks. No wonder I was reluctant about becoming a grandfather. Find me a rocking chair and a blanket. And nobody had sung a disturbing song about Grangrads. It turns out that many grandchildren mangle their grandparents’ names, and they often stick. Hence Grumps instead of Gramps.

  My grandfather name is quite traditional and familiar. It’s also, according to another brother-in-law, this one an Englishman, more downmarket than Grandpa, which is what he prefers to be called. Only in England could status be attached to your role as a grandparent. Surely he should be called Grandpapa, much more Downton Abbey.

  There are many variations on the traditional names: Grampa, Grandpappy, Gramps, Grandaddy, Grandpop, Pop, Poppa, Papa, Pops, Pop-pop (really?), Bumpy, Boppa and so on. I’m sure, if you’re a grandfather, you’re incredibly proud of being called Goofball or Golfball or Grungemeister.

  According to a couple of pieces I read online, baby-boomer grandfathers, who refuse to leave the 1960s, use names such as G-Daddy or Buddy or G-Pa, to sound somewhat more hip‚ or artificially hip as the case may be.

  Immigrants, or the grandchildren of immigrants, will honour their grandparents by using the title from their countries of origin. I know Opa, the German and Dutch familiar form for Grandfather, is popular in North America. I do like the Dutch Grootvader, though I doubt very many grandchildren use it in Holland. Unless they’re into a Dutch Star Wars. “Hey Darth Grootvader.”

  The Chinese use YeYe, the French Grandpère, the Spanish Abuelo, Italians Nonno, Greeks Papu, and Russians Dedushka, which has a warmth to it. My favourite though is the Hawaiian Tutu Kane (pronounced Tootoo Kanay). It sounds respectful and dignified.

  As unlike Grandad as you can get.

  2. The Scream

  For the first nine months of my grandfatherly relationship with Mayana, I was pretty starstruck with our beautiful little cherubic bundle of joy. Then came the scream—the scream lasted about five hours. Five hours of unmitigated hell. Five hours I’ll never get back.

  By the end, I felt like I had staggered out of a nightmarish landscape by Edvard Munch.

  Mayana was nine months old. And still breastfeeding. It was, appropriately, the day of the Victoria marathon. A day that seemed to go on forever.

  Beth and Amy decided to go out kayaking with a local kayaking group for a few hours, and Amy had asked if Jani and I could watch Mayana.

  Jani and I said that was fine. We were going to watch the marathon go by anyway. We knew a few people who were running, and we could take Mayana with us. The two of us would be fine looking after her.

  The kayakers were due back onshore at three. Jani warned me she could only help me look after Mayana until one because she had to meet some friends for a lunch after the run.

  “No prob,” I said, confidently. “I’ll take her to the beach, and we can play there until her mum kayaks back in. It’ll be easy.”

  [Cue slightly deranged laughter.] Sorry. I still get hysterical when I think back to that afternoon.

  The first hour or so was fine. Mayana was somewhat dozy and slept in her stroller while we cheered on the marathoners as they went by us in Oak Bay, the hoity-toity suburb of Victoria. Grandad and aunt were so relaxed, we picked up a couple of cappuccinos at Starbucks and congratulated ourselves on our superior babysitting skills.

  Then Mayana, for no apparent reason, began to cry. We jiggled the stroller, whispered reassuring words to her, let her drink a little milk, then let her nibble the corner of a Starbucks cookie, but nothing would mollify her.

  Then she began to scream. It was loud. And very scary. We thought a pin was sticking in her, but we checked, and all seemed fine.

  The scream got louder.

  Marathon runners, passing us by, hesitated briefly, thinking there had been a knife attack on the sidewalk.

  It was so loud that spectators the other side of the street began looking across, worryingly.

  Then it got louder.

  Then louder still.

  “We’d better get out of here before we get arrested for child abuse,” Jani said.

  We wheeled Mayana to a side street, and I got her out of the stroller. I began to comfort her in my arms. The magic touch.

  “This’ll work,” I said. “It always works.”

  It didn’t work. The screams were just as loud, and a lot closer to my ear.

  “Here, give her to me,” said Jani. “Maybe she’ll confuse me for her mom.”

  It didn’t work. Jani at that point had no children and referred to them only as “little aliens.” Afterward she told me that that experience with Mayana had been the most effective birth control ever.

  “Did I ever scream like that?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. But I think parents have the ability to block horrible moments from their memories. I only ever remember you being lovely. Then again, your brother . . . we almost went into counselling.”

  But as I say, that was afterward, once the trauma had faded. Back to the fateful events of October 13, 2013.

  Jani handed Mayana back to me. “I hat
e to do this, but I have to go. I’ve organized this big lunch. I hate to leave you like this.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, though by this time I was in a major state of panic. “We’ll be fine.”

  When I hugged Jani goodbye, Mayana managed—against everything that is natural in this world—to scream even more loudly.

  We went back to our car, parked just off the main street, and I began to put her in the baby seat.

  Now, this is what you don’t do next. You do not speak sharply to a nine-month-old baby.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “Enough. Stop this right now!”

  For a few seconds Mayana stopped screaming, looking at me startled. This person had never done this before . . . he had only ever smiled. Then her face crumpled. She started screaming even more loudly. I closed the door, turned, and saw an older couple glaring at me.

  “Ha ha,” I said nervously, trying not to look like a heartless beast, and moved swiftly to the driver’s door. I wanted to tell the husband and wife that I wasn’t like this, that I was a kindly, caring, and gentle grandfather, but I didn’t. By now the car was literally shaking with her screams.

  I drove to the park with her screams ringing in my ears. I turned up the radio, but the radio was losing, so I turned it off again. I sang “la la la . . .” I sang “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,” her favourite. I tried “The Wheels on the Bus,” but the cries got worse.

  At the park, I decided to change her diaper in the back of the car. Passersby thought I was murdering her. She was only a tad damp.

  I looked across at the sea, praying the kayak trip would finish early, but there was nothing on the horizon. I got Mayana out of the car and carried her along the beach. The Scream continued unabated. It was a warm day, and there were plenty of people on the beach, and they all glared as I went past them. They seemed to blame me for all this noise pollution. Not one person offered to help. I still wonder about that. There’s this older guy on a beach with a baby who’s yelling her head off, and no woman—I’m sorry, I needed a woman, men at this point were beyond useless—came up and offered to help.