The following family anecdotes are a departure from the
normal format and content of The Rant, but I think you’ll find in them some
insight about the way my view of the world was influenced and nurtured
from an early age. The details in these
accounts are mostly true, with the exception of several that are slightly fabricated and
one that is just a flat out fib.
My Grandfather was one of my earliest heroes. He was a kind and quiet man, and had such a
powerful presence to me. I was extremely
close to him and my Grandmother, and would often spend weekends and vacations
with them. My Grandfather had a great
sense of humor, but with an ironic and dry delivery that I remember appreciating even at a
tender age. One of my first memories of
him and his humor was related to a conversation that I thought was just between
him and me when I was 6 or 7 years old and he was in his 60s.
On my Grandfather’s right pinkie finger, the first joint was
fused, with a very faint scar. I often
noticed it because it didn’t bend like it was supposed to, and, being a
naturally curious child, one morning over breakfast I finally asked him about
it.
I didn’t realize that my Grandmother, Aunt and parents were
also listening from the next room.
“Oh, that?” he asked,
holding the finger up in the air, “….Let me tell you a story”. He then proceeded to tell me in great and colorful
detail about his hometown of Halifax, Nova Scotia Canada. As I sat riveted, he explained that he’d
grown up in a shipping village, and he painted exciting and vivid images for me
of huge merchant vessels that would dock at the end of town. He told me that his parents would often take
him and his siblings down to the harbor to watch the swirl of activity as the
big ships sailed in and out of this commerce center, and that as a lad he would
watch in awe of it all in the crisp salty air.
My Grandfather continued to explain that one day, when he
was a small boy, about my age at the time,
one of the mighty ships had a fiery explosion that rocked the entire
village, and propelled shrapnel and a hulking anchor the entire length of the
village to where it landed, deeply embedded in the ground. The hurtling colossus of iron caused massive
damage as it flew through the streets of Halifax. My Grandfather further explained that the
town later built a sort of monument at the landing site. He told me that the anchor is still there
today, with a plaque that describes the tremendous and horrible explosion that
delivered it to its final resting place.
After telling this exciting and colorful story, my
Grandfather opened the morning paper and started to read. For several moments I sat silently, listening
to the crinkling of his paper.
“Grandpa…..” I finally asked, “so your finger got hurt
during that explosion?”
After a pause, my Grandfather slowly lowered his paper and
looked at me.
“Heh? Oh, no! I cut that finger on a sardine can years
ago.” He replied, matter- of- factly.
The gush of laughter from my parents let me know that my
Grandpa had pulled one over on me.
Let Him Eat Cake
My Grandfather, Grant, was a witty, religious, quiet and kind
man. He was the undeniable head of his
household and patriarch of our family. He
and my Grandmother were the kind of cute, mutually respectful and loving old
couple we’d all like to grow into. Grandpa
had diabetes, and wasn’t the greatest patient.
Treatment of diabetes or “sugar” in the 1960s and 70s, when Grandpa
grappled with it, wasn’t as advanced as it is today, but he managed with his
typical stoic way and good nature. Still,
my Grandmother, Molly, tried to keep him on schedule with his meds and proper
diet, which for him meant virtually no sweets.
Once, as an experiment, Grandma decided to make Grandpa a
birthday cake from a recipe she’d found in a health magazine. The cake recipe made the dessert safe for
diabetics, using an artificial sweetener, Sucryl (this was the early 1970s, and
food additives were rather primitive) a saccharine liquid. Normally, when
dessert was served, Grandpa had to watch and miss out, but he never really
seemed bothered. This year would be
different, and the buzz around the family was that we’d have the added excitement
of enjoying Grandpa’s birthday cake along with him. This birthday was an extra treat for all of
us, in that several out of state relatives had traveled to share the
celebration and have a very rare extended family reunion.
The family reunion was wonderful and fun, and when the time
came for my Grandfather’s birthday dinner, everyone was looking forward to what
was anticipated to be my Grandfather’s safe return to the joy of eating
sweets. After dinner was cleared, the
birthday cake was brought to the table.
Candles were lit and we all sang “happy birthday”. Grandpa also got his nose” buttered”, a repulsive
custom I never fully understood.
Finally, Grandpa’s cake was served, and Grandpa got the
first big piece. As we each took our
first bites, it became immediately obvious that the sweetener gave the cake a disgusting
and horrible taste, making it practically inedible. Each of us felt panic and swallowed hard,
willing away a gag reflex, not wanting to ruin this moment for Grandpa or to
embarrass Grandma. We were all willing
to suffer this horrendous culinary moment for the love of our
Grandparents. After a momentary pause,
my Grandfather set down his fork and said, “Well, Molly, this tastes like SHIT!” Again, we all felt a pang of panic, but his
delivery was so funny that we all burst out laughing, Grandpa and Grandma included.
Needless to say, that was the first and last time the Sucryl Cake would be served.
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