2nd Floor, Hospice

Diary: Feb 20, 2014 (Thursday)

Dad took enormous pride in his work a concrete reinforcing steel detail estimator. "I detailed the rebar for the theatre at Douglas College in New Westminster," Dad proclaimed proudly from his hospital bed. 

A few minutes later Dad was telling one of the nurses how boring it his form in at the hospice. It was hard for Dad. Away's the 'do it yourselfer', this business of dying had really thrown a monkey wrench into things. Exasperated Dad proclaimed in exasperation: "The only thing that works is my bloody watch!"

Dad enjoyed talking about his family history. For my part, I enjoyed listening. In part listened hoping to find answers to explain my childhood and our family dynamics. 

Dad had a great love for his mom Hazel Grantham. In her single days, Hazel's thought school in the little town of Unity, Saskatchewan. Today Unity is still a small Canadian town with a population of not quite 2,400 people. Located at the junction of Highways 14 and 21 and of of the CNR and CPR main rail lines. 

Dad had a great love for his mom, Hazel (Letts) Grantham.

Hazel was born September 4, 1899 in Hastings, Ontario to Howard and Charlotte Letts. 

Hazel taught school in a Unity, Saskatchewan. Unity was a small town, even back then. By 1908 the advent of the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway saw Unity grow from a small settlement into a bustling town of some 600 by the 1920s.

Upon one occassion when Dad was less than prompt coming when called, his mom, Hazel gave him a quick swat on the backside the admonishment: "You man, when I call you, you come in right away!'  Dad smiled fondly recalling that.

Hazel was a big fan of the CBC radio show Bert Pearl and the Happy Gang. The show was on every day at 10 o'clock. They played live music. I was a housewife program, before the time of the Son's of the Pioneers.

Hazel was a big fan of the The Happy Gang, a CBC radio production that ran at 10 a.m. daily. It was what Dad termed a 'housewife' program. The show ran from 1937 to 1959. Bert Pearl led the band.

The Happy Gang

Hazel was living in Wilkie, Saskatchewan when she married Jim Grantham. 

The town of Wilkie was established in 1907, it was named after the town banker, Daniel R. Wilkie of the Imperial Bank of Canada. A small town then, a small town now with a population of less than 1,000.

Jim Grantham served in World War I. He signed up with the 9th Canadian Mounted Rifles in Saskatoon. He trained at Camp Sewell in Manitoba. There is a photo of 1,000 odd tents that they lived in before they were shipped off. The post card from when Jim shipped out read simply: "Good bye," from Jim G.

Jim had a horse of there named Ginger that he just loved. A sergeant took her over. The horse bucked the Sergeant off and Jim G. had a huge laugh. Jim was riding Ginger when he was shot through the left leg by shrapnel. Ginger was killed.

Dad noted that Jim (Grantham) and Vern (Watt) were picking shrapnel out of their legs for years after the war.

Jim saw service in France at Vimy Ridge and Dieppe. At one point Jim was injured, he was sent back to squad upon recovery. Jim was in charge of the pack horses for the machine gun squad.

Jim's unit sent him for amo on one particular occassion, when he came back he discovered the German's had made a direct hit. There was nothing left but those springs in the memobrabilla box. 

Wedding certificate in stuff at Dad's place. Jim and Hazel married in Saskatoon. Nellie Pinder and Joy Letts (sister) maid of honor. James Grantham's best man was Charlie Smith. Charlie Smith's brother was a shop foreman in North Battleford.

On the prairies, Dad says every town has their own grain elevator.

Hazel's parents, Howard and Lottie Letts moved to the Okanagan and bought and orchard. Hazel and Jim loaded up their 1928 Chrysler and with all four kids drove out the join them. 

Jim worked as a fireman for the CPR, stoking the engines. Through his employer Jim had a railway pass. Using that pass, Jim and Hazel would take the CPR's S.S. Sicamous from Vernon to Penticton.

Dad chuckled remembering. On the trip up, the car full loaded, a customs agent had compelled Jim Grantham to unpack everything for inspecting at the Douglas Boarder Crossing. Dad laughed, Pop had a fiery temper upon occasion. Ironically, Hazel who was holding Ronny at the time was sitting on a carton of cigarettes.

A 1928 Chrysler

CPR's S.S. Sicamous

One of the first records Dad bought was a Teddy King record he bought when he was boarding with the Craigen's in Vancouver.

Dad was a fan of the Clint Eastwood movies: "Make by day! I liked his dry sense of humour."

The RN Kelly knew Dr. Lesley Yelland.

Dad used to take Trudy, our fire red, cocker spaniels down to the railway yard. Trudy was nuts about pheasant hunting.

Jim would marry again, this time to Lena Grantham in Berford, Ontario.

Dad mused, " in the war of 1812, the American's came across in Plainsville.

Dad told me of a bug from Japan called parasella. It took 5 years to eradicate with chemicals like DDT.

Did I know Dad asked, that the Alaska Highway took only 8 months to build?

The best man at Dad's wedding was a Sherman Finniss. Dad used to chum around with Sherman when he was 16. His Dad was a mechanic. Jennifer, Randy's exwife, her mom was good friends with Sherman's wife.

Jennifer liked biking down ski slopes, racing on grouse mountain on mountain bikes.

In 1921, pre Dad, his family was living in Vancouver. At that time Ted started school at Noquay School in Vancouver. One of the oldest schools in Vancouver, it was situated on the corner of Slocan and Kingsway. Back then, names of the streets were cast in the sidewalk. Dad's family lived there for 1 or 2 years while his Dad tried his hand at raising chickens on a piece of land they rented.

Norquay School

Iron Gate: 75

Hospice door: 111

Courtyard out: 9688

Back in 6336

Lobby door (to exit) 2365

Room 203A

Staff Doctor: Dr. O'Brien

Cost: $31.52 per day

Open Road Richmond Collision in Langley City

Repair work completed Feb 11/14

2004 Hyundai Accent 70,000 km

License plate: BWH 417

Malignant, non-small cell, adenocarcinoma tumor, 5 cm mass in right lobe lower quadrant.

Mets to right adrenal gland. L-4 and Diffuse mets to brain.

I'm Sorry I Couldn't Get To You

I'm so sorry I couldn't get to you... The words of this song resonates deep within me when I think of my Dad and the days and months leading up to his passing.

I couldn't open his eyes to see me. He died never seeing me for who I am and that hurts. It is terrible feels of loss that a person I loved died without over knowing me.

This song gives words to my hurt. The stinging rejection by my own father. What did my Dad see when he looked at me? My childhood best friend told me she was shocked when my mother approached her and made a comment to the effect that she was surprised that I had done so well, that she had always worried that I would be a burden on society. She was surprised that I had gone on to have a family, managed to keep a job etc... 

For me, my parents were the monsters under my bed and in my closet. During the darkest hours of my life, they were the monsters that scurried about doing dark deeds. My mother seeking out the supervisor that was bullying me at work. I wasn't the only employee she bullied, many others fled or quit. Maggie happily bragged about her confab with my Mom to a good friend of mine Julie who was horrified, "Who does that?" Julie had exclaimed. Mine, the monster under my bed.

My mother was beautiful. I'm not sure she ever knew that. When I look back at the early photos my Dad took of my Mom in 1959 and 1960 I see a beautiful young woman. With tousled short heart, high cheek bones, brown eyes and red lips in sweater sets and skirts she was beautiful. 

Were they both angry that I wasn't the slim, dark eye, natural beauty she was?

I've read that some parents project onto their children the parts of themselves they loath most. Was that the case? Or did they vent their hostility for each other onto me?

I kept giving up on him, but when it is your Dad you always hope that sooner or later they'll come round and realize who you really are and say those magical words: I love you. As I say them to him now, he does not say them back. One day as I kissed Dad on his forehead and said those heart wrenching three words: I love you... 
As I turned to slip from his room in the hospice he said it back. A sweet, spontaneous, "I love you." 

Maybe he didn't know it was me. Maybe it was just a spontaneous, give a love, get a love. I hope it was mine.

If only you could have seen me. When I felt so small and over my head, when I rose to the challenge of single parenthood you acted the role of an adversary. Instead of having my back, you were on it. Why couldn't you have just have loved me?

Say something.....
Say something....
I'm sorry I couldn't get to you
I'm sorry I couldn't make you love me.
I always loved you, that's what made it hurt so wicked bad.

A child loves her father
Flaws and all
At least, this child did

I forgive you
The pain oozes out of me now like a river
Carving a new path in a scarred landscape

Rushing on
The words are the vehicle for my river
Love me, love me not
May God make you whole again

If in the here after you come to visit me again
Let the Old Spice Lime cologne scent let me know you are there
I love you Dad, I wish you peace and restoration.

Say something, I'm giving up on you
I'll be the one, if you want me to
Anywhere, I would've followed you
Say something, I'm giving up on you

[Verse 1]
And I am feeling so small
It was over my head
I know nothing at all
And I will stumble and fall
I'm still learning to love
Just starting to crawl

[Chorus 2]
Say something, I'm giving up on you
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you
Anywhere, I would've followed you
Say something, I'm giving up on you

[Verse 2]
And I will swallow my pride
You're the one that I love
And I'm saying goodbye

[Chorus 3]
Say something, I'm giving up on you
And I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you
And anywhere, I would have followed you
Oh... say something, I'm giving up on you

[Outro]
Say something, I'm giving up on you
Say something...

Mr and Mrs Santa

My parents both loved Christmas and it showed.

Trudy

Trudy could have walked straight off the pages of J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan. She was to us kids the epitome of a nana dog, at least to me. While nana was portrayed as a Saint Bernard, Trudy was a fire red cockier spaniel with liquid chocolate eyes and a penchant for following us me every where. This was back in the days when dogs had the roam of the neighbourhood.

Trudy was quite fond of hunting rodents in fields of hay outside our house. Sometimes, I helped flipping over old piles of woods while Trudy sniffed excitedly, hoping I'd flush out a mouse or perhaps a rat. It is probably a good thing we were never successful in this game as I'd have been horrified if Trudy had snared a mouse.

When Trudy did capture something, it had to be rescued. Such was the case of the mole, that sightless had probably stumbled blindly into Trudy's path. Trudy was victorious, at last to catch something. Slapping her dog dish down on top of it to protect it, I deprived her of her bounty.

I was a committed animal lover and that included moles. Trudy readily forgave me.

When I was traipsing about the hay fields that towered over my head, Trudy was more often than not right behind me snort and snuffling in the long grass hunting insects and rodents while I amused myself hunting grasshoppers and lady bugs. I loved to catch a lady bug and then as a magnanimous gesture sing the song: "Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children alone." It distressed me to no end to think of her poor babies alone. Every lady bug was presumed to be a mother with children alone.

Trudy was a slightly squashed dog, Mom attributed this to her being run over by a car at some point in her life. Whatever happened, nothing held Trudy back. Trudy was with us until she was 16 years of age, the same age I was.

When I was 5 exploring the fields, Trudy would have been in the prime of her life.

Throw the Ball

My Dad was always a sports nut. I always knew it would have thrilled him if I could throw a ball well or kick a soccer ball well, if I could do anything sporty well. I think I was good in badminton, least wise I fancied I had a pretty wicked back hand. Practising with a lefty will give you a good backhand and my practise partner, Gene was a lefty.

My Dad taught badminton in the gym at William Beagle Junior High for the badminton club I think it was. Gene and I were the only kids, so he set us to practising with each other. Gene was a nice enough kid, with dark wavy chin length hair.

I was tall for my age and had the same muscular physique my Mom did, but I was shy, awkward and though I hid it well, I think, had terrible performance anxiety. I wanted more than anything for my parents to think I was good at something. I could sketch, cartoon, write (I just wasn't a very good editor).

Every Spring I would coax my Dad out to play catch with me, determined to impress him. It always hurt really bad, Dad said I was just breaking in my arm and that it would go away after a while. It didn't, I kept waiting for it to go away. The reason it didn't was I had tears in my shoulder and calcium deposits from the repeat injuries.

It was the Summer of 1967. The heat hung heavily in the air. The sun was high in the August sky and until I had kids and created new memories with them, it would be amongst the fondest memories I had.

The sweet aroma of fields of ripening hay perfumed the air.  Dad had set up the little rectangular swimming pool in the backyard of the little three bedroom farm house. If you looked at the farm house up close, it seemed to twinkle in the mid day sun.  The myriad of shards of brightly coloured glass that studded the stuccoed exterior,  looked like jewels and set my young imagination a fire.

Dad was sprawled, convulsing with laughter in the pool with us kids as we took turns splashing each other,  exhilarated by the cooling water that quickly evaporated on our sun scorched a and tanned limbs. Sun burns back then weren't feared the way they are now a days. A good sun burn back then was something to brag about, proof that you were a tough kid and though it itched when it peels it was better than peeling dried Le Pages glue off your fingers!

To me that little farm house would always be know simply as 'the Old House'.

There was something special about the Old House. Perhaps it was the expanse of property that encompassed it, or the laying hens that I quickly named and differentiated between. In all likely hood it was the simplicity of life then. Financial stress had not yet begun to take its toll, nor that the parenthood or that of shift work.

My parents were still in the early years of their marriage with active social lives and interests. Most of all, they were still shiny and new to one another, basking in the new years of coupledom and family. There were Lion's Club dinner and meetings. There were card nights, badminton, family gatherings and parties. They still had lives of their own and it is when I remember them to be the happiest.

The Old House was a wonderful place for a little girl who had been brought up to love nature. I learned to love nature camping and leaning against my Dad's chest as he read me the tales of Thorton W. Burgess about Reddy the Fox and Peter Cotton Tail. I loved the stories, I loved the sketches and I loved the animals in the stories. I loved the way my Dad read those stories.

Mom baked homemade bread from time to time. There were fresh eggs for breakfast. Did you know that the oats we fed the chicken were actually pretty tasty? Mom made her own jams and jellies. Mom made a lot things back then, she as a fantastic baker. I inherited Mom early tendencies to over cook vegetables until a friend, Shelley put me straight on the art of cooking vegetable. They should be somewhat firm, not mushy and always bright in colour.

I loved to help Mom cook and bake, but I think she found me more of a nuisance than not. Mom was always a little short on patience and didn't quite no what to do with us kids, especially a frisky little girl child who liked to sing and dance and babble on excitedly. Those were the days of all the Shirley Temple re-runs on t.v. and Mom was quite regularly subjected to my energetic and amateurish attempts at tap dancing.

When you look back on your childhood, as I do now you realise why children seldom remember much about their parents from those days. Parents are fixtures. There to provide the necessities, to hold you when you cry, comfort you when you are sick and curb your imperfections and to try and shape into being a decent human being one day. As parents we put so much work into our children's early years, years that we will remember and they as children will forget.

I remember Mom in her rollers. I remember watching Mom struggling to use an old roller washer. I remember watching Mom cooking and baking. I remember watching the fruit juice that would become jelly ooze through the cheese cloth bag. I remember Mom in the garden, planting and weeding. I remember Mom smoking, looking unhappy and pensive when she was alone with us kids. I remember Mom looking beautiful when she was all dressed up to go out to a Lion's Club dance with Dad looking oh so handsome in his suit.

Ironically, the years our children will most remember are the angst filled years of their teens. The years of feeling, clumsy, inadequate and awkward as we move from the carefree and energetic years of our childhood towards adulthood. The pivotal years. When we as parents go from being main characters in our children's lives to bit players and a steady stream of teen peers usurp our roles bringing influences, many of which we will never know of and some only many years later. Some of those teen peers will become like family, others we will keep hopefully at arms length hoping they will detach and move on, others we will accept because they are our children's choices.

I can't imagine what life as like for my parent's generation. The more I have heard of what it was like in the generations before mine, I more thankful I am that I never had to live in the times previous generations did. My parents came from a generation where unwed mothers brought shame, illegitimate children were given up for adoption, recalcitrant children sent off to reformatories and  divorced women branded immoral or husband stealer's. A man's house was his castle and what he did in it, was nobodies business. They were brutal times, somewhat less than times previous.