by Iain Reid
“Are there a lot of people who live on the island?” asks Grandma.
“Not really, a couple thousand, maybe. Obviously more in the summer. It’s not a huge place, I think only about thirty kilometres long.”
Ten minutes later, we’ve moved from island politics to covering the many uses of chicken stock (homemade, of course). Now we’re touching on the nature of infidelity. I didn’t anticipate this last topic. I have to admit, he’s winning me over. He’s poured each of us (including himself) a coffee. “I’ve had the same girl for over a year now. I’d never, ever cheat on her. How could you ever live with yourself?”
“It’s true,” I say. Somehow I’ve been promoted to CEO of the discussion. It’s not a title I covet. Grandma held the position for about three minutes when she got the ball rolling. But now she’s balancing a piece of fish on her fork with a few strands of creamy coleslaw.
“It’s not worth it. And it’s lying. It means you’re a liar.” I’m just waiting for him to reach out and help himself to a chip on my plate. He’s been eyeing them longingly.
“You’re right,” I say. “I agree.”
After he returns to his post behind the bar, I think about eating more but cover the remainder of my meal with my napkin. I push my plate away. I watch Grandma eat every last morsel of edible fare on her plate.
“So,” she says loud enough for everyone in the restaurant, including him, to hear, “what was he saying?”
“He doesn’t like people who cheat on their girlfriends,” I whisper. “And also that chicken stock is best with some fresh thyme.”
“I could tell he was a good guy. Now, what are you going to get for dessert? And remember, it’s my treat.”
IT WAS MY suggestion to drive west, along what I believe is the island’s main road. It was the faithful bartender/waiter who told me we could get a good look at those turbines if we went this way. A leisurely drive through the island farmland seems about right after our heavy lunch, even if we don’t find the turbines.
The island is very green. I consider it a visual substitute for our lack of salad at lunch. Grandma is commenting on how quiet and peaceful it is. She says it reminds her of the area around Lilac Hill, my parents’ farm.
Ten minutes or so down the road, we come to a gravel lane on our left. “Should we try going down there? What do you think? Or do you want to go back?”
“I think we should try it.”
I turn and accelerate excessively, spitting gravel out behind us. We haven’t passed any other cars, or people. The gravel road enhances the mood of isolation that comes with being on an island.
We’ve seen a few of the wind turbines already on our drive. We’ve been pointing them out to one another. “There’s one,” Grandma would say as we passed, or “Another windmill to your left.” But now, unfolding in front of us, is an entire field of them. Not four or five but twenty, thirty, maybe forty. They’re like giant creatures grazing on the wind.
I slow our pace and pull off the road, up to the entrance. This is the wind farm. I’ve read a few articles about it. It was big news for a while in Kingston. There’s been a great debate regarding the turbines and if they are a positive or negative thing for the island.
It’s entirely different to see them so close, so many together. From Kingston they look like lawn ornaments, modern and pretty but not serving a purpose. When you’re here beside them, their labour is clear. I can also understand why those living near the turbines would find them invasive.
“They are graceful,” says Grandma.
“They are. But there’ve been some complaints from people who live around here. People in other countries say living close to wind turbines has made them sick.”
There are no electrical cables running from the mills. It gives them each an air of individuality. Each is rooted directly into the earth.
“There must be some lines buried underground.”
“You think?”
“Must be,” she says. “That’s the point after all, to generate power.”
“I wonder if they make a loud noise. You’d think they would, but looking at them this close, they look so sleek. It’s strange, but they almost look noiseless.”
I turn off the engine and step out of the car. Grandma stays in her seat. I walk around and lean on the hood above the right tire. Grandma’s window is down.
“I think I can hear them now,” I say.
“Yes, but it’s not nearly as loud as you’d think.”
“No. There’s a noise, but it’s subtle.”
“It sounds like strong wind. How many are there in total?”
I wish I knew more. I should have asked the waiter, but I wasn’t really expecting to find the wind farm.
“I’m not sure. Something like seventy-five, maybe. You should step out here for a minute. It’s pretty cool.”
“Oh, sure. I probably won’t have a chance like this again.”
I open her door and carefully help her out. She uses my forearm for leverage.
“I bet Grandpa would have loved this. Being an engineer, he would like seeing these types of new developments.”
“He would have loved it. There are so many things I wish he could have seen, Iain, things we could have talked about.”
“Like a field of windmills.”
“Exactly,” she says.
I help Grandma around to the front of the car. She lets go of my arm and leans back on the hood, above the bumper. The few steps around the car have tired her. Her breaths are heavy and laboured.
“Before the war broke out, George had enrolled in university. But it was during the Great Depression, and after a couple of years he had to leave school because he couldn’t afford tuition.”
“What did he do then?”
“Well, he had to find work, but there wasn’t much in those days. He decided to ride the freight cars. He’d jump on and jump off to try and work on farms. There were a lot of farms in those days, and he’d work as a helper, a farmhand. He used to say he was hungry during this time; work was sparse. That’s really all he said about it. He said he didn’t mind, but for some reason I hated thinking about him being hungry.”
“But then war broke out overseas?”
“That’s right. He enlisted in the navy. He was stationed on a minesweeper in the English Channel.”
“Wasn’t he some type of navigator?”
“Yup. It was a role he was good at; it suited him. And after the war, once we were married, we went out west.”
“How come?”
“Originally we thought just for our honeymoon. We took the train from Winnipeg to Vancouver, then went on to Victoria. George wanted to stay at the fanciest hotel, the Empress. We couldn’t afford it, though. And George was thinking maybe we should just stay out in Victoria and he would start a business.”
“What kind of business?”
“I don’t think he was sure. And I don’t think that’s what he really wanted to do, either. I remember sitting with him — this is so funny that I can remember this — and I knew he had to make up his own mind. No one could tell him what to do, but he always liked to talk about things. I just suggested that he go back and finish university. I told him I’d be happy to go back to work at the hospital. We could live off my salary.”
“I didn’t know you went back to work so soon after the war.”
“Well, I’m getting to that. So anyway, he thought about it and, yes, he decided he’d like to go back to school. He went out and bought a huge book of mathematics to refresh his mind. He hadn’t been studying in years. But I knew he could do it. I knew he was a smart guy. That summer, after he enrolled back in school for the fall, we stayed in Victoria. We obviously couldn’t afford to stay in a hotel, so we found a cheap room to rent in a house. George took a job at the dockyards. The couple who owned the house also lived there.
They gave us use of the kitchen and bathroom. It was all we needed and was very cheap. It was small but we loved it. It was only a short time, just one summer. I have such fond memories, Iain, even if I can’t fully remember them. I’m not sure if that makes any sense, but it’s true.”
There’s a natural break in our chat. It’s the first true stop for a while and lasts full minutes, I would guess, not seconds.
“Well, it would have been an exciting time,” I finally say. “The war was over, you’d just married. You could finally start your life.”
“Everything changed on the train back to Winnipeg. I guess it really changed about six weeks before that. It was on the train that I told George I was pregnant. I’d been concerned about it, telling him, that is. You see, this was going to change our plans. I wouldn’t be able to work because in those days if you were pregnant you had to stop working immediately. It was ridiculous, like so many things. But if I couldn’t work, I wasn’t sure George would be able to go back to school. I was worried he was going to be disappointed. And it wasn’t like we were planning on it.”
“Was he upset?”
Grandma has been playing with the bottom edge of her sweater. She stops now, looking up. “He was absolutely delighted. He really was thrilled. Back in Winnipeg my mom gave up her apartment and went to live with my sister Lottie. So we moved into her old place. George went to university and we lived off my small pension. And of course, his tuition was paid for by the government.”
“How did it go?”
“We enjoyed those years. I remember lots of laughing. George was so absent-minded. Once, he was leaving the apartment very early because he had some work to do before class. In fact I was still in bed. About five minutes later I heard the door. And then George was back in the bedroom. I asked him what he’d forgotten this time. He just looked at me and then said, ‘My shoes.’ He’d left without his shoes.” Grandma’s laughing harder now. “Can you imagine that? It was typical George.”
“So how did you get from that apartment in Winnipeg to Ottawa?”
“In his last year of school, George was always checking the job board to see if there were any postings for electrical engineers. He found one, a job with the government. It was in Ottawa. He applied for it and was offered the position. I didn’t know this until later, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to take it. He didn’t think I would want to leave Winnipeg, because my family was there. Even after he told me about it, he still wasn’t sure. The first letter of response he wrote was to decline the job. He would find something else, something in Winnipeg. Then we talked some more and he wrote a second letter, an acceptance. He carried both letters with him to school every day, for weeks. Every night when he got home I’d ask which one he’d mailed. For a while he would always say neither. Until one day when he came home and put the rejection down on the table. We were going to be moving to Ottawa. I was thrilled. He knew that’s what I wanted. It would be something new for both of us. A fresh start.”
“Grandma, do you think it’s strange that when my dad was my age, he was married, had children, his own home, several university degrees, a steady job, and also how his bed was a proper bed and not just a mattress on the floor?”
“Sorry, dear?”
That was a stupid question to put to her, out of the blue like that. I’d have to repeat it, and slow down for her to catch it.
“It’s nothing important,” I say. “I’m just thinking about how different things are now and how much different my life is at this stage than Dad’s was or yours.”
“It took me longer to do some of the things I wanted to do as well.”
“Is time really best used as a contextual element for our lives?” I ask.
“Isn’t it more something to appreciate and enjoy?” she responds.
“What?”
“Time,” she says. “We shouldn’t think of it as something we’ve already lost or are losing. Time helps us along. It actually makes things easier.”
“You think?”
“Time can be made almost irrelevant in certain situations. Like when you’re enjoying something. It seems to me,” she says, “time is usually only a detrimental force when we’re aware of it. It’s like with breathing or your heart beating; better for those things to happen without us being aware. When you think about it too much, it will just throw you off.”
I’ve been picking at the edge of a fingernail as Grandma speaks, listening. It finally breaks off.
“It is amazing how some people find them ugly,” Grandma says.
“What?”
“The turbines,” she explains, rising up off the hood gradually. She takes another look around her. “Maybe you have to get up close like this to appreciate them. Maybe they’re just ugly to some people, you know, regardless of where they see them from.”
WE PASS ONLY one car on our drive back to the ferry dock. We see more ducks than humans; three are swimming in an inlet, unconcerned as we slow to watch them. We have twenty minutes or so before our ride back, and when we see the general store we both agree that’s where our loose change and those twenty minutes should be used up. We park and walk back along the road to the store.
Grandma’s drawn in by the glistening sausages rotating on the stationary belt under bright warming lights. This is an unshakeable symptom of living through the Depression. Apart from the war, the Depression has had the largest impact on how Grandma experiences the world. Spinning preservative-filled meat in a store like this is attractive; there’s just nothing she can do about it.
I’m less enchanted and begin my search for a suitable candy bar for the ride back. Something with peanuts and perhaps nougat, I think. Grandma eventually wanders off toward the back of the store.
“I just can’t believe I found all these goodies here,” she says, returning to the cash. “What a great store. It’s so different.”
I’m already half done my Snickers. Grandma holds up her booty: a pack of spearmint Life Savers, an individual pouch of microwave popcorn, and a dust-covered glass jar of ground paprika. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a look back there? Lots of treats.”
“I think I’m fine with this treat. We’d better get back to the car, anyway. Ferry will be loading now.”
Thankfully, the rain has stayed away for our ride back. We take our place in the line of cars and snake our way on board. Again our view is of the walls of the ship and the other cars around us. I play the Guthrie tape. I yawn and close my eyes, and recline my seat an inch or two.
“You should take a nap,” says Grandma. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired. I usually am at this time of day.”
Grandma opens her window a crack and removes her seatbelt. “How are you sleeping these days?”
“Not bad, I guess. But I’m not a very good sleeper. I never have been. If I start thinking too much about anything, I can’t sleep. I’ve just always been like that.”
I tell Grandma about some of the things that have caused me restlessness over the years. Illness was one. Not as a threat to me necessarily, but to my family, friends, even pets. We lost a close family member to cancer when I was young. Another to complications after surgery. During those years I became fixated on death. I envisioned car accidents. Worrying became synonymous with going to bed.
“If Jimmy or Jean was out late, I’d just be lying on my side in bed, waiting to hear the engine and the gravel crunching under the tires. The dog would bark. The headlights would flash in through my blinds. Then maybe I could fall asleep.
“But it was during university when I started to worry about something less speculative.”
“What was it?” asks Grandma.
“One night, I was standing at the toilet. Beside me, on the wall to my right, it looked like someone had scribbled some graffiti with a black Magic Marker. I couldn’t decipher the lettering. Tu
rns out it was an insect, one I’d never seen before.
“I was never into insects, but this one was particularly grotesque. Its torso was long and skinny, like a julienned vegetable, and it had very thin and long legs that looked like strands of human hair. It was the tentacles that really disgusted me,” I say. Reliving this old story with Grandma has perked me up. I haven’t thought of it in years. I’m no longer yawning.
“I’ve never seen a bug like that.”
“Neither had I. I went down to the apartment below and asked the guys if I could borrow some type of aerosol spray — Raid, or whatever they had that would kill bugs. They just stayed on their sofa. The air smelled of recently used hot knives.”
“Hot what?” asks Grandma.
“Hot knives.”
“Oh, okay.”
“They told me they had just the thing. They wondered half-heartedly what kind of bug. When I described in detail what I’d seen, they sat up. They recoiled. They told me it was a house centipede.
“It was the first time I’d ever heard that name, Grandma. I’d thought it was called a silverfish. They told me house centipedes actually eat silverfish. And other bugs, even spiders,” I say. “For the next couple of years, every now and then it would come up: someone would mention a house centipede. More often not by name but by description.
“Then, one day, I was at a brunch party. My friend, an emergency physician, often entertained big groups at a time. As is often the case in a group of doctors, the line of discourse had taken a turn toward the medical. My friend was telling everyone about this very strange case she’d seen the night before, about this guy who came in complaining about some pain in his ear. Said it felt like a dull ache, thought he could feel something.
“My doctor friend continued, saying how she assumed he had some wax or an infection. She wasn’t thinking it was going to be anything serious. But she decided to take a look. She was saying how everything was pretty much looking normal, but then she thought she saw something, an obstruction. She said it seemed like it was moving.”
“Uh-oh,” says Grandma.
“I remember setting my fork down. I started paying attention. She said it was pretty obvious there was something in there, something with legs, with lots of legs. She explained that he could feel something in there because there was something in there.”
