by Iain Reid
“Oh, I’m sorry, they all look so good,” she says apologetically. “I’m only getting one more.” She already has two types of cheese wrapped up beside her. The man wielding the knife is cutting a piece the size of my fist from a cinder block of aged cheddar.
I unload the contents of our basket at the cash. Holding her mob of cheese in both hands, Grandma demands to pay and pushes me aside, debit card in her mouth.
WE (I) NIBBLE on our fudge until it’s finished. We’ve been on the road for an hour or so when Grandma turns and asks if I want to stop for a scratch pad.
“A what?”
“I thought maybe you’d be ready for a scratch pad.”
I am trying to understand. Honestly. But I have to ask. “Sorry, what exactly is a scratch pad, Grandma?”
“Oh, isn’t that what you call coffees on the road?”
“Right, road coffees. No, I call them goofballs.”
She’s laughing now. “I never get these things right.”
“I think I like scratch pads better.”
We pull off the highway and enter the same coffee shop we stopped at on the way down. I park and leave Grandma in the car. It’s hard to tell, with the uniforms and visored caps that make everyone look analogous regardless of place, day, or time, but I think it might be the same overly cheery human at the cash who hands me our scratch pads.
Back in the car, I park crookedly in a different spot, this one facing the road. I lower my window a crack, then turn the ignition off. We both release our belts in unison. The paper cup is hot in my hand.
“We’ll just wait here for a bit, until the coffee cools.”
I remove the plastic lid and drop it on the floor by my feet. Grandma leaves her cup in the holder. Cars and trucks glide by in front of us.
“I never did develop a taste for cards, you know. Especially bridge.”
I’m caught slightly off guard by Grandma’s arbitrary comment, but now I’m also used to her way of starting a discussion, how something enters her consciousness and she just starts into it.
“Oh, really? I thought you loved playing cards.”
“I’ve played reluctantly, off and on, for most of my life. It’s just that I’ve never loved it. It was just something we did. I usually agreed to games out of a sense of social duty more than anything, if that makes sense. I don’t really enjoy playing, but I do have a fondness for bridge. I’d been sharing some tea with my mother and sister when I was called to the phone. This was just after the war. I picked up the receiver and said hello.
“A man introduced himself. His name was George. He told me he got my number from another nurse he’d met on a train. Both were just back from the war. He hoped I didn’t mind him calling out of the blue. I told him of course not. This wasn’t unusual for the time.
“At the time of the call I didn’t know, but George had cut short his engineering studies when war was declared and spent the succeeding years as a navigator on a minesweeper. But now the war was over. He’d survived. He was travelling by train back to Winnipeg to get his discharge. That was all he knew of his future.
“On the train George was seated next to a woman, an army nurse. They were both in uniform and in good spirits. At some point the nurse told him about her friend who was also a nurse and just happened to be back in Winnipeg. She told him to call me when he got to Winnipeg. It didn’t take long for him to move past pleasantries and get to the gist of his call. He wanted to meet. His sister and brother-in-law needed a fourth for bridge. They would be playing later that evening. He asked if I wanted to join.
“I apologized and asked him to wait for a moment before I answered. I’d never played bridge before, Iain. I returned to the kitchen and told my sister and mother. I thought I should probably decline. I didn’t even know how to play bridge. All my mother said was, ‘Then it’s about time you learned.’ I went back to the phone and accepted the offer. George said he would be by to pick me up shortly.”
“I don’t think I knew this. For some reason I thought you’d met Grandpa overseas.”
“Well, this wasn’t long after getting back. After returning from Europe, I’d gone to work at the Fort Osborne Barracks hospital. Two days after our game of bridge, I finished a long shift and then walked home with a colleague. We decided to stop at a small restaurant for supper. And there was George. He walked right by the table. I called to him, and he came over and said hello.”
“Did you know you liked him at this point?”
“I certainly found him handsome. He had short, dark hair and such a nice face. He was of average height but had sort of a wiry, slender build. He was very strong for his size.
“He asked us both if we’d like to go to the naval mess for a drink. He’d just left a banquet in the hall above the restaurant. It was still going on, but he was feeling restless, bored. He’d been on his way to the phone to ring a friend but said if we were free, he’d prefer our company. We said we’d be happy to join him.
“The mess was busy and loud. That was normal, of course. We each had a drink, then another, and another. I’m not sure, we may have even had another. I was looking at George. I couldn’t believe he was six years older than me. If anything, he looked six years younger. I liked the way he talked, the way he laughed.”
“You can remember all that?”
“Oh, sure. It was late when we decided to call it a night. I had work the next day and hadn’t planned on being out so late. George suggested a taxi. Once we were inside, I was wondering who was going to get dropped off first. My friend lived in a different direction.”
“Right,” I say, clueing in.
“George was sitting up front, next to the driver, and had told him where to go first. I was pretty happy when we pulled up to my friend’s apartment first. We would have some privacy. And the next day, and every day after, I found him waiting for me outside the hospital when my workday was done.”
“Every day?”
“Yup, every day. He proposed three weeks and two days after that first night of bridge. I was completely surprised. I paused before answering.”
“How come?” I ask.
“I was happy with life. I was happy with my work. I’d put in a request to volunteer, this time in Japan, where the war was still going on. Nurses were needed. It would have been another adventure. But I’ve never been the type to do something just because it’s been planned. Meeting George certainly wasn’t planned. It wasn’t what I’d been sitting around waiting for, or thinking about.”
“What did you say?”
“I said yes, of course.”
She’d known him for only three weeks.
“When George told his sister the news, she was aghast. His sister couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She didn’t know why he was marrying someone he’d known for only a couple of weeks. His sister thought it was ridiculous. He didn’t know anything about me.”
“Grandpa told you this?”
“Yup, and he had an easy reply for her. He told his sister he was marrying the nurse he didn’t know because he loved her. His sister laughed, said it sounded so naive. I guess it probably did. She really thought he was being silly. She didn’t think it was like George to be so irrational.”
The night they were married, Grandma and Grandpa had known each other for less than five weeks.
“You see, I was just plain lucky to have said yes to that game of bridge. I just knew it, right from when we were married. There was so much we were going to do together. It really was so exciting, Iain, to be at the beginning of something, to be starting out. At one point during our wedding night, George got up to go to the bathroom. He was humming. For some reason I can remember thinking how soft the bed was. He was very musical. I can’t believe I remember that.”
I’ve never heard this story before, of how Grandma and Grandpa met.
“Heavens, I should
stop going on. And I have something to give you before I forget.” She’s switched the topic of discussion so quickly I can’t react or even comment.
Grandma bends down to the bag on the floor in front of her. She’s moving her hand around in the bag like she’s randomly drawing a name from a hat. When her hand finds whatever it’s fishing for, she brings the bag, with her hand still inside, up to her lap. “Here,” she says.
I accept a tiny bottle of gourmet champagne mustard. I recognize it immediately from the fine foods store.
“Didn’t you say you love mustard?” she asks, hopefully. “You put some in the meatloaf, right?”
“Yeah, definitely. I love it. And champagne. Thank you. You really didn’t have to get me anything. But I also have something for you.”
“What? Really?”
“It’s nothing. Just, well, a little thank-you.”
I reach behind my seat and grab my own bag. I hand her an equally small glass jar of red pepper jelly.
“I always remember having red pepper jelly at your house when we were kids. That was the first place I had it.”
“Yes, of course, I love it. Thank you.”
For a while we sit with steaming scratch pads in hand and our lampoonishly tiny glass jars of spread in our laps.
“I think I’ve realized something on our trip,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I think you and I are a lot alike. I always thought that, but I’m certain of it now, after these days together.”
I look out the windshield. We’re sitting in the rain, an hour or so outside my sleepy town, still an hour or so from Grandma’s house, in my twenty-year-old car, where it’s just been theorized that I might be more similar to a white-haired ninety-two-year-old woman with a bad knee than to anyone else. Beyond being prone to a runny nose when the temperature dips below eight degrees, I’m not convinced there’s any truth at all in the claim. It seems too unjust to Grandma. But if there is, even a trace, I will definitely take it.
“We’ve done pretty well,” says Grandma, bringing her paper cup toward me. “To the road trip, my last one.”
“The trip,” I say, finding my voice, touching her cup with my own.
WE’VE PASSED MANY woodpiles and log barns. Several streams and ponds. Even sparsely inhabited towns with the odd inhabitant walking a dog on the gravel shoulder of the road. The engine is loud. We’re quiet.
I’ve refocused on the road but am glancing over periodically. Grandma’s eyelids have dipped shut. I adjust the mix-tape I’ve put in the deck, turning it down.
“It’s okay,” she says, keeping her eyes closed. “You can leave it, dear. I like this song. I think that’s a piccolo.”
She’s right; “Rockin’ Robin” is a pretty great song. I return the volume to its original setting. I was anticipating a busy ride, with lots of cars and trucks. We’ve only seen a few. It’s because of the rain, I think — that’s probably why the road’s been empty. People don’t like driving in the rain. People would rather stay home.
She’s enjoyed our trip, but I’m sensing Grandma is ready to be home. She’ll want to unpack and do some laundry. She’ll want to get into her garden and go grocery shopping so she can fill her fridge with her favourite foods, some salty, some sweet. She’ll be pleased to run into her neighbours, and to feed her old cat treats and rub her ears. She’ll have phone messages to return and mail to open. She’ll make herself some tea. She’ll take a nap on her couch.
“This is probably a stupid question,” I say, still looking straight ahead, “but do you have a first conscious memory, Grandma? I’ve been trying to think of mine as I drive. I can’t. I have some memories from when I was around four or five. But they kind of meld together. There’s nothing really distinct.”
“Yes,” she says, “I do.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I was four.”
“You were in Winnipeg by then?”
“Yes, but we hadn’t been there for long. We had a garden in our backyard. There were flowers, but it was mostly for veggies. I remember being outside one morning in the spring. I was alone in the yard. It had been raining. The ground was all wet. I was wearing rubber boots that had probably been my older sister’s, because they were too big for me.
“For whatever reason I decided I wanted to explore the garden. I just walked right in to see if anything had started growing yet. The earth was so wet from all the rain that after a few steps I got stuck. The more I wiggled my feet to get loose, the deeper they sunk in. The mud was tight up around my ankles.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I just stopped moving. Out in the middle of the garden wasn’t a bad place to be stuck. I didn’t call out to anyone. I just looked around. It wasn’t long before my brother Pat must have noticed. I felt two hands come down and lift me up out of the boots. The boots stayed in the mud and he carried me back to the house in my socks. I still remember that.”
I glance at Grandma momentarily, then back to the road.
“Well,” she says, “it’s not much of a story, but it’s the first thing I can remember.”
She’s cracked her window. I’m thinking it’s a bit brisk for that while driving. My hands are cold on the wheel. I consider suggesting a roll-up. But when I look over again a few minutes later, she seems to be thoroughly enjoying it, and I resist.
Her breathing has changed; it has slowed. Her head is resting back and to the right. Her eyes might be closed again. The gap is small enough that no rain is getting in, but large enough for the wind to rush in and swirl her thin white hair into disarray. Strands are flailing in different directions, like each is an unmanned fireman’s hose.
4:02 p.m.
SO MANY OF the houses on her street, in her neighbourhood, have been renovated in the past few years. The area has become trendier, but the houses are too small and outdated for contemporary taste. People are buying for the location, gutting pre-existing homes and building their own, much larger structures. Driveways and garages are expanding; lawns are shrinking.
Grandma’s house is one of the few that remain intact. It was built just after the war. There’s no bulky addition on the back. She doesn’t even have a garage. If I lived here, all the (unnecessary) change in the neighbourhood would upset me. I would resent the shift in aesthetics and mentality. I would be discouraged. But Grandma is not me.
She doesn’t endorse these developments but, looking at her, I can tell she’s pleased to be back on her street. It’s still her street. She’s sitting up straighter, gazing out her window, down the street toward her house, the one she’s lived in for more than sixty years.
By today’s standard it’s a small, plain house. The kitchen and bathroom have never been remodelled. The dishes, the metal cutlery, pots, and pans are the same; so are the ornaments, books, framed photos and art, her coffee table, dining table, chairs, and cupboards. Her carpets are older than I am. For as long as I’ve known her she’s had a glass jar of caramels and candies on the counter. The piano in the living room (which Grandpa played) remains in the same spot it’s always been, just to the left of the front window.
“It looks like we’ve had lots of rain here, too,” she says, running her hand along the floor to retrieve her purse, setting it in her lap. “It will be a good summer for the garden, I bet.”
Of everything she’s experienced, her own accomplishments, the eras she’s lived through, it’s still her interest in others that fuels her. Her deep connection to family, friends, and acquaintances has dulled the attenuating effects of time and growing old. When they first moved to the house, in the early fifties, Grandma was in her thirties and the road was unpaved gravel. The ditches were freshly dug. She’s lived more than ten years without Grandpa and almost as many without Donald. Both died in their early eighties. She never imagined living this long without them.
She still thinks abo
ut Grandpa and Donald, but also, more distinctively, about people she continues to meet, or those she hears or reads about. It’s an energy typically reserved for youth. After all her shared years with Grandpa and her own exploits, she doesn’t dwell solely in memories. She remains impressed and irritated and upset and touched and interested by people in the present; they nourish her. It’s not just about maintaining equilibrium in a circle of close friends. It’s relationships, old and new, that enliven her, that remain her connection to the past but also her filter for the future. Her desire for new interactions isn’t rooted in politics or ideology or beliefs. It’s something I’m aware of only after seeing it for five days. Grandma continues to make brief, unselfish connections with individuals, every day, wherever she goes. What I initially perceived as negligible or incidental encounters I now understand to be intentionally sought and significant.
“By mid-June all these trees on each side of the road will almost touch overhead; some of them will touch. It’s almost like we get a temporary leaf canopy every year,” she says, “but only for the summer. It’s hard to remember when they weren’t this tall.”
Grandma didn’t go to university. She didn’t spend four years studying in libraries and great halls. She’s never sat in on a calculus class, literary theory course, or philosophy tutorial. She’s never waited after a lecture to talk with a professor about the specifics of a lesson.
I’m not sure I completely understand or even feel comfortable attempting to unravel it. I’ve been thinking about it on our drive: Grandma is profoundly smart.
