I picked up a CD this week in a fit of nostalgia. Anne Murray, the great Canadian songstress of the 70s in particular, has just released a “greatest hits” of duets with current artists. It’s full of her signature songs like “Danny’s Song”, “Snowbird” and others. It’s a great CD and so Anne and I have been singing all morning together while I chore around for Thanksgiving.
But here’s the reason I bought it: Anne Murray is one of my most vivid memories of my maternal grandpa. His nickname was Hoot. He loved Anne Murray and had all of her records. I remember looking at the album covers when we visited their home in White Sands just outside of Regina. He just thought she was the last word in talent.
So I shed a few tears this morning, remembering my grandfather.
He died when he was just 60 years old (I was 11) from cancer brought on by a lifetime of hard living. He was an incredibly complex man that battled alcoholism and dragged his family into some dark years. But I don’t remember that side of him as he had more or less (sometimes more, sometimes less) sobered up by the time we were around. I remember his voice, gravelly with cigarettes and age. I remember his chair where he sat while we were over and he offered us black licorice candies. I remember the smell of rum and coke. I remember that he always wore brown polyester pants – never shorts – even if it was over 40 degrees. I remember his black hair always being styled. I remember that I thought he was devestatingly handsome. I remember Anne Murray. I remember having an early consciousness of how deeply he believed in God and how his faith ran through him like wine through water. I remember how tenderly he watched his grandchildren play. I remember that my Dad was one of the few people that could yank his chain and make him laugh so hard, he’d nearly cry. I remember one year, for my birthday, he sat on the floor and played an entire round of a cabbage patch kids game with me while I wore my Brownies uniform. I remember his inexplicable ability to communicate his love and care to his family even when it was hard to articulate. I remember him being terribly indignant with his brothers, Gus and Norm, when they came over once with a hat that read ”Old Fart” because he thought it was uncouth to wear in front of his grandkids. I remember one of the last days of his life when he, gaunt with cancer and ravaged by disease, pulled his oxygen tank into his old truck and asked my Dad to drive him around one last time because he just loved being on the road.
He died far too young.
So I’m listening today to Anne and thanking God for Hoot. Despite the fact that I only knew him through a child’s eyes, I learned something so valuable from him. I look back on it now and I can see a miracle. Despite his illness and his demons, his kids, at the end of his life, gathered around him in love and forgiveness. There was no bitterness or hard hearts. It showed me the tremendous capacity that we, as human beings, have to love and be loved, forgive and be forgiven. Despite the hard years and the poor decisions, his children knew how desperately he loved them and they, in turn, desperately loved him.
