A day for remembrance

My paternal grandparents are getting on in years. I guess grandparents get on in years by definition. They're supposed to be old, wise, and potentially wary of the world. Living for eight or nine decades typically does this to a person (or so I assume... maybe even in a somewhat naive, Hollywood sort of way). It makes them stubborn and opinionated and sometimes impossible to deal with, but they also cherish many simple things that people often forget. Not even all the time, but at least some of the time.

I have a lot of memories in their house. Little has changed since I was a kid... the pictures on the cupboards in the dining room feature all the grandkids and (now) great-grandkids and family portraits from the years. The strange bison statue still sits on their family room coffee table, and to this day, a number of kids books line a small shelf between the living and dining room. The Louis L'Amour books still cover a shelf in the living room (my grandfather absolutely loves the old westerns and has read each a number of times), and living room in the basement is still adorned with the heads of whitetail and mule deer, as well as other trophy horns and a gaggle of stuff pheasants. A table in this same room is covered with fly-tying equipment, an old hobby of my grandfather's which my father still does today. My grandma always has stacks of Slovene magazines sitting near "her chair" in the living room. The garage still has an ancient Singer sewing machine that can sew through pretty much anything, including leather, as well as a pedal-driven grinding wheel and a host of fishing rods, reels and nets. The sewing machine is my grandfather's... he worked as a furniture upholsterer and a cobbler in town once he was able to afford his shop after moving over to Canada. The outside of the house is still covered in the same terrible stucco that I'm almost positive is made partially out of recycled glass beer and pop bottles.

My grandparents arrived in Canada in the early fifties. Surviving the war in Slovenia, including an intense occupation by both the Nazis and the Italians (it's a border country with Italy, Austria, Hungary, and Croatia) as well as a reorganized (and highly messy) communist leadership following WWII, they were able to flee to Canada a few years after the war.

I think back to their house because of the stories. I would sit for hours at my grandma's table, listening to her stories about the "old country". Some were sad, some were happy. Others were simply memories. My grandfather, though, only ever told stories of Canada. He would talk about first moving here, the jobs he worked, and his memories of the grandkids as they grew up. He loved to tell fishing stories and stories of his hunting trips that he and my dad or he and some friends took. To this day, he says that "fishing saved my life". He was battling some severe gastro-intestinal problems when he was trying to raise his family and keep a roof over their heads. He said his stomach was always "flipping over" and turning on itself. One day, while visiting the doctor's office, the doctor asked him what he did to relax. Dumbfounded, he asked the doctor what he meant. The doctor repeated the question, explaining that he needed to find some way to relax if he was going to live to a reasonable age (the stomach issues were stress related). So, the doctor suggested he go fishing. My grandfather, at that point, had never been fishing... he never had the time, and it sounded like a silly thing to spend time doing. The doctor replied that he should try it out, and that they should go together.

That was nearly 50 years ago.

In retrospect, it seems a bit funny... that he would find a lifelong passion because he was really stressed out. He became an active member of the fish and game (I think he pretty much ran it at one point), raised two sons who are both avid outdoorsmen, and even taught the Outdoor Ed. at the local high school for a number of years. My dad gets out fishing every opportunity he can, and I know my uncle loves shooting black powder and still hunts with his boys. My brother and I grew up fishing with him in the canal near his house, and shooting archery with him and my dad at the range in Picture Butte (which used to house the curling rink). We would go spot deer with him on weekends, and he would always take us into the garage and pick out a fishing rod for each of us when we were kids. My brother and I used to go peel potatoes at a local hall for the annual Fish & Game dinners where we would eat like kings. He would spoil us with Scotch Mints and wafer cookies and anything grandma had stashed in the house.

Even though my grandma was never an outdoorsy person like my grandpa, I can always remember her cooking up peliczinkas (again, pardon the spelling... crepe-like creations from the old country), cabbage rolls, perogies and pork and deer cutlets. The smell of her super-buttery mashed potatoes always put a smile on my face. We used to fight to the death for her butterhorns that she used to bake, too. We always had big family dinners out there during holidays. My dad and my brother and I still fight over the buterrhorns whenever she makes them. We'd play cards at the dining room table and tell stories about whatever came to mind. Grandma still has one foot dangling in Slovenia, and misses it terribly, even though she hasn't been in over 20 years. But she tells stories about it like it was yesterday... it's one of those things that I'll never mind hearing.

I think about these things mainly because I'm glad I have a chance to hear these stories and recall these memories. It's the blessing of grandparents and grandchildren I guess... you're able to experience all the good things, and let go of the less-good things. Grandparents never had to scold us, and even though they are stubborn and can be full of faults and imperfections and negative traits just like any other person, the blessings come in the fact that we can ignore these things, because all we ever experienced were the positives. And the memories. And can root ourselves in their history.

This was one of the main reasons I traveled to Europe... to get in touch with these roots. These roots on my dad's side and my Irish roots on my mother's side. In these things, I feel as though I find myself. I know it's a cliche, but often times "you can never really find yourself until you know where you've been"...

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