Ben Kinzett shares impressions of his grandfather: sight, sound, scent, and the abiding sense of one man’s place at the pinnacle of Ben’s family pantheon.
—
My earliest memory is of peeking, cleverly hidden, into the bathroom of my grandpa’s Muskoka island cottage, watching the then fiftysomething man of the house shave with an old fashioned straight razor—brush, cream, and all.
His meticulous patience was fascinating. The way he lined up the blade, touched, and carefully dragged the edge through fluffy white cream that I was certain must be delicious.
|
His meticulous patience was fascinating. The way he lined up the blade, touched, and carefully dragged the edge through fluffy white cream that I was certain must be delicious. His pretending-not-to-see-me smile was extra confusing. I could not fathom why he was doing what he was doing, but I loved watching him do it.
I don’t think I ever mentioned that moment to him, or he to me, in the following years. Oddly, I can’t remember any conversation between us with any clarity. My memories of him are of impressions: sight, sound, scent, and the abiding sense of his place at the pinnacle of our family pantheon.
By the time I was old enough to really come out of the quiet, shy shell that marked my childhood and adolescence, my grandfather had begun to slip into dementia. I regret that my introversion very likely carried a cost, in terms of our verbal communication, but there was still a great deal to be said with silence, and even as he slipped away, he retained a powerful influence on everyone around him.
We found her with her white cloud of hair on a pillow in front of the great window overlooking the garden my grandfather kept, weeping quietly.
|
When we had to put him in a nursing home, we had been bracing ourselves for it for quite some time, but it was my Nana, his wife of fifty years, who expressed our thoughts the most purely. I went to check on her with my mom the next day. We found her with her white cloud of hair on a pillow in front of the great window overlooking the garden my grandfather kept, weeping quietly.
All she said when we went to comfort her was, “I miss my husband.”
I find it so easy to feel powerless these days. If you don’t have five thousand followers on Twitter, the natural reaction is to feel mute, without any influence on those around you, let alone the world. But I have to remind myself that one good man can change everything for those close by with sheer strength of character.
Unfortunately, as often seems to be the case, it took a funeral for me to appreciate that.
One way or another, I fell into the role of the family rock. People came to me for support, advice, and a shoulder. It just happened, and I’ve embraced it.
But twice I broke down at my grandpa’s funeral.
It was a small service. Family only. His ashes lay in a startlingly small box at the front of the church. The whole extended family occupied the pews. I sat next to my brother while my mother and her four siblings stood at the front in white dress shirts and black pants.
One by one they traded anecdotes and idiosyncrasies about grandpa, calling him by his other names—“Dad,” and “Eric.” Some of the anecdotes were funny, others touching. All of them were true.
My uncle, whom I admire greatly, has achieved and overcome more hardships than I could list and has been the rock of his own generation as I have been for mine. He has been a great athlete all his life with a real passion for tennis.
When it came to my uncle to speak, he said only “He loved tennis.” His voice broke as he said it and he turned away from the crowd of understanding family. I understood the connection those three words had carried between him and his father, and I broke down too. At that moment, the loss was too much to bear.
When I regained my composure, I hugged my brother and looked around to see how everyone else was holding up.
I spotted a recent addition to my family, my cousin’s husband. He was a red mess of tears. I remember my surprise and honest confusion. He had only been part of the family a couple years, and had never known my grandpa in any lucid state. I just did not understand how someone could have been so affected by the loss of a man he had never actually known, no matter how funny he had been in his addled state.
After the service, I found him, gave him a hug, and asked about it.
More than that, he saw the beneficent effect my grandfather had on his family.
|
In his good French-Canadian English, he explained without reservation that his father had never been there for him. He told me about his own troubled youth, and how he sees our huge family mourning for their passed patriarch, and how wonderful that was to him. More than that, he saw the beneficent effect my grandfather had on his family.
With his own first-born on the way, he said, he was terrified of being like his own father, and wanted to do everything he could to emulate grandpa instead.
I told him I had no doubt that he would.
My grandpa wasn’t a famous man. He wasn’t financially wealthy. He wasn’t a talker.
But he was great. He was rich in love—a listener. He worked hard for his family. He cared about presentation. He used tons of salt. He fished, gardened, and adored the Toronto Blue Jays.
He loved tennis. And somewhere, each of those things has been imprinted on the family.
Who bothers shaving at the cottage? Well, someone who likes to look good for his family, and for his wife.
|
Who bothers shaving at the cottage? Well, someone who likes to look good for his family, and for his wife.
So, here I am, close-shaved on my day off, writing an essay in which no one will see my face.
There’s my aunt, with the most luscious and colourful garden in the northern hemisphere.
My brother, who despite all the strikes against them, still loves the Blue Jays.
My cousin-in-law, who continues to be the most supportive, loving father to his kids.
My uncle, who will continue to play tennis till the end of his days.
I once told my own father about a day we shared, something he said, that had really impacted me was a turning point in who I became.
“I don’t even remember that,” he said, honestly bemused. “I had no idea.”
“How could you not remember? That was one of the biggest points in my life!”
He laughed. “How are we supposed to know when something is going to impact our kids? We don’t decide what you’re going to actually listen to.”
—
Photo by Caroline
A really nice tribute to a great man. Thanks for the reminder. I recall one time when your Grandpa returned from fly-fishing in the Alberta foothills and said, “I didn’t catch anything, but I was an artist.” And that’s the truth. He was also extraordinarily knowledgeable on a vast array of subjects. I recall seeing him at the bottom of the stairs in their Richmond Hill home about to go up to bed with a big stack of books in his arms and a contented smile on his face. I also recall a time when he discussed what seemed to… Read more »
What a lovely piece of writing. So evocative and poignant without the least bit of sentimentality. The mark of a very fine writer indeed!
Perfectly captured moments… I very much look forward to reading a great deal more from Ben.