Introduction:

My Grandfather was born in England, and in his early 30s uprooted his wife & 3 young children to move across the wide ocean to Canada. He was a strong & determined man, a loving husband & father, and held a deep faith with God. In some ways he was a stern, no-nonsense man, and yet some of my strongest memories of him are his smile and his laughter. In the short time that I knew him he gave me precious gifts that in my childhood I was unaware of, but in my adult years have come to cherish. What follows is my tribute to him.

"What My Grandfather Gave Me"

To this day I still picture my Grandfather sitting in front of the window with his watercolours as he created works of nature on paper. Through his paintings I can still walk along country roads, sit by a trickling stream, or sail the ocean aboard a Clipper ship of old. I can revisit history in the form of horses pulling wagons, cabins in the woods, or visions of my home in it's early years. He told us of every day, every event, every moment in time that had shaped his life, and that of his parents before him. He gave me not only the talent that flows through my brush, but the love of nature and desire to capture it in paint; not only the wish to tell a story, but the longing to know more of the history that created me.

I grew up on the farm that my Grandfather cut out of the bush with his bare hands. He cleared every acre; cut every tree; pulled every stump; and carried supplies over rough trails on his back to build his new home. In 1915 he lost his house and everything he had put into it just 3 years earlier, to a chimney fire. A year later the Great Fire of 1916 blazed across Northeastern Ontario. He lost his barn, and watched as his days labours went up in smoke as the wagons of dry hay were consumed in flames. With nothing but his determination and a pail he saved his house, catching spark after spark as they landed, ending his day exhausted, covered in sweat and soot, but alive and not homeless! Afterwards many of the survivors packed up and left, but he would not be moved. He looked forward, and rebuilt, and years later would watch as his son farmed that very land. He gave me the will to forge ahead despite obstacles, the drive not to quit, and the wisdom to know that just because something is hard doesn't mean it's not worth doing!

Grandpa took his license in ministry in the Methodist Church in England. In his early years in Canada, he traveled by horse & buggy several miles to preach Sunday services where he was needed, while still holding down a weekday job. After moving north he held services in neighbourhood homes as each farmer took turns hosting the Sunday Worship, with him as their unofficial minister. His mother had equipped him with musical skills as well as his faith, and as a little girl I remember him playing both piano and organ, each song by memory. Many a day I listened to the sound of his deep & steady voice singing hymn after hymn, his eyes closed, his face lifted to the Lord. His Bible and his Hymn book were old, yellowed and well used, yet their contents could be found in his heart without ever lifting a cover. He gave me a rich faith and a deep love of music, and a lasting sense of awe at the combination of the two together!

In our barn Grandpa had made hanging ladders from heavy wires and poles. They hung freely from the rafters to the floor, and he was one of the few to have climbed them. Some of my sisters feared them, and even my Dad seldom used them as he was not that fond of heights. When I was about 5, Grandpa would tease the others by offering me a nickel for every time I climbed the ladders. He didn't have to ask me twice for me to be scrambling up to the very top! When Grandpa was in his 80s he had to have one leg removed. The city specialists began to prepare him for a life in a wheelchair, but Grandpa wanted an artificial leg. Again and again they insisted it would be a waste of time & money, that he was too old to learn how to use it. Our small town doctor disagreed. "You don't know THIS man!" He said. I remember my grandfather working his garden, and walking with me in the fields, using only his cane, and with barely a limp. He gave me the wisdom to know that no one can set limits for you but yourself, and that even your own limits can be exceeded if you have the will.

Grandpa had a giving spirit. Of the hundreds of paintings he did over the years, not one was sold, but many went to homes around the province, such as those given to hospital nurses as a thank you for their care. If he offered his services for pay, he expected to be paid, but when his intent was to volunteer, he wanted nothing. If a farmer needed help to build or rebuild, he offered his strength and stamina. If anyone was in need he provided what he could, wanting little in return but a smile, or a thank you, or perhaps a good meal. His reward was in the doing, in the giving. He gave me not only the knowledge that giving and helping should be second nature, but also that other than parenting, being a friend is one of the most important jobs you can do!

He gave me these things as small seeds planted in my soul, which I unknowingly harboured there. Over the years they have grown, and I am glad I have found the wisdom to recognize them!

I was 10 when my Grandfather died at the age of 92, a strong and healthy and still very wise man. He died in his bed, in our home, early one Monday morning before any of us were awake. The evening before, my sister and I had sat with him as we watched Ed Sullivan, Grandpa's deep laughter ringing out as we enjoyed our evening together. It is the last sound I remember of him, a sound that I will never forget, a memory of a man that has touched my heart and soul forever, who in such a few short years was able to give me enough to last a lifetime.

Awarded by Flowing Quills