tall with hair almost as white as the afternoon’s gulls and eyes like the sea over which they flew. She wears a long black dress with a blue checkered apron over it and lifts me off my feet in powerful hands so that I can kiss her and look into her eyes. She smells of soap and water and hot rolls and asks me how I like living in Montreal. I have never lived anywhere else so I say I guess it is all right.
My grandfather is short and stocky with heavy arms and very big hands. He has brown eyes and his once-red hair is almost all white now except for his eyebrows and the hair of his nostrils. He has a white moustache which reminds me of the walrus picture at school and the bottom of it is stained brown by the tobacco that he is chewing even now and spitting the juice into a coal scuttle which he keeps beside his chair. He is wearing a blue plaid shirt and brown trousers supported by heavy suspenders. He too lifts me up although he does not kiss me, and he smells of soap and water and tobacco and leather. He asks me if I saw any girls that I liked on the train. I say “No,” and he laughs and lowers me to the floor.
And now it is later and the conversation has died down and the people have gradually filtered out into the night until there are just the three of us, and my grandparents, and after a while my grandmother and my mother go upstairs to finalize the sleeping arrangements. My grandfather puts rum and hot water and sugar into two glasses and gives one to my father and then allows me to sit on his lap even though I am ten, and gives mesips from his glass. He is very different from Grandpa Gilbert in Montreal who wears white shirts and dark suits with a vest and a gold watch-chain across the front.
“You have been a long time coming home,” he says to my father. “If you had come through that door as often as I’ve thought of you, I’d’ve replaced the hinges a good many times.”
“I know, I’ve tried, I’ve wanted to, but it’s different in Montreal, you know.”
“Yes, I guess so. I just never figured it would be like this. It seems so far away and we get old so quickly and a man always feels a certain way about his oldest son. I guess in some ways it is a good thing that we do not all go to school. I could never see myself being owned by my woman’s family.”
“Please don’t start that already,” says my father a little angrily. “I am not owned by anybody and you know it. I am a lawyer and I am in partnership with another lawyer who just happens to be my father-in-law. That’s all.”
“Yes, that’s all,” says my grandfather and gives me another sip from his glass. “Well, to change the subject, is this the only one you have after being married eleven years?”
My father is now red-faced like he was when we heard the young man singing. He says heatedly, “You know you’re not changing the subject at all. I know what you’re getting at. I know what you mean.”
“Do you?” asks my grandfather quietly. “I thought perhaps that was different in Montreal too.”
The two women come downstairs just as I am having another sip from the glass. “Oh, Angus, what can you be thinking of?” screams my mother rushing protectively toward me.
“Mary, please!” says my father almost desperately, “there’s nothing wrong.”
My grandfather gets up very rapidly, sets me on the chair he has just vacated, drains the controversial glass, rinses it in the sink and says, “Well, time for the working class to be in bed. Good night all.” He goes up the stairs walking very heavily and we can hear his boots as he thumps them on the floor.
“I’ll put him to bed, Mary,” says my father nodding toward me. “I know where he sleeps. Why don’t you go to bed now? You’re tired.”
“Yes, all right,” says my mother very gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. Good night.” She kisses me and also my grandmother and her footsteps fade quietly up the stairs.
“I’m
My grandfather is short and stocky with heavy arms and very big hands. He has brown eyes and his once-red hair is almost all white now except for his eyebrows and the hair of his nostrils. He has a white moustache which reminds me of the walrus picture at school and the bottom of it is stained brown by the tobacco that he is chewing even now and spitting the juice into a coal scuttle which he keeps beside his chair. He is wearing a blue plaid shirt and brown trousers supported by heavy suspenders. He too lifts me up although he does not kiss me, and he smells of soap and water and tobacco and leather. He asks me if I saw any girls that I liked on the train. I say “No,” and he laughs and lowers me to the floor.
And now it is later and the conversation has died down and the people have gradually filtered out into the night until there are just the three of us, and my grandparents, and after a while my grandmother and my mother go upstairs to finalize the sleeping arrangements. My grandfather puts rum and hot water and sugar into two glasses and gives one to my father and then allows me to sit on his lap even though I am ten, and gives mesips from his glass. He is very different from Grandpa Gilbert in Montreal who wears white shirts and dark suits with a vest and a gold watch-chain across the front.
“You have been a long time coming home,” he says to my father. “If you had come through that door as often as I’ve thought of you, I’d’ve replaced the hinges a good many times.”
“I know, I’ve tried, I’ve wanted to, but it’s different in Montreal, you know.”
“Yes, I guess so. I just never figured it would be like this. It seems so far away and we get old so quickly and a man always feels a certain way about his oldest son. I guess in some ways it is a good thing that we do not all go to school. I could never see myself being owned by my woman’s family.”
“Please don’t start that already,” says my father a little angrily. “I am not owned by anybody and you know it. I am a lawyer and I am in partnership with another lawyer who just happens to be my father-in-law. That’s all.”
“Yes, that’s all,” says my grandfather and gives me another sip from his glass. “Well, to change the subject, is this the only one you have after being married eleven years?”
My father is now red-faced like he was when we heard the young man singing. He says heatedly, “You know you’re not changing the subject at all. I know what you’re getting at. I know what you mean.”
“Do you?” asks my grandfather quietly. “I thought perhaps that was different in Montreal too.”
The two women come downstairs just as I am having another sip from the glass. “Oh, Angus, what can you be thinking of?” screams my mother rushing protectively toward me.
“Mary, please!” says my father almost desperately, “there’s nothing wrong.”
My grandfather gets up very rapidly, sets me on the chair he has just vacated, drains the controversial glass, rinses it in the sink and says, “Well, time for the working class to be in bed. Good night all.” He goes up the stairs walking very heavily and we can hear his boots as he thumps them on the floor.
“I’ll put him to bed, Mary,” says my father nodding toward me. “I know where he sleeps. Why don’t you go to bed now? You’re tired.”
“Yes, all right,” says my mother very gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. Good night.” She kisses me and also my grandmother and her footsteps fade quietly up the stairs.
“I’m
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