Like a summer with 1,000 Julys

EMC Editorial - My grandfather never made it to New York - a fact that probably seems irrelevant to those who didn't know him well. To those of us who had the good fortune to spend hours, days, and years in his company, though - rocking on the rusty old front porch swing at the cottage, cold drinks in hand, soft St. Lawrence breezes blowing as we tapped our bare feet to the perfectly-pitched tones of that classic crooner with whom Gramps shared a first name - to us, the fact that he never made it to that mythic city seems nothing short of ironic.

Sometimes Gramps would sing along to his favourite songs, and sometimes he would blare them so loudly you'd swear all of Howe Island could hear echoes of My Way, What a Wonderful World and New York, New York.

I have been to New York three times in my life, yet to this day whenever I read or hear about the city I think first about Gramps. Maybe it's because it was the hometown of his own father that Gramps always seemed to embody the glamorous spirit of the New York, or maybe it's because my impression of the city will forever be influenced by childhood memories of my family's cottage and the music that was played there.

I think I will always miss Gramps the most in the summertime - not just because he passed away earlier this month, and not necessarily because the summer serves as a canvass for the majority of my most treasured memories, for which a fair portion of the credit goes to my grandparents.

As a person, Gramps always reminded me of my favourite season for his calm, constant optimism, and for his faith that every situation and every person was full of the best sort of potential. He was always down for a good time, and not once did I ever hear Gramps criticize another person. To him, everyone deserved the benefit of the doubt and a second chance, no matter how monumental their failures. Don't get me wrong, Gramps could be impatient at times, but time wasted commenting on others' stupid decisions or social inadequacies behind their backs was time that could be spent helping them get back on their feet, or at least doing something productive in one's own life.

Certainly, Gramps was happiest when he had some sort of project on the go. I will forever remember him puttering around the cottage, renovating the kitchen, building the back deck or fixing the pump, always with music playing in the background.

I recall one time, when I was about five or six years old, lying awake in bed one evening at the cottage - an insomniac, even as a child. The teenagers who lived a few cottages down were having a pool party, and their rollicking fun was interfering with my ability to sleep. I padded out to the family room to tell Gramps of my troubles.

"Try to hear what they're saying," he told me.

Words to live by indeed. And it must have worked, because I don't remember trying to get to sleep anymore after that.

I don't think I fully realized until just a couple of years ago how profoundly Gramps influenced the way I view the world - even if I often fall very short of living up to his example. His shadow hangs over most all of the interactions I have with others - be they casual acquaintances or my dearest friends and family members. Most of all, he showed me that I don't need to travel to New York, or even to Howe Island, to experience the best of what life has to offer.