Grandpa Mac, Woofer and Dad, circa 1979
I Miss My Grandpa
And I always will.
It has been six years today since we lost my Grandpa Mac to evil, evil cancer. If I had to lay bets, I would have guessed that he’d be the last of my grandparents to go, but life is one crazy mixed up mother-so-and-so.
To me, Grandpa Mac was incredible. He’d arrive in the summer with fishing and canning and berries and jam in his wake. He made root beer. He competed in the BC Summer games and let me and my cousin make bullets in his creepy laundry room. He took me bowling and on long hikes and let me pick stuff from his garden. He introduced me to the wonder that is beets. He taught me how to play crib and Scrabble and crokinole. He offered porridge, but always made me pancakes.
He taught me how to Nordic ski, tried in vain to teach me downhill and let me drive his truck when I shouldn’t have. He had the sweetest orange snowmobile and I loved to watch him tow my Dad behind it. He showed me mica and skat and how to be easy-going when everyone around you is just the opposite (not that I’ve mastered that skill, by any means).
He made me feel athletic when everyone else around me made me feel fat. He made me feel listened to when I really just thought I was a nuisance.
He made me feel better about losing my cat. He taught my oldest son how to walk. He never thought he’d see a great-grandchild and he held two.
He is the only person in my entire existence that I ever spent an extended amount of time with and NEVER had a disagreement with. I’m not sure what that says about me, but it speaks volumes for him.
I love my Grandpa Mac. No one in the world is perfect, but I am thankful I’ve been allowed to idolize him as such.
Cheers, Grandpa Mac. You are thought of everyday.
