September 2010 Issue 102

This is the second of a  two-part series by John Merchant as he reflects upon going walking with his grandfathers, a long time ago.

My maternal grandfather, like my father’s father, was also William, but known as Bill. He, too, was a force for good in my life.

He was younger than William by quite a few years, and still working at the local steel mill when I was a child. Like William, he also had a strong sense of humor, but with a ring of irony, even of bitterness.  Had the Communist Party been active in the area, I’m sure he would have been first in line to join.

His bitterness and anger were fueled by his experiences, and by the way he’d suffered at the hands of his employers.  Often “Locked out” from the mill when business was bad, he knew the shame of the soup kitchens and the inability to support his family. His health was being destroyed by the working conditions he endured, and there were no unions to intervene.

It was reasonable to think that his life had hardened him, but just as I had bonded intuitively with William, so I did with Bill, drawn to an inner tenderness.  His anger never frightened me, as did my father’s, and I came to an awareness of his fondness and aspirations for me.

As I grew older he expressed concerns for my welfare that I have never forgotten.  When it came time for me to buy my first house, though he had never owned one and had only meager savings, he loaned me the deposit without being asked.

My relationship with Bill had a breadth that I didn’t experience with my mother’s father. Bill had an allotment that he rented; a patch of land away from his house. My walks with him were to the allotment, over a canal, accompanied by Floss, his Wire Haired Terrier.  She was a spare and feisty, no nonsense dog, just like her master. I think she meant more to him than anyone.

Often on our walks we encountered a canal barge waiting for the lock.  This drew Bill like magnet, and pretty soon he would be in conversation with the bargee, striking an immediate relationship such that you could easily believe he’d known the man forever.

Though I never knew for sure, I think he felt the call of the sea. Every year he took a week’s vacation on his own, and though none of us knew the truth, rumor had it that he worked on one of the fishing trawlers in nearby Grimsby.

When we arrived at the allotment, he would stoke the peat stove that warmed the greenhouse, and clean out the ash.  Next he’d tend his tomato plants, or the wonderful giant Chrysanthemums and delicate Carnations that he grew later in the season. Meanwhile I’d harvest whatever was ready to pick from the cucumber vines, or peas or lettuce.  Before we returned to his house he’d spend chat to any other gardeners that were around, comparing notes on plant varieties, pests or harvests.

Aside from his dog and the allotment, he was fascinated with the movies, and for some reason only went when he could take me. Perhaps it was that we were both Charlie Chaplin fans. I remember laughing until I ached at The Gold Rush, Modern Times and the Great Dictator, none of which I would have seen if he had not taken me.

Unlike William, who died when I was eleven, I had the pleasure and good fortune to know Bill through my early adulthood. I came to respect his indomitable spirit through catastrophic illness, and grew to understand that he had intelligence far beyond what his limited education had allowed him to express.

He continued to walk every day, except when he was too ill, but by now I was working and couldn’t accompany him. When he talked about the places he had walked to, I was always amazed. His trips weren’t simply a turn around the block.  With an apple and some cheese in his pocket, he’d catch a bus to the other side of town, and then walk several miles. His accounts invariably included a conversation he’d had with someone along the way. He retained his inquiring mind until he died.

He was a good companion to me, and a source of inspiration, but as was true of William, in retrospect I knew so little about him.  I don’t know if his past was too painful to recall, or whether the generation he and William shared didn’t indulge in reminiscence.

Perhaps they considered their lives to be of little consequence, and not worth the telling, but you couldn’t convince me of that.

© John Merchant 2009

This entry was posted by John Merchant on Monday, February 1st, 2010 at 12:00 am and is filed under Reflection. You can be notified of any comments on this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment in the box at the bottom of the post.

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