Background

When I was born, my name was Randolph Edouard Paulin. My birth father’s name was Edouard Paulin, so it is quite obvious where I got most of my name. But I didn’t know that was my birth name until I was 13. It was the same time that I was told I had a different birth father, whom I did not know.

Finding this out answered some questions. Most of the Bassett family never treated me any differently than my other cousins and relatives, but a few did. My step-father’s mother, whom I am particularly careful not to call my grandmother, did treat me differently. Even as a young boy and up to the time she died I could see and feel it. For instance, in her later years, I recall her giving a Christmas card with $5 in it to my sister. I did not even get a card. I know how minor it seems through my adult lenses, but as a young boy, it crushed me. It wasn’t the $5. It was the lack of acknowledgment or caring that I was even there.

It’s amazing how much a seemingly small event can brand a young person. Other things also happened, but the news that I wasn’t a blood Bassett did shed light as to why they happened.

New Questions

Yet finding out I had a different birth father also raised many questions. What did he look like? Do I have other brothers or sisters? What was he like? Where does he live? Will I ever meet him? Does he want to meet me? It would take decades before these were answered.

But one question that never bothered me was why he left when I was 2 years old. It even surprises me how little I care why he left – but even that line is unfair. I don’t even want to assume he left – I always thought my parents split up without casting blame anywhere. There were other people, circumstances and events going on at that time. It was the early 1960’s and my parents were young, roughly 20 years old. People change more at a younger age – emotionally and psychologically.

Why my parents parted never concerned me when I first found out about him, and it still doesn’t nearly 50 years later. I know that type of question can haunt some people in my situation and it can take a long time to come to grips with it, yet it was never a fleeting thought to me. I have even tried to dig deep within me, to see if there is a buried emotional cord waiting to be struck around this question – but I have never found such a pocket within me. I am at complete peace not assigning blame to either parent.

Wrong Time

To say my path through my teen years was rocky would be an extreme understatement. I was laying the groundwork for the following decade or more – alcoholism and other addictions. I was crafting the ability to hide behaviours and feelings. I was functional as an alcoholic for many years, but I was still drinking an average of at least 12 beers daily. But I was masking the fiery feelings burning inside me, maybe hoping the next beer could dowse the flames.

Although I have come to peace with my late step-father, George Bassett, (even thanking him for indirectly contributing to who I am now), I hated the son-of-a-bitch in my 20s. His emotional grip on me was draining, nearly debilitating. As much as I screamed “fuck you” to him in my head, I couldn’t shake it. George was so insecure that he dropped my middle name when he adopted me – the name I shared with my natural father.

In my mid-20’s, I started to consider changing my name back to my birth name. I felt that by changing it, I could loosen his grip on me. He didn’t deserve to have me or anyone carry on the name for him.

But then I also realized that he was not the only Bassett around. He might have had the deepest hooks in me but was not the only family member to consider. No one else in the family treated me any differently – cousins, aunts and uncles. I was always an equal part of the family in their eyes. Also, I highly adored my late Uncle John – a wonderful man in so many ways. I could not insult him or any other Bassett in my family by changing my name. So I decided to leave it – the time was not right.

New Answers

Over the years I often wondered about my birth father and his family. I would look up “Edward Paulin” on the Internet and get nowhere. I did this many times with the same outcome. But then in May 2021, through the help of an online service (23 and me), I was to connect with a cousin I never knew. I eventually connected with her mom (my aunt) and many cousins. Then through a lucky Facebook search, I connected with 2 brothers and a sister (although they are technically half-siblings, the “half” part is meaningless to me – they are my siblings!). The details of these discoveries will be a topic for a future blog entry…

Through the wonders of technology, I finally found my missing family. Without exception, everyone I connected with through messenger or talked to on the phone has been very warm and welcoming. They have embraced me and I have happily embraced them as well. Each conversation has flowed so gently and easily. I have had discussions with my brothers, which fill me up with excitement every time. I have been in daily contact with my sister Suzanne. We just met, but it feels like I have known her all my life – the spirit is not bound by time.

Sadly, I found out that my father passed away in 1977 through an unfortunate accident. Suzanne and a couple of cousins have given me some details of that fateful night. But there were 37 years of life he experienced before that night. From the accounts of many people, “Uncle Eddy” was a good man. He cared about others and it showed. I have seen pictures of that I never saw before – a handsome man with a wonderful smile.

I know more questions and answers will follow, but from what I know now, I have the blood of some fabulous people pulsing through my veins.

The Right Time

Over 40 years later, the idea of changing my name has come back to me. But this time I am not running from someone or something. This time I want to embrace fully who I am. I am a Bassett and I am proud to be so. I have done my little bit to bring some respect to the name and I want my son to hold it high.

Yet I am also a Paulin and given the exceptional reception from all members of my new-found family, I am happy to have that name as well.

I have decided to change my name. Currently, my name is Randolph Bassett. My new name will be Randolph Édouard Paulin Bassett. This keeps Bassett as my last name but brings my natural father’s complete name into mine. The change pays deserved respect to him and his family – and it more completely reflects who I am.

It’s in the Mail

It is no longer simply a decision to change my name. I sent out the application a couple of days ago. I will wait patiently now for the revised birth certificate to arrive in the mail with the new name

“Hello, I’d like to introduce myself.

My name is Randolph Édouard Paulin Bassett.

And I am very pleased to meet you.”

The post Changing My Name appeared first on Randy Bassett.

For me there were a couple of times in my youth when someone, sometimes unwittingly, played a father figure to me. Those moments provided periods of much-needed respite from the emotional storms within.

Mr. Lowry was one of those people.

Big Brothers

I connected with Big Brothers when I was 12 or 13.

I don’t really recall how I first set up with them, but knowing how I was, I am sure I just went to their office or called them to get things rolling. I also don’t recall the details of the application, but I do recall the waiting period – the time taken to find a match.

I am not sure of the norms now, but then it could take 6 months or so to find a big/little brother match. This was the waiting period for the little brothers because there were more little brothers on the list than there were big brothers applying. The big brothers that applied had much shorter time. In my early 20s, I was a big brother and it took less than a couple of months to connect with a little guy.

Because of my age, it took longer for them to find me a big brother. It seemed that most big brothers wanted younger kids to connect with. Maybe people thought that kids my age weren’t as cute as the younger ones or maybe they thought we might have more baggage to deal with. I was too young to bother analyzing the sociology of it all – plus I didn’t mind the wait.

The Coach House

During my waiting time I would meet weekly with a social worker at the Big Brother office. In the early 1970’s, the Big Brother office was located on Victoria Street, just south of Main. The main building was an old house, nicely carved out inside to a warm web of rooms converted to offices. Tucked in behind this old building was a small building called “The Coach House”.

This little building was easy to miss if you drove past the Big Brother main office. It was in the shadows of the bigger building and its outer decor made in blend in like a brick chameleon, but this room became so important to me that I always looked for it whenever I passed by – even years later.

The exterior bricks of the building were painted gray. It was a simple one-story building with no basement and only three rooms. Two rooms were off to the left and they were small – one being used as a tiny meeting room, the other a storage room. The main room took over 80% of the space in the building. There were a few seats against the walls of this room, but its main features were the pool table and the ping-pong table.

The Coach House was one of my favourite places to hang out. This was where Mr. Lowry and where we spent most of our time.

Meet Mr. Lowry

I am not really sure if he was a social worker, an intake worker or what his title was, but to me he was simply Mr. Lowry. It didn’t really matter to me what his title was (for this blog, I’ll just assume he was a social worker). What did matter was his impact on me.

I cannot recall what his first name was. I likely saw it on some name plate or piece of paper, but I never called him by his first name. He was always “Mr. Lowry” to me.

Mr. Lowry and I met at the Coach House on a weekly basis. We would battle it out over a game of pool or ping-pong and then spend some time just hanging out and chatting.

He Had a Plan

Little did I realize that Mr. Lowry was using this time to get to know me better. There was no Freudian analysis with me on a couch and him scribbling notes and saying “hmm, tell me more” as I rattled on about the goldfish I lost when I was 7. No, he was effectively sneakier than that.

He spent the time letting me be a boy and showing me he genuinely cared. Through games, laughter and warm smile, he quickly gained my trust.

He must have also recognized that I needed that time because we met for a lot longer time than necessary to get to know me. We met weekly for nearly a year without fail. It didn’t stop until I was eventually connected with a big brother.

The Impact

When a father leaves a family, it can create a hole inside the children left behind. When my stepfather left, that hole expanded. Owing to the physical abuse and emotional neglect, a hole had already started, but it grew when he left. The continued pattern of his fatherhood whenever he stopped by only served to turn that hole into a flaming cavity.

I spent years trying to douse the flames and fill the cavity, but occasionally someone would come along that was able to throw a cover over that hole. Often it was temporary, but it would provide a much needed period of respite from the internal storm.

Mr. Lowry gave me that period of respite. He was filling the father void within me, even if it was only for a brief time. Although I couldn’t label the feelings then, he made me feel like I mattered and that somebody cared. I loved every minute spent in that Coach House with Mr. Lowry. Without recognizing it then, I loved Mr. Lowry too.

Thank You

Eventually they found a big brother for me: Ken W. Soon after being introduced to Ken it was no longer necessary for me to meet at the Coach House. I never saw Mr. Lowry after that. I tried to track him down many years later to give him a simple message.

I discovered he passed away, so I will say my simple message now:

Dear Mr. Lowry,

You showed me that we should never under-estimate the enduring impact we may have on people.

You made a difference by giving me a time of rest from my inner fires. You helped me see that a father’s hands are better spent holding a boy’s heart. You also gave me a brief glimpse of hope.

Thank you, Mr. Lowry.

Love, Randy

The post Emotional Respite appeared first on Randy Bassett.

Music has gone through a wild ride in my lifetime. From the mix of folk and rock in my early years to the choice of disco or punk rock in my late teens. Admittedly, I am out of touch with the newer music now because I still enjoy filling my speakers with the music that filled me years ago.

Music has changed so much over the years, but so has the delivery. I am much too young to have owned any 78s, but I have listened to Elton John on records, 8 track tapes, cassettes, CD’s and mp3’s. I also had a collection of 45s that I thoroughly over-played. Sometimes I could only get singles on 45s – they didn’t come out on an album. Other times, I would find gems on the B side. Elton John’s “Philadelphia Freedom” was only available on a 45. The flip side had a duet of him and John Lennon singing “When I Saw Her Standing There”. That 45 was magical.

My Therapy

Music has always been my therapy.

For well over 40 years I have enjoyed putting my headphones on, dialing up a song and singing like no one is listening. My singing volume forced people to listen even when they preferred not to, but I didn’t care (and still don’t) because for those moments or hours, I fall into a wonderful, peaceful world where I am the star just waiting to be discovered.

Like many people, my choice of music would depend on my mood and maybe how tired I was. Whenever I was heading to the cottage with a few friends for a weekend of endless, useless drinking, we would play AC/DC, Led Zeppelin and Van Halen at max volume. On the return trip, while tired and on the early stages of a 2-day hangover, we would play Gordon Lightfoot, America and Harry Chapin with the volume barely audible.

Most of the time I was picking the songs to play, but every so often, a song would pick me out – it needed to send me or people around me a message.

Words

Although I love a great guitar solo and or a calming melody, I love the words in songs. I don’t lean towards songs with just instruments playing. I need to hear the words to capture what is being said. So many times it seems the musician is singing to me, telling me what I need to hear at the right time. I recall the first time I heard Rob Thomas sing “Little Wonders”. The line that hit me was “In the end, we will only just remember how it feels”. I reminded me then that I needed to enjoy and feel life’s adventures, not just fill time between meals.

The most powerful songs that impacted me through my life were not just the songs that spoke to me, but they were the songs that seemed to be speaking for me. These were songs that were strong reflections of the challenges I was going though. It was like they were trying to open my eyes to what was going on around me. In my early years, they also may have tried to help me say what I was too afraid or unable to say.

Smokey’s Message

I got Tears of Clown on a 45 when I was young. I played this song for hours on my little record player when I was 12 or 13. It was a little turntable with only one shitty little speaker – yet it sounded fantastic! Something about Smokey Robinson and Miracles belting out that song grabbed me. It took over 20 years for me to recognize why I loved that song. It was describing me. It was letting me know why I was a joker, a prankster… a clown.

It was so easy to see the light or funny side of things – and it still is. My wife gets annoyed at me when I poke fun at something she is trying to lecture me about. I can easily twist things around and find irony where it didn’t seem to exist. I have no problem pointing out the funny when the funny is there. I’ll make fun at others, but I also have no problem making fun of things I say and do. I do it now because I know it makes people feel good and I simply like doing it. It’s a nice remnant from emotional growth because when I did it back in my teens and 20s, it wasn’t only for fun… it was for protection too.

It wasn’t until my mid-to-late teens that I even identified any emotions. I saw a social worker named Carl deLottinville for four years. Up until then whatever I was feeling was just a bunch of stuff churning within. I didn’t even identify this stuff as feelings. The communication layer tapping within me was thin and ineffective.

It was easier to mask the mess with a smile and some jokes than to reveal it to anyone. Through my teens the internal pressure increased and the emotional mess did surface in many ways (drinking, drugs, suicide attempts). Yet, when I was able, I would beat it back with a laugh.

This song was also trying to tell others what was going on with me, even I didn’t recognize it. Being completely out of touch with my emotions when I was in my early teens made me unable to recognize the significance of my attraction to Tears of a Clown. Even if I was able, I would have been too afraid to open up to anyone. Yet the fact that I was playing and singing this song so much should have been an indication to people around me how I was feeling. In this situation, the song was trying to speak for me, not just to me. To no one’s fault, the message wasn’t heard.

Music’s Voice

Music has been and will always be a form of therapy for me and it is a very powerful communication device. I pay attention to what music my children and wife are listening, not to censor them, but just to look for any messages hidden in the songs of choice. I also pay attention to whatever song is grabbing me at the moment – just in case there is something within the song that I really need to hear.

What songs spoke through you?

What songs are speaking to you through your kids?

What songs are speaking through you now?

The post Tears of a Clown appeared first on Randy Bassett.

I am very careful to stick to the truth in all my blog posts, at least as best as I can recall. In this post, I will be referring to 2 fictitious organizations: Helping Youth Organization (HYO) and the Edsel Car Club. I do fully recall the names of the actual organizations, but given the sensitive nature of this post, their real names are not necessary.

Also, as you will soon read, this post deals with one individual and their actions – which are no reflection on these organizations.

Please don’t ask me to identify the real names of these organizations. I will neither confirm or deny any speculation.

On with the post …

Car Rally

It is no secret that I had some challenges in my early youth and teens. I have been open about it in the blog posts up to now and there is more to come. My earliest connection with any outside agency designed to help young people was the Helping Youth Organization (HYO). HYO gave me a place to go and meet with people who wanted to help me and others like me. My intake worker was an older man and I saw him weekly for many months. We would get together at HYO, play pool or table tennis and just talk. He simply made me feel great.

HYO held some fundraisers throughout the year and one was a car rally. The year I was involved, they jointly held the car rally with the Edsel Car Club. The Edsel was a cool, sporty car so I was very excited to be able to go for a drive in one of these gems.

Introducing Bill

This car rally started in a parking lot just outside of downtown Hamilton. Each of the kids was assigned to go with a particular driver. I was assigned to Bill (I don’t recall his name, so we will go with Bill). Bill was no more than 25 years old – a fact I didn’t notice at the time of meeting him, but it got drilled into my memory a couple of weeks later.

Bill drove a navy blue Edsel. I was in complete awe of this beautiful car. Any of my friends would be jealous of my luck that day and I certainly shared it with them later.

The car rally was a drive around the Hamilton Harbour, down the Burlington beach strip and eventually winding our way back to our starting point. Bill was a blast. We laughed and joked throughout the entire rally.

A couple of weeks after the car rally, we got a call from Bill. He said he needed to pick up some money people had pledged towards the rally. It sounded like a great idea. So I told Bill “yes” that I would be glad to go collect money – plus it meant another drive in his navy blue Edsel.

Trust is a Funny Thing

Many things can go into building trust and this situation was no different. HYO and the Edsel Car Club were firmly connected to this rally. Bill made me feel fantastic during the rally. There were no warning signs, and this occurred in the early 1970’s, when people were seemingly more trusting of others than now. Also, I was just 12 years old, at an age when my vision of trust was blinded by youth.

The Laughter

We lived in an apartment building on Fennell Ave., close to Upper Kenilworth. It was a quiet neighbourhood where I learned to play hockey and football. I learned how to jump over home-made ramps on a bicycle without getting hurt all the time. I also learned how fragile trust can be.

Bill picked me up in front of our small apartment building. Wide-eyed, I jumped into the navy blue beauty and we zoomed off. He told me we had to go to the Burlington Beach strip to pick up some money pledged for the rally. It was fine with me – it simply meant a longer drive.

Driving down the escarpment access to the lower city, we joked and laughed, picking up where we left off a couple of weeks earlier. Bill had the music turned up loud enough to enjoy its pulse, but not loud enough to drown out our voices. We made our way down Parkdale Ave., with music and laughter filling the car.

When the Laughter Stopped

We came up to a red light at the corner of Parkdale and Barton. The car was nice to sit in when idling, but it wasn’t the same as when it was in flight. We waited a moment for the light to green. As it did, Bill jumped on the gas and said, “Hang on for a ride.” As he said these words, he reached over and grabbed my private parts down below.

I froze. I had no understanding of what just happened. The music seemed to become a dull, thumping background hum.

I stopped laughing.

Bill continued to laugh and joke as he had done all along. It was like nothing had happened. His attempts at conversation with me weren’t working. My mind was frozen and spinning at the same time. I was reduced to short, punctuated answers. I just wanted him to shut up, but I was too afraid to say anything. I felt powerless.

Personal Power is a Funny Thing

There were many times when I felt unstoppable. I could get bumped off-course, but my vision never left my target. Yet there were so many other times when I seemed to have no power. The hold on me didn’t have to be in the form of physical chains, yet there was something binding. I would lose the power to say or do anything.

I would fall into a numbing, black space, deprived of all senses. No one to see, so why focus. No one to hear, so why yell. There could be people nearby, possibly in earshot, but it wouldn’t matter – the virtual darkness trumped the physical world. In that car with Bill, I had no power.

We went to some house on the Burlington Beach strip and presumably picked up some money. We drove back up Parkdale and wound our way through the mountain access to take me home. Laughing and joking from the driver’s seat. Forced smiles and short answers from the passenger’s side.

Dashed Relief

We drove up to my apartment. I felt a tingle of relief, knowing I will soon get out the car and get away from Bill – but he didn’t stop at the apartment building. He drove right past. My relief quickly evaporated as we were passing by my safety zone of home. He turned up Upper Kenilworth. Being 12 years old, I really didn’t know what he wanted. My fear shattered my ability to think clearly.

The drive between Fennell and Mohawk along Upper Kenilworth normally took a minute or two. This trip up Kenilworth took much longer. The details of every house were clearer. People cutting their grass were moving so slowly. In the front windows I could see some people moving around slowly, possibly changing the TV channel or simply getting a drink. Why can’t these people see I need help? Time was slowing down to give them a chance to see me, help me, but no one noticed. And why was time slowing down now when I desperately wanted it to speed up and make this moment disappear?

Just past Mohawk was a baseball park, a diamond carved into a previously-forgotten piece of the Hamilton Mountain. Commonly the diamond would be filled with people of all ages – some playing baseball with a passion that often surpassed ability, and others enjoying from the bleachers.

This night there was no one at the park. It was dusk, but with no car headlights and no parking lot lights turned on, it might as well have been midnight.

Innocence Lost

Bill drove into the parking lot and parked as far away from the road as he could. At this end the baseball park there were no homes – just a lot of trees. Across from the park were a few homes and they were far enough away to make this parking spot adequately private.

Fear is a Funny Thing

The line between fear and pain is blurry. It seems that fear has sometimes been the protective layer designed to help me avoid pain (I never touched that stove purposely a second time). Sometimes it helped me to react to an unfolding threat (falling backwards off the steel frame under the bleachers of a football stadium, I was able to grab a passing bar to stop my fall).

Yet many times it was simply paralyzing – a body frozen by a mind unable to move it. It is so easy for some to ask why didn’t I just jump out of the car or why didn’t I scream. The paralysis of fear made those options unavailable to me.

Bill stopped the car and turned off the engine. He turned to me with a smile, interpreting my inability to say “no” as a “yes”. Reaching over with his left hand, he grabbed me down below again. With his right hand, he grabbed my hand and pulled it towards him. Using both his hands, he unzipped his pants. For the next period of blurry time, he had me do things that no 12 year-old boy should do, see or even know about.

After he was done, he drove me home. Not much was said. He dropped me off in front of my apartment building, and that was the last I ever saw Bill.

Picking Up The Pieces

I walked up the stairs to our apartment, opened the door and started to walk down the short hallway to my room. My head down, barely looking 3 feet ahead of me. I didn’t see my mom before she asked me how it went. “It was fine,” was my simple response. I then went into my room, closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. Then I cried.

I cried frequently for the first day or so – never in front of anyone. As the days passed, I cried less frequently. Although the tears eventually stopped falling from my eyes, the flooding of tears below the surface would continue for a long, long time.

Shame is a Funny Thing.

Like many people, I have done things that I am not too proud of, yet shame is a line that, once crossed, brings a much heavier weight. I have felt shame for things I have done and I had control over, but these have normally been isolated pockets of instantly recognized idiotic behaviour that would commonly pass.

The shame I felt for this incident with Bill haunted me for decades. After all, I went through the motions and I didn’t fight back. The shame that weighed on me was for actions done to me, not for the actions of my choosing. Surely people would see that I was just too weak or they would believe that I somehow asked for it. Shame is a product of fear, and it kept me silent.

Until this post, I only ever told 2 people about Bill.

What to do?

Parents

Help your child develop a strong voice. Give them the confidence to shout “NO” when someone like Bill comes knocking. Give the comfort so they can talk to you about anything. Don’t let your child’s haunting memories bubble for years or decades.

Teens/Youth

“No” means “no”. Plain and simple. Yell “no” as loud as you need and keep on yelling it until someone hears you. And find someone to talk to – your parents, best friend, teacher or whoever. It will make a better difference for you for now and forever.

Adults

If you were victimized as a child or youth, speak out – to one person or to many. It is hard to keep internal peace when there are internal wars waging deep within us. By opening up, you help yourself to open up, but you may helping others feel more comfortable opening up – which in turn helps to heal them.

Please share this post with others. We don’t need any more Bills like this.

The post Innocence Lost appeared first on Randy Bassett.

Along my journey, support came in many forms. Family, social workers and community agencies. These will be addressed in future blog articles. In this article, I want to discuss a very important part of my support: my guardian angel. She has protected me long before I even knew it. Here is how it began.

The Old Farmhouse

My mom and her many siblings were raised in an old farmhouse. The wooden back door opened into a tiny rustic space to kick off your shoes. The door from there led into a small yet comfortable kitchen. A weathered table took up most of the kitchen, yet there was more than enough space to cook on the black cast-iron wood stove.

In the corner of the kitchen was a stand fixed to the wall. Upon the stand was a water basin that was used to clean up before meals. There was no running water, so the basin got topped up from a water pump just behind the house. That pump never seemed to fail in its duty to supply water year-round.

Right near the pump hung an old pot always seemed to have a slight hint of red inside, seemingly always on the verge of rusting. We used it to drink water directly from the pump. In today’s standard people would have shrieked about everyone using the same unwashed, rusting pot to drink water from an underground well. It was the sweetest tasting water I have ever known.

From the kitchen there a doorway leading into the rest of the house. It was important to keep that doorway closed at night, especially in the winter. There was little, if any, insulation and there were more than a few nights when water would freeze in the kitchen. What sparse heat we had needed to be spared for the bedrooms beyond the kitchen door.

Going through the door there was a short hallway, maybe eight feet long. The end of the hallway led into a living room. Perched in the middle of the room was a potbelly stove that provided the much-needed heat. I only had to burn myself once on it to realize that I needed to give it some space.

Around the walls of the living room were some old couch and chairs, barely enough to accommodate all who lived in the house. Off of the living room was one of the three bedrooms in the house. It was a tiny bedroom that fit a sagging double bed.

Part way down the hallway between the kitchen and living room were stairs leading to the bedrooms. There were 2 more double beds in the main room as you got to the top of the stairs. There was one more small room in the back with yet another bed.

The stove pipe from the stove in the living room came up through the main room. The radiating heat from the pipe along with an array of blankets and quilts made sleep quite easy.

My Memories

I spent many nights at that little house from the time I could hardly remember up until I was a teenager. As much as I remember many details, I recall the feeling I had when I was there. My grandfather was a grumpy old man, but I still liked hearing whatever stories I could squeeze out of him. My aunt and uncle taught me how to play the guitar. I learned how to play chess, checkers and card games. I ate eggs that were only hours old and helped pluck the chickens when they went from being egg-layers to become the main course.

I was also with my grandmother when she died in that house.

My Grandmother Protecting Me

I cannot recall what my grandmother looked like. She died just 2 months after I turned 5 years old. I have pictures of her now, but I cannot bring her vividly to mind. What I do see in memory is a silhouette of a farm-woman who loved me dearly.

One afternoon, my grandmother and I visited one of the neighbours along with some of my aunts and uncles. The neighbours had peacocks which interested and scared me at the same time. Beautiful, flowing feathers, yet these birds were much too large through the eyes of a 5-year-old.

The walk to the neighbour’s house only took a few minutes through the adjoining field. When it was time to go back to our place, the skies had started thundering with rain coming down. I was petrified and didn’t want to go. One of my uncles gave me a piggyback ride back, with my grandmother coaching him and comforting me. Even when we got back to the house I was still afraid and my grandmother lay beside me on the couch, holding me and making me feel safe.

The Night in September 1965

At night-time, there was always seemed to be a little jockeying around as to who would sleep in what bed – especially when I was there because it would throw off the normal sleeping arrangements. This night I went to sleep with my grandmother. It seems that I still wanted the lingering comfort she filled me with.

Sometime in the middle of the night, one of my aunts woke me up and told me to go downstairs. I went to the living room and sat in a chair facing the potbellied stove. It was September, so there was no heat coming from it. I was groggy and everything was blurry.

She’s Gone

My next memory was waking up in the bedroom off the living room.

I crawled out of bed and went into the living room. Everyone was in there. At first, I really didn’t notice that my grandmother wasn’t in the room.

Very simply, one of my aunts said, “Randy, your grandma died.”

This can’t be true! I looked around and didn’t see her. She must be upstairs. I ran as fast as my tiny feet would carry me upstairs. I was hoping to see her there, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for me. She wasn’t there.

Crashing upon me was the realization that she was really gone. Slowly I walked downstairs. My feet and heart were heavy. I was crying by the time I hit the third step and I am not when I stopped crying.

Years later I found out that she had an aneurysm that took her away from us. She passed away around midnight, with me sleeping beside her, completely unaware.

Yet She Was Never Gone

It took me years to recognize that through this heartache, something very magical happened. Like she had done earlier on the couch after the thunder, her spirit wrapped around me, keeping me safe. I didn’t see or feel it then.

I didn’t even feel it through my teens. I now see she was always there. She played a strong part in helping navigate my youth. She still guides me now in those quiet moments when I am not sure what to do.

The spirit silhouette of this beautiful woman pulled me back from the brink on more than one occasion, keeping on the right side of “the edge”.

My Tribute

Before my daughter was born, my wife and I discussed names for her. I wanted to name her after my grandmother, but my wife had reservations.

One weekend I was in Ottawa to write a tech exam. My aunt visited with Sue on a Friday night and they chatted about my grandmother. The next morning only an hour before writing my exam, I talked to Sue and she was now in love with naming our daughter after my grandmother.

I thought about this off and on throughout the 6-hour exam. I had to conceal my intermittent tears of joy so that the examiners wouldn’t confuse my potential crying for exam stress.

My daughter’s name is Treva – named after my grandmother and guardian angel. It was our small way of paying tribute to this wonderful spirit and to say thank-you to her for wrapping me in the warmth her wings always when I needed it most.

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I loved that tree.

It was tucked away in the back corner of the small parking lot of our apartment. About 4 feet up from the bottom, the tree split into 2 large trunks. It created a great place to sit and just hang out. We could climb along one of the trunks that jutted out on an angle. We could fearlessly climb the branch until our nerves would tell us to stop.

Just a few feet away from the base of this old tree was the garbage bin for the nine-unit apartment we lived in. Recycling wasn’t even thought about in the late 60’s and early 70’s so that bin became quite full at times. Except for the year a cat died under the bin, the smell never bothered us. We simply didn’t care. Our excitement about playing on and around that tree made us oblivious to the fact that a pile of garbage was encased only a few feet away.

It was a place I could go to be by myself or with friends – just to be a kid. It was also the place where I would eventually sneak cigarettes.

Smoking

I started smoking in the early 70’s. My friend Bill and I would hustle up 55 cents to buy a pack of king size cigarettes. There was no age restriction to buy smokes. Many times I was sent to the store to buy smokes for my mom. The challenge for Bill and I was how to find the necessary 55 cents. We usually managed to pull it off.

When we first started, we would have a smoke or two in the stairwell of my apartment building. It seemed like no big deal. But it seemed like we weren’t doing it right. Then it dawned on us that we were not really inhaling. We then realized what we had to do. Sitting on the staircase between the second and third floor of the apartment, I lit up a cigarette with the conviction I was going to do this right.

After a couple of non-inhaling puffs, I did it. I inhaled the smoke for the first time. It didn’t go well. Not surprisingly, I coughed and hacked – nearly throwing up. So I gathered all the wisdom of the 12-year-old and inhaled again. The coughing spree wasn’t as dramatic as the first time and it progressively got easier.

Since my mom smoked and it was quite normal to do so in houses and apartments, she would never be able to smell it off of me.

I was cool … yet not very smart.

Burning Lesson

One evening when I was 12 years old, I was in the backyard hiding behind my favourite tree. For years it was the place I would climb, but now I discovered more uses for it – a place to hide behind to have a smoke. My mom called me in for supper and I just bellowed back “in a minute”. After all, I had to finish the cigarette. A moment or two later, she called out again and I bellowed back.

This intermittent exchange went on for a few minutes. I was almost done the cigarette when I saw my mom come around the corner of the apartment building toward me with a blazing look of intolerance. Holy shit, what was going to do with that cigarette? Using the same wisdom I demonstrated when inhaling for the first time, I did the one thing that made the most sense. I put the lit cigarette in my pants pocket.

It hurt.

My shock and stress of being yelled at and led upstairs by my mom were intensified by the burning cigarette in my pocket. It went out quick enough, but not before burning a hole in the inside of my pants pocket and causing a small burn on my leg.

I learned that day that I needed to be more careful and sneakier with smoking. I also learned that putting a lit cigarette in your pocket is a bad idea. I was to learn many more lessons for years to come and I am glad to say that no other lessons involved burning skin.

Memory Lane

My daughter likes me to take her on tours of my old stomping grounds. I took her to that apartment and we went into the backyard. Sadly, my favourite tree was gone. I quietly hoped that it had made friends with other kids like it did with me.

With a smile on my face, I said a silent thank you to the shadow of the tree I could see, but my daughter couldn’t. Thank you for being there when I wanted to play and get away. Thank you for being home base for hide and seek. Thank you for the memories.

I then held my daughter’s hand and went home – where a whole new set of memories are being created.

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