My Grandpère — As I Remember Him
My father’s father passed away this morning. He was 94 years old, and he died peacefully with his two children by his side. Stanley Graham Field (Graham to his friends) was born in England but grew up in Argentina. He returned to England to help the war effort when WWII started. I believe he joined an engineer corps. He returned to Argentina, met my grandmere and did missionary work, running a retreat center, where my father was born. He moved to Victoria BC and became a teacher until he retired.
How I remember Grandpere best is as he was on his East Sooke property — seven gorgeous acres of ocean front on the Sooke Basin which he called Kenilworth after the castle in England— wearing his corduroy pants, flannel shirt, vest, cap, and rubber boots as he walked slowly around this property (often with gardening gloves in his back pocket) which he constantly renovated and landscaped. There were gardens everywhere, beautiful rock walls, and all the gates in the fence were handmade by him out of driftwood. He was constantly humming one hymn or other to himself under his breath as he went, never rushing, but still relentlessly getting things done.
He played those same hymns on the organ beautifully, and would often play after dinner. It wasn’t a performance, it was just for him. My grandmere passed away when I was quite young, and I have a few memories of playing board games with her or helping her bake sugar cookies, but strangely, I don’t really remember many interactions with grandpere. He was less of a person and more of a presence, a wandering humming presence, steady and calm. Even when we lived next door for a couple of years in middle school, I don’t remember doing anything with him besides going for walks or chatting over meals. And at that age our conversations were mostly about my school, my music lessons, my interests; I wasn’t old enough to ever think of asking about him. In fairness, even when, in my twenties, I did ask him about himself, while he would answer happily, he would never ramble, and you’d have to press him for details. He was a very private man, and while he missed Grandmere, and “spoke” to her daily about what was going on in his life and what he was thinking about, he also enjoyed his solitude.
He was always warm to me, but as I got older I realized that he could be quite cool at times. He didn’t condemn or criticize necessarily, but he wasn’t quick to praise and rarely said, “I love you.” He had that “stiff upper lip” sort of attitude and that distant wartime Britishness that you mostly see in movies these days. Seriously, he was the kind of guy who would would use terms like “old chap” and stuff like that. Despite this coolness, he cared deeply about those in need, and believed deeply in God’s love for everyone. His faith was deep and unquestionable, but was by no means unthinking or careless.
He read, thought, and wrote constantly. His handwriting was very stylish, but somewhat challenging to read. He knew calligraphy, and typed on his typewriter, and then later, on his electric typewriter. There were little handwritten or typewritten notes all around the house so that guests knew where things were and what was what. He wrote at least two books.
He liked tea, and marmalade toast, and he didn’t care about the expiry dates of the dairy products in his fridge. He had almost comically stereotypical British teeth (the bottom row was kind of scary). He was pretty deaf for as long as I can remember but that was never much of a problem for big mouth me.
It’s strange, I know that he had a record player, and a TV, but I honesty don’t think I ever saw him use either. Now I wonder what his favourite songs were. Maybe it was only the hymns he hummed and played all the time, but I wonder if it was broader than that.
I’ve said that I don’t really remember that many interactions with him. There are a few that stand out tho. When my wife and I got married he prayed for us and blessed us. When we asked him to pray at the end of the ceremony, I didn’t expect the very warm and touching benediction that he gave. That’s a very special memory.
There was also a dinner two years ago where I started asking him about his early life, what school was like for him, how he met Grandmere, what he did in the war, why he moved to Canada, and more. I wish I had recorded it because I mostly remember impressions of that conversation rather than details. I was however quite blown away by just how open he was and how much I didn’t know. There were things even my dad (who was listening to all of this) didn’t know.
Another is from when I visited him in the spring of this year when his health first started deteriorating. He was in a hospital bed, and although he looked frail, he was still sharp in mind. He talked about how wonderful the staff were and how even though they may not know it, he believed they were really doing God’s work with their cheerful help. He also talked about how, in spite of his frustration at being confined, every stage of life, even the unpleasant ones, can be used to become a blessing from God. To him, each new experience was full of opportunities to learn something new. That’s an attitude I hope I can emulate.
It’s strange what grief can do. It’s only been 4 hours since I heard the news of his passing, and since then I keep mentally walking through his old house on the cliff overlooking the waves. The amount of detail I can recall is almost staggering, considering I haven’t thought of Kenilworth with any intensity for more than a year or two. I can remember the scratchy orange blossom patterned sofas, the reading bench by the window next to his desk with his typewriter. I can remember the miniature sword shaped letter opener on his desk. I can remember the feel of the polished tree branch that was the railing to the upstairs guest rooms, the warmth of the wood burning fireplace and the slate rock work that surrounded the chimney, and the red maple out the window. I remember the sword, and the ornamental axe that hung from the giant exposed wooden beams, and the giant hand carved clock, and the little trap door that connected the kitchen to the living room so you could just pass tea out to where everyone was sitting by the fire. I remember the tiny cold bathrooms with those old appliances in that awful avocado green that was in style in the 70s.
But most of all, I can’t get his humming out of my head. And that slow, unhurried walk as he moved about like he would never stop.
I love you Grandpere and I miss you already. But I’m sure you can’t even handle how excited you are right now to be catching up with Grandmere.
