My grandfather, Part 2

This is a continuation of sorts of my post of January 19, 2014

I have been unsure how to write about my grandfather’s first wife as I have not wanted to dishonor my grandmother, (my grandfather’s second wife), whom he loved dearly. I also have not wanted to put my grandfather on display. But I do want to write a letter to my grandfather, to acknowledge his great loss. It continues to be a revelation to me that this man, my grandfather, not a distant relative, not someone else’s memory, a man wholly present throughout my entire childhood, could have so much history that I never knew. The truth is that even had I been aware of this part of his life, I never would have understood it, would not have grieved with him as I am able to now, for I was 18 when he died and had lost nothing more significant than some teeth and my keys. But now I know about loss and the almost-comfort born of such pain. So here I send up a different song of love to my grandfather, a comforting hug I never gave when he was here.

Pre ramble: In 2011 my father received a letter from a woman in Ontario, Canada in which she explained that for the last 10 years she has been researching her family history. In a family attic, she came upon a large metal box that had been part of her grandfather’s belongings which contained a myriad of old papers, diaries, photos, etc., the detritus of a life well lived. She came upon four letters from a man she did not know written to her great-grandmother, along with telegrams and other documents such as the death certificate of this man’s wife and their infant son. The unknown man is my paternal grandfather and through her sleuthing she found my father and contacted him because, as she wrote, “the emotion with which the series of four letters was written is unforgettable” and she felt that “his next generations would want the opportunity to learn something about him that perhaps they didn’t know before”.

She could not have been more correct. If there is one hallmark of our family, it certainly is not ready cash, good looks or charm but it is a depth of sentimentality that puts all greeting cards to shame. This woman stumbled upon a tremendously receptive family eager to hear more. As well as a grateful one for the work done and effort made to find us.

She was also correct in that we were unaware that my father’s father, ‘Granddaddy’ to me, had been married before, nor that he had lost a child. My grandfather, the man I knew, was a quiet man, kind, a pharmacist by trade, a solitary gardener and oil painter, primarily populating the background of my brother’s and my weekly visits to their home. My father’s mother was a powerhouse of activity and local civic accomplishment and it was she that figured most prominently during our weekends with them. So this information and these documents were indeed quite a surprise and not casually absorbed. The anguish poured onto these pages was written in a hand well familiar to me but spilled content utterly foreign, a man completely unknown to me. A wounded heart that tore mine open.

I knew my grandfather’s family originally came from Stirlingshire, Scotland, that he was born in 1891 in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Canada, had lost his father as a young lad and that his mother had moved into town with his brother and sister to take in mending to keep the family together. I knew that my grandfather had graduated from the Ontario School of Pharmacy in 1912 and practiced as such in Moose Jaw. I knew in 1917 he had joined the RAF, flown a Sopwith Camel and had been shot down near Lille, France on July 31, 1918, subsequently becoming a prisoner of war in Karlshrue, Germany. These highlights I knew, (the dates furnished by my father’s extensive research into my grandfather’s service history, dad having garnered much from archival sources in the RAF, his father’s flight logs (it seems he crashed 3 SC’s before he got the hang of it, proving the genetic link to the rest of us), notes, etc. My father has even been in contact with the family of the pilot who shot down my grandfather’s plane.

However, the portion of my grandfather’s story that needs no dates to anchor it is his letters to his mother in law after receiving the news of the death of his wife, Grace, and their son while he was en route to Liverpool before reaching Reading for flight training.

He writes:
“…I was so pleased dear mother (in law) for receiving your letter just then as all that day I had been so lonesome and sad, your letter made me feel better even though I cried until I fell asleep. Oh mother, how very hard it is to be brave. I try my very best but I cannot succeed. I always want to be by myself for then I am closer to Grace. Truly, my heart is broken, but I do not want it mended…”
“…My dear little wife was loved by every one who knew her, oh how proud I was to walk downtown with her, I always felt that everyone we passed seemed to think, ‘my but he’s a lucky fellow’. I was, too. The most lucky boy in the world…”
“…she was the only treasure worth pursuing, but oh I know now how unworthy I was of her great love. Pray God I may be more worthy in the days ahead of me, for my one great aim in life is to be with my little Pal. She was, too, the truest and best little helpmate a husband ever had. Oh dear God, I miss my darling so.” He continues, “I know that my beloved is looking down on me, she knows, dear mother what you and I are suffering, and poor girl, I know it makes her feel so bad. We will have to try and be brave but it is so very hard. I pray for strength to bear it like a man, for I know that Grace would wish it so.”

These are words that I (almost) felt I could share; the remainder even more tenderly describing his misery best rests with him. I had no idea that this sorrow was carried within him and I ache to be of some comfort to him somehow.

This is a tale of loss due to illness. It is a tale too often lived, then as now, both by those who live with war and those who enjoy peace but suffer from inadequate access to health care. Medicine was insufficiently advanced to help Grace and the baby. But no longer. Now it is a question of our loving each other enough to share with those who have not.
Everyone is someone’s Grace.

This post is probably more for me but tomorrow I am going to get into his diary describing his capture. It's really great reading!