“Hello,”
I said into the
phone, picking it up on the third ring.
“Hello. Is this Michelle
Deschamps,” said the voice on the other end.
“Yes,” I said
reluctantly, but thinking, Great, a telemarketer. Definitely not what I was in
the mood for after a long day of work.
“I found your name in the phone book,” he said. “My name is Donat Villeneuve and I think we might be related.”
Now I was feeling more
concerned than annoyed. Who was this man who’d looked me up and called me at
home?
“Are you related to
Bruno and Louise Deschamps?” he continued.
“Yes, they’re my
grandparents.”
“I’m Bruno’s second
cousin,” he explained. “Perhaps you remember me from my last visit to Saskatchewan,
ten years ago.”
As soon as he mentioned
that, I remembered who this guy was – Uncle Donat. He’d visited my dad’s family
when I was 13. My cousins and I had spent the day outside at my aunt and
uncle’s farm, the adults sitting nearby on lawn chairs, visiting. It was only
after the sun went down that we moved inside, gathering in the quonset.
“I’m here to surprise
your grandparent’s for their 50th anniversary,” said Uncle Donat. “I came in on
the train earlier today, after spending three days traveling from Cornwall,
Ontario.”
My heart sank a little.
Grandpa and Grandma had had a big celebration three months earlier. Donat
hadn’t been invited. Now here he was in Saskatoon to surprise them for their
anniversary, which was this weekend.
I spent every Sunday at
my grandparents’ house for dinner, and had gotten the sense Grandma didn’t
really care for Donat. If his name ever came up, she would wrinkle her nose a
little in distaste. What would she think when she found out he’d traveled all
this way without even letting her know he was coming? I wasn’t going to tell
him they’d already celebrated their anniversary, so I simply said I looked
forward to seeing him on the weekend.
On Sunday afternoon, I
arrived at my grandparents’ suite like always, and like always, Grandpa was
waiting in his doorway for me to get off the elevator and round the corner. He
gave me a gentle hug, brushing his whiskery cheek against my own.
Inside the apartment, Donat
was sitting in my grandma’s chair. Grandma was in the kitchen, taking
appetizers out of the oven; bacon wrapped water chestnuts, my favourite. Donat
looked the same as I remembered, smiling broadly. I knew he didn’t have much family,
and he seemed happy in our company.
“You know, I didn’t take
my shoes off the entire three day train ride,” he told me over dinner. “My feet
are swollen and sore, but I didn’t think it was gentleman-like to remove my
shoes, even while trying to sleep in my seat.”
“Oh no,” I said. “Be
sure to take them off on the return trip.”
“I will,” he replied. “I
learned my lesson the hard way on that one. Anyway, I have two weeks for my
feet to heal before I get back on the train.”
“I didn’t realize you
were staying in town that long,” I said.
“No point in coming all
this way and not staying for a while.”
I wondered what Grandma
thought of that, but if it bothered her that Donat had arrived unannounced and
would be visiting with them for two weeks, she never let it show. That was one
of the things I loved most about her: when you were in her presence, she always
made you feel special. She loved entertaining and being around people.
While at a friend’s
wedding in the early 90s, my mom told me I reminded her of Grandma, the way I
bounced around the room from person to person. It was likely the cheap, red
wine I was drinking that had turned me into a social butterfly, but I took it
as the highest compliment.
Even now, I do my best
to emulate my grandma. She was doing yoga decades before it was fashionable,
and trying out new recipes every chance she got, which was generally during the
Sunday dinners I spent with them. Grandpa’s idea of a meal was meat and
potatoes, so Grandma loved to experiment on me.
She also enjoyed
traveling and made a trek to the Holy Land when she was 70. I was with her when
she booked that trip. Her excitement that day was energizing. When she
returned, she swore she would never leave Grandpa for that long again, but I
know she was glad to have had that opportunity. She was deeply religious, so
getting to experience the places she’d read about in her Bible was a dream come
true for her.
On my last real visit
with Grandma, one when I had a couple of hours alone with her to chat, she told
me she wanted me to have her Bible when she passed away. Knowing it was her
most prized possession, I was honoured.
She always had her Bible
with her. In it, she wrote down the dates of every religious retreat she
attended, including one in Edmonton in 1978. I was in kindergarten then. We
were living in Leduc, just outside of Edmonton. Only a few months earlier, we’d
been living in Swift Current, mere blocks away from all four of my
grandparents. I remember missing them so much that I would stand by the window
and imagine them pulling up in front
of our new home.
My grandma did come for
a visit when she attended that retreat in Edmonton. We moved back to Swift
Current shortly after. Perhaps seeing her reminded us all how much we missed
it.
After Grandma told me
she wanted me to have her Bible, she showed me how she’d marked an “M” beside
several verses from Psalms. The “M” stood for Michelle. She’d marked one next
to every verse she’d read in a daily book of readings I’d given her one
Christmas. What she hadn’t pointed out that day, was that she’d also written
hundreds of notes in the margins of her Bible. It’s filled with the insights
she had as she studied it over the years.
I can see a shift in her
writing in those notes, following her stroke. She spent months learning to
write again, using her left hand, instead of her right. There’s a history of
her life captured in those pages; the struggles she faced, the questions that
haunted her, the comfort she sought when Grandpa passed away. She didn’t merely
give me her Bible, she gave me a glimpse into her soul.
One day I’ll sit down
and read every word she wrote in the margins of that Bible. For now, I simply
pull it out when I want to feel close to her again. Opening up a page at random
takes me on a journey into her heart. Perhaps she knew I would draw comfort
from those pages, in the same way she did. I always thought we’d have been the
best of friends if we’d grown up together as peers, instead of as grandmother
and grandchild. Seeing the tremendous gift she gave me, I think she must have
thought that too.
Michelle
Eaket is currently taking time off from
full-time work to spend more time with her 13-year-old son and 10-year-old
daughter. She's loved writing for as long as she can remember, composing poems
in her head as a child when she was supposed to be sleeping. Michelle’s grade
11 English teacher told her to “never stop writing,” words she continues to
hold dear to her heart.
See Brian
Henry’s schedule here, including writing
workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in Algonquin Park,
Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Cambridge,
Georgetown, Guelph, Hamilton, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland,
Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Saint John, NB,
Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York
Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.
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