In Memoriam

I think I would have made a great obituary writer. There’s something sort of maudlin about the job, yes, but it’s also such an honour. You’re really saying people’s last goodbyes for them, aren’t you? You’re saying goodbye to all of the people the family may not have remembered to notify - an old bowling partner, the guy who sold you your fruit, your childhood sweetheart, the one you haven’t seen in 50 years. All of these people who made up your thoughts and pulled all of the little threads of your day into a tight, warm tapestry. They may mean nothing to your great aunt Myrtle who you haven’t seen in 27 years but they meant something to you.
The anniversary of my Grandfather’s death was yesterday. I have thought of him every single day, probably a little more than I should. Especially at this time of year not only because it is the anniversary of his death but it was also his favourite season - Remembrance Day. I will forever be grateful that he had a chance to pin one last poppy to his jacket lapel before he died, to recite ‘In Flander’s Fields’ with his hat over his heart. He was the first, best man that I ever knew. Solid and good, quiet and patient. With a slightly inappropriate sense of humour and a relationship with Jersey Milk chocolate bars I never fully understood.. A lot was going on in my life when he died, a lot of selfish small stuff that I can’t even really remember anymore. But I remember his obituary. It was fair, a good representation of his ’stats’ just like it should be. I wish I had written it. So I hope you will forgive me, readers, for this small indulgence. This is what I would have written, could have written, wish I’d written.
Joe McGuire - from the old Irish Block and more importantly from the Monday night Bridge Club where he always managed to win more than he lost- has died. He died exactly as he would have wanted - really quickly and near the toilet. His best friend, his dog Benji, watched over him all afternoon and remains faithfully his alone. He had eight crazy, wonderful children (6 daughters - names here 2 sons - names here) that loved him. Some more than others it might be said, but Joe knew he was loved enough. Joe was a good friend, a hard worker, a seriously tough debater. He really should have been dead 10 years ago, but there’s nothing like a good Merlot to keep you around a little longer. He was a good son to parents that loved him. His childhood was spent on the farm working and praying. Joe didn’t grow to believe in God but was raised to believe in good.
Joe was in the military for most of his life. He travelled with his family all over the world, saw things we will none of us ever see, lived a bigger life than most of us have ever imagined, but still preferred Sunday night roast beef dinner and watching the hockey game with all of his people to anything else. He was a good Grandfather - the kind that never cooks for you or helps you wash up or teaches you manners but lets you jump in the big piles of leaves he just raked, reads you stories long after you’re old enough to read for yourself and teaches you to play the harmonica. His catalogue of dirty limericks and songs were legendary. As was his ability to see into the heart of a thing, his quiet way of knowing how to love a girl best.
Mostly though Joe was husband to Gerry. Gerry drove him crazy. She had her hair and nails done every third day or so. She never kept her receipts even though Joe was an accountant and dreamt in receipts. She gossiped too much for him (even though he always secretly listened) cried over everything from a cracked teapot to a newly budded tree in spring. She fought crazed nonsensical wars with his daughters, nagged his sons and fussed over his grandchildren. But she smelled sweeter than any other woman he ever knew, carried his Juicy Fruit gum for him in her purse when he was trying to quit smoking and best of all…gave him permission to want something else from life. Gave him his family, and his friends and his fun. Their love may not always have been right, but it was the only love he ever wanted. Dearest Grandpa, you are missed and remembered.