Time

 

I used to wake to the transistor radio, usually pressed against my grandmother’s ear. That’s how she would listen to the morning news after her prayers, while my grandfather slept soundly in the other twin bed. I never understood why Nana was so worried about disturbing him. The air raids during the war had robbed him of his hearing, at least on the right side. But you had to know Nana to understand her doting on him and the rest of the family.

My grandparents were from Rangoon, Burma, now known as Myanmar. They were held under house arrest by the Japanese during World War II, while my grandfather was forced to work as a steam engineer on the Irrawaddy River. It was a stressful time for a family who didn’t know what the future would hold and how it would all end. They were closely watched by the Japanese soldiers. And the limited diet of rice and beans and whatever crops they reaped from their small garden, meant that nothing was taken for granted. When the Allied forces bombed their home, they only possessed what they managed to take to the trenches. And so, from early on, a simple life meant just that, and everything else would fall into place, “with God’s grace,” as my Nana would say.

After the war, the family moved to Kolkata, India. That’s where my parents met, married, and where I was born. My father was a sea captain and gone for months, so my grandparent’s helped out. Because of that, my relationship with them was forged early on.

Nana would tell me stories of holding my hand and walking to morning mass with her. They were only her memories, but she brought them alive for me.

They would never own a home, but the one-bedroom units they lived in contained all that they possessed. You wouldn’t find a blue Tiffany box, nor any fine china in there. “That’s not what we need, “they would say, and in the same breath would add, “you’ll see.” Life really was simple.

I cannot remember when my grandparents weren’ta part of my life. They moved from England when my father was able to sponsor them and the rest of Mom’s siblings to Canada. And wherever they lived, I’d be a regular visitor, sleeping on their pull-out sofa in the living room.

Although everyone started out in Quebec, only my immediate family remained there, with the rest of them leaving for Toronto, including Nana and Grandpa.  Even before Bill 101, where linguistic identity for the French language prevailed, the climate was challenging, especially for a new resident who only spoke English.

The sound of running water meant the headlines and daily forecast was over.  I’d hear Nana shuffle softly from the bathroom and scour the closet for something to wear. After waking Grandpa, she’d then tip-toe past me to prepare breakfast. Only a wrought-iron screen separated us from where I slept. I’d open my eyes, and through the lattice, I could see Nana fill the kettle and prepare the toast and poached eggs. Soon the fresh scent of black tea began to fill the room.

My grandfather would appear, clean-shaven, and usually dressed in a plaid shirt. His hair was brushed back from his forehead with the sheen of the English Brilliantine gel. He claimed it kept his grey hairs from multiplying, and somehow I believed him. Grandpa towered over my grandmother who was slightly over five feet and kissed her.  You’d think that those small gestures would have disappeared over time, but they hadn’t. They’d take their place across from each other while Nana poured the tea.

The sun usually made a nuisance of itself through the sheers, which covered the window off the balcony. And just like clockwork, Nana would invite me to join them. I think she knew, I was awake, but just kept my eyes closed.  I’d scramble from the sofa bed, splash some water on my face and brush my teeth. And before I slid into my chair, I would hug them and take the teapot from Nana. We all said grace. I didn’t dare touch my food until that was done. You just wouldn’t try that in my grandmother’s home.

Like other meals, there was always quiet chatter and the clinking of cutlery. I smiled, hearing  Nana ask, “More tea, dear?” She’d never wait for a response and fill my grandfather’s mug anyway.

No matter where they lived, you could count on a few constants. A crisp vinyl tablecloth would cover the kitchen table. The dresser top or a nearby table would display a collection of religious statues. A stereo console would rumble softly with the small selection of albums Grandpa kept. There was a hand- made mini-bar with a stash of whiskey and other spirits.  Finally, a coat closet would function as a small workshop where my grandfather would fix the odd clock, timepiece, or small appliances for someone.

After living in Southeast Asia for most of their life, Canadian winters were brutal. Eventually, they left Toronto for California, where my aunt, their eldest, lived. The warm and dry West Coast climate didn’t disappoint, with the coldest temperature similar to a mild fall day in Canada.

I traveled a lot longer to visit my grandparents. But I didn’t mind. Those six-hour flights during the 1970s and 80s were worth every minute. If they didn’t meet me at the airport, they’d wait up for me, half asleep with a supply of snacks. I smiled afterward while lying on the pull out bed they’d prepared, thinking about how they’d leaned forward over the table to make sure they didn’t miss anything I’d said, eyes fixed on me intently.

The San Fernando Valley was home, a short drive from my Aunt, until the Northridge earthquake of 1994. With a magnitude of 6.7 on the Richter scale, their apartment was left unlivable. Thankfully, they were re-admitted to Canada and lived out the remainder of their years in Toronto.

But while they lived in California, I willingly soaked-in the West Coast life. The place seemed like the land of the free, where everyone from everywhere somehow ended up. And, there was an abundance of everything: food, clothes, restaurants, entertainment, and people. Except for gas.

At that time, the US was experiencing a gas crisis. The oil embargo caused gas shortages, with some states implemented the odd-even rule. You were allowed to fill your tank and drive only on certain days, depending on the last digit of your license plate.  The line-ups were long and frustrating, but people adjusted.

We still went on outings, traveling by bus from the valley. Though they’d been before, my grandparents insisted on taking me to Universal Studios. The ride there took almost an hour, and with a full bus and little wiggle room, the heat in that tin box was merciless. I was relieved to step into the sun after leaving a lasting impression of myself on the vinyl seat I occupied.

When I broke my leg, I experienced what it was like to walk or stand for any length of time. I had a cane and would hobble around, hoping there would be a chair or bench nearby. So I can imagine how my grandparents were struggling that day at the studios. They thoroughly enjoyed themselves sitting through make-up demonstrations and a special effects show. And I think they were secretly relieved when we took the trolley ride tour. We sat in the front at the end, not knowing that was a “hot spot.” And when the mechanical shark from the “Jaws” movies shot out of the water, I’m convinced Nana expected it. I didn’t though.

My aunt and uncle took me around on weekends. I’d sit in the back seat of their sedan, crushed lovingly between my grandparents. We’d drive to the beach for a picnic lunch, stroll along the boardwalk, or have an ice cream along the way. The best part of the drive was making a stop along the Pacific Coast Highway, where the beaches flanked the ocean. We’d wade in the water with the warmth of the sun at our backs. Unable to balance themselves on the sand, Nana and Grandpa would wave at us from the lawn chairs set-up near the railing.

Back at their place, I used to tidy after our meals and wipe down the tablecloth that never seemed to age. It was the least I could do. On each visit, I felt some sadness realizing how much slower they moved around than the time before. I knew as well that these visits would eventually end someday.

With the clock striking three, it was Holy Hour. Rosaries in hand, the prayers began.Everything else stood still, and amid the routine chants and litanies, the pendulum on the grandfather clock moved in a slow, sweeping rhythm.

I often think of those afternoons. The warm breeze through the open sheers, the calm, and the prayers. I wished for those perfect moments again when I delivered each of their eulogies.  But instead, reality hit me, as my three-year-old broke the peace and ran outside while I spoke.

That was my perfect moment.

I’m home, and I call them. There are a thousand miles between us, but it doesn’t seem like that.  I picture Nana in her spot on the sofa, picking up the phone. She would waste little time to call out to Grandpa to join her. And our chats would begin with no sign of ever finishing. Because we never ran out of things to say.

♥

P.S. This story took a long time to write, mostly because I kept editing it for content and clarity.  I realized that there is so much to say about people who were such a big part of your life. And paring down the stories into something that can be shared and read to the end is a challenge. So, if you’ve read this far, thank you!

 

Copyrights (c) 2019 all rights reserved, Jackie Kierulf, writer.