Tangled up in you

       

        Sometimes, all I have to do is close my eyes, and I see him in the waves rolling off the rocks at Idiots’ Island, the veranda on a warm summer evening, cigar in hand. I can feel him in the wind, whistling through the pines at Weslemkoon on a brusque summer morning, he is in my thoughts often. Everywhere he is, she is there with him, providing the much needed balance to rein him in when needed.  Nornie and Gramps; inseparable, so much so that after she died in his arms on their anniversary dance, during the song to commemorate another year of living as one, he was no longer able to without her. The story of my grandparents is one of great beauty and grace, pride, and strength, ending so sadly that it still brings me to tears when I am reminded of the pain that his love for her brought to him in the end.







          I was only about twelve, or thirteen at the most when this happened, but even to a soul as young as that, I could tell that he wasn’t going to make it. Kenneth Thomas Nicol died of a broken heart, not more than six months after the passing of his beloved Norma Fleming, the rest of us could only watch in distress as his will to live slowly poured from him like the water from an old well, unable to give more than was there to begin with. There was much crying, inconsolable, gut wrenching, primal sounds, coming from deep within his being. I had never seen a grown man show such emotion for anything like this, it shook me to realize the depth of his pain, but also gave me insight to the extent that a man could love another, and mourn the loss of her passing.



          At the time, I thought there must have been something physically wrong with him, that he would recover, like he had so many times before when things got tough, get better, but it never happened. I, along with my Mother, who is a whole other story, Father, and Brother Jordan, Sister Sara, were forced to watch as this tower of strength, this self made man of elegance, and charm, melted into puddles before our eyes. My Mother, and all her Sisters, took turns trying to fill the void left in the wake of her death, but it was futile. The love forged by 50 odd years of companionship, for better and worse, was seared into his will so deeply, short of her reincarnation, nothing could save him. At 75, my hero was gone.







          Born in Bannockburn, Ontario, in 1896, he was the son of Thomas Nicol, an entrepreneur and owner of the local saw mill, and later, store owner in the village of Madoc.  I would visit that store much later, when my Aunt Grace, Toms’ second wife, was running it after his death in 1953.  So little of those early years remain as fact, I have only a letter from Grace, an old picture of him in a kilt, and my own remembrance of growing up with him. Everything else is just passed down, word of mouth, and until I do more investigation, heresy. Regardless, while the words are strong in me, I will speak of his time here on earth, most notably, his relevance to his contemporaries, his family, and those he loved, including me. I didn’t know then, but what I know now, was that I was to carry on many of the best and most unusual parts of him. It gives me pause, even now.







          When I first came to know him, Gramps was the irascible owner of his own Insurance Agency in the village of Madoc, nestled amongst the rolling hills above Moira Lake, about 30 miles north of Belleville, Ontario. In those days, he would have been a general practitioner of sorts, delivering all types of coverage; business, auto, life, and property insurance, to the local constabulary of business, farm, and townspeople. As such, he knew and had many friends, who were both clients and social peers in our little town of about twelve hundred people, small enough that most everybody knew each other when passing on the street, familiar enough to acknowledge one another with a kind word, or a smile and a nod. In addition, he was also the local Justice of the Peace, a title I’m still not sure how he procured, but one he often dispensed with little fanfare or notice to us. Successful, but not ostentatious, he seemed every bit the salt of the earth character of his time. Of course, to me, he was the merry prankster who always had a smile and a quick chuckle for my ever present attempts to impress him with my feats of athletic prowess, usually ending up with my ego stung, but my pride uncannily intact.



       



          He had a way of guiding us, which sometimes included the harsh realities that sport and real life, are most often intertwined, and playing one without respect for the other, is neither acceptable, nor the most efficient way to play the game. As it turns out, he was right on. Gramps was very astute at playing the game, and everyone else seemed to enjoy the competition, just by being a part of it. Whether it was Euchre, Hearts, Cribbage, or just a little ball toss, you could tell he had been a competitor of the highest degree. In fact, Gramps had been a local Tennis Phnom, and played doubles well into his forties with his daughter Betty on the regional circuit at the time. He was also the only person of his time, I knew, to have ever played golf. How I marveled at the beauty of the wooden shafted clubs, and old canvass bag that housed them.  Nobody played golf in the thirties or forties in Madoc.  His picture on the Wall of fame at the local Arena always gave  confirmation that I was to carry on the Hockey prowess, which he had so ably displayed in his youth, and which was passed down to me by the locals who had seen him perform first hand. The best part was, he never spoke of it, to his dying day, to me, or anybody else. It was no big deal.







          At the house, Gramps seemed to melt into the background somewhat, leaving the arrangements to Nornie when guests were present. He always seemed to have an ash precariously dangling from his cigarette that was about to fall, but never did, as he leaned in to hear the radio he often listened to long after the advent of television. I think he did it just to see the reaction he would rouse from his wife, and all of us kids, especially. I can still see her running after him with an ash tray, calling out to him, “Scott, put down that cigarette, before you burn the house down”. It was a scene played out a thousand times,  one in which he grinned mischievously, each and every time she became exasperated by his inaction,  exponentially more agitated with each infraction .



       



          When dinner was over, and there was music in the air, Gramps would often appear from nowhere to accompany his daughters, who were all fine singers, and musicians as well, (though I don’t recall Aunt Joyce being as inclined as Barb and my mother), on the fiddle, or piano. He played a mean stride style on piano. I can remember thinking this was the coolest thing I had ever seen or heard, making the lessons Mom would make me pursue a little easier to swallow knowing Gramps had suffered the same, when he was a kid. I have since had a lifelong obsession with music performance, as well as its’ appreciation and history. I can’t say it was all his doing, mother was my greatest influence in this area, but to see a man of his stature engaged in this way, was monumental for me. I can still hear my mother and Aunts harmonizing beautifully on “Kingston Town”, with a choir of also rans joining in after a big Sunday dinner, or while idling slowly in the boat, at the dimming of the day.







          Even though we had a cottage on Moira lake, nothing could compare to the experience, which started by having to drive through a host of abandoned lumber towns, on an old gravel road through the woods for what seemed to be hours, but more likely was much less. One could still see the remnants of the old corduroy road off to the left and right, before passing the Fire Tower and the beaver dams, just before arriving at the head of Lake Weslemkoon.







          It was like being delivered into a different century. After parking the car, and then taking the boat up to Nicol Island, we would arrive at the dock where even the usual rings to secure the boat to the dock, were replaced by the simple T hooks that were similar to those used to secure freighters at the shipyards, although much smaller. This was where we could see Gramps in a different setting, he seemed at home here, and was comfortable for us to see him in this light. Maybe it was the coal oil lamps, the absence of most modern convenience and entertainment, including television, electricity of any kind, or telephones, which made it special. It forced all of us to come together, especially at night when cards and board games amongst neighbors and family members, were common. The art of conversation was openly cultivated between the divergent groups that would gather after meals. Most of us would even take to reading a book, or magazine before bed. That was not the case in town. In the middle of it all, Nornie and Gramps, both seemed to revel in this bucolic family ambiance, never once seeming detached, or longing for the solitude of cottage life without the ever present comings and goings of an active extended family.



       



          Weslemkoon brought out something in Gramps that he kept hidden away when he was in town. He took on a different persona; at least it appeared to me, when he was on the boat. Cruising his beloved northern getaway he taught me to fish, even though he wasn’t a great fisherman. The time spent on the lake, navigating the islands and the inlets, teaching me the subtleties of where the fish were, how to read the waves, what the bottom looked like, were all fascinating,  animated by the great raconteur that was my Grandfather.



    My Great Uncle Jack, for whom the Island was named, spent a few winters on Nicol Island at the turn of the century. Gramps said he was buried in his boat that was sawed in half, and placed beneath a large rock in the front yard of the cottage he built there. Or was it somebody else? He seemed to have a twinkle in his eye when he was relating these stories to me, nevertheless, whatever the intent, the result was an ever growing fascination with the area and its Indian History, boats, and waterways, that still sends shivers down my spine whenever I am lucky enough to hear the lonely call of the loon, or set foot back there on the hallowed ground of my forefathers. Each spring I can’t wait to get back there, to that place; there is none like it on this earth. A large part of that is due to his kindness and patience with my tender heart, during those formative years.







          So many times the end of one thing is only the beginning of another. Conversely, the start of something new, that first experience with a member of the opposite sex, or being shipped off to school, or losing a family member, can mean the end of something familiar. During this period, not only my life, but in the lives of our entire family, there were many of each, both beginnings and endings. This one finale seemed to touch off a series of new beginnings, which I can’t imagine would have happened so soon, had Nornie remained part of the thread which held together the fabric that is our family. Philosophers, Poets, and others much wiser than I, have said it matters not how you began, but how you end, that counts. In retrospect, this ending, though tumultuous, was also less tragic, and more Fairy Tale, than anyone originally thought. In a way that is beyond explanation, I think Gramps knew he had to let us go. She needed him wherever she now existed, and he was ready to be released to her guard. He just couldn’t explain it to us, nor were we ready to understand then what years of reflection on their life together, I have now come to realize as fact; they were soul mates. I loved them both beyond words. The memory of their lives forever brings a smile to my soul. I know it will yours as well, just close your eyes, and listen to your heartbeat.