Miles from Home, Close to Grandad

by Angela Sanford

A very special person from my life, who is no longer with us physically, walks with me spiritually every day.  I know this because it is trips like the one I just returned from that trigger the sweetest memories of my time with him. Upon returning from Ireland, I had planned to share stories from our adventures, but I had not expected to lead the miniseries with tales of my grandfather.

Grandad and I on my wedding day 30 years ago.

Grandad Hines, known to most people as Carl, was, in my opinion, an incredible man and one to whom I looked up to with adoration. Grandad’s ancestors were from Londonderry, in Northern Ireland; one of the many reasons my mother and I decided to venture across the pond and check out the countryside. 

We weren’t on our bus more than a few minutes when the driver/tour guide, Brian Hanrahan, gave us our first chuckle and I turned to Mum and said, “ Yup, I’m Irish.”  He let loose a string of Irish profanities that never had I heard a tour guide utter.  I felt at ease instantly and this string of vocabulary was my first reminiscence of Grandad, especially when he worked out in the shed or was encouraging me to cuss. 

On his passing, I inherited his swear bank and if I had collected coins each time I used such language, I would surely be living like a queen these days.

I was Grandad’s “Little Indian Girl” and while not an acceptable term of endearment today, it was a term of affection in my younger years and a reference to my dark skin tone in the summertime, perhaps also a reminder of my DNA lineage from my ancestral maternal Grandmother who was Mohawk. That affection he shared with my me was returned in admiration of him, I followed him like a puppy each night as we toured East Noel, specifically the Point Road at precisely 6 pm each evening.

I recall the treats of strawberry shortcake ice cream from Laffin’s store, in Noel, of orange creamsicle drumsticks by the wood stove at Margaret and Chester’s, of Lyman on the piano as we entered, or begging Ronnie and Brenda to pay me some attention while at Uncle Donald’s and Aunt Alma’s. I recall, with ease, the rituals of being Grandad’s sidekick, knowing my siblings replaced me when I had outgrown this experience.

All the while there was another ceremony on Sunday afternoons as I rushed to meet Grandad at his car just before 1 pm.  As we left the driveway I’d pop over the car seat from front to back and back to front as no seatbelts were required and we were not going any speed.  This was a leisurely drive while we listened to the radio production Newfie 30 (then Newfie 30+30). We’d drive the length of the Northfield Road during that program collecting beer bottles and cans from alongside the road.  On occasion, we went straight to the bottle exchange at the end of the Georgefield Road and Grandad shared with me, though not equally, our newfound wealth.

  So when Brian, our driver,  shared his father’s final story and played the CD that he had been gifted upon his father’s death; the CD was of his Dad singing the day before he was in a terrible incident that claimed his life, the first song he played transported me back to my childhood to Sunday afternoons in the early eighties.  I could clearly envision the melodious jigs and reels played on Newfie 30 and the tears had already started to sneak down my cheeks. But when the second song came on, I could not contain the tears and as I glanced towards Mum, she was crying as hard as I was so I knew the same memories were forming in her head.

Like the waves crashing along the shoreline of Ireland, the emotions encompassed us with vengeance and even as I compose these words now, the tears are a waterfall upon my cheeks.

Brian’s father called out a chorus of “A-deedle liddle di, di dum de deedle deddle….” I found myself sitting on Grandad’s knee as he bounced me up and down, tapping his foot in rhythm to his lilting melody.  Even today, I catch myself (and Mum too, sometimes), calling out a random melody and as the trip continued, I caught each of us doing it regularly. The longer the song played the harder the tears fell and I’m sure those around us on the coach were curious.

Well, they got their answer the next day – when Mum garnered enough courage to step out of her comfort zone and make a large and bold request of our driver.  Would he lilt a short piece to be recorded so she could have the memory with greater clarity? Not only did he agree but he offered to bounce Mum on his knee to re-enact the childhood memory. So, there she was as others returned to the bus, sitting on Brian’s knee, being bounced and sung to.

My mother's request to record Irish lilting.

This trip brought me many cherished memories, some newly formed along the way, like the video (that you can watch below) and some returning from decades passed. While my grandfather is not a legend in the global sense, he was legendary for me and left an indelible mark on my world and when his “Irish Eyes Were Smiling, sure, 'tis like the morn in Spring, in the lilt of Irish laughter you can hear the angels sing and when Irish hearts are happy, all the world seems bright and gay and when Irish eyes are smiling, sure, they steal your heart away” (lyrics and music Chauncey Olcott & George Graff, Jr.).