She said, “I love you,” to the oldest grandson today. She was halfway drunk on beers he brought, the two of them having a bonding evening. She never says that. She often says she doesn’t love them, at all. Grandma is singing and crying and laughing, all in one go. She’s been sober nearly 20 years, bar a few slip-ups.
The night before the grandson had brought beers against the rules. Hid them behind the fence, knowing they would be prohibited. Despite being legal age and having other places to go. She was angry, but allowed them in anyway that night, lonely as she was. The never-ending cycle of them arguing continuing.
The grandson wants to be a “good” kid. You can tell his spirit is such that he means well, but he can be persuaded to do stupid things on occasion. His story fraught with its own traumas and triumphs.
Grandma quickly changes away from the traditional native music she loves so much and had been just singing along to merrily. “We’re not supposed to sing these when we’ve been drinking,” she remembers suddenly, out loud.
She wants to talk about how she met her husband. “The song Going downhill by John Anderson tells the story,” she says. It best describes the first night they met at Tommy’s place. Too busy joking around with each other to get sexual. He didn’t approach her, she approached him with his Jack and coke. The next morning, he never left, and that was that.
She says she sent her current “boyfriend”, whom she hated, home, and brought the husband home to their shared home, the home she had with her kids.
The next morning, the young son bouncing into the room and onto his mother’s bed innocently, caught the husband’s knee to the nuts accidentally from under the covers. The husband asked, “You have kids?” Surprised, he continued the many decade relationship, still having love for her until he died. You could say it was love at first sight. They got married three months later.
They stayed close, watching out for each other over the years. Living apart, but staying in love through it all. He told the grandson as much shortly before he died.
It is forbidden to say the deceased’s name in the first year they passed, according to Anishinaabe tradition. Nicknames or “the spirit who just passed” used in its place.
The whole family felt the loss. He wasn’t a step-dad, or a step-granddad, he was just their father, their grandfather.
He always will be.
Have you ever known someone whose place in your family went far beyond the title they were given?
If this story reminds you of someone whose place in your family can’t be measured by a title, share it or restack it. Someone else might need to remember that kind of love, too.
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