This evening as J n’ I were getting dinner ready, our new can opener crapped out. We only bought it last week, and right from the get-go it wasn’t working very well. Just as J started to open the can of mushrooms, the wheel fell off and the can opener broke into four pieces. Nice. I went downstairs to our friend’s apartment to borrow his can opener, but he wasn’t home. I suppose our pasta would’ve been fine without mushrooms, but stubborn girl that I am, I tried using a knife to stab the can open the rest of the way. Once I had a nice jagged hole, I grabbed some needle nose pliers and began tearing the rest of the top off the can. J saw what I was doing and immediately stepped in so I wouldn’t hurt myself. He’s a bit of a worrier in that way.

The whole situation brought me back in time to when my cousin and I used to hang out at our Grandpa’s house after school. Grandpa would always leave the key out for us in his garage, hanging on a nail behind a big yellow sponge. He was usually out running around town -- either at the church helping the minister with odds n’ ends, or downtown at my uncle’s dry cleaning business, giving “the girls” a hand with the folding. Grandpa lived between the high school and my house, so it was a nice little pit stop on the way home. My cousin and I were the same age, and sometimes she would ditch the school bus, and we’d hang out at Grandpa’s while she waited for her parents to pick her up on their way home from work.

Grandpa’s fridge was always well stocked with apple juice drinking boxes and berry yogurt. Sometimes he’d have a bag of chips lying around. And if we were ever looking for more than a snack, in his basement stairway, he had shelves stacked high with cans of Zoodles. (I think that’s what they were called… the pasta shaped like wild animals?)

Tonight’s episode with our broken can opener reminded me of the time that Grandpa’s can opener broke as my cousin and I tried to prepare a can of Zoodles. Now first, I should tell you that Grandpa was a real worrier. For example, each winter he kept track of how many people had fallen through the ice on their skidoos, and would always remind us until the last inch of snow had melted from the ground. Everything came with a warning, and I can still hear his voice like it was yesterday, “Just be careful, whatever you do!” This same warning went with opening cans of Zoodles. He always worried that we would cut ourselves on the sharp edge of the lid. So on this occasion when his can opener broke, my cousin and I decided to use one of those puncture-type can openers to punch holes the whole way around the lid to get it open. As you can imagine, this left a very jagged edge. The two of us giggled like mad women, because we knew if we were to throw this brutal looking can into Grandpa’s recycle bin that he would surely take a heart attack when he saw it and would want to make sure we didn’t cut ourselves on it and need stitches.

Knowing that he might be home at any moment, my cousin stood on the front steps watching out for Grandpa’s car, as I sprinted up the street Mission Impossible style with the jagged can in hand to toss into the recycle bin at the corner store. I guess it’s a bit of a “you had to be there” moment, but the two of us laughed until we cried. Oh what lengths we went to so Grandpa wouldn’t worry about us.

I’m sure that tonight Grandpa was probably cringing as he looked down on me stabbing at that can of mushrooms with the dull pocket knife. Fortunately, he can take some comfort in knowing that I have J to worry about me now, and he’s always ready to step in and help me tackle the jagged cans in life.

Now there was more than one reason why I always enjoyed making the pit stop at Grandpa’s house on the way home from school -- just so you don’t think it was only to raid his fridge and cupboards for drinking boxes and Zoodles… but I really loved him and I genuinely liked being around him. He was the most wonderful person I had ever known -- the most generous, caring, and loving individual ever. He made sure that my sister and I never went without food, school supplies or running shoes. Whenever my parents fell short, he always stepped up to the plate… even to the point where he would fulfill promises that they would break, like sending me on an expensive school trip to New York City, when my parents backed out when it was time for them to pay. My Grandpa wasn’t a rich man… and yet he always went above and beyond as a provider. He also always listened to me without judgment and even took me in to live with him when I couldn’t handle living at home anymore.

Grandpa left a real legacy behind, not only with my personal memories of him, but in the lives of hundreds of children - whether they know it or not - as he was the founder of a summer camp that still thrives today. Because Grandpa was the founder, from the time I was 8 years old, I would go there every summer. I admit that at first I didn’t go because I enjoyed summer camp - I was a shy kid and often felt completely out of my element - but I knew it made him proud, and so for that reason alone, I wanted to go. Both my sister and cousin never had any interest, which left me feeling like it was up to me to represent. I didn’t want to let him down. Eventually I couldn’t imagine a summer going by without attending camp, and so during my teenage years, I worked there as a counselor and the arts n’ crafts leader. I knew it meant the world to him. Camp also had a major impact on my social development as it helped pull me out of my shell… Even though I’m still a naturally quiet person even today, I think that my life would have turned out very different if I had grown up without those experiences.

However, because Grandpa and I bonded through me going to summer camp, and also being in a serious car accident together, I eventually became known as “Grandpa’s favourite”. This nickname was usually said in a whiny tone, followed by rolled eyes and a wrinkled nose, ”Grandpa’s faaaaaavooorite.” But what the hell… I didn’t care. I knew that Grandpa didn’t choose favourites - the truth was he was *my* favourite. He wasn’t showing favoritism to me as much as I was to him.

Because I had such a close relationship with my Grandpa, when the time came that I wanted to escape our small town and head to Toronto, the only thing holding me back was him. My heartstrings were wrapped tight, and I felt like I couldn’t leave him behind. “Who would mow his lawn?” I wondered. “Who will pay him visits?” I was afraid to move, but he eased my mind. As I saved my pennies, he covered the cost of the U-Haul with the words of encouragement, “There is nothing for you in this town. You should go.” He was right… there wasn’t anything keeping me there… well, nothing except him, and I was grateful to have his blessing.

As Grandpa grew old, dementia slowly began sinking in. One day he bumped his head, and was kept in the hospital for two weeks. In that short time, my aunts and uncles sold everything he owned and forced him into a home. It broke my heart almost as much as it broke his spirit. From there on in, everything began slipping downhill. I was completely in denial about his condition when mom would tell me how he would call and wake her up in the middle of the night to see what time it was, or to ask if it was dark outside her window too. I’d make excuses, “Maybe he woke up and thought the clock was PM instead of AM and he was just confused?” But really, deep down I knew better.

When I visited Grandpa just before moving out west, I knew it would be the last time that I would get to see him… Sure enough, only a few months later his mind snapped and the attendants at the senior’s home had to call the police who wrestled him down, handcuffed him to a stretcher, and took him to the hospital. My sweet, gentle Grandpa… I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It made me sick to my stomach to think about it. I was so thankful to hear that he only remained in this wretched state for three days before he eventually passed away. I'm glad he didn't have to suffer for years in that horrible condition.

I couldn’t afford to fly home for his funeral and I've been forever grateful for that. I think it would’ve absolutely destroyed me had I been there to mourn alongside all the rest. I’d much rather remember him as he was, standing outside waving goodbye, as I stared hard absorbing every moment, fully knowing that this would be the last time.

It was only mere days after my Grandpa’s passing that I found someone with comparable attributes… someone who characterized everything from Grandpa’s caring nature to his natural worrying tendencies… someone who even shared his name. Perhaps it sounds strange to say that J reminds me so much of my Grandpa, but given that my Grandpa had always been my favourite person throughout my whole life, maybe it makes sense that this void would be replaced by J. I often think that my Grandpa sent him here to look after me… to care about me just as he did, and to open jagged cans for me so I don’t cut my hands.

Even though it has been four years since Grandpa's passing, it still brings tears to my eyes to think about him and how pure, and genuine, and wonderful he was. Fortunately, I often get to visit with him in my dreams, and even though I almost always realize that I’m dreaming, I know that his presence is still very real. I am always sure to hug him and tell him that I love him before waking up. And I suppose there is some comfort in knowing that he is closer to me now than he has ever been before, and that I can always visit him whenever I close my eyes.

So on that note, I’m hoping that I’ll dream of him tonight, and have a chance to wish him a happy birthday, as tomorrow is April 15th, and he would have turned 95.