Happenstance
A poem about a life that might not have happened, but I'm glad did.
Today is the 28th July. On this day in 1911, on a wee farm near Ballymena, County Antrim, Northern Ireland, my Grandad was born.
I count myself lucky to have grown up knowing him. He and my Grandma (maternal grandparents) lived in Marton where I grew up, having emigrated from the UK to NZ in 1952 with my auntie and mother. They saved enough to buy a house there, and lived in it the rest of their lives. He got a job at a timber firm within walking distance. Never bought a car. Never needed to.
Grandad was a storyteller. He had an exceptional memory, aided by a love of history and of books. He had an adventurous spirit and loved exploring places. He loved the outdoors and nature, something he seemed to inherit from his own father. I inherited these things from him too perhaps, definitely a love of storytelling and exploration. (I inherited an Irish Passport from him too, this has been useful. )
He would tell me and my brothers and cousins stories about his travels and adventures, people he met, things he saw and experienced. He would share the sense of the awe he felt floating on the Dead Sea, seeing the ancient rock city of Petra, old Jerusalem, the Colossus of Rhodes, the pyramids of Giza, Monte Carlo, the Norwegian Fjords, the midnight sun in Iceland.
Many of these he saw after joining the British Royal Navy in 1932, on a 12-year contract. Times were tough in the early 30’s. He’d tried his luck emigrating to New York, but the financial crisis forced him home with just 10 shillings to his name. He stayed home to help his Dad on the farm but markets for their crops were bleak. The Navy offered security and an opportunity to see the world. He trained as a cook, and rose to Chief Petty Officer.
Of course, he saw other things in the Navy in the late 1930’s and early 40’s.
He told us the stories of events as he saw them, but not really his emotion of witnessing those events. I’m not blaming him, I mean, how could anyone truly process the enormity of what happened then. Or even after the war, the decision to bring his wife and daughters to the other side of the planet, knowing they’d probably never see their families again. He and Grandma did return after he retired in 1973. His Dad died just a year before, aged 96.
My Mum convinced Grandad to dictate some of his life stories so they could be recorded. I’m incredibly grateful they did that. Memories fade, but when it’s written down it outlives the teller. His retelling of those adventures is quite matter of fact, and I’m more drawn to the felt emotion and meaning of things. So, last year, I attempted to tell his story as poem. I’ve tried to imagine what it must have been like for him to feel the emotions that came with all these things he witnessed. Trying not to project my emotionality onto them, but trying to bring words to what he must have felt, from what I knew of him in the 17 years we shared together.
The Grandad I knew was grateful. Grateful for the life he was given, despite the jeopardy he faced. He could be strict – he was a Navy-man after all – but he was also fun and laughed lots. He laughed at my many little quirks. We played cards lots, and went on bike rides lots. I never remember a lot of emotion though, other than gratitude. All of those post war years easily might never have been.
One thing he would say with some emotion, that has always stuck with me: war is a blimmin’ waste. We must never go there again, to that utter futility. On the last page of his short memoir he listed the numbers of lives lost by nation during WWII. He saw many go down with their ships. Many he shared a ship with never came home. It is incomprehensible. Perhaps that always was the right emotion: disbelief.
This is Grandad’s story, told through the lens of my imagination, of what he saw might have felt and he experienced it all.
Happy birthday Grandad.
