Old Soul
I was close to my father, Francesco. I followed him around to his workshop and his garden, where, much to my mother’s chagrin, my hands, shoes, and pretty little dresses ended up speckled with top soil and sawdust. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t mind getting dirty and she couldn’t wait to tidy me up. I was a girl, after all. My dad humoured me so I interpreted this as an open invitation and became his shadow.
He gave me scraps of wood to nail odd things into (usually more scraps of wood) with a tiny hammer I was certain he made just for me. He let me drop seeds into evenly spaced holes in his garden and had me add water to give them a good start. I even helped him lift the old heavy metal watering can. There were times he disappeared in the row upon row of beanstalks behind the garage and I called his name for what seemed like hours before he answered me. It didn’t cross my five-year-old mind that he was likely hiding in the hopes of getting a moment away from my constant questions and helpfulness.
In addition to his green thumb and carpentry skills, my dad was very musical. Growing up in a small town in Southern Italy, he played and taught wind and stringed instruments and was known as the ‘capobando’ or band leader. He brought his love of music with him to Canada. It wasn’t unusual to be woken up on a Saturday or Sunday morning to the sound of an opera or concerto spinning in the old phonograph drawer at the bottom of our television set. The later my brother and I slept, the louder the volume became – probably my mother’s doing. Sleeping in was considered wasteful and lazy in her books.
When I was about ten, I asked my mother why I didn’t have a normal name like my classmates. What was wrong with names like Susan, Kathy, or Brenda? Being Italian made me different enough. I didn’t need a non-traditional name, too. She silenced me with her answer. “You’re named after one of your father’s favourite operas – Bellini’s ‘Norma’. Don’t ever let him hear you complain about your name. He’d be very hurt.” That was all it took. I embraced my name.
I took an interest in guitar when I was about twelve and my dad drew staff paper by hand, transcribed his favourite waltzes, tangos, and traditional Italian songs and taught me how to play them. He was also interested in my math homework and I’d often find math problems scribbled in the margins of our local newspaper. He was known for his inventions and ability to fix anything. I was awed by the breadth of his talent and often thought he was Leonardo Da Vinci re-born.
When I married and then got pregnant, I knew my child would be very fortunate to have my dad as a grandfather. We lived next door to my parents at the time, my dad had just retired, and my mother-in-law lived about ten minutes away in our small Northern Ontario town. This is what my husband and I wanted – to be close to family and to start our own family.
I was due around Christmas, and by the end of November, we still needed a few nursery items. My parents planned a shopping trip and offered to pick me up from work one day. When they arrived at my office, instead of heading to Sears in our local mall, we went straight home.
“It’s your Uncle John. He collapsed at home and was rushed to Toronto. Something to do with his brain,” my mom said, trying to put on a brave face but barely keeping her composure. I knew she wasn’t telling me the whole story because she was worried about upsetting me so late in my pregnancy. I had many questions but my dad was silent on the ride home and I didn’t want to add to his anxiety. He and his brother, born fourteen months apart, were best friends. I coaxed the truth out of them later that night when my cousin called from Toronto with an update. Uncle John had a brain tumour and the prognosis was bleak.
He passed away a week later while I was hospitalized and on bed rest due to complications with my pregnancy. I couldn't attend the funeral or be there to comfort my dad, who had lost one of the most important people in his life. I felt helpless. I was released from hospital a week later, only to go into labour the following week and deliver Iain William, a beautiful, healthy baby who the nurses called a cuddler.
Mother Nature dealt Northern Ontario a particularly harsh winter that year and the wet, cold weather aggravated my dad's chronic asthma. Coupled with the sorrow of my uncle's passing, my dad spent a great deal of time indoors. He managed to come to the hospital once during my one week stay, but only saw his grandson through the nursery window. Nobody could replace his beloved brother but I hoped his first grandchild would bring some joy back into his life.
I came home from the hospital one week later and he came over for a few minutes. It was just the three of us. I held Iain and my dad gazed at him with a combination of timidity and awe. An overwhelming sense of urgency came over me.
“Daddy, would you like to hold him?”
His shy response was, "Well, yes. I didn't get a really good look at him through the glass in the hospital.” He still had his winter parka on and was holding his hat in one hand. He held my son out in front of him like a fragile vase, allowing himself a brief smile, and a quiet sigh. The image is forever burned into my heart. It was the only time he held his grandson and the last time I saw my dad. He had a massive heart attack the next day and didn't make it to the hospital.
For the second time in three weeks, our family was in mourning.
In the days that followed, multiple people were at war within me. There was the daughter who needed to and should’ve been mourning her father and the mother who should’ve been filled with joy over the birth of her beautiful baby boy. When I was sad, I felt guilty that my son wasn't enough to make me completely happy. When I was happy, I felt like a traitor to my father, whose death should have consumed me, leaving room for nothing else in my heart. Whether I smiled or cried, I looked over my shoulder for fear I was getting it wrong.
The other daughter who scratched her way to the surface was the angry one. Giving him a grandson should have been enough to heal his broken heart. But my anger only added to my guilt.
The pitying daughter brought some short-lived relief.
Pity for myself – I was only twenty-six. I needed my dad.
Pity for my son – he’d be deprived of knowing one of the greatest people I'd ever known.
Pity for my father – he’d never hear himself called "grandpa.”
Pity for my mother – a widow at fifty-two.
In time, I learned to adjust my life to the loss but the weight of his absence never left me.
As Iain’s personality emerged, I didn’t know if it was because I wanted and needed to see it, but his gentle manner and thoughtful disposition reminded me of my dad. A close friend of the family noticed my son's peaceful, pensive nature and started calling him ‘little Francesco’. Another friend called him an old soul as Iain grew into an even-tempered, thoughtful teenager. His aptitude for music became apparent at a young age. He read music and played by ear and I marvelled at how he excelled at multiple instruments and appreciated diverse genres of music. His performances, awards, and accomplishments evoked typical parental pride but the moments were bittersweet. My dad should’ve been there to witness his love of music passed down to another generation.
Iain graduated from university with a music degree and continued on to become a composer. I watch him now with his nine-year-old daughter, helping her learn guitar and write original compositions. And when something’s broken or malfunctioning, I hear his children say, “Give it to daddy. He’ll fix it. He can fix anything.” And now I understand.
Because my son came into the world at about the same time his grandfather left, I believe there was a passing of the baton. I wonder if, when holding Iain that day, something transpired, and in their only face to face meeting, my son touched his grandfather's soul, took some of his beautiful spirit, and freed him from his pain as if to say, "It's okay, grandpa. I've got it from here."
