Making a connection with the mysterious grandfather she never knew

It all started with a box of love letters and a handful of blackand-white photos. My grandfather George wrote the letters to his bride-to-be, Alice. They came into my possession when my father moved to a long-term care home. What was so special about these letters? Let me explain.

George died in 1935, 20 years before I was born. At the time, my own father was only ten years old. Growing up, I never heard anyone talk about Grandpa. He was an enigma to me, a man of mystery. My siblings never asked any questions and, in time, forgot about him. It wasn’t until years later that I learned the circumstances of his death and why my father never spoke of him. So it was with much curiosity and delight that I happened upon those letters and photos, which dated from 1913 to 1919.

My husband Lew and I examined the photos first, and were astounded to see they were taken on Pender Island, a gulf island off the west coast of British Columbia. In fact, they were taken just across the bay from

where we had been staying for the past three years—it’s our favourite vacation spot. To think that Grandpa had stayed there too was amazing. Sure enough, there is a photo of him standing in front of Roesland farmhouse holding a tin of berries he had picked. Others show him standing on a homemade raft out in the bay, carrying a dead skate (fish) found on the beach, and him along with a group of friends in a touring car at the Port Washington ferry slip.

Today, Roesland Park remains largely unchanged from those early days, except the farmhouse is now a museum. Although some of the guest cabins remain, they are uninhabitable. The deer still roam freely among the apple trees that line the bluff.

Every time Lew and I visit the island, I am drawn to this spot, returning over and over again to enjoy the peaceful serenity it offers. Now I know why. To think, my grandfather trod the same paths I do, watched the same sunsets from Roe islet and rafted in the same bay where I learned to kayak. It overwhelms me with emotion.

In a private moment, I read Grandpa’s letters, and it was here I discovered not only a hopeless romantic but a kindred spirit as well: a sensitive, gentle soul who loved nature, quoted poetry and had a real flair for writing. He became a real person to me, not just a phantom. I believe we would have been good friends.

Grandpa survived the horrors of Passchendaele and mustard gas during the First World War, and when he returned home, he wanted nothing more than to marry his sweetheart and live a quiet life.

He had been a clerk at the Hudson’s Bay Company for many years both before and after the war but lost his job when the Great Depression hit and was unable to support his family. He sank into a deep depression and ended his days in Riverview, a home for the mentally ill. He was only 53. I am quite sure that post-traumatic stress from the war greatly contributed to his decline.

I visited Grandpa’s grave for the first time after discovering those letters and went back often. I kept the letters for several years but never felt they belonged to me. I decided it was time to return them to their rightful owner. After transcribing them into a notebook, I burned them but kept the ashes. On a sunny day in Mountain View cemetery, I buried them beneath a piece of sod on Grandpa’s grave.

Now, whenever Lew and I go to Roesland Park to watch the sunset over the bay behind Salt Spring, I feel Grandpa sitting next to me. We are both smiling. ■