Seeing them once a week or once every other week really didn't lend to knowing them in the way I knew my grandma Lloyd (Mum), yet I was intrigued by them just the same. While the both of them had immigrated to Canada at a young age, they both continued to carry the distinctions of the old country. The accents, phrases, and foods were just some of the obvious things that I found unusual as a boy. I can remember many times kindly laughing at jokes, when I never really understood a word that was said.
My first memories of visiting my Best grandparents are when they lived a the Peterborough Armoury. It was a formidable building that stood in the city centre, surrounded by rod iron fencing, with turrets on each corner. My grandpa was the janitor and had probably got the job through the Canadian Legion because he was a WWII vet.
Upon arriving at the Armoury we would approach the grand wooden gates that were tightly shut, and give a solid rap. It was a faint sound in view of the ominous doors. From a boys point of view they were gates that led to the mystery and might of the Hastings and Prince Edward County Regiment. A regiment distinguished for having earned the largest number of battle honours during the Second World War. Soon we would hear the clanging of metal as my grandpa slid the many dead bolts from one side to the other. A man size door fitted within the grand wooden gates would swing open, with a beckoning from a wee Scottish man to come in. I would have to be lifted over the sill of the door just to get inside.
We would follow my grandpa to their apartment in the upper southeast turret. The wooden stairs turned their way upward with creaks and groans. I was always careful to never look into the eyes of the mounted moose head that hung imposingly on the landing halfway up the stairs. That moose head always freaked me out. I was never so glad than to reach the top and find ourselves safe and secure in their dingy, smelly old apartment. Once inside I would muse myself with a metal castle and soldiers that awaited me in the corner of their living room.
I was his only grandson so he somewhat doted on me. When I got older I would wash his car or cut his grass and he would pay me handsomely (even though he was a Scot) along with some sweet or trinket he had in his pocket. Grandma would make us lunch, and it was usually sandwiches and homemade chips. The sandwiches were the best because they were usually something I never got at home. Bologna or spam on white bread, and spin wheel sandwiches that had pickles in the middle alongside a Coke. Lunch was never dull.
If you have seen the comic strip Andy Capp, you will have seen my grandpa. He was a short man, often wearing a Scottish tam with a cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth, while walking with a distinct limp. He had been injured during the war when he crashed his jeep. Pins were permanently placed in his knee never allowing him to bend it. He never complained about it, and it seemed to win him favor in many places.
For five years and at every Adam Scott CVI home game, my grandpa Davie could be seen pacing the sidelines when I played football. It was not hard to recognize his limp and drooping cigarette. Every so often he would mutter a few words in his Scottish brogue that no one ever understood, yet I knew in his own sweet way he was urging me on.
Grandpa was proud to be a Scot and a Canadian. While his roots were in the old country his family and his future were in the new. I fondly remember nudging our way forward to the front of the sidewalk, to watch the Santa Claus' parade one cold afternoon. Grandpa could never see the Santa from the back.
The parade was exciting, and you would think that Santa would be the most anticipated attraction, yet not for Grandpa. I found that out when he began to whistle and sidestep to the sound of the oncoming bagpipes. The kilts, pipes and drums took him to another place and he wanted all us to go there with him. The drums gladly kept time, and the sound of marching boots on pavement thrilled the crowd.
Grandpa looked down and muttered at me, "Oohhh aye lad, do ya hear it? It's the pipes! For a moment the old country had merged with the new, and Davie Best's grandson was there to enjoy it with him. He was proud that we could have that moment together, it was the very best that he could give to the future Best. While my grandpa had little to give forward, he in other ways had given everything he had so that his family might have a home in beautiful Peterborough County, and in this great country called Canada.
We would follow my grandpa to their apartment in the upper southeast turret. The wooden stairs turned their way upward with creaks and groans. I was always careful to never look into the eyes of the mounted moose head that hung imposingly on the landing halfway up the stairs. That moose head always freaked me out. I was never so glad than to reach the top and find ourselves safe and secure in their dingy, smelly old apartment. Once inside I would muse myself with a metal castle and soldiers that awaited me in the corner of their living room.
I could always recognize my grandparents home by the smell, no matter where they live. It was the combined effort of cigarette smoke, stinky feat, beer and french fry grease. Together they created an aroma that permeated your nostrils and clothes for days. Now I understand why we had a bath every Saturday after visiting the Armoury.
My grandpa loved to talk about soccer in the UK and football in Canada. I would often sit at his feet watching these games on the tv. Considering the smell of his socks it was probably the last place I should have been sitting. He was the first I knew to own a colour tv which made those afternoons even more special.
Grandma on the other didn't take kindly to watching football. She thought it odd for grown men to wear tight pants, bend over and hold hands in huddles, and slap each other on the butt. I think I have described it mildly compared to how she would have said it.
Grandma on the other didn't take kindly to watching football. She thought it odd for grown men to wear tight pants, bend over and hold hands in huddles, and slap each other on the butt. I think I have described it mildly compared to how she would have said it.
If you have seen the comic strip Andy Capp, you will have seen my grandpa. He was a short man, often wearing a Scottish tam with a cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth, while walking with a distinct limp. He had been injured during the war when he crashed his jeep. Pins were permanently placed in his knee never allowing him to bend it. He never complained about it, and it seemed to win him favor in many places.
For five years and at every Adam Scott CVI home game, my grandpa Davie could be seen pacing the sidelines when I played football. It was not hard to recognize his limp and drooping cigarette. Every so often he would mutter a few words in his Scottish brogue that no one ever understood, yet I knew in his own sweet way he was urging me on.
Grandpa was proud to be a Scot and a Canadian. While his roots were in the old country his family and his future were in the new. I fondly remember nudging our way forward to the front of the sidewalk, to watch the Santa Claus' parade one cold afternoon. Grandpa could never see the Santa from the back.
The parade was exciting, and you would think that Santa would be the most anticipated attraction, yet not for Grandpa. I found that out when he began to whistle and sidestep to the sound of the oncoming bagpipes. The kilts, pipes and drums took him to another place and he wanted all us to go there with him. The drums gladly kept time, and the sound of marching boots on pavement thrilled the crowd.
Grandpa looked down and muttered at me, "Oohhh aye lad, do ya hear it? It's the pipes! For a moment the old country had merged with the new, and Davie Best's grandson was there to enjoy it with him. He was proud that we could have that moment together, it was the very best that he could give to the future Best. While my grandpa had little to give forward, he in other ways had given everything he had so that his family might have a home in beautiful Peterborough County, and in this great country called Canada.
