Sim
The first memory of my Grandfather was when I
began to call him “Sim.” I was three or four
years old. I stood on his wharf one day and heard
his friend ask, “How was the fishing today, Sim?”
“Sim?” I asked. “I thought your name was ‘Grandpa’?”
He looked at me. “Well, that is my name, but I’m Grandpa
to you.” I wasn’t convinced. From that day on he was “Sim.”
Sim was a big man who loved to laugh and tease. I was
gullible. He teased me constantly. I was at his house one day.
Grandpa and Grandmum were eating watermelon and gave me some.
I said, “This is good. Too bad we can’t grow them here.”
“Sure you can.” Sim said. “Just take the seeds and put
them in the ground.”
“No you can’t!” I replied. “It’s too cold here.”
“Yes you can! When I was a boy we grew them all the time.
They were the biggest watermelons you ever saw. They’re easy
to grow.”
This was big news. I rushed home with a hand-full of the
seeds, banged through the door, and yelled, “Mum! Mum! I’m going
to grow watermelons!”
“You can’t grow watermelon around here! It’s too cold!”
“I can too!”
“Who told you that?”
“Sim did. He said he grew them when he was little. They were
the biggest melons he ever saw.”
Mum visited grandpa and asked him about the melons. She
said he laughed so hard tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks.
Sim and Grandmum had ten children. Two died at birth. They
lived in a three- bedroom house: one for them, one for the girls,
and one for the boys. Sim had a big heart but hid it well. He
never hugged me, but I knew he loved me. He used to take me places.
The sky was clear and brilliant blue. A weak breeze raised
small waves. They reflected the rising sun and blinded me like
diamonds under a strong light. A crow cawed from the top of a
tree near the shore. Sim leaned into the next stroke. His strong
arms pulled the oars. The small waves rattled against the bow,
as our boat plowed forward.
Sim pulled the boat onto the rocky shore on the other side
of the lake. We grabbed our fishing gear and lunch and hiked
through the woods. He took me to a small lake hidden in the
forest.
We settled in a clearing at the edge of the lake. “This
is a great lake. Only a few people know about it.” Sim said.
“Really?” I asked. I was proud to be included into such
an elite group.
Sim baited our hooks. “We used to catch trout more than
a foot long. You could sit here on the shore and see them
swimming below your feet.”
“Wow!”
“There were so many fish, they used to jump right out of
the water and land beside you. All you had to do was grab
them up and take them home.”
“Sim, are you fibbing me?” I asked.
“I never fib, Mike. I swear it’s true.” He chuckled. “I
saw it happen with my own eyes.” I knew better, but I couldn’t
help wonder what it was like to see that many fish.
No fish were caught that day, but I wasn’t disappointed.
I caught a memory. It is proudly mounted in my mind – a warm
sun, Sim leaning against a tree chewing a straw, teasing me
with tales of the great fish he caught.
Everyone knew and liked Sim. He loved to talk and laugh.
In his late years, he sat on his porch and chatted with
anyone who passed by. They talked about the decline of
the fishing industry or just good ol’ gossip. He worked
hard all his life. I saw him when he was in his 70’s. He carried a
10-foot log several miles. He needed it for his wharf. He
never gave up.
When he was a young man, Sim developed a blood clot
in his leg. He recovered, but every few years an ulcer
formed on that part of his leg. It took several months
to heal. He was 76 when it struck again. I worked
nights, had my days free, and volunteered to take
him to the hospital for his twice-a-week treatments.
During those trips, that I learned a lot of family
history. Every section of road had a story. The time he
came along with his rifle and met several men standing
by the road, trying to shoot a deer a great distance away.
He took his rifle, aimed, and got the deer. He was known
for his shooting skills. I’ve seen his old rifle. The
stock and grip were mostly worn away and there were no
sights on the barrel. I doubt I could shoot a bottle at
ten feet with it.
He told of the time he and several friends hunted
moose illegally and were caught by the game warden.
They gave the warden a hind quarter of the moose and
walked away free men.
It was a different time and a different way of life.
The climate in Nova Scotia is too cold to grow most
vegetables. These men fished and hunted to survive,
selling just enough to buy the produce they couldn’t get
themselves. They had family values and helped those in
need. Even though they had little, they were happy. I
learned all this on our trips to and from the hospital.
Sim was in his early 90’s when his memory began to
fail. One day they found him lost and confused. He
wandered in the street, trying to find his way home. It
was too dangerous for him to be on his own. He was
admitted to a seniors home.
My wife, two children and I visited him often. During
each visit, I could see the change in this once strong,
proud man. “You have two kids?” he would ask. “I thought
you only had one.” He didn’t remember Justin being born.
A few visits later, “You have two kids? I didn’t know
you had kids.”
Later still, “You’re married now? Is that your wife?”
He pointed to Georgia. It broke my heart.
Sim was 94 when the first stroke hit him. He could
no longer get around, but when nurses tried to help, he
fought them like the strong and proud man he once was.
At the age of 94, it took two strong orderlies to control
him. Not long after, another stroke took his life. A great
man was gone.
I was in my 30’s. My aunt handed me a picture of
Sim in his early years. It was like looking in a mirror.
Sim gave me his genes, his sense of humor, and his love to
talk. Sim’s not gone. He’s sitting here writing this story.
Michael T. Smith