2. On loss and remembering: Visiting
My grandmother lived in the same tiny apartment on Moilliet Street in Parksville since 1998. When I close my eyes, I can effortlessly move through her space. The small entrance with a shoe rack neatly presenting her child-size boots and sandals. A closet houses her jackets, puzzles, and recycling. An entrance opens to a rectangular room, with the kitchen at one end and the living room at the other. A round white kitchen table, which in recent years, was often covered with a forest green table cloth, colourful placemats, beading supplies, and cups of tea. In the narrow living room, two sofas face each other next to a screen door that opens to her garden. Near the door sits Figgy, a large potted fig tree, whose branches reach the ceiling and always seem to be in the way; somehow managing to block both the TV screen and the door.
Tucked between the bathroom and the bedroom is a linen closet, which shelves a selection of fuzzy blankets, sheets, and floral pillowcases. Large stacked boxes contain family records and photo albums. Bins of birch bark, fur, leather scraps, beading projects, and sewing materials. A heavy wooden Singer sewing machine sits on the floor. A shelf for collecting birthday cards, Christmas presents, and boardgames. The simple bedroom has a double bed, dresser, closet, and loudly ticking clock. There’s a small cot, used by the grandchildren, on which I have had some of the longest and most restful sleeps.
The apartment was small, but so was she. Nanny was under five feet tall, even shorter in her later years. Her feet were size two and she would brag about the money she saved buying children’s shoes. Although it was tiny, and cramped at times, her home was a place of comfort. When I was a kid, my mom, brothers and I would visit her on weekends. We lived over an hour away in the Cowichan Valley. We looked forward to the drive because we’d get to stop at KFC. My grandmother loved Coleslaw and we’d always bring her a tub.
We’d spend days together at her apartment. At night, we’d pile onto the futon and watch cable TV, which we didn’t have at home. We’d eat fun Nanny foods, like mini pizzas, ichiban noodles, and her specialty Shake and Bake chicken. The table would always be set when we arrived, with food in the oven, even if we had already eaten. We’d do puzzles and play with the electric keyboard that Nanny stored under the bed. If my brothers and I were being loud, Nanny would tell us that Mary was going to come over and yell at us. Mary lived next door and was always grumpy. Even recently, if someone was watching TV with the volume too high, we’d tease that Mary was going to yell at them (even though Mary hadn’t lived there since 2006).
Back when Nanny still drove, she’d sometimes come to Cowichan in her small purple car to pick me up. I’d always be scared that we’d break down on the drive. The car was old and would make concerning noises on the highway, but we always made it to her place. We’d go to the beach, get hot fudge sundaes, and watch cable movies. It was my job to mute the commercials. She’d read to me before bed and tell me stories about her childhood on the trapline. I’d wake up at the crack of dawn to watch the early morning cartoons. Sometimes I would get scared watching Scooby Doo, so I would wake her up to watch it with me. She never got mad or complained. She’d make me oatmeal and toast slathered in tahini, which was an unusual combo that I grew to love.
In my teenage years, I was often preoccupied with friends and school, but would spend weeks with Nanny during the summers. We’d visit my cousins, go swimming at the river, thrift shop, and hangout at her house. After I moved to Montreal in 2015, there were a few years where I could only afford one annual visit, usually for a month in the summer. I’d sit with Nanny at the kitchen table while she would make moccasins and birch bark baskets. She taught me how to bead. We’d drink tea, play cards and I’d ask questions about her life. She’d tell me stories about her wild youth in the bush, back before she became Nanny.
When I started making beaded earrings in 2019, we’d sit together and bead for hours. I taught her how to bead earrings. Her eyesight wasn’t the best because she had cataracts, but she’d delicately stitch beautiful mini earrings. I’d sell them for her and she would be so shocked to hear that they sold. On one visit, she taught my mom how to bead earrings. Beading became a strong connecting force for the women in my family. I now have her beading supplies with me in Montreal and cherish them deeply.
I sometimes have a disconnect when I see an object of her’s in my house. I’ll think how can this cup be here when it is in her house? In my spirit, her home still exists intact. I picture her peeling her morning apple, or watching TV on the couch, propped up with a pile of cushions. My mom, aunt, cousins and I took apart her house in July. We emptied her apartment in a day and a half. We ate the last of her homemade soup from the freezer and sorted through her belongings. We found a lot of cash in the sock drawer and did a fashion show wearing her most memorable items of clothing: her red winter jacket, floppy sun hat, jorts, pink vest, and leopard print scarf. We all found precious things to keep. No one argued over her belongings. It was deeply sad, but luckily the women in my family are hilarious, and we were able to keep the spirits high.
It’s no doubt that we’ll be checking on her rose garden from time to time. We’ll probably do a stakeout to see the rando who lives there now. It’s unlikely I’ll ever go inside her apartment again. It brings me comfort to know that in the future, I’ll be able to drive down her street and point out her little apartment to my kids. They’ll know that’s where Nanny lived.
