Today my Dad's Dad Died

Just a few minutes ago, I was roused by a phone call from my younger sister. It was pretty obvious to me why she was calling so early. Last night, my Dad’s Dad, John Shelley, passed away. His death was imminent, and for me, inconsequential. My grandfather had died for me many years earlier; arguably, so had my Dad’s Dad. In the past few months, it became clear to all that John was about to shuffle off this mortal coil, which left me considerable time to reflect on how it might impact me. I also knew as of Friday morning, on the final leg of my journey to Edmonton, that it would likely be within a few days. I cannot proclaim that it hasn’t stirred some emotions in me, but none of my mourning is for my grandfather. I mourn on my Dad’s behalf.

Growing up, I loved my Didi. While my Dad is responsible for my love of fishing, given his willingness to take me for my favourite activity despite no real interest himself, I often associated my Didi with fishing. We spent many hours on the dock at various cottages, or in boats on various lakes, fishing. I remember many of the fish we caught, where we were fishing, what bait we were using. I’ll always remember the day I was fishing in the rain with Paul, a friend from Simcoe, without any luck. I had promised fish, as I rarely was skunked. We stopped at my grandparent’s cottage for tea to warm up, and fished from their dock. My Didi twice hooked into a muskie that was as long as his dock was wide. This is no fish story. I was shaking for an hour, trying to catch the same fish. My Didi, in his tell-tale way, just laughed off the missed chance. His line had broke – the line could have very well been the same line the reel had when my grandmother undoubtedly purchased the rod at a garage sale. He shuffled off the dock, and went and had his tea.

I used to stop in to see my grandparents all the time once I had my license. Some weeks, I was there nearly every day. I also spent a lot of time at the cottage with them, given that I helped my uncle Chuck and aunt Jane both build their cottages. At night, my Didi would share Reader’s Digest jokes, and laugh enthusiastically. Rarely did we laugh at the jokes, often we’d laugh at Didi’s exuberance.

While I will not mourn my grandfather, I will remember him.

Unfortunately, I will also remember the time when Leia and I were staying at Chuck’s cottage while visiting Ontario the summer of 2005. We had just moved to Edmonton, and were home for a few weeks. Leia, myself, my sister Priscilla (who was living in Winnipeg at the time), and my youngest sister Leah were all sitting in Chuck’s cottage, which is next door to my grandparent’s, watching as my grandparents got into a boat, and drove away to celebrate my grandfather’s birthday. We hadn’t been forgotten. In fact, they were boating away so as not to be in close proximity to us, to celebrate with the rest of the family at another cottage, a party we had deliberately not been invited to.

That wasn’t the moment that my grandfather died, but it was around that time. Hard to be moved by the passing of a man who has, for all intents and purposes, not been around for nearly eight years.

The reason we weren’t invited to a birthday party for our grandfather – even though all the other family in the area would have been – was because my sister Priscilla had been sexually assaulted by our cousin’s husband in 2000.  Makes sense, no?

When my sister was first assaulted, our family probably did a lot of things wrong. We truly meant well. We wanted to protect her; to shield her from the scorn, abuse, and ridicule that would surely be projected her way. We realized then that Priscilla would be blamed. Graham was too nice of a guy, married with kids, the son of a pastor, whereas Priscilla was a “troubled” teenage girl who would have caused this otherwise godfearing man to stumble. Of course, “troubled” here is misleading – she was pretty much a normal teenager, but her unwillingness to fake her way through church, to feign religious piety, damned her in the eyes of much of my family. We dealt with the situation as best as we knew how at that time. Graham claimed that it was a terrible mistake, induced by stress, and that he would seek counseling, disclose his error to his wife, and so on. My parents focused on protecting their daughter, to ensuring that she would not be subject to further abuse by the broader family. And, I think wrongly now, we didn’t disclose the situation. I believe my folks met with Graham and his wife, as well as my Dad’s brother. Beyond that, I don't think anybody knew about it. Some of the siblings, who were really young at the time, didn’t know about it for years to come.

That was how life went for the next few years. In 2004, Leia and I moved to Edmonton. Our first stop Westward was my cousin Gabe’s wedding in Parry Sound. Gabe had been my roommate at the University of Waterloo for three years. That wedding was the last time I saw him, or most of the Shelley family. While we were in Edmonton that year, I learned of another alleged assault, this time of one of my cousins, and from a very young age. I write alleged, not only because of my legal training, but also because this story was quickly buried. I’ve never directly spoken to that cousin again – which is not surprising, as I’ve hardly spoken to any of them. The last conversations I had with Gabe was when I called him to tell about my own sister’s assault and the alleged assault of his sister.

This is why we weren’t invited to the birthday party. My sister had decided that if she ever heard even a whisper of a rumor of Graham hurting someone else, she would report to the police. With news of another assault, she did just that. The police investigated her complaint, and eventually charges were filed. Graham plead out just prior to going to trial. My Dad’s family hasn’t really spoken to many of us since.

Once the situation was out there it became apparent that the broader Shelley family had no interest in dealing with it. They had no sympathy for my sister and her terrible burden, and they seemed indifferent to my cousin’s plight. Admittedly, I know very little of how they did deal with it, as we’ve ceased to be part of the family. I haven’t celebrated anything with the Shelley’s since. No wedding invitations, no Thanksgivings, no Christmases, no birthdays.

My grandfather getting into a boat to go elsewhere to celebrate his birthday was the beginning of his rejection of me. Many years ago I mourned that loss. In 2006, when I returned to Ontario for a friend’s wedding, I stopped in at my grandparent’s marina, knowing they’d be heading to church. I had a shirt on with the not so subtle reference to scripture, “All that is hidden will be revealed.” It was, in my memory, a last ditch effort, a plea, to ask my grandparents not to reject my sister, not to reject us, but to support us. I don’t remember all that was said. I do clearly remember that my grandfather vacillated between tears and laughter. One thing was clear: he didn’t want to deal with it.

Perhaps that was the moment he died for me. The man I had venerated for years, who I looked up to, who I loved, didn’t care about my sister, or the rest of my family. He preferred, instead, to simply ignore the problem – which meant, ignoring all of us. And that is how he lived the remaining years of his life. I only saw my grandfather if I happened to bump into him when I would visit my parent’s church, or on the rare occasion he would be at my parent’s house. I would always greet him, shake his hand, exchange a few pleasantries, but there was little beyond that. I’d be shocked if he could pick out my kids in a crowd. Certainly they never knew him, and he never indicated that he cared to know them. My little niece was grief-stricken the other day, crying that she didn’t want Didi to die, as she didn’t even know him yet. Perhaps it will be easier for her to have never had the opportunity, rather than to live with the reality that she was ignored.

For those of you that know me, you already know most of this story. I’ve never been shy about speaking about it. But, despite a lingering idea for a book that would include this story as one chapter, I have never so formally or permanently presented this story. When I spoke with my Dad earlier this morning, I told him I would probably blog about his Dad’s passing. Although he recognizes he has little sway over what I will ultimately post, he did ask that I be respectful. But I think it is important to tell this story. I probably should have done it long before my grandfather’s death.

I recount a few brief details of this story only to provide some context for why I am not mourning my grandfather today. I did mourn many years ago the loss, but today I have lost nothing. I do not even mourn my Dad’s Dad, who for all intents and purposes, also ceased to exist years ago.

Today I mourn on my Dad’s behalf.

My Dad has never been one to share many emotions. I remember once he signed cards for his kids with, “I love you” and we all thought his cancer had returned. It isn’t that my dad is unemotional – the love he has for his wife, his kids, and his grandkids is etched across his face, and is revealed by his tough and scarred hands, brutalized by the many years of hard labour to give his family a great life. If you’ve ever seen my Dad play with his grandkids, you know he is a man full of passion. There is not one kid in our family that questions the depth of our Dad’s love. But, we are unlikely to see much emotion from my Dad in the days to come. He will face this loss stoically. In part, this is because he has likely mourned the loss of his own father, and the loss of his kid’s grandfather, long ago. In part, this is just who he is.

What I mourn today is the fact that my Dad isn’t mourning the loss of his own Dad.

Without question, full stop, my Dad is the greatest person I know. If I could be half the person he is, I’d be satisfied with having achieved greatness. My Dad has inspired me to be the husband, father, son, brother, friend, and person that I am. Of course I know my Dad is flawed – and, as he is my Dad, he is flawed in ways that irk me immensely, which have resulted in our fair share of intense moments over the years. But he is nevertheless the person I hold in the highest esteem. I suppose this is one legacy of my grandfather’s that is worth remembering, as my Dad would credit his own Father as his example.

I mourn on my Dad’s behalf today because his Dad chose not to honour him. In rejecting my family, my grandfather rejected my Father. All my life, my Dad told me that my greatest strengths were also my weaknesses. In my case, my passion is a great example: it has both been the reason for some of my greatest successes, and the source of some of my worst hardships. My grandfather’s commitment to his family was a great strength, but it also became his greatest weakness.

When the sexual abuse in my family came to light, my grandfather chose to commit himself to scoundrels – although I do not know my extended family now, anyone who elects to stand in solidarity with a man who has abused young and vulnerable girls and to reject the victims are scoundrels, and worse. Rather than stand behind my sister, and support her, he opted to drive away in his boat to celebrate his birthday, he opted to pretend like it never happened, which meant pretending that we never happened. He chose to commit himself to the family that was willing to circle the wagons around a predator to protect that family name – and likely to continue to hide the family secrets – and to heap scorn on the victims. In so doing, my grandfather turned his back on the great man that is my Father.

I mourn that reality today. I mourn the fact that my grandfather, up to his death, never reconciled with my Dad. My Dad is his greatest achievement, the legacy that should be celebrated, and sadly, one that John never properly honoured.

My grandfather perhaps wanted to be like Cypher from the Matrix. Cypher asks to be reinserted into the Matrix so that he could once again enjoy life. Tired of the food that tastes like chicken, he is shown chewing a steak, commenting that while he knows the steak isn’t real, ignorance is bliss. Perhaps this is the way it was for my grandfather. Perhaps he knew the edifice of his family wasn’t real, but he preferred ignorance. Unlike Cypher, however, my grandfather would have been fully aware of the reality he was electing to ignore. Maybe he still found bliss.

One thing is for certain, my grandfather could have found bliss in reality. He could have chosen to have a meaningful relationship with my Dad. He could have gotten to know my siblings, who missed the opportunity that I had to forge memories. Didi, for some of my siblings, is less of a memory and more mythology. They know more about Didi from stories than from experience. Super-Didi could have gotten to know my nieces and nephews, as well as my own kids – how could he not have found bliss with such kids around?

While I am sad today by the confused emotions some of my siblings are feeling at the passing of a man they really didn’t know, and who never took the opportunity to get to know the interesting people that they are, I am mostly sad that my Dad doesn’t have the opportunity to feel the way I do. I know my Dad is proud of who I am, in every respect. He might not always agree with me, or like the decisions I make, but my Dad is proud to be my Dad. He is proud of how I am as a husband and a partner to Leia. He is proud of how I am raising my children. And, while I don’t think he’ll write it down in a card any time soon, he doesn't need to. I can see it in his eyes, as well as his goofy grin.

I wish my Dad’s Dad would have bestowed upon my Dad the same feeling I get from my Dad. My Dad deserves it. Today I mourn that lost opportunity.

I’m sorry, Dad, that your Dad failed to honour the great person you are!