Meeting James Broomhead

March 9, 2015

Greetings from the door ajar,

When I asked my parents if it would be all right if I walked around the lake I had anticipated they would say yes.  In fact, when they said no, it did not register right away.  My mental momentum was already carrying me down the meandering roads of my walkabout.

I was a young boy, not yet old enough to call my own shots, but just old enough to feel the tug of adventure.  I had already tasted a little freedom, already had my share of exploring.  And now the spirit called me to conquer this lake. 

 

I decided that next morning, in spite of my parent’s casual refusal, that I would go anyway. 

I had looked at maps, and determined, wrongly, it turns out, that I could be around the lake by the end of the day.  I thought, wrongly again, it was possible no one would miss me in the chaos of the campground activities.  I packed a sandwich and a few essentials in a small backpack, and set off.  The day unspooled in front of me, filled with promise, adventure, and the glory of circumnavigating Higgins Lake.

That’s the day that I met my Grandpa. 

Not to say that I wasn’t already aware of my mother’s father; he was a fixture in our lives. On this day I had nearly a decade of memories pixelated around him. Christmases, birthdays, playing at his house on the lake where he lived with Grandma.   But I had not met him in the way the rest of world may have.  And on this day, that would change.

His name was James Broomhead, a memorable name for a remarkable man.  I only know a portion of his escapades, and that is enough to form a pretty exciting image.  He had braved the ravages of the First World War, tramped the length of Canada in an era when every place was remote.  He waded through the Great Depression.  He was a hard man, borne of hard times.

But to me, he was just my Grandpa.  The man who helped me fish off the dock, or who pushed my sister on the swing. 

He was not a large man but he was stocky, and had strong capable hands, sinewy corded arms.  One hand was bent from an injury, but he used it without favor.   He wore long sleeves to protect his skin from the sun, and usually a small brimmed hat.  Even when he mowed the lawn or painted the rose trellis, he wore pleated dress pants.  I can see him as clear as fifty years ago.

I trudged along the two lane road, my sneakers making small puffs of dust in the shoulder of the road, already reveling in the victory of walking around the lake.  The morning sun was warming the summer day. 

A car drew past me and stopped.  The door opened and I realized it was my Grandpa.  I stopped and for just a fraction of a second I was glad to see him.  He stood next to the car for a moment, small fedora on his head, Lucky Strike wedged smoking in the corner of his mouth.  He hitched his pants and walked toward me.

He was in front of me before it really dawned on me that I was in trouble for disobeying my parents.  And then that was the least of my worries.  My grandfather leaned over until his eyes were level with mine.

I knew Grandpa could be a rough man.  I had stood in the cellar with him when he was repairing the outboard motor, a Stroh’s on the workbench, cigarette in his mouth, a cloud of blue around him as he worked.  I knew about cussing.  I knew about yelling.  But none of that had been focused at me.  I had been in a golden bubble, the observer. Now it was different.

“You know…David…” he said, his voice a growl, smoke drifting between us.  He held up one hand in front of me.  “I could snap your neck.  With one hand.”

I could feel the sweat on my back suddenly go chilled, and something in my stomach tried to pull all of my other organs in with it.  There were only a few moments of silence, but somehow they spun on for hours.   The birds had stopped chirping, and the world’s color had gone sepia toned.

I had watched my grandfather shave, his shirt off, tapping the safety razor on the sink. I had seen the dimples where the bullets had gone into him.  The scars where he had been patched up.  Other places the skin was shiny where he had been burned and grafted.  I knew the stories because my Grandpa answered my endless questions with candor.  He had let me put my small fingers in the divots in his flesh.

I knew there was a time when my Grandpa disarmed a man with a knife, and the man got the worse end of that exchange.  Before, these were just abstract stories, told in the crowded kitchen where my Grandma baked us cookies.  But now they came back and framed a picture of a dangerous man.  And in that moment, I was afraid. 

I stared at the stubble on his chin, trying not to look at his eyes.  There was a palpable danger, an ominous energy that radiated from the man in front of me.  I swallowed loudly, vainly pushing the fear down.  When he spoke again, the same menacing rasp in his voice, tears burned my eyes.

“Son…I love you.  But lots of people, look just like me, don’t care about you at all.  They would hurt you.  Just. Like. That.”  And he snapped his finger under my chin. 

My legs were jelly. The day’s adventure had vanished.  The world had shrunk down to a tiny rectangle on the side of an obscure road in the middle of nowhere.  I snorted a little, still trying not to cry, already too late as that momentum carried me away.

My Grandpa stood straight and looked down at me.  He slowly put his hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the car. 

This was not the last time I got into trouble, and certainly not the most serious offense in my checkered past.  But when I think of that day I don’t remember the punishment or the wrath of my parents or the lesson I learned from disobeying.  I think of that day as when I met James Broomhead. 

I was not really afraid of my Grandpa, but something had changed.  I was aware that he had this other side, another edge we didn’t usually see when he puttered around the yard or helped push off the pontoon boat, or sat watching boxing matches on TV with the sound off.  He was not a stranger, or dangerous, he was Grandpa, snoring in the chair, or laughing at the picnic table.  But he was James Broomhead long before he was Grandpa.  Once that door was open it would not close fully again.

And this made me aware of other people too.  Not everyone was to be feared, or suspected, though I know why my grandfather wanted me to be cautious as a young boy.   But I realized people were more than just the roles they seemed to play in our lives.  Our teachers, our priest, the neighbor, the mailman, they were all people with lives and histories and depth beyond what we could see as we passed through their day.  I wanted to know more about their stories.

The day I met my Grandpa was significant, and for a short time, frightening.  But one thing you should know is that it did not make me afraid.  In fact it made me more curious.  In the years beyond that day I set off on countless adventures, some foolish, some dangerous, a few for good reasons with clearly stated objectives, and many just for fun.

 I went into each of those days armed with wisdom given to me by a hard-bitten man in a stained pork-pie fedora.  A man who cared so much about me that he risked showing me a side of him not meant for grandchildren.  He meant to make me safe, and he did, but he whether it was his intention or not, he also added to the ingredients in me that became the courage and the will to explore the world and the people in it.

Hope this finds you curious,

David

Copyright © 2015 David Smith