Grandad was 51 when I met him, his hair receding but not yet grey. I was the first grandchild; he recorded my every move on a selection of slides that I have not seen for many years. I remember only one. Me, about two years old, with my back to the camera and my hand flung out behind me, as if to say, "That's enough, Grandad. No more photos."
This photo made Grandad laugh and he liked to tell me about it. Grandad laughed easily but talked little when I was child. He left most of the talking to Grandma, who would ask the same questions again and again or repeat the same story, rather than sit through the suffocation of a silent moment.
Where Grandma was an anxious wreck, often glancing out the lounge room window whenever someone walked past the house (who were they? what did they want? where were they going?), Grandad was the image of calm, the ocean on a warm spring day with a subtle breeze, as he read the paper, pottered in the garden or worked in his garage. I'd often follow him to the garage and watch as he built things – cupboards for his kitchen, desks for his office, windows for his house – or repaired things – fences, furniture...*
In Grandad's garage, I'd listen to the tumbler machine that polished stones. Pet rocks, with googly black eyes and spindy legs, featured in my grandparents' house for a while. I even think a few came home with us. Maybe Grandma made some. I'm certain Grandad didn't. He loved rocks** but I don't think he wanted them as pets...he just liked the feel and look of them when they were polished. For years he kept them in a bowl on the coffee table in the lounge room.^
Grandad was a no fuss man. He could fix or make anything but there wouldn't be any unnecessary flourishes, no bells or whistles. A cupboard was a cupboard...a few pieces of wood stuck together. No ornate embellishments. He once helped me move an old wardrobe that was beautifully ornate with superbly carved detail; a friend had inherited it from an old rich aunt and had generously loaned it to me. After Grandad had moved it, the delicately carved detail was chipped and cracked, and hung from the wardrobe like a false eyelash after a wild night on the town.
"Ah, that doesn't matter," Grandad laughed. "You can still use it to hang up your clothes."
Grandad had the same matter-of-fact approach to death. Death happens. And it's no big deal. He had a near death experience when he was in his early 70s. I asked him at the time what the experience was like.
"There's nothing there," he said with an offhanded certainty.
Grandad's optimistic, black and white approach to life contrasted with Grandma's pessimism, and created a counterbalance that I imagine helped to relieve Grandma of her anxiety. Untouched by psychoanalysis or notions of the individuated self, Grandad was Grandma's perfect other half.
Yet, where Grandma was dependent and needy, a child, Grandad was independent and even-tempered, though still deeply attached to Grandma and willingly compliant to her demands and wishes. Not that he ever played the martyr or in any way felt put upon. Grandad genuinely loved Grandma and was devoted to her until her death, six months before his own.
"She took my breath away the night she walked into the ballroom at the Palais Royale in Katoomba," he told me. She was sixteen years old.
Grandad lovingly tended to Grandma for the last seven years of her life, as she slowly sunk into a deep depression and lost her spirit for life, introverted and tortured. Lack of movement resulted in a brittle body and dizzy spells resulted in numerous falls and broken bones. Grandma seemed unwilling or unable to face what was before her – death – and would obsess about it, peering into a vanity mirror for hours, fearful her sun spots might be cancer.
When she finally did die, Grandad felt relief and, he told me, excitement. "We came home from the hospital after she died and we sat around the kitchen table and talked. No one could sleep...we were too excited."
Unlike Grandma, Grandad bluntly accepted life's inevitable conclusion and told me that a blood disorder he'd contracted after his near death experience 16 years earlier would kill him one day.
During the last years of his life he had to have blood transfusions regularly, once every few months, then once every month, then once a fortnight. A week before he died, he was admitted to hospital with yet another infection. His doctor said he'd have to start getting the transfusions once every week.
"No more treatments," he told the doctor. Grandad was tired of being old. I remember he would joke with Grandma about old age and how you wouldn't wish it upon your worst enemy. He was happy to welcome death and his family was called to his bedside to say goodbye.
Tears splashed down my cheeks as I walked away from Grandad's bedside for the last time. I didn't want to let him go – this incredibly precious man who had blessed and graced my life for 37 years – but I had wisdom enough to know it wasn't about me, it was about Grandad. It was his time. And he died as he lived, with humility, grace and humour. Dignity. Fearless.
Grandad was one of life's biggest and most generous gifts to me. I loved Grandma very much, too, and the beautiful legacy they left of a healthy and happy 67-year marriage. Growing up, it was at my grandparents' place that I found warmth, love and nurturance. Big hugs and delicious food from Grandad, who always cooked, and special treats and the time to play games from Grandma.
It was my grandparents who celebrated with me when I graduated from uni with my Masters degree.
I have such gratitude for what they gave me. And the legacy my Grandad has left me with is particularly striking.
Here was a wonderful man who lived a simple yet happy life, full of love. In the last few years of his life, he'd often tell me tales of his exploits and say, "I was blessed."
Grandad lived through the depression, yet when I asked him what this was like, his reply was, "We were blessed. My father's hardware store burnt down and we received an insurance payout that saw us happily through the worst of it."
Grandad lived through World War II, yet when I asked him what this was like, his reply was, "I was blessed. I didn't have to fight at the front line. I was in the right place at the right time. A cook was needed to feed a group of hungry men and I was there to do the job."
It wasn't as if Grandad didn't have his share of human suffering. He clearly had a very strained relationship with his parents ("I didn't shed a tear at either of their funerals"), and he lost a daughter to asthma when she was only 10.
These experiences, however, didn't make Grandad a bitter or resentful man. Not even the response of his sister, 11 years older, to his daughter's death darkened his heart: "You're not the only one who has lost a child!"
In all the years I spent with Grandad, he never raised his voice or scolded me. I never saw him angry. He was never mean spirited. He was never nasty or hurtful.
He had an incredibly gentle and contented spirit. He was also amazingly patient and accommodating. Evident by the fact that he never raised his voice or scolded me even though there were a few times I probably deserved it, like the time Grandma caught me walking away from a bottle shop when I was 15 years old, bottles stuck up my jumper. I was staying with them and when I arrived home he just looked at me knowingly and said, "Glad you're home on time." He then gave me a big cuddle and kiss and sent me off to bed.
During the last few years of his life Grandad often shared his wisdom with me, and it was now me who was blessed to be able to receive this wisdom from someone who had experienced life's political and economic cycles many times over, as well as his own life cycle from birth to old age.
Grandad wasn't a great man to the many, he received only a small obituary in The Sydney Morning Herald.^^ Yet he was an extraordinary man to the few who were lucky enough to pass through his life. And I've quickly discovered how terribly difficult it is to let go of someone who cherished and loved me throughout my life with the warmest and most open heart.
I can't bring myself to delete Grandad's number from my phone yet, and cry every time I recall the words he always greeted me with when I rang, "Hello, young Rachel!" With no one of that generation left to think me 'young', I am left with the stark reality of older age, of middle age on the horizon.
Yet, with Grandad's legacy of love and optimism I can face this and so much more throughout the remainder of my life.
* Grandad was a handyman extraordinaire, a legacy from his days as a timber merchant for Goldsmith Bros, a hardware/timber yard established by his father, George Goldsmith, in Katoomba, Blue Mountains, NSW, Australia, in 1908. I never knew him when he worked at Goldsmith Bros. By the time I'd arrived in the world, he'd done his dash with hardware and had set up his own accountancy business, which he ran until he was well into his 80s.
** Grandad would collect rocks from the Coxs River in the Blue Mountains. We'd pack a picnic lunch and drive down to the river when I was a child. After a meal of BBQ'd sausages, potato salad, tossed salad and bread rolls, I'd follow Grandad around as he picked up rocks and told me what they were: igneous, sedimentary, metamorphic. I didn't hold the same fascination for rocks, but I loved hangin' with my grandad and my love for everything grandad may have been the reason I subconsciously chose a geology student as my first boyfriend, even though our passions were terribly mismatched.
^ Now my mum has a bowl full of polished rocks on her coffee table in the lounge room. I wonder if her bowl of rocks was inspired by Grandad?
^^ "Goldsmith, Errol Leslie. June 4, 2009. Late of Kularoo Gardens, Forster. Formerly of Katoomba. Beloved husband of Joyce (deceased). Dearly loved father and father-in-law of Diana and Graham, Lesley and Olwyn (deceased). Much loved grandad of Rachel and Brett, Kael, Cerrise and Ben, and Shannon. Loved great-grandad of Josh, Griffin, Morgan, Maddie and Ayla. Aged 88 years. A gentleman who was loved by all."
