Last summer, a chance encounter resulted in meeting my extended family in Banff, Alberta. They had attended the Calgary Stampede, which my grandfather tried to visit annually in order to watch the bull-riding competitions he so loved. He was a cowboy at heart. A stoic, gentle soul with Manx roots who grew up on the Canadian prairies. Self-sufficient at a young age, he was a hard worker with strong character and moral upbringing that seemed to encapsulate the image of the good guy in old Western films. And I was related to him. I was always so proud to be of his blood.

Treating us to Tim’s (his favourite spot to converse and pass the day), conversation evolved from life in Winnipeg to memories of my father to eating potatoes … and only potatoes.

As I sipped my peppermint tea, I laughed and cracked a joke about such a diet until my aunt chimed in that my grandfather wasn’t kidding. He didn’t eat vegetables. He only ate potatoes. I looked over at him and his blue eyes twinkled with a warm smile as he confirmed it again.

“There are a lot of ways to eat potatoes” he remarked. And yes, I agreed that there was.

At ninety-two-years-old (at the time), still active and lucid, I figured his lived experience with this starchy diet was a valuable indicator of the stock which I bore.

I have many valuable memories of my grandfather. Growing up I spent a lot of time at his small home, amusing myself with the toy of the day as he sat in his recliner and held court with my father and other guests. Christmas was always an event. My entire extended family would congregate with homemade potluck as a turkey cooked in the oven and then spend hours catching up with each other, gossiping and sometimes arguing about politics. Between the wall of noise, multicoloured lights, and fragrant pine air of a real Christmas tree, it would feel like sensory overload of the best kind.

One thing missing was his partner, my grandmother Beatrice. She was the love of his life. I never got to know her. She passed away from breast cancer at the age of forty-nine in 1981, right after I was born. He never remarried, nor sought out female companionship, ever again.

Life was rich though. In later years, after retiring from his blue-collar career, my grandfather took opportunity to see the world. His favoured spots seemed to be in warm climates where he could relax under a palm tree and gaze upon the Pacific. Hawaii, in particular, seemed to call his name. Oahu was his home for several weeks during the long, dark and infamously cold Winnipeg winters. I sometimes think the “travel bug” is more a gene for exploration and adventure that he passed onto me. He was a cowboy in spirit after all.

The last time I saw my grandfather was that summer of 2022 in Banff. In retrospect, it felt seminal. We were there to pay tribute to my father by scattering his ashes at a place he so loved, under the shadow of mountains with pine once again perfuming the air and a surprise visit from a big-horned sheep who curiously watched our makeshift ceremony from afar. The weather was beautiful and by chance–or by angels–we were able to reconnect as our paths crossed thousands of kilometres from home. Fate had intervened and given us a beautiful goodbye.

My beloved grandfather passed away on September 20, seven days after his ninety-fourth birthday.