When someone mentions 'grandfather' in my presence, my mind conjures an image of an adorable old man: short, stout, and usually wearing Arnold Palmer or maybe a Veteran’s cap and blazer with a long line of medals. He has a good appetite, a green thumb, and the ability to turn whistling from a hobby into an art form. Larissa, Heather, Robert and I were all lucky enough to have a close relationship with this man. Our Gido lived close, we saw him on every holiday and birthday, and we all had an open invitation to stop by whenever we wanted. On Sunday I found a Canadian Army identification card of my Gido's tucked away in his wallet, dating back from February of 1943. The curves of Gido's right index finger are smudged in the bottom right corner, there is a handsome picture of him in the top right that reminds me of my brother Robert, and a whole slew of identifying characteristics including the scar on his upper lip, which my mom tells me is a marker of his life growing up on the farm in St. Paul when he was kicked by a horse.
I never knew this young 19 year old. If I wanted more proof of this I only had to look as far as line 4 of the card, which states his height to be a whopping five foot four. The Gido I knew was shorter than my own five foot two frame, so I can't help but find that statistic a little hard to believe. Gido's years serving in the army and his later career as an electrician were always stories for me; by the time I came into his life, he was retired, and busier than ever.
Gido was a source of stability for me that I don't think I could ever fully convey in words to you. Trips to Baba and Gido's house were a regular occurrence when I was younger, and if Gido wasn't doing puzzles or watching TV in the front room, he'd be in the backyard. If I was lucky, he'd be washing the dirt off carrots from his garden in a big silver bucket and handing them to me to eat as fresh as you can get.
On special occasions, I'd get to spend the whole day with Baba and Gido. Robert and I would get picked up in the morning, usually in Gido's little red and white truck, crawl into the bucket seats in the back that remain questionable in my mind in terms of modern safety standards, and go on the morning routine. First stop: McDonald's on Yellowhead and 142 street. Since they ate breakfast at home, Baba and Gido would just order coffee (except on Saturdays when they'd splurge on breakfast). After McDonald's came Westmount, where we would pick up items from Zellers and Safeway which were still side by side. Coming home, Gido made sandwiches for lunch which took place precisely at noon, and my afternoon was a choice between sports in the front room with Gido or soaps in the den with Baba.
I learned from a very young age to be proud of my Gido. Every Remembrance Day I would go to the Butterdome with my family and watch Gido acting as the Parade Marshall for the ceremony. But you know, my Gido was so grounded that he never let this fame go to his head. Even though he'd be side by side with the Mayor and Governor General at the Butterdome, he still came out to our schools during November. He's been to Larissa and Heather's to talk about Remembrance day and the Wars, and he was a staple Veteran for years at O'Leary celebrations where Robert and I went to high school.
Of course, as I have gotten older I no longer need Baba and Gido to take care of me... Well, that actually depends on the day. Anyways, those full days with Baba and Gido became less frequent, although one day in our mid-teens Gido's car was in the shop and Robert and I had to squish into those same tiny bucket seats in the truck. I really wish I had photographed that truck, because I don't know if I can do the small size justice. The seats were small for a 6 year old, let alone two teenagers. There was no such thing as personal space.
My parent's first night leaving my brother and I home alone was in 2009. Robert had to work, and out of all the possibilities of having a nice big house to myself, I went out for supper and then to the casino with Baba and Gido. Even if I wasn't such a pro at the slots, I wouldn't have wanted to spend the night any other way.
I went to cancel my Gido's cell phone at Kingsway on Wednesday, and the girl said to me “I'm really sorry to hear of his passing, I remember him.” Now this may have been because Gido was that guy, who brought his cell phone in a plastic ziploc baggie to pay his bill every month, but I think it was a bit more than that. Gido made connections with everyone, whether it's Bryan who does the yardwork or Jean, our old waitress for Sunday breakfast for Zellers who came out to the prayer service yesterday. He was outgoing and friendly to everyone and had a great sense of humour. Although he could have spent his retirement in a proper state of being 'retired', his calendar was usually busier than mine whether he was working with the legion, sitting on the board at the Ukrainian Cultural Village, or at any of the countless places he gave his time to.
As JK Rowling very wisely said, “To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” Gido may have left us unexpectedly, but as I have been reflecting on his life over the past few days, I am positive that he lived up to this quote. Through his actions, he has taught me more than I may ever fully realize. Gido taught me the importance of lending a helping hand over the need of getting paid. Through his solid relationship with Baba, he showed me how much better it is to have someone to share the ups and downs of life with. Lastly, he lived every day as genuine person, which I know is harder than it sounds. I may be in a privileged position as his granddaughter who never had to doubt this, but I truly believe the world would be better off with a few more Bill's in it. When I picture Gido, I cannot see him without a smile on his face and a contentment behind his eyes that I strive to achieve. When I think of what he is doing now, my mind returns to the brave young man shown in his army identity card, full of ideals, hopes, and dreams for the future, ready to go out on his next adventure.
Farewell, Brave Soldier
