by Andy Paul

When I was very young – starting at about 6 or 7 years old – my Grandfather Chris was everything to me. My Father was out in the world trying to make a difference for our futures. My Mother had four little ones under foot, including me, the eldest and most independent. During those first days with the nuns at the Indian day school I couldn’t wait for the bell to ring, so I could stop at my Grandfather’s house on the way home. He represented my little world, and when I crossed the threshold of his door…I was home.

My Grandfather enjoyed his teatime, which often included the tea buns he liked so much… He treated me like a little adult, and would ask me to put the water on, and later would allow me to use the stove. I would get the milk out and place it on the table; I still remember the carton, Palm Dairy – Homogenized…They also served as containers for my Grandfather’s winter fruit: strawberries, raspberries, loganberries, and for his fish. When we had our tea, not much was said. It was the routine and the visit that brought me back home, and there was no other place I wanted to be…

Some days when I walked in my Grandfather would give me the ‘shhhh’ signal. I knew this meant he was recording our language. He had his own personal Sony cassette recorder with a microphone that plugged in the side. Once he pressed the play and record buttons together, I was responsible for being quiet and for handing him a fresh tape when he needed it. Some days I would arrive to hear him singing songs and drumming on an ice-cream pail. This was my favorite part and I can still hear his voice…

My Grandfather Chris died the spring of 1976. Like so many Elders before him and after him, he was desperate to leave his knowledge behind. At the age of 48 this is something I now understand. To many he was “Gramps” but to me he was everything. He is the reason I now live directly behind his little house, where he lived for his entire life, and where I always felt home when I crossed his threshold.