By Al Drinkle
My maternal grandfather was tough, even by the standards of his bygone generation. The eldest son of German immigrants, he grew up on a farm in Lymburn, Alberta where an unflagging work ethic was the motif of his life from the very beginning. Almost 100 years later during this chaotic but sentimental time of year, I find myself thinking of him more than usual.
A man of healthy appetites and a passionate lover of music, my grandfather was also a lifelong seeker and a perpetual student of many disciplines, eventually amassing a commensurate library of books on spirituality, philosophy, psychology and mysticism, among other subjects. But by growing up poor and constantly struggling to provide for his six children, work had always been so essential to him that he didn't know how to retire. Despite having achieved financial comfort by their elderly years, he and my grandmother ran Fort McMurray's only bowling alley until prostate cancer prevented him from doing so.
Had life been less demanding of him, I imagine that my grandfather would have fully immersed himself into some of the interests that he merely dipped his toes into. Lacking the time to pursue his love of music, he imposed music lessons upon all six of his children, none of whom actively play an instrument in adulthood. But sometimes these interests skip generations, and beginning at an early age, I would bring my guitar along to play for my grandparents during visits. These foundational performances continued until my last visit when we all knew there wasn't much time left.
My grandfather and I had a strong kinship, but he left us at a time when I was still trying to figure out who I was, and it's hard to truly know somebody else when you're still undergoing the process of coming to terms with your own identity. It's a startling thought that this is arguably a perpetual process, and perhaps our knowledge of anybody else is tenuous at best! Given his application to its mysteries, my grandfather found life to be an absolute marvel and maybe even an abysmal irrationality, although he was probably the most positive and optimistic person that I’ve ever met. I wish that I was better at emulating these enviable traits, but I'm often amazed at the still-unfolding values that he instilled in me. One of these is to intensely attune my focus upon things that interest me, and to ignore most everything else. Sometimes the results of doing so are hilarious.
Over Christmas holidays one year in the early ‘90s, a few of us — including my grandfather — were playing a game called Headbanz. The game requires that each participant wear a ridiculous headband with an unknown card affixed to it displaying a famous person or place or whatever. If I remember correctly, the goal is to identify what’s on the card by asking as few yes or no questions as possible. When my grandfather's turn came, a “Michael Jackson” card was placed on his head, to which one of my aunts whispered to me, he's never gonna get this! I bet he has no idea who that is! I recall thinking to myself that she must be exaggerating, for how could anybody be unaware of the most famous pop star on the planet?!? But my aunt was absolutely right, and after exhausting the allotted amount of questions and amidst general laughter, my grandfather looked at the card and complained, I do not know this person. Thirty years later, it's routinely pointed out that I'm similarly ignorant of the massive stars of my time, and it feels great.
Another great quirk of my grandfather was in regards to his opinions on music. He claimed to enjoy all musical genres, with the exception of disco. When I was very young, he explained to me that “disco” was short for “discordant”, and that disco music was ingratiating to his ears. Much later, I noticed that my grandfather's definition of disco was vast, encompassing all forms of music that he disliked. So his justification for rejecting heavy metal, hip hop, hardcore punk, free jazz, and many other genres was because they were actually disco — an invalid musical form. Perhaps there was deeper reasoning behind this, but he never shared it with me.
I realize that I've inherited this trait too. As an example, I believe in my heart that I love all wine except for that which is “bullshit”. My definition of bullshit? I could write countless subjective paragraphs on corporate involvement, dubious farming practices, vinous vanity projects, industrial production, blatant manipulation, varietal or regional anonymity, and many other contributing factors that engender bullshit wine. Your rejoinder could quite justifiably be, so any wine that you don't like, for any number of convoluted ideological reasons, not to mention prejudiced considerations regarding aroma, flavour and texture, is bullshit? You might also point out that I apply this term quite liberally. You’d be right in both cases. My grandfather was the arbiter of disco music, and I am the arbiter of bullshit wine. I often wonder what he would have thought of my modest success in promoting non-bullshit German wine throughout his parents’ adopted country.
Recalling my grandfather’s unremitting positivity and his interminable curiosity, I recognize that death is less definitive when one leaves so much wisdom and inspiration behind. Our deceased loved ones are never really gone if we integrate their most virtuous, endearing or even quirky values into our own lives.
On behalf of all of us at Metrovino, we wish you and yours a happy and peaceful holiday season. We appreciate your invaluable support this year, and hope that your coming days are filled with meaningful people — present and past — and delightfully absent of disco music and bullshit wine.
