Published in the Fredericton Daily Gleaner Monday, March 7, 2011
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Dec. 10, 1968. Snow fell in Lakeside and Beechville, Nova Scotia on that day and so did my grandfather.
George Blackburn collapsed while shovelling out my Aunt Helen’s car. He died the next day – my first birthday. I have known this story for as long as I can remember. As a young child, I had a morbid fascination with the fact. My grandfather died on my birthday … how odd … how different … how special?
In later years, when the moments would present themselves, I would ask my father about him. Sometimes it was about that fateful day, other times I prodded my dad with questions about what my grandfather was like – this man who, in photos, could have easily passed for my father’s older double.
At many early birthdays, when people told me to close my eyes and make a wish and blow out my candles, I’d whisper a silent prayer to my unknown Granddaddy. While everyone thought I was making a wish for something – a new bike, a boy to like me, cool jeans – I was talking to a man I never got to know – a man who died before I could remember his voice or the feel of his arms around me.
My grandfather was the head of a large family – a total of 17 children – 16 who lived. My grandfather was widowed once, and married twice – to sisters. He lived a hard life but never complained, working as a fish cutter in Halifax.
He raised most of his children in a one-bedroom house with an attic that acted as the second bedroom. There was no indoor bathroom, and for many years before they had a pump in the kitchen, the children had to fetch water from the nearby lake.
Poor doesn’t begin to describe their lives. But rich can also be used to describe it as well. There are beautiful stories of their father coming home from work on Fridays, loaded down with a feed of seafood. His children talk fondly of bedtime rituals and using old coats as extra layers on their beds to keep them warm.
There are laugh-yourself-off-your-chair funny stories, too. Tales of one child falling in the outhouse hole, someone sneaking chips into bed at night after lights out so they didn’t have to share their five-cent bag with two or six, or nine, other people.
My favourite story is the one where the hyper and excited kids on Christmas Eve can’t seem to fall asleep because of the excitement. My grandmother, while waiting for her little ones to set off to dreamland, falls asleep herself. That morning the kids wake to discover Santa didn’t come – yet.
There is even laughter in the harder memories – like the hauling of water in winter, breaking ice on the lake, trying not to slip in – or trudging through slush in winter, wearing leaky rubber boots lined with bread bags to keep their feet dry.
There is something about shared experiences and the distance from them that can sometimes allow memories to soften.
They may have been poor, but they were brought up properly. My grandfather couldn’t afford the nicest home, but my grandmother ensured it was the cleanest.
Her children went school with worn clothes, but they were always freshly washed and neatly patched. The family went to church and there are many stories of my aunts and uncles lending a helping hand to people in their community. Everyone knew the Blackburns because the family members were, despite their situation, upstanding members of their community.
Money could have made things a little easier, but I don’t think it could have made them better individuals.
Why am I telling you this?
Because as the years go by, slowly, one by one, these beautiful people are dying.
These wonderful, resilient individuals who came from nothing and now have everything are saying goodbye to us.
Some leave suddenly, others have suffered, but all have lived full and meaningful lives. All have raised their own children with the same standards, instilling the same values.
My Uncle Ronnie said goodbye this week. He wasn’t ready, but God was. That doesn’t make it any easier to lose him, but looking back at all he’s accomplished provides some comfort.
He was number seven of the 16. He had a quick smile and loved to dance. He was fiercely proud of his three children, Michael, Cara and Rhonda, and talked of them often – always with a big grin.
Uncle Ronnie was 69 when he died last week. To say he'll be missed is an understatement.
He adored his grandchildren – they were the reason he had a twinkle in his eyes. He was also blessed with a second chance at love after the sadness of divorce. In Johanne, he found his soul mate.
My Uncle Ronnie was a smart man – he knew a lot about this country because he travelled quite a bit of it as a short and long haul truck driver. We always had the best conversations at family gatherings.
I liked how he paid attention to things around him – to what was going on in the world, in our country, in our backyard.
He also loved to work. His favourite saying was, “Get ‘er done!”
Family members have heard him say many times that he never wanted to retire. And while his boss/his son in later years cut his hours because he was worried about his Dad working too hard, Ronnie never felt that was the case. He was a Blackburn – they can’t sit still! He loved to be busy and was happiest when he had purpose to his day.
He took sick on Sunday and died Monday. He was a young 69. How young? The weekend before Valentine’s Day, he went to a community dance with a few people, including some of his siblings.
My Aunt Helen said Uncle Ronnie danced for most of the night, and he and his wife Johanne stayed until the very end.
To say he’s going to be missed is an understatement, but the way he conducted his life is a testament to his upbringing.
It also serves as a beautiful example to his children and grandchildren.
His life and how he raised his family is proof that it isn’t how much you provide to your children, but what you provide them – a sense of purpose, a sense of community, satisfaction in a job well done, honesty and integrity, but also caring for others.
All lessons learned in the cleanest little poorhouse on the old Bay Road.
Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and writes in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook. You can also follow her on Twitter @MY_BIG_FAT_LIFE
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