Bobba

I used to call my grandfather Bobba. It probably was how I said Grampa when I was a baby and my family encouraged it because it sounded cute. I didn't much like it and, as a teenager, became embarrassed if an outsider heard me say it.

Bobba, whose real name was Patrick but always known as Paddy, was born on June 3, 1881 in Ireland. At some point he emigrated to Canada and found himself living in Hamilton, Ontario. As far as I know, he had no family here so it must have been lonely for him. He met my grandmother, Theresa, and married her some time around 1920. Nan, as I called her, was 13 years younger than him but she was a widow with 2 children, although only one lived with her.

Nan came from a staunch Protestant family and Bobba was Catholic. I'm sure there were many family fights about that but he was a good man and a hard worker who helped raise my mother as his own. Nan and Bobba had another daughter soon after their marriage. You know, I was told they married but never heard anything about an anniversary. Hmmm! Now I'm wondering!

Bobba wasn't a stupid man but he'd never learned to read or write, probably having to leave school (if he ever went at all) and go to work. It wasn't uncommon for a boy born in 1881 to not attend school. Nan would read the newspaper to him every night after dinner, a nice thing for her to do and an indication that Bobba took an interest in the news even though he'd had little or no schooling.

Bobba worked as a city garbage man, one who pushed a cart along the road and swept the curbside. As a child, I was slightly embarrassed about his occupation and once even pretended I didn't see him as I passed him at work. I've always been ashamed of that. Teenagers often become embarrassed over the slightest thing and I was no exception.

He worked until his late 70's because City Hall didn't know his true age. I'm sure he lied about it when he applied for the job, knowing a younger man would more likely be hired. I remember when he finally had to retire and he was given the choice of a regular pension or a lump sum. My grandmother insisted on the lump sum which amounted to $800, a lot of money in those days.

Bobba was a weekend drinker, sweet and gentle all week long but drunk and argumentative from Friday night to Sunday night. I lived with them so I dreaded weekends because of this. It instilled in me a lifelong determination to never, ever marry a heavy drinking man and I never did. Dennis was a social drinker on a minor scale.

When I was a little girl, Bobba would walk me down to the bayfront and we'd board one of the day cruise boats. We'd sit quietly and watch the teenagers dance, me hoping I could grow up fast and dance with them. By the time I was a teenager, the cruise boats were still there but no dancing was allowed. Darn!

Bobba wasn't my blood grandfather but he played the part, or tried to. I was headstrong and not too nice to him as I grew up because I felt I couldn't respect a man who was drunk every weekend. It colored how I felt about a man who, when sober, was a fine person but, when drunk, criticized me constantly. I only learned to value him after he passed away.

Bobba was a big man, not fat, but tall and broad even at 82. His end came suddenly and sadly because he wasn't sick. He'd been waiting on the front steps for my mother to bring my sister for a visit but, when they didn't arrive, he stood up to go inside the house and lost his balance. He fell backwards and hit his head on the concrete sidewalk. He died in the hospital a few hours later.

Bobba died in 1963 when I was 23 years old, married with 2 children. I had lived with him since my birth right up until I married at 17 so it was like a part of me had been ripped away. It was so hard to accept that my larger than life grandfather wasn't there anymore.

It's been 44 years since his death and he remains an important person in my life. I miss him and wish he were here so I could ask all the questions of him that I never cared to ask when he was alive. I wish I could tell him I appreciate everything he did for me. I wish there was some way to let him know I love him. Too often we wait too long, don't we?