My Best Friend

I have been feeling a bit melancholy lately. Probably because of my recent trip(s) away from home. But there is a bright side to all this. That would be my grandfather.

Grandpa was my best friend when I was a kid. There was something about him that would make life worth all the troubles it produced. He had the type of quiet dignity that people respected immediately. For as long as I could remember Grandpa would go to Canada to his place in Matachewan. I had no idea what Matachewan was but I knew that when Grandpa came back he was full of energy and in very good spirits. How I wanted to go but I was told I was too young and I needed to learn to swim.

Then finally, one year, I got to go. I was about 10 or so and very excited. I would get to see the place that made my grandfather feel so much better. Well, I am sure he had second thoughts when I would incessantly ask if we were there yet. Grandpa kept his 'cool' and never got upset. So there I sat in the car (learning about motion sickness, none the less) trying to be patient through Pennsylvania and New York. We cross the bridge at Buffalo and finally I was in Canada. I couldn't be much farther I thought. (I was very wrong, of course.) Through St. Catherine, Hamilton, Toronto. On by Woodbine, Sudbury, Haileybury, North Bay. Finally I saw a sign reading Matachewan, 65 miles (back in the day). I was so excited. I finally got to see what it was that made my grandfather feel so good and refreshed.

We enter Matachewan and I could not believe what I was seeing. Immediately off of the paved road were the dirt streets that made up this sleepy gold mining town. The mines were closed and the town was as tired looking as you could imagine. The lawns, if you wanted to call them such, were not the neat manicured lawns I saw at home. These were shaggy lawns full of weeds and large rocks protruding everywhere. The homes were not the clean houses of our neighborhoods but homes not much more than shacks in disrepair and badly needing painting.

We get to the house belonging to Grandpa and unpack. There we opened the house. It was a small house with 4 rooms and a bathroom. We had to wait for the water, the hot water and the heat. By the way, where was the heat? Although it was late June the nights were very chilly. The heat was provided by a reliable wood burning stove. Until that stove got hot, the house remained very cold. I could not believe I was in this wasteland, no television even.

Hoping for the best we go to bed. After all, tomorrow had to have some promise. It did but did not pan out as planned. I met the kid across the street, Gordy. Gordy and I were the same age but Gord was twice my size. Gord took me "Up-town" to meet others but there I was. Not understanding a thing because everyone spoke French. Most everyone spoke French and Ojibway (a native language that had a very rough sound) in addition to English. The problem was no one liked to use English. I began hating the whole town, province and country. I wanted to go home.

After a week, things were in a routine. I could live with being in the wilds. One morning, very early, I saw a moose walking down our dirt street. The neighborhood dogs were barking wildly, but the moose could not have cared less. Now that is something you don't see every day in Ohio. One evening while taking our refuse to the town dump we say caribou running along the roadway. The wild flowers seemed to dance around the racing hooves as in celebration. At the dump came the young black bears to scavenge for those goodies we would throw out. OK - this is not so bad after all.

The most memorable part was yet to come. Gordy and two of his brothers would come over to my grandfather's place and we would play cards all evening. Television and radio were in French so I had weaned myself from those luxuries. We were finishing up and getting ready for bed after Gord and his brothers went home.

Suddenly, there was a tap on our kitchen window. Ted, Gordy's brother, was calling out something about lights and motioning for us to come outdoors. Curiosity being what it is, we followed the request. Once outside I felt the cool damp air and could see my breath. Ted kept saying look over there. I look past our dirt street toward the river that ran through the town. I saw a sheen on the water that really didn't belong there. It was night. I continue looking up, past the mountain side and into the sky. There it was!

The Aurora Borealis, the lights. I looked at this phenomenon and suddenly realized how quiet the world became. I heard nothing while looking at these lights. The lights dance just out of my reach. They seem to call but did not want to be bothered. They were cold and calculating but seemed to draw you in like a fire on a winter's evening. This phenomenon was green but had red streaks running through it. Then suddenly it was gone.

A loon calling in the distance broke my concentration. Slowly I began to hear the water flowing past the rapids of the river and hear the dogs barking in the distance. The world came back to me, but not in the way I left it. I realized that I was only a small part of a much larger universe and to see this was a privilege. Scientists and meteorologists will give you the real reason we see the Borealis but it does not take away from the mystique.

When I remember seeing the lights I realize there is much more than just this moment and time. It would be nearly 25 years before I would see the lights again, this time in Montana. They still held the same mystique for me as they did all those years ago.

For this singular moment, and many others, I will be forever indebted to my best friend, my grandfather, Grandpa.