The Truth About Grandpa Eddie

The only thing that shocked Clare more when she learned about the passing of her beloved grandfather was being informed that he chose to leave her his Toronto bungalow. Along with the house came an abundance of accumulated boxes occupying nearly the entirety of the basement floor. Despite some hostility from his four other grandchildren, the legality of the situation deemed any objections futile, while Clare’s frequent phone calls and visits with one of her favourite people was proof that she had occupied a special place in his heart.

Eddie had always favoured Clare, his youngest grandchild. The others—Clare’s cousins— had often been too busy with their lives, and now all had families of their own to occupy their time. They were also aware of Clare’s unique relationship with who they referred to as their crazy grandpa, and although they were understandably upset at not being left any money, they resolved to be thankful they weren’t burdened to clean up what they imagined had become a timeworn hoarder’s den. Thoughts of dust and old boxes filled with unnecessary trinkets and outdated documents was enough to easily dismiss any lasting resentment.

Bonding over their mutual love of theatre and in particular their partiality to musicals, Clare and Grandpa Eddie would sometimes spend entire Sundays sprawled on his outdated flower-patterned couch, singing along to the upbeat songs with perfect synchrony. Their preferences swivelled between staged performances liked Hamilton and Come From Away, and popular musical movies including Mamma Mia! and The Greatest Showman.

Eddie was the one who had persuaded Clare to turn to the literary world after the loss of her golden retriever Cody. Beginning her journey with Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate events, Clare’s passion for reading created another outlet in which she could bond and share stories with her grandpa.

Eddie was Clare’s confidant, and the first call she made when anything exciting happened in her life, including the time she accidentally shoplifted on a field trip to the Toronto Zoo, or when she scored the game winning goal while playing in a Montreal hockey tournament. When Clare announced her desire to pursue a writing career at fourteen, it was Eddie who bought Clare her first black Moleskin notebook.

And just as Eddie was there for Clare, she had been the one to ease his pain after the unexpected early death of his wife. Clare also paid attention to him in a way that none of his other grandchildren ever had. While with the majority of his family Eddie had always felt like simply a quirky card filled with cash obligatorily provided on birthdays and at Christmas, Clare was truly a friend.

Now at the uncertain age of 25, Clare’s past few months had been spent navigating her new sales job at Rogers, subsequently keeping her too busy to continue their usual weekly visit and long phone calls. In a state of regret, Clare was blaming herself for having not been there to hold that old shaky ladder.

Although Eddie had once towered over most at 6’4 and had hair that matched Benjamin Moore’s gray owl, he stood out most for his vivacious personality. At public affairs he could often be found retelling dramatic tales of galivanting with celebrities, acquiring extravagant artifacts, and getting into various unlikely situations. Those that heard of his assorted adventures had developed a polite disbelief, in which they happily nodded along to the story. Their inability to believe Eddie only increased as his body began to age, chalking up nearly everything his 88-year-old mind would say as simply old person nonsense. Often referred to as crazy gramps, Eddie was suitable for nothing more than a good laugh.

A particularly large and upbeat affair for a funeral, Grandpa Eddie’s wild and unbelievable stories were being shared animatedly while the 58 attendees snacked on egg salad sandwiches and drank pink lemonade. The sun shone beautifully through the stained-glass windows, illuminating aura-like patterns in patches along the carpet and pews.

“Remember the one about Jimi Hendrix giving him his guitar the year before his death? Or even better, the time he claimed that the chandelier fell on him on the opening night of The Phantom of the Opera?”, Eddie’s eldest grandson Nathan recalled, shaking his head and smirking while recanting the stock of stories he had accumulated over the years from his nutty grandpa.

Soon, recollections of the various chronicles from Eddie’s long life excited the room, as those who had listened to his tales found solace with the justification that his claims were too extravagant to be believed by anyone.

“My personal favourite has to be when George Armstrong gave him the game winning puck at the 1967 Stanley Cup final,” chortled cousin Marty.

Clare’s attempts to rebuff were drowned out by the incessant chatter, and as the service had long ended, she decided to depart what she felt was turning into a mockery of her dearly departed.

“The duck shaped potato story always confused me,” Clare could hear her Aunt Betty exclaim as she pushed through the back exit.

The morning following Eddie’s funeral felt like as good a time as any for Clare to start rummaging through her new abode. She agreed to accomplish the upstairs quarters before moving on to what she knew was a mess of a basement.

What began as a steadfast and determined journey to sanitation quickly adopted prolonged pauses, in which Clare was forced to reminisce while stifling through picture frames and photo albums decorating the soft pink walls and aged wooden shelves. Despite nearly 11 years since her grandmother’s passing, the bungalow walls left no indication of her absence, displaying a content and affluent woman donning varying shades of blue.

Four hours had passed when Clare came across a dark blue box sporting her name in an almost intelligible size. A butterfly sticker sealed the flaps, enticing Clare as she pulled the box down from the sooty shelf in the back bedroom.

Clare hesitated, uncertain as to what she hoped to find inside. She resolved to sacrifice the butterfly swiftly with Eddie’s favoured gold letter opener, revealing what Clare immediately recognized as the same Moleskin notebook gifted to her when thoughts of being an author consumed her aspirations. The same butterfly was then resurrected atop the sleek notebook cover, and upon flipping through Clare was reminded of her past obsession with writing fantasy tales peppered with talking animals and secret worlds.

A small yellow envelope, sporting the same tiny lettering for which Clare’s name was written atop the outer box folds, wiggled free from the notebook and smacked the floor with distinction. Her hands began to tremor while once more wielding the gilded paper knife. A letter, markedly exhibiting Eddie’s hieroglyphic penmanship, read:

~

My Clare,

If you are reading this, be assured that I am missing you terribly.

As I’m sure you already know, I am leaving you the house and everything inside.

Not only has your kind spirit positively illuminated my life, but you were always the only one to truly believe my stories. I want to thank you for that.

Over the past few years, in an attempt to refrain from governing your decisions, I have remained aversely silent while watching your aspirations of becoming an author forfeit to stability.

It is my hope that the $20,000 cheque accompanying this letter will entice you to focus your efforts on budding into the author I know you are capable of becoming.

You remember the yellow Curious George lunchbox you always admired on the highest shelf in my study? Inside you will find a key. I have left all of the proof you will need.

Clare, write my story— use these items and artifacts as testimony to my truth.

I know you will be great.

Love,

Grandpa Eddie

~

It was only after Clare read the letter in whole twice more that she began to process what was happening. Guilt dominated her thoughts as she admitted to herself that she hadn’t always fully believed his tales. They’d just seemed so outrageous, and his word had always been his solitary proof.

Guilt then transformed to worry. Pacing the narrow hallway, Clare questioned whether she really had it in her. She not only had to collect his many stories from her own memories and from the remembrances of those who knew him, but she needed to find a way to do his escapades justice.

Dismissing her decision to find a more stable position to solely financial reasons, Clare had suppressed her fear and worry of failure, and was now being presenting with a unique and precious opportunity. Surely she must embrace it?

Clare’s head then shot up dramatically as she recalled the cheque. And the key! Reaching further into the envelope, she pulled out a cheque that verified the contents of the letter. Getting the lunchbox down proved tricky and was finally resolved when Clare dangerously balanced on the leather swivel chair. ‘Unit 313 - XYZ Storage’ read the badge fastened to the keyring.

A quick call solidified Clare’s fate for a sleepless and agitated night, as the office answering machine confirmed operational hours had ended for the day. Resolving to arrive precisely at 8am, Clare easily abandoned her decluttering agenda and returned home hastily.

A spectrum of thoughts clouded her mind that evening, leaving her mentally exhausted as she arrived precisely as the doors opened to the storage office. Clare had a surprisingly straightforward conversation with the receptionist and was being escorted to unit 313 when her nerves spiked. Uncertain what exactly to expect, Clare was motioned to do the honours and tightly gripped the lower latch. Lifting the handle upwards, the door slid with loud clicking sounds as sunlight filled the room. Clare stepped inside with a conceding gait as the light reflected off the guitar, finally revealing the truth about Grandpa Eddie.