I’m still around. Every day is hard, still. Some are harder than others. There is a lot going on in my life right now (apart from trying to remain sober, obviously), so I’m feeling rather overwhelmed. I have started seeing a counselor. It’s going okay, I guess. Some days I speak a fair amount, others hardly at all. I’ve also been missing people I’ve lost over the years a lot lately, especially my grandfather. I don’t think I’ve ever allowed myself to feel the grief associated with his death, but now that I’m getting sober, it’s harder to numb the feelings. The other day I found the piece of writing I had written for a class about a year ago below. It brought fresh grief and hurt, but also in a sense, a fresh sort of hope because instead of throwing it to the side angrily, I sat down and made myself read it, to feel something, even if it was only for a couple of minutes. I titled the piece below “Another place, Another Time”.
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As a child, my grandfather used to tell me many stories of his own childhood. I would sit there on his knee, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as he told me of his many adventures as a boy. Though I had heard most of the stories before, they seemed to get more and more exciting each time he told them. From the time he caught his first fish, to the time he broke his arm in three places after he jumped from the tallest tree in the forest, to the time he found a winning lotto ticket in the gutter, the stories he told were priceless, and each time they ended, I pleaded for another.
“Please, granddad,” I begged, looking up at him with my pleading brown eyes, “Please tell me another.”
“Now, Tiger,” he replied, ruffling my wavy mop of dark brown hair, “It’s bedtime. Be a good boy and go to sleep.”
“Just one more granddad, please?” I tried again, giving him my best toothless grin, “I’ll go to bed straight after,” I promised.
“Another place, another time,” he assured, kissing me on the forehead softly, “Goodnight. I love you.”
“Love you too, granddad,” I whispered before I turned over and closed my eyes, “Another place, another time,” I echoed.
What made these stories so unique was the fact that I was the only grandchild who got to hear them. This was partly because my younger brothers were not interested in hearing my grandfather’s stories, but also because, being the eldest brother, he hoped that I would one day tell them to my own children. He often told me that the stories people tell say a lot about them as people, and the only way one can tell such thrilling stories is to experience many different things, no matter how daunting or risky the experiences are.
“Never be afraid of taking part in new experiences, Tiger,” he used to say, “They make for great stories,” he continued, winking at me and patting me on the back reassuringly. “And great stories make for,” he paused.
“Great people,” I finished triumphantly, having heard the phrase many times before.
One story my grandfather told me is particularly memorable, though it has been years since I last heard it. I can hear his voice now, deep and full of authority, yet calming at the same time. I can also hear him adding various sound effects as he goes along, making things more realistic and more astonishing, allowing my imagination to run wild. I can see his friendly light blue eyes staring down at me tenderly, and I can see the wrinkles on his face getting larger when he laughs. The smell of his distinctive aftershave fills my nostrils as I feel his hardened prune-like fingers brush against my small hand. I am a child again, and I am happily caught up in the world of my grandfather’s stories.
Darkness surrounds me. I cannot see anything except my grandfather’s flashlight, which flickers on and off erratically. I am dressed in nineteen-thirties style clothing: a grey short pants suit with a red woolen sweater over the top, and a white peaked cap, along with polished oxford-style shoes. It feels rather strange wearing this outfit, as it is much different from the t-shirt and jeans I am used to wearing. Still, I am intrigued as to what we are doing and where we are going. I am sitting in a small, uncomfortable wooden cart, and am squashed in with another boy next to me. There is not much space to move, which is annoying. From what my grandfather tells me, we are on rails, as if we are going on a train.
All of a sudden, the cart starts moving. It gains speed quickly, and soon, it feels as if we are on a rollercoaster rather than a train. I have the urge to put my arms up in the air and scream excitedly, but also have a feeling I must be quiet judging by everyone else in the cart. No one is really talking, but I ask the boy next to me what we are doing here. He says we are mining for gold. Gold! I think to myself. I am going to be so rich. I could buy all the Lego in the world, and then I will not have to share with my brothers anymore. How exciting that will be. We are going to find wealth. We are going to find answers. Then the cart comes to a stop, and I am jolted back to my grandfather’s lap.
“The end,” he finishes, mumbling slightly, “For the five-hundredth time.”
I realise that they were all just stories, true or not, but it always felt like I was there experiencing them, as if I was in a different world; another place, another time.
As I grew up, and my grandfather grew older, our story sessions took place less and less until they hardly ever took place at all. A snotty-nosed, bad-smelling teenager who was far more interested in girls than his grandfather’s stories had replaced the curious, sweet child I once was and it made my grandfather sad that I had grown out of his story-telling. I know, because when my family used to go to my grandparents’ house for lunch every Sunday, my grandfather would ask me if I remembered the stories he used to tell me, and I would simply nod and keep eating, not thinking anything of it. When I look back now, I realise that it was a hint for me to ask him to tell me one again. I never did.
On a pleasant late-November day, about a fortnight before my grandfather died, I was helping him garden when he asked if he could tell me a story. I rolled my eyes, sighed, and told him that he could if it was that necessary. I listened halfheartedly while pulling weeds and cursing under my breath that I was going to be late for work. A couple of minutes later, I realised that this was a story he had not told before. I stopped what I was doing for a second and went over to him so that I could hear more clearly.
“And it was then I realised that it was too late,” he spoke, “I had been so caught up in my own affairs that I had failed to see others struggling around me. My mother was gone, and a part of me was too,” he continued, readjusting the large straw hat on his head, “So remember, Shane, make the most of people before they’re gone. No one lives forever.”
The words echoed in my head all day, until I was finding it so hard to concentrate on my work that my boss told me to go home early so that I could “sort myself out”. I had been so selfish lately, so self-absorbed and unpleasant, especially to those who mattered most to me. I told myself that the next time I saw my grandfather, I was going to give him a huge hug and thank him for sharing his stories with me, and I did.
I spent the next two weeks listening to as many of his stories as he was willing to tell. I gave up time with my friends and my girlfriend to be with him, and though he told me that I did not have to, I did because I had rediscovered the magic of his story telling. It was better than doing stupid, insensible things, like lighting things on fire and pulling pranks with my friends, and it was better than listening to my girlfriend complain about everything I was doing wrong. It was one of the best feelings in the world. I just regret not rediscovering it sooner.
“Another place, another time, eh granddad!” I said jokingly after our time together ended each day, “I’ll come see you and grandma tomorrow again, and you can tell me another,” I promised before giving them both a hug and heading out the door.
“Another place, another time, indeed,” he confirmed, hugging me and wiping a tear that had made its way down his cheek away. I did not see him do it, but my grandmother told me later on that he cried tears of joy for a good few minutes after I left that day.
I did not know it yet, but these story sessions would be of great significance. They were quite simply invaluable, though I did not realise at the time.
On December fifteenth, two-thousand-and-eight, I drove to my grandparents’ house as I had the majority of the last week to hear another one of my grandfather’s stories. It was a lovely clear day. There was hardly a breath of wind or a cloud in the sky. The sun smiled down at me wearily, shining its rays as far as they would reach. I smiled back. I loved the summer, and could not wait to go to the beach after I left their house.
As I turned into their street with my car stereo on full blast, cranking out those summer tunes, things seemed different. There was an eerie feel to the air, and it was not because the wind was not blowing. The large oak trees that lined the majority of the houses stood still and lifeless, as if it was the middle of winter, and the people I waved to did not smile and wave back as they usually did. Instead, their faces were solemn and serious. Something had to be dreadfully wrong.
Then I saw it. There was an ambulance in my grandparents’ driveway with paramedics running in and out the gate frantically. The sight sent shivers down my spine, and my heartbeat increased rapidly as I began to worry one of them was seriously hurt. Everything in my body seemed to go completely numb as I stopped the car and ran towards the driveway. Things seemed to be permanently in slow motion. It was as if I had been disconnected from the world and was simply an outsider looking in.
“Granddad! Grandma!” I screamed, flying up the driveway, and seeing my grandfather lying in the ambulance motionless as they attempted to shock some life into him, “No granddad, no!” I screamed again, collapsing to the ground.
One of the paramedics told me something I did not process.
“Shane,” my grandmother tried to assure, touching me on the arm, “Try to stay calm. They’re going to take him to hospital. Everything will be fine,” she said with a quiver in her voice, “Go back home and tell mum and dad, then you can all come to the hospital,” she begged, “Please Shane. Do it for him.”
I picked myself up off the ground with much effort, stepped to the side, and watched the ambulance go screeching down the street with its sirens blaring. Both my grandparents were in it. I asked one of the neighbours to drive me back home, and somehow managed to tell my parents and brothers the news without breaking down completely.
The next few days were nothing more than a blur. Funeral arrangements, his will, and how my grandmother was going to cope without him were the only things that were discussed. There were many tears shed, many hugs given, and much mind-blowing grief felt. I spent the time feeling numb and in denial, replaying his many stories repeatedly in my head. Another place, another time, another place, another time, another place, another time, the phrase went around and around in my head so much I was fairly sure I was going insane.
The day of my grandfather’s funeral arrived. A few hymns were sung, a few more tears were shed, and a few people spoke before it was my turn to do so. I do not really remember going up and speaking, but I know I did, because I vaguely remember some of the things I said. It was and still is an extremely difficult time for both my family and I, and I dread the next time I have to go through it again.
If there is one thing I remember my grandfather for, it is of course, his stories. Some may think that they are simply childish anecdotes, but for me, they were and are so much more than that. I grew up with them, I grew through them, and I can honestly say that I will cherish them for as long as I possibly can. I hope that by sharing them with others, they too will enjoy and learn so much from them, as I did. One thing is certain: life is not limitless. Create your own experiences, tell your own stories, and remember that we all have the ability, through our imaginations, to go to another place, another time.
—
Oh, yes, granddad. I miss you so much and tried so hard to make you proud when you were alive. I’m trying even harder now. I really hope that you know that somehow. I also hope that you know how much I love you, but most of all, I hope that some day, we can meet again… in another place, another time.
The Journey To Sobriety 