The Supervisor

 

My grandfather was out of control but wouldn’t let things go.

 

Things. Belongings.

 

My silver-haired grandmother was a control freak. My Granny liked order. Heavy set hockey enforcer built, Grandpa, was comfortable with piles of fire hazards and tangled oily machine parts. What if he needed them just in case? What if we go to war, and I can’t get nails?

 

Granny kept the first floor spick and span, take one book at a time, put it back where it goes in that perfectly symmetrical grid of a bookshelf. This part of the house was loud as a library. The windows streak free and a danger to our feathered friends.

 

Grandpa could keep whatever he wanted but it had to stay in the basement. The jungle of just in case.

 

Grandpa grew up during the great depression. Material possessions that you could do things with had real value. Granny grew up during the same time: they were born two years apart, so I guess that wasn’t an excuse.

 

Granny didn’t go down to the basement. In her mind, there were only two floors to her house.

 

Grandpa was a feed hat wearing, foul smelling, long-haul truck driver, away from home for weeks at a time rumbling lumber and engines along the Trans-Canada Highway. Grandpa got to come home and be the fun parent, the good time daddy-o. Granny was the homemaker, the educator, the stick to Grandpa’s carrot.

“Can we go to the lake for a swim, dad?” “Better check with The Supervisor!” Grandpa, Sue Ellen, Beatrice and Lou Lou snickered at Granny’s expense.

 

Granny grew up easygoing, until she witnessed her little brother, Igor, get run over by a tourist down up at Victoria Beach. She felt responsible, if only she had done something, if only she had controlled the situation, if only she kept a tighter grip on Igor’s tiny hand. That was the lock: a tighter grip.

 

Granny, a tight-haired, sensible-dressed school-marm at home taking care of three daughters. She had to be the disciplinarian; she had to keep order for fear of entropy. When she would walk to the store with Sue Ellen, she would complain “mommy you’re squeezing my hand too hard, it hurts!” No one else was getting run over! Momma bear was totalitarian.

 

When Granny passed, there was no pushback. Now Grandpa could pick up whatever he thought looked useful. I’ll for sure make use of this rusty nail, gas can, mossy log and yellowed 60s newspaper (it’s important to remember our history).

 For a time, the habit of keeping stuff where The Supervisor wanted things persisted, but the basement was soon filled. Parts started to migrate up the stairs, some bolt cutters, bits of copper wire, two by fours grew along the stairs like vines seeking sunlight.

The dining room was next, the kitchen after but they were close to those stairs. It’s not so bad, thought Sue Ellen, when she came to visit her father.

It was only a month or two before one had to dig a trail through junk aka another man’s treasure to get sit down. Sue Ellen furrowed her thick brow in concern, “Dad this is getting to be a bit much!” “So, how about them Jets! They’re looking good this year, eh?” Grandpa queried with his ham-fisted evasion.

Broken cassette tapes and stereos from before the advent of compact discs sat atop Granny’s book symmetrical bookshelf. The innards of the shelves stayed immaculate, Grandpa wasn’t much of a reader at this point in life, his vision like driving in heavy snow.

 

One day grandpa was taking an afternoon nap on the wrinkly black chesterfield by the bookshelf. It was a windy prairie afternoon. The old house creaked. The bookshelf sighing in sympathy tired from the weight it shouldered.

 

Walton, a neighbour, came to check on Grandpa as you do out in the country.

He found Grandpa underneath some great works of fiction Of Mice and Men, 1984, The Brothers Karamazov, War and Peace: the heavier works doing more damage. The Stranger just being incidental but not fatal in itself. The bookshelf the garnish atop the sundae of the grim reaper.

 

The Supervisor was going to chew Grandpa out when they met up in the thereafter.