The London Fog

My grandfather had a wracking cough that he claimed was England's fault. He used to say that the London fog had settled in his chest and never left, although he had a strange habit of referring to this 'fog' as 'she'. After the much ridiculed pamphlet drops on Germany, a blackout was put into effect that resulted in months of darkened streets. It wasn't until December, when low density lighting was allowed on the streets, that the number of car accidents began to drop. As my grandfather remembered it, "They would drive around in the dark like nothing was out of the ordinary until they smacked into one another." He met his London fog just after she drove her car into a pharmacy on Arundel Street. So began his courtship and lifelong criticism of my grandmother's driving. It was hard for her to refute the story and even more strange because it never happened.

"A man becomes his memories", she said to me after his funeral "but that doesn't make it real." I had a hard time with this pronouncement, especially because I had grown up listening to my grandfather's stories and he would lean back and say, "Isn't that right, Mother?" and she would always reply, "Of course, Father." For her, transplanted into the middle of Nowhere, Canada, ridiculed and tormented by her neighbors, the grocer and the general rabble of the town because of an accent she couldn't get rid of, and the strange words she used to describe the things around her, the only choice she had was to put up or shut up.

"When I finally landed in Canada, I hadn't seen your grandfather in four months. We had been married in England and he was supposed to have been buying us a house. Well, you can imagine my surprise when I got here and found we would be living with his parents. I was practically a slave, helping his mother with the laundry and the cooking while your grandfather used to wander around town pretending he was looking for work. He spent most of his time in that awful tavern, drinking away my savings. When I got pregnant he had to get serious, though, and he did, eventually. We bought this house and he went to work for Sears."

That was the end of her story and the beginning of mine but I couldn't understand why she had given up her life to come to Canada to start one with a man I now knew was a fake, a liar and a rascal to boot. "He wasn't a rascal, dear, he was just a boy. He did well for us, in his own way." she said.
"But didn't you want more out of life, grandma?"
"More? More than a home and a family? More than you?"
I had a hard time with that one until she said, "You're making more of this than is really there, Michael. I had nothing to look forward to at home. This was a country that held potential for a girl like me. It wasn't quite what I expected but that doesn't mean it was all bad. Your grandfather told you his version of the truth and I've told you mine but whose to say which is true?"

Still, I imagine that this woman could have been so much more than a housekeeper for a mean old bastard who rarely gave her a compliment, as I remember it. For years she was nothing more to me than grandma, who baked mounds of cookies when we visited and made tea at the drop of a hat and waited on my grandfather while he told a made up story to ridicule the woman he'd tricked into coming home with him. "That's your version, isn't it? You would be wise to consider this, however. If I was meant for more than this, and I am who you think I am, then why would I have stayed? Why would I have put myself through so much?"

Why, indeed. It wasn't until she died that I realized what she was trying to tell me. I stayed long after the others had left the graveside, reflecting on her life and her sacrifices and I realized I was going to miss her and that I was happy I had a chance to know her and that I loved her. To be missed, to be known, to be loved. I suppose in the end that's all any of us can hope for.