The Ides of March

I’ve always loved this day, the Ides of March, and look forward to it every year. And while the Ides of March is culturally in the same superstitious pantheon as Friday the 13^th and black cats, I love it because it reminds me of my grandfather.

My grandpa Haley never failed to take note of this date, commented on the need to take care and advised people to be wary on March 15. It was many years before I knew the connection between Julius Caesar and the Ides of March, for me it was always a connection to my grandfather, not an ancient Roman emperor’s demise.

The Ides of March is just one of many touchstones throughout the year that remind me of my grandfather. He was also fond of the number 240; whenever I come across that number his voice with its Yankee accent resonates in my head and a smile comes to my lips.

There are lots of things I don’t know about my grandfather or can’t remember—like his birthday; no idea. But I don’t need to know the vital statistics to remember him and his place in my life.

My grandfather was a tinkerer, a fixer, and a small-time inventor. He once took a Peanut Buster Parfait cup from Dairy Queen, sliced it in half and assessed the resulting funnels’ value as hearing aids. Some said that was because he squeezed every penny, but I’d say it was because he fervently believed there was no sense in spending money to buy something that you could make yourself. I’m much the same; bread-bake it, bookshelves-make it, etc.

He also loved tractors, a love he passed on to me and to many other members of the family. At one point he had an entire field of tractors across the road from his house. One afternoon when I was visiting, we went over to the field and he started up every engine that could be coaxed into life. The field hummed with the thrumming of diesel engines and it was a joyful sound.

Along with tractors, he loved trains. He once came to visit my family when we were living in Dawson Creek, British Columbia when he was about 70. As the day started to darken, we became concerned as to where he could be in this small prairie city where he knew no one other than us.

Not long after dark he shuffled up to the door and came in looking a bit tired but exuberant, holding a six pack of canned water under his arm. He’d been standing by the tracks that morning, got into conversation with an engineer and hitched a ride to Grand Prairie, Alberta and back with said engineer. The water was a parting gift from his new friend on the rails.

And he loved flowers. He went on a trip to Alaska with his one and only sibling, Uncle Barney, when he was in his late 70s. The resulting video of the trip was mostly of trains switching tracks, and flowers on the grassy meadows he walked through. My cousins, who worked a gold claim near Denali, got about two seconds in frame out of more than two hours of footage. It was so funny how he’d excitedly comment on the flowers as he filmed them, “That was just a bud yesterday.”

There are all those memories, and then there are the memories in the later years. Visiting with him at home with two of his many great-grandchildren, my kids who were just 2 years old and newborn. His house was far from childproofed and he knew it took an effort on my part to bring them over and he appreciated our frequent visits when I lived in Massachusetts.

The Ides of March always brings my grandfather to mind. I miss that funny fellow. Glad I got to have him for so long.

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