Luky;
As I recall him, my father's father was a flamboyant character. Of irascible temperament, he was the opposite of his sweet, placid wife. I remember her each time I see my youngest daughter, who inherited her beautiful creamy face.
My grandfather was an achiever, a go-getter. My dad, however, took after his mother, and by my grandfather's standards was a non-achiever. After an afternoon spent in my grandfather's house, I was always grateful to give it a miss until the next birthday. I was terribly glad my father had not inherited his dad's temperament, though sorry he lacked his financial acumen.
Sharp tongue
My father would always watch his tongue, especially in the presence of children. His dad, in order to stress a point, could use an expression so blistering as to extinguish the candles on a Christmas tree. My father was scared stiff of God. His dad, on the other hand, had a certain admiration for his Creator, which he showed by financing his second-youngest son's entire priestly education, but he certainly wasn't scared of God.
"When you live in fear, you die in fear", he'd snort, and my mother, who seemed to be much fonder of him than my dad was, blossomed every time she recalled her visit to him as he lay on his death bed.
Last rebuke
"See that nitwit", he spluttered, pointing at my spinster aunt who was weeping bitterly:
"She just dropped the bedpan. If only she'd wipe those tears and pull herself together!"
He died that same evening, no doubt approaching the Judgement Seat with a calm confidence born from his belief in noblesse oblige.
He believed that if you did your duty by your wife, by your children, by your workers, the Church and the poor, God could do no less than admit you into heaven.
Ceremonial
The way he did his stint for the poor was another story my parents would tell amid chuckles. Every Friday morning, he would take all the vouchers from the St Vincent de Paul Society that he had exchanged for bread and throw them into the flames of his bakery oven. Just as lunch was served on the stroke of one in his house and supper at six exactly, so he had an exact time set for the weekly burning of the SVP vouchers.
These were the depression years, and many poor people were on the dole and helped by the Society. They would be sent with vouchers for bread to my grandfather, who was later supposed to return them to the Society for payment, which he never did. When my parents told me that story, it confirmed the irritation I often feel when remembering my grandfather. Why did people have to go through the humiliation of bringing in the vouchers, I wondered. Could they not just have come to him quietly, and could he not tactfully have given them a loaf for free? That is what I thought I would have done in his place.
However, looking back over many years, I am reluctantly forced to admit that my grandfather may have had a point. In the first place, he did not work in the shop, but in the bakery, so he had no access to poor people. In the second place, you will never become financially sound enough to be able to support the poor if you go about charity in a haphazard way. I tried, and believe me, it does not work.
By insisting on the SVP voucher, my grandfather made sure that the people he helped were truly in need, and he was giving them a measure of dignity too, because they thought their bread would be paid for by the St Vincent de Paul Society. Later, perhaps, when their luck turned, they in turn would contribute to the SVP.
That my grandfather chose to feed their vouchers to the flames in a characteristically flamboyant gesture was his affair. He supported the poor without going broke himself.
*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose
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