We always had a roaring fire on those chilly afternoons when Grandpa told us his stories. He would sprinkle his special powders in the fire and we’d spy vivid blues and crimson reds dancing in the flames. But even without his mystical substances, I always knew my grandpa was magical.

While Grandpa stoked the fire, and we gazed into its colorful animated display, Grandma sat behind us across the open expanse of the living room, slowly rocking in her comfy cushioned chair while she worked her own magic crocheting doilies. Her hook rapidly fashioned picots as she created the pattern from memory, having learned the stitches from her own grandmother nearly 60 years before. Circles and circles of intricate loops slowly became a white cotton snowflake some relative would place on an end table to soak up the dew that formed on the outside of a chilled glass.

Grandpa stretched out in his recliner, his deep melodic voice comforting and solid. The fingertips of one hand touched the fingertips of the other forming a steeple, and he tapped them together now and then as he wove his magic stories. One finger was missing its tip and, every so often, he’d remember to try to camouflage it so our young eyes wouldn’t notice it. By now I was used to seeing the stubby index finger with its wrinkly end, but my stomach would get still queasy as I pictured a saw blade lopping it off when he was a teenager working at a logmill with his father. He seemed embarrassed by its deformity, but it just made him more fascinating to me.

I knew Grandpa’s stories were fantasies. Although, the turn of the twentieth century was so far back in the limits of my seven-year-old imagination that I couldn’t be sure. Who knew if wrestling a bear was a common thing when you were a young man in 1910? When I was a bit older, we visited his childhood home in St. Thomas, Ontario, and I was surprised to see that he had grown up in an urban neighborhood similar to mine, and not out on a prairie, after all.

I was never able to estimate size – an affliction that persists to this day – but perhaps a grizzly bear wasn’t that big. Perhaps he really had out-wrestled the bear as he so dramatically described to two fascinated grandchildren. I suppose hearing my grandmother’s admonishment from across the room every so often was an indication of the truth.

“Oh Bill!” She’d tsk. “What are you telling these children?!” And he’d say, “Mother, it’s true. I never told you about the bear.” Then she’d chuckle and shake her head and turn back to her needlework, and my little brother and I would turn back to Grandpa and the fire and the fascinating stories of his youth.

I long to be back there now, to relive that time more than sixty years ago. To be a child safe in that cozy living room listening wide-eyed to Grandpa’s tales. I’m sure if he was here today, my heroic grandfather would be well-equipped to save me from the bear that threatens us now. I know my wizard of a grandpa with his magical powders could tame this fascist beast, wrestle it back to some dark, dank den where it’s been hibernating and festering and waiting to swallow up our country.

When Grandpa came to America from Canada in 1923, could he have foreseen the danger that would run rampant one hundred years later? When he sent both his teenage sons off to World War II, knowing they may not return, did he assume that would be the last war against a tyrant? And when he received the telegram that his youngest son had died at Normandy Beach the month before his 19th birthday, could he have imagined that his sacrifice fighting fascism would one day be in vain?

As this new year continues to assault me with its doomsday predictions, as it forecasts the end of democracy in the United States, I long to return to that innocent time by the fire. To see Grandpa again, to feel safe, to live in his magical land of tamed bears.

As a young girl, I didn’t know much about the wars and what Grandpa had sacrificed only twenty years before. All I knew was that after the story was done, as sunset approached, he led my brother and me out to the circle in the driveway where the U.S. flag flew high on the pole he had cemented into the exact center of the lawn. And as he lowered and folded the flag for the night, my brother and I would stand at attention and salute the way he taught us.

I was too young to understand the story behind the patriotic rite and the reason behind my grandfather’s sense of pride in his adopted country. As he carefully folded the huge flag, was he thinking about the 100,000 teenage boys who died to save the world from the Nazis? Was he hoping that the world his grandchildren would inhabit would never face such peril again?

As I stood saluting the flag on those cool summer evenings out in the circle at Grandpa’s house, I was blissfully unaware of my grandparents’ great loss. And I was mercifully oblivious that decades later, when I myself was a grandmother, another would-be dictator and his minions would attempt to destroy our country. I never imagined that this was the way the story – and democracy – would end.

KATHERINE BILLINGS PALMER

In honor of Jack Ramon Billings, July 7, 1925 – June 6, 1944.

OBITUARY: PTE. JACK BILLINGS IS KILLED IN ACTION
Son of “Bill” Billings Was With U.S. Forces Invasion Day
Private Jack Ramon Billings, a native of St. Thomas, was killed in action on invasion day, June 6, while serving with the United States Army, his parents, Mr. and Mrs. William Billings of Detroit, formerly of St. Thomas, having been notified to effect by Washington. Private Billings was only 19 years of age, joining the U.S. army 7 months ago and being overseas 4 month. He lived in St. Thomas until 4 years old, when he moved to Detroit with his parents. His father was the star pitcher of the St. Thomas baseball team of the Intercounty League for many years.

Besides his parents, he is survived by two sisters, Ariel Goodridge (Billings) at home in Detroit, and Mrs. Thomas Beer, 8 Penwarden street, St. Thomas, and a brother, William, on service with the U.S. forces in India. (St. Thomas Times Journal, 20 July 1944)