Free Pure Spring by Brian Doyle

by Nat “King” Cole. It’s kind of a BOINNG! kind of sound. It’s an all-of-a-sudden sort of sound. A springtime sound. A Gerty McDowell sound.
    That’s what happens to my whole body when Gerty puts her hand inside my hand.
    It’s an all-of-a-sudden kind of BOINNG! kind of feeling.
    Today after lunch, while we were cleaning up the dishes, Gerty told Grampa Rip that his pork hocks were just as good as her grampa’s used to be but her grampa’s aren’t as good any more because he’s so sick and sad all the time...
    There was a long silent piece of time. Only the dishes making noise.
    Then a conversation took place that was surprising to Gerty but not to me. Not if you know Grampa Rip like I do.
    Grampa Rip: Your Grampa McDowell. What’s his first name?
    Gerty: Mutt. His real name’s Matthew but his friends call him Mutt.
    Grampa Rip: I think I know him. Is he from up the Gatineau? Low? Kazabazua?
    Gerty: Kazabazua.
    Grampa Rip: Mutt McDowell. I know him. I met him workin’ on the Parliament Buildings after the Centre Block burnt in 1915. It was 1916 and he was back from the Big War. One of the lucky ones. Got gassed by the Germans at Ypres in Belgium. Many, many Canadians were slaughtered. But they held the line. Mutt was a hero.
    Gerty: Yes, that’s him. He was a hero. Now he’s very sick.
    Grampa Rip: Gassed by chlorine gas in a muddy ditch and for what?
    Gerty: Poor Grampa! The floorboards used to creak in his kitchen when he walked on them. Now they don’t creak, he’s so small, so light.
    Grampa Rip: A fine man in his day. A witty man. A good man. Raising the Union Jack because they thought the enemy had surrendered. But it was a trick. “Gas! Gas!” the soldiers yelled and scrambled for their gas masks.
    Gerty: He never told us about it.
    Grampa Rip: They don’t like to talk about it. Sometimes they wish they’d died alongside their comrades. Wasted away after being ruined in a ditch in some foreign country just to satisfy some egotistical, evil old bastardscalling themselves generals, who died peacefully in bed of old age while Mutt goes around for years only half able to breathe...
    Gerty: Oh, Grampa Rip (crying), it’s so sad!
    Grampa Rip: The old lie.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Lovely and honorable it is to die for one’s country. Wilfred Owen, poet.
    Grampa Rip stopped and gripped the sink, his back turned so we wouldn’t see his tears.
    Grampa Rip (turning to us): But youth will save us. Save us old sad ones. You, Gerty, I’m sure, are a great comfort to Mutt. And I’ll tell you something. I, too, was sad for quite a while but I’m not any more. The reason for that is my young friend here, Martin O’Boy. He has brought back my happiness by his presence here.
    Our Bank streetcar turns up Queen Street and then down past the Union Station. Couples are hugging and crying and laughing in front of the station as usual. Leaving and coming home. Coming home and leaving.
    I see across the street the doorman at the Chateau Laurier in his spring uniform admiring how white his white gloves are. Look at my gloves. Look at me! It’s spring!
    I look at Gerty. She sees him, too.

11
Not the Time
    T ONIGHT WE ’RE going to the show. The Capitol Theatre.
A Streetcar Named Desire
is what’s playing. There’s a big line-up right around the block. People in the line-up are talking about how some parts of the movie were censored. There were parts that were too sexy and so people weren’t allowed to see them.
    Gerty has a much larger blue ribbon tying her hair.
    People in the line-up are saying you have to be eighteen to get in. Guy behind us says he’s only seventeen but he’s seen the movie three times.
    â€œThis is the fourth time I’ll see it,” he says.
    Gerty gives me a look. The look says it all. Does he really have to tell us that? We can add. Three times plus one time is