My Grandfather. Deda. Walter Cecil Kanigan.
He was born on March 22nd. Yesterday. In 1909. 103 years ago.
I couldn’t tell you with certainty where he was born. Believe it was in the Ukraine. In a hospital? Home delivery?
I couldn’t tell you what he did as a child. Who were his friends? Did he have toys? A bike? A cat?
I couldn’t tell you of his journey to Canada. Where did he land? Did he ride the rails to get cross country? Was it Spring time?
I couldn’t tell you if he attended high school. Did he learn “his figures?” Did he know how to write?
I couldn’t tell you how he met Grandma. Baba. Did he ask her Father for permission to marry? Was she his first choice?
I couldn’t tell you his dreams. He mentioned that he wished he could fly. Just once. I couldn’t tell you if he ever flew in a commercial airliner.
I can’t tell you much about Deda.
But, I have moments.
He mixed different cereals for breakfast.
He slurped vegetable soup off his spoon.
