Yesterday was my grandfather’s birthday. Charles Bernard Griffith was born 100 years ago, on 30 August 1903. He died at the age of 76, when I was five years old. So I spent the day thinking about him and what the world would have been like 100 years ago. I have a few memories about him (maybe two or three). One winter—I was probably three or four years old—when I was visiting Jackfish Lake where he lived and had raised his family, I took a toboggan down the hill toward the lake. I’m pretty sure that he and my Dad had warned me not to go where the trees were, but they still comforted me after I hit a tree. I wasn’t always known to listen to my elders! It’s a good memory for me, anyway. No scars.
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