The Whistle Blowers

My grandparents had a distinctive way of communicating

- Erin Pepler

FOR AS FAR BACK as I can remember, my grandparents could converse by whistling. That wasn't, of course, their only mode of communication—there were words spoken aloud, letters, songs, gestures, meaningful looks and, presumably, arguments out of my ear shot. But it's the whistles, typically used to signal to each other from someplace just out of sight, that stood out. Sometimes sharp, other times like a bird's song or a lyrical instrument, their whistling was impossible to ignore.

A United Church minister and a kindergarten teacher, my grandparents—Don and Mimi Gillies—were married in their hometown of Hamilton, raised their four kids in Toronto and eventually retired to Muskoka. They were together for more than 60 years, until their deaths, just 18 months apart, in 2018 and 2020. No one other than them seems to know how or when the whistling began, just that it persisted until the end.

My grandparents whistled to one another in grocery stores, at the mall and at the doctor's office, in parking garages, outdoors and at home. A quick phoooweet from one and the other would appear, summoned by love, loyalty and habit.

One of them might be in the cereal aisle and notice that the other was gone, distracted by a box of cookies (Mimi) or a conversation with an acquaintance (Papa Donnie). The whistle would be employed, and soon they were reunited, plucking their favourite box of cereal off the shelf.