If you’ve ever seen a Druthers in London or area — on a café table, a park bench, a shop counter — or held one in your hands and flipped it open…
Chances are, Grant got it to you.
If you ever made it to his place — you saw it:
Every month, like clockwork, a fresh pallet of Druthers would land in his garage.
And Grant — a literal giant of a man — would move these papers all across Southwestern Ontario.
Town to town.
Shop to shop.
Corner gas stations.
Family diners.
Rallies under grey skies.
From Windsor to Ottawa — and everywhere in between. Wherever freedom still flickered, Grant showed up — paper and truth in hand.
Now...
I don’t know why he left us.
But I do know truth can be heavy.
Grant was awake.
Fiercely, painfully awake.
And when you come to realize that almost everything we've been taught to believe is a lie, that kind of clarity comes at a cost.
It can lead to despair.
It can isolate you.
Break you.
Especially when you carry it alone.
And while I'll never know all that Grant carried, his absence leaves one thing clear:
Check in on the ones who know.
Who see what others won’t.
Who feel the weight.
They might not say it. May laugh it off. May even look like they’ve got it handled. But the deeper you go... the fewer people you can talk to.
So check in.
Call.
Ask.
Sit with them.
And Grant, if you’re listening… let this in:
You were known and
loved by so many.
I wish you had reached out.
Me. Someone. Anyone.
You had a family of fighters around you.
Any one of us would’ve been there for you.
God, how I wish you had spoken up.
You left — and something in all of us left with you.
Rest easy, Grant.
We love you.
Paul (Private) 🕇
