By Breant Reaney -- Although we come from different worlds and barely share a word, my elderly Nunavut houseguest has grown to be like family.

I never expected Simon Tookoome would accept my offer to stay at my one-bedroom apartment in Yellowknife. It was an offhand invitation I’d thrown out the first time we met a few years ago at his home in Baker Lake, Nunavut. With his daughter Nancy translating, I’d been interviewing the then-71-year-old about his prolific art career and his uncanny talents with a dog-whip. (During Simon’s prime, it’s said, he could lash a cigarette from a man’s mouth at 10 paces.) So a few months later when Nancy e-mailed with news that her dad wanted to lodge with me during a visit to Yellowknife, I was excited – but worried. What would I feed my Inuk houseguest? How would we communicate? What would – could – we talk about?

That July afternoon Simon walked off the plane wearing a navy blue suit and a cowboy hat decorated with souvenir pins collected from across North America. Under his arm he carried an assortment of his drawings. His smile was wide and denture-perfect. I greeted him with unnusakkut – just about the Inuktitut I know – and leaned down to give him a gentle hug.

That evening, following Nancy’s advice, I served him baked chicken and mashed potatoes. Without her there to translate, Simon and I conversed by waving and flapping our hands. At times it seemed like a game of charades. When one of us couldn’t guess the other’s meaning, we’d just shrug and laugh.

These mostly-mimed conversations were pleasantly light. I asked about his son Robert, a friend of mine from Iqaluit. We compared Baker Lake’s weather with Yellowknife’s. Relaying the next day’s itinerary was trickier. “TOMORROW (my hand made a forward half-looping gesture) ME (index finger pointed at my chest) come HERE (index finger pointed downward) at 11 o’clock” (hand pointed at the clock). I had no idea if he got it. Finally, we decided to call Nancy. I spoke to her in English, then handed the phone to Simon so she could translate.

Over the next several days I showed Simon around Yellowknife. Sometimes he had requests – to drop by an art shop so he could sell some drawings, to go to the bank, to visit some friends. But for the most part he was surprisingly comfortable and self-sufficient. In the morning he made his own coffee, and roamed around town while I was at work. In the evening he made tea, watched hunting documentaries on the Aboriginal Peoples Television Network, read the Inuktitut-language stories in a Nunavut newspaper, or browsed through my photos.

Still, walking around downtown Yellowknife together we were nothing if not an odd couple. I’m your average southern transplant, raised in an Ontario suburb. Simon was born on the tundra and remembers what it was like to live off the land. Even physically, we’re unsuited. I’m tall and bearded, while Simon’s short and stocky. He’s in his 70s and I’m barely 30. And when you get right down to it, we can’t really speak to each other. Yet somehow, we still enjoy our time together -- so much so that Simon’s been back to stay with me a few more times.

I’m always honoured that he chooses me. When I first moved to the North I was told family is defined differently up here. It’s something I only really began to understand this past summer after losing the last of my grandparents. It may sound strange, but soon after the funeral I started thinking about Simon as family – my adopted Inuk grandpa, if you will.

Brent Reaney is a freelance writer and photographer.