My mother-in-law

 It is once again that time when we take stock of the year that is ending. In my family, we experienced a few major life changes in 2023: I finally graduated from university in the spring, after years of taking one course at a time here and there (I wrote about it here); we travelled to Manitoba to bury my mother’s ashes beside my father in a little country cemetery; our daughter got married; and while we were still in Manitoba, just after we had buried my mother’s remains, my mother-in-law died.  

My mother-in-law was born in Bedfordshire, England. She was eventually sent to live with an aunt in Northamptonshire, the next county over, and went to school there. She used to talk about seeing the Duchess of Spencer, Princess Diana’s grandmother, at county events. She married her childhood sweetheart in April 1953; they were married for 64 years before he passed away. 

I was lucky to get to know her as part of my family. I have happy memories of her as a companion on day trips that we would take while we were on vacation, trips to the South Shore of Nova Scotia, to Oaklawn Zoo, to Halifax, or explorations we made when she came to visit us in Ontario. She was relatively quiet and refined, but she had a wonderful sense of humour, and the most adorable giggle. My husband tells the story about watching a baseball game with her on television one day. Somewhere along the lines, some wires got crossed and instead of the audio for the baseball telecast, opera music was playing. The two of them were in stitches – I can only imagine! 

My M-I-L was, in many ways, a perfect M-I-L. She never made me feel like she was judging me, and I never heard her utter one word of criticism about me, which is rather miraculous, given what she had to work with! She did not offer gratuitous advice about how I should or should not be raising my children, and she never parented my children over me.  She loved being “Grandma,” and was always interested in what the children were up to.  

I am sure it was not an easy life for her in many ways. Her husband was away for work for a time when their children were very young, in that time before the instant and constant communication that we all enjoy now, and then they immigrated to Canada in the 1960s, away from everything and everyone that was familiar. I think she probably lived a lot of her public life outside of her comfort zone. But through it all, she remained a lovely, warm woman. 

The one word that I have repeatedly heard to describe her is “gracious.” According to the dictionary, a definition of “gracious” is “courteous, kind, and pleasant.” Other similar words that come to mind are “tactful,” “hospitable,” and “warmhearted.” The word “grace” comes from the Latin word gratia, “esteem” or “favour.” My M-I-L was all of those things. She was, I think, basically a shy person, but when her husband eventually became the President of a well-known liberal arts university, she stepped into the role of hostess. She hosted millionaires and renowned scholars, and she welcomed, with equal (maybe more) warmth and kindness and esteem, town people and timid first year students from rural Maritime villages. She welcomed me, not only into her home, but into her family.  

She was 94 when she died. Like so many others, she found the culture created by COVID difficult, and we were not able to see her very often. However, for the last few years of her life, she really enjoyed reading the birthday cards she received from her daughter’s elementary school class.  

Her funeral was on Saturday, August 26, which turned out to be an incredibly stormy, rainy, windy weekend, shortly after another devastating storm had washed away roads and bridges, and claimed four lives. We weren’t sure if everyone in the family would make it to the funeral, but with some luck and good planning, we were all able to be together. The burial was a private family event immediately after the service, and as we gathered under the shelter that the funeral home had provided, the rain stopped, and the wind let up, and miraculously, for a brief moment, the sun broke through the clouds and shone on her and on us, a beam of blessing on a life well lived. 

My 50th Post! "Stuff" and stories

This is my 50^th blog post.  It’s interesting to look back at what I’ve had to say over the past nine years, and to see which posts were read the most, and which ones weren’t.  When I started, I had good intentions – a post a month, at least.  Lately, it’s been more like one or two a year.  Along the way, I’ve lost some of my biggest “fans” – my aunt and my mom, for example, although perhaps “encouragers” would be a better word to describe them.

My most-read post, from November 2014, is about football.  That’s surprising to me in some ways, because I know a lot of people who are not sports fans, and who actually consider sports barbaric and uncultured (I know, right??).  The others in the top 5 are posts I wrote about my father-in-law, my father, two Grey Cup games I attended (more football), and some not so great experiences I had as a community volunteer.

My least read posts are about PEI, Life Lessons (reflecting on my experiences with cancer), Going Home to places where you once belonged, Christmas Cheer, and reflections on the recent Coronation of King Charles III.

In between, I’ve written about my experiences with the local refugee coalition, motherhood, research interests, feminism, significant places, tragic events, and a lot of other random topics that captured my attention. I’ve had one guest blogger (my daughter).  For the most part, I haven’t written about anything terribly controversial, although the post about my existential church crisis garnered some personal comments.  My posts are not intellectually deep, but more reflections on things that are going on in my life or my world. 

Anyway, you’re reading this, so you already know all this.

I was trying to come up with a really great topic for this significant post.  But the topic that keeps floating in and out of my mind relates to stories.  My story, your story, family stories.  And “stuff.”

If you’ve been in my house, you know that I have a lot of “stuff.”  Tchotchkes (I had to look up how to spell that!), trinkets, ornaments, bric-à-brac, knick-knacks -- miscellaneous stuff that sits on shelves or hangs on walls and collects dust, and doesn’t serve any useful purpose.  I’ve also recently inherited additional “stuff” from my aunt and my parents.  I’ve slowly been going through my mom and dad’s things since my mom had her stroke in 2019, trying to unemotionally assess what is worth keeping, what is worth trying to sell, and what is not worth anything.

My problem is that I’m hugely sentimental, and this task has been difficult and emotional.  How does one define “worth?”  How should “worth” be determined?  Strictly through monetary value?  Popularity in the current societal climate? (News flash: the “good” silverware, china dishes, the fancy kind edged with gold or platinum, and all those beautiful china teacups that our moms collected have absolutely no value today.  We are a lazy society.  People don’t want dishes they can’t put in the dishwasher).  I know there are a lot of minimalist people out there who attach no value to any material items – you can walk into their homes and not see one item anywhere that you couldn’t get at Home Sense or Wayfair.  I am not those people.

What I’ve realized, of course, is that to me and to people like me, all of this “stuff” has value, not only because it belonged to people that I love, but because
it represents our stories.  This “stuff” is a tangible, physical reminder of people, places, events in our lives.  I look up from my desk and see a stained glass goldfinch hanging in my window which was made from the windows of the church where I was married, and gifted to us by a man who attended that church.  I can see a silver tray with a North-West Indigenous design that was given to us by the family of a student who is now an RCMP officer.  I see a print made by another former student who became a good friend, and who died suddenly several summers ago, and another print given to us by a noted printmaker when our house was falling apart just after we moved here.  I see items that remind me of the time we spent in Greece and the Holy Land many years ago, and Japan in 2000.  Old tobacco tins remind me of my Mennonite grandfather and my father, who used them for nails and screws, which they used to build beautiful furniture.  There are things that my children made for me or gave me.  A sampler stitched by my great-grandmother in 1875 connects me to my mother’s roots.  The desk I’m writing at was built by my father for my mother, and reminds me of their deep, deep love for each other, for God, and for their family.  My mom’s teacups and china remind me of Sunday dinners around an overflowing dining room table and some of the people who shared those moments with us.  And there’s stuff that simply brings me joy because of its beauty.  How can these things be assessed for their true “worth"?

Their true worth, of course, is not in their monetary value, but in the memories they hold and the stories they tell.  Every piece of tchotchke, every item on the shelf or the wall is a piece of my story, a reminder of places travelled, people whose lives have touched mine, accomplishments, events, and experiences that have shaped and transformed me.  Individually, they are merely “things.”  Collectively, they tell the story of my life.  They remind me of who I am, where I’ve come from, what I have done and what I want to do.  They are symbols and reminders of my identity, my values, and the meaning and purpose of my life. 

The minimalist phenomonen that was sparked by Marie Kondo attracted a lot of followers; I prefer to embrace the “cluttercore” style, or as the BBC calls it, “creative chaos,” “beautiful eclecticism,” and “gorgeous abundance.”  That sounds much more attractive to me.  It celebrates a sense of place, of security, of warmth and joy, being surrounded by comforting things.  The tangible reminders of my story, my family’s story, are meaningful to me.  They are a part of me. My “stuff” comforts me because it reminds me of who I am and who I want to be. 

 Photo captions: 

Top photo: Items from time spent in Japan and Greece, and my great-grandmother's sampler. 

Second photo: a teacup brought by my great-grandmother from Ukraine to Canada in the 1870s, which travelled with her when they immigrated to Mexico in the 1920s, and found its way back to Canada, and was given to me by my aunt. 

Third photo: my mother's "good" glassware, which matched her china, used for Sunday dinners, and all special celebrations.

Fourth photo: pocket watches found in the midden on the farm in southwestern Manitoba where my dad built our first house; display case built by my father.

Fifth photo: tobacco cans used by my father and grandfather in their workshops; a cinnamon box; beaded flowers which I made for my mother when I was about 12.

Graduation Day!

This week, high school students in my area are celebrating their graduation from high school, with ceremonies and proms and parties.  It reminded me that recently, I finally graduated with my B.A. (an Honours degree in Canadian Studies with a History minor). I also won a prize for the top marks in the Canadian Studies programme, which was a really big, and much appreciated, surprise.  Here are some personal reflections on both Convocation, and studying as a mature student.

Convocation Day is always one of my favourite days on campus.  It is the culmination of students’ hard work, learning, extra activities, and living in community of the previous 4 or 5 (or more) years.  It is a day of joy, excitement, and pride on one hand, and nostalgia and the realization that this time as a community, this life in a bubble that is created on a small campus, is now irrevocably ending, and life will never be the same.  It is a day when those of us who work on campus say “farewell” to students we have come to know, and watch them spread their wings and leave the nest of university life.

This year, on my Convocation Day, was no exception, but I got to experience the excitement of the graduands as part of the graduating class.  It was heartwarming to watch students greet each other, sometimes with hugs, with smiles and laughter, and to be a part of their excitement as we were getting ready for the ceremony.  However, also this year, the overall excitement was tempered by a protest organized and led by a group of faculty against the awarding of an honorary degree to a former Ambassador to Israel and Afghanistan.  The protest took place as students were entering Convocation Hall and also apparently involved a faculty boycott of the Convocation ceremony.  Some students inside also silently protested while she addressed Convocation.  I admit that having just completed a stupendous amount of research, I did not independently research the alleged issues, and if I have learned one thing over my lifetime as a student, it is to always do your own research; therefore, I have no personal opinion as to whether she should have been awarded the honorary degree or not.  I respect the right of people to protest anything they want, and it was a relatively peaceful and mostly respectful protest.  However, my observations of convocations from the many ceremonies I’ve attended over the years is that it has increasingly become less about the real and often significant accomplishments of the graduating students, and more about the honours bestowed on people who have already accumulated a lot of honours… and more importantly for the university, have also accumulated a lot of wealth and connections along the way.  This year was no exception.  It was disappointing that there were less than a dozen faculty at my Convocation, and I felt for the young students who were graduating who did not have the opportunity to be celebrated by their professors.  The focus was not on the graduating students, but on faculty issues and ONE honorary degree recipient.  I’m not sure what was accomplished, other than giving her an even wider and more public platform, and taking the focus away from graduates even more than usual.  

At first, I wasn't that excited about Convocation.  I've been a student for a very long time, and really, it doesn't seem like such a big achievement to get your first degree after such a long time. Everyone else seemed really excited for me, though, and I was overwhelmed by all the messages and support from my colleagues, my family, and my friends, and their excitement and pride on my behalf.  Both of my children, AND their partners, insisted on attending, and sat through the long ceremony.  One of my two best friends travelled out to share in the weekend, and receiving congratulations from others made me more excited about it.  In photos that were taken as I was receiving my degree, I look really happy and excited, and in the end, I was.

And on reflection, I think I should be proud of myself.  I started my degree before I got married, then took time off to work so my husband could study, and had some awesome jobs along the way.  Then I had children, and chose to stay home with them.  I worked casual and contract jobs here and there, I volunteered with a LOT of organizations in my community, and every now and then I took one or two courses at the university.  A few years ago, I decided I needed to finally finish my degree, but then my 2-week temporary job to replace someone on sick leave turned into a full-time job.  So for the past 6 years, I've been working full-time, as well as studying.  And of course, like everyone else, I also had to deal with COVID.  This last year, in particular, was difficult.  My mom died last year, and even though it was not totally unexpected, it has been difficult.  Although I had a great deal of support from most of my work colleagues, I was the victim of workplace harassment by one person.  I had to do a reading course at the same time as my thesis, which involved reading at least 30 different works and producing an annotated bibliography.  And because of the intensity of the reading course, I basically ended up writing my thesis in one semester instead of two; the vast majority of my research was already done, but I still had to read in areas that were not covered in my reading course, which was mostly irrelevant to my thesis.  I am exceedingly proud of my thesis and the work I did writing and researching it, despite the fact that it was the lowest mark I received at this university other than my mark in Postmodern Canadian Lit (don't worry, it's still a very good mark!), and I am extremely satisfied that I have produced the most complete and accurate and in-depth biography of John Hammond that exists. But of course, research never ends, and there are still lots of things to discover about Hammond.

As for graduating as a (very!) mature student, I am proud of persevering, even though at this point in my life, a Bachelor’s degree is not going to make a big difference to me.  While the other graduates are just starting their career paths and lives, I am at the other end.  When I started studying at this university many years ago, there was a mature student advisor, and at some points throughout the years, there were mature student groups.  Now, there is no support, no formal acknowledgement of the added pressures of the juggling that sometimes needs to take place, the time management, and the other commitments that many mature students have to cope with.  As far as I know, there is only one award given at Convocation specifically for mature students, and the last time I checked, it was administered under the Meighen Centre, whose mission statement says that it “provides accessibility support to students with disabilities and medical conditions.”  Hmmm…………………. 

Earlier in my studies, I was included in departmental field trips and e-mails and opportunities for students within my programme of study, but as time went on, these notifications and e-mails seemed to end, and I felt excluded from these opportunities.  At times, I felt quite alone, and also sometimes felt that I was held to higher standards than the typical 18-24 year old students who were studying alongside me.  Maybe that’s a fair expectation, given that I have more life experience than the younger students.  I haven’t quite decided.

While I felt a general lack of institutional support at times, I am extremely grateful for the support I received from many individuals within the institution, including other researchers, individual professors, many of the people I work with, archivists and librarians, and my friends.  I was thrilled and overwhelmed with how many staff and faculty members were excited for me as Convocation approached.  My parents are no longer here, but they too always encouraged me to finish my degree, and I know they would have been proud and excited to see me cross the stage.

And my family?  Well, they have had my back all the way.  They are the ones who kept me going even when I questioned why I was doing this and felt like it was a waste of time.  They are the ones who encouraged me and uplifted me and cheered me on and never (I mean never) complained when I got bogged down in school work.  They are the ones who share the most in this accomplishment with me. 

In the end, despite things that frustrated me, I know that I am extremely fortunate to have been able to study at a well-respected institution.  I took some stimulating and thought-provoking courses and produced some fun and interesting assignments.  I’m fortunate that my professors allowed me to focus on issues that were important to me.  It is not lost on me that a lot of women in my shoes are never able to complete their studies, and of course, in many parts of the world, girls and women are not permitted even the most basic of education, let alone university degrees.  I am grateful for all of the opportunities that have been provided for me to finish my formal education. 

I have met many alumni from my university, and I always envied them for being “part of the club.”  Now I’m part of it, too, and I’m proud to be associated with them.  It feels strange to not be thinking about what courses to take next year, but I am more than ready to move on.  

 

Reflections on a Coronation

It's Coronation Day.  I see it is drizzly and grey in London, but here in the Maritimes, it is a lovely morning.  I decided to get up (relatively) early on this Saturday to watch the event.  

I'm not a staunch monarchist, but I'm not an anti-monarchist.  As a student of history, I enjoy the tradition and pageantry of royal events.  I got up at a ghastly hour (as I recall) the year I graduated from high school in British Columbia to watch the fairytale wedding of Charles and Diana; I watched the wedding of Andrew and Sarah a couple of years later; like many others, I was glued to the television in the hours and days following Diana's death; I watched the wedding of Harry and Megan with one of my best friends in Ontario, complete with scones and fascinators; and most recently I watched the funeral of the Queen.  

This coronation of course is 70 years after the last one.  There have been royal scandals, affairs, divorces, messy feuds, uncertainties, shenanigans, all played out in front of a voracious media and public.  Today, a divorced man and woman become king and queen, an unthinkable proposition in the generation before Queen Elizabeth.  And I can't help thinking, unfairly, perhaps, as I remember the magic of Charles and Diana, before we knew the true state of affairs, that it was meant to be Diana being crowned.  I don't harbour any ill will towards Camilla, but to me, she looked awkward and bored (at least, until she got that crown).  CBC reported that the robe was too heavy, so she had some of the ermine removed; my first thought was that the mantle of monarchy should weigh heavy on one's shoulders.  

It's nice to see girls and women in the choirs, people of colour and presumably other faiths taking part in the service, even if the service itself is definitely an Anglican Christian service, and participating women clergy!  It's fascinating to see the opulent and beautiful garments and regalia (I'm entranced by the breathtaking embroidery), the jewels, the historical objects, the colours, the carriages, the ancient stones of Westminster Abbey, to hear the beautiful music.  And of course, all eyes are on Prince Louis after his mischievous behaviour at the Queen's Jubilee celebrations.  

Naturally, discussion about the relationship between the monarchy and Canada has increased in recent days, and I find myself contemplating the future of Canada's relationship with the House of Windsor. For many people in Canada, and other countries belonging to the British Empire, the Crown represents oppression and colonization.  I am not sure what role the monarchy actually plays in Canada any more, other than a purely symbolic one, and I'm not sure what the royals actually do that benefits our world (yes, I know that they act as patrons and benefactors, and bring attention to charitable causes).  It isn't as if the King or Queen actually rule any more.  What, other than tradition, would actually be lost if the monarchy ceased to exist as our token head of state?  What, in the words frequently heard in discussions about the monarchy, is their relevance in a contemporary world?

Of course, it isn't just as simple as declaring independence from the monarch.  In Canada, the our relationship with the monarchy is entrenched in our Constitution.  In our religious community, he is the head of the Anglican Church.  There's the question of who or what would replace the monarch as the head of state, and whether it would involve a complete reorganization of our entire political system. As a mostly lazy person, I also think about all the practicalities of such a change -- new currency, new postage stamps, probably changing crests and flags and insignia in our federal buildings, amending oaths, and probably a million other things that I can't even imagine which would be on the "to do" list.  

It's still early on a Saturday morning, and all these things are worth considering, in my opinion.  But for the time being, maybe a little less than wholeheartedly, but still sincerely, I will join with others in the chorus "Long Live the King."  

May you rule, whatever that entails, with wisdom, compassion, and relevance, and may you truly strive to make this world a better place for all.

My mom died

 My mom died.

She was old, and she had been in failing health since she had a stroke on Christmas Day 2019.  It was not completely unexpected.

But still. 

My mom died.  Ma-ma.  Mommy.  Mom.  Or when I was exasperated, Mother!

She was my best friend, and at times, especially during puberty, my worst enemy.  She knew me better than anyone else in the world, knew all my faults and all my gifts, put up with my bad tempers and complaints, and loved and supported me anyway, more than any other earthly person ever has or ever will.

She died in early May, just at the end of mayflower season in the Maritimes and crocus season in the prairies.  She loved looking for those first beautiful signs of spring.  She died in the middle of a peaceful, starry-skied night, after a warm, sunny spring day and a brilliant sunset.  It was a day she would have loved, and most likely would have spent out in her garden if she could have.

My mom was born and raised in Montreal, and boy, did she love to talk about Montreal and her youth.  But moving to southwest Saskatchewan at the age of 34 when my father was called to be the minister at a two-point charge in Shaunavon and Swift Current, she fell deeply and passionately in love with the prairies, and for the rest of her life, the prairie was forever her spiritual home. 

Mom was proud of her family’s Baptist heritage as ministers and educators in Jamaica, and she continued that tradition by marrying a Baptist minister.  They moved all around western Canada, living in hamlets, small towns, and cities, finally retiring to the Maritimes to be near their first grandchildren.  Although we moved a lot, and it was hard to put down roots, Mom fully immersed herself in each place we lived, and treated each home as if it was our permanent home.  When we lived on a farm in southwestern Manitoba, my mom, the city girl, learned how to milk cows, muck out stalls, use a cream separator, and tend to chickens, pigs, a horse, cats, and a dog, and she did it with enthusiasm and joy.  

She was a strict mom, not in the sense that she was mean or angry, but she had rules and expectations.  No cats in the house (although we snuck them in occasionally).  On the farm, the dog was only allowed in the house at night so he wouldn’t go roaming with other rogue farm dogs, but was only allowed in the mudroom – and definitely NOT on the carpet.  Once we moved away from the farm, the dog was indoors more, and often lay in the hallway with the very tip of his nose on the living room carpet.  She had very definite kitchen principles.  The kitchen should be a large, welcoming, open space with an efficient working triangle (fridge-kitchen-stove), and things should be stored where they were used.  She and Dad renovated kitchens to suit her preferences, and she designed her own kitchens in the houses that they built together.  Mom always told us to “remember who you are.”  She didn’t say it in a sense of concern over her reputation or my dad’s, but in the sense of being true to ourselves, living up to our own personal values and expectations, and remembering that we are children of God. 

Mom lived her life on her own terms.  In the days when ministers’ wives were expected to be unpaid church labourers alongside their meagrely paid husbands, she was, in many ways, a traditional minister’s wife.  But always quietly independent, she remodelled every manse we ever lived in, and worked outside the home before it was socially acceptable for most wives and mothers to do so.  Her favourite job was working as a school librarian in several places across Canada, and she treasured the opportunities that arose for connecting with the students, especially those who were marginalized.  She had some health issues throughout her life, rheumatic fever as a child and multiple bouts with cancer, but never let them overcome her or define her.  She met her challenges with determination, humour, and an unwavering faith that God was in control.

Birds and flowers were two of Mom’s favourite things.  She spent hours working in her gardens, learning to adapt to different climates and soils. She loved nature, and found wonder in every aspect of it, from the tiny ants in the soil to the vast prairie skies and the flickering northern lights.  From her, we learned to look for the beauty in the small things in life: the insects in the gardens, the wildflowers hiding in the woods, the way the clouds were striated in the sky, and the countless colour variations of the wild lupins.  She was a gifted seamstress and needlewoman, sewing wedding dresses, clothing for her grandchildren, tailored suits, and hundreds of baby quilts which have been sent to babies around the world, as well as crocheting tea cozies, embroidering Christmas ornaments, and countless other crafts, some of which she sold in many of the places she lived.

My mom’s biggest gifts were compassion and hospitality.  Growing up, we frequently had guests for Sunday dinners, many of whom were unexpected.  Her homes were places where family, friends, church folk, and strangers were always warmly welcomed.  She had this uncanny sense of being able to reach out to perfect strangers.  When we lived in rural Manitoba, she encountered a young Quebecois couple struggling to communicate in English.  She discovered that they were on their honeymoon, hitchhiking across Canada, and wanted to catch a bus to Edmonton, which was not due to leave until late that night.  Without hesitation, she invited them to our house, showed them the laundry room, and pointed them to the shower, and they shared a meal with us before catching the bus.  For many years, we received Christmas cards from them.  My brother recalled that when our Dad was in hospital in Halifax after back surgery and was not doing well, they were returning to the hospital after supper to stay with Dad.  They met a woman and her daughter at the elevator, perfect strangers.  The woman told them that a family member was on their deathbed, and they would be keeping vigil.  Mom stepped up to the woman and had a quiet conversation with her.  Mom opened her arms, and the woman stepped into them and cried on her shoulder, and after a few minutes, they went their separate ways. My mom loved being “Nana” to my kids and my nephews.  In Sackville, she also became “Nana” to countless university Chapel students and football players.  She would walk into the room, with a warm smile on her face, and say “Hi, I’m Nana.  Who are you?” and before you know it, she would be in deep conversation with whoever was there.  That was my mom.

The last 2½ years of my mom’s life were not easy.  She lost the ability to do everything she enjoyed, and COVID ensured that we were not able to spend a lot of time with her in the nursing home.  The day before she died, I spent most of the day with her, singing her favourite hymns, reading to her from the Bible and from some poetry and gardening journals she had with her.  I thanked her for everything I had learned from her.  I hugged her.

This photo of my mom is one of my favourites.  I know she would be aghast that her hair is all askew.  It was taken after we took a drive along the Petitcodiac River, stopping at a favourite place of mine, which I wrote about here.  It was autumn, and a little bit cool.  But still, my mom walked around the church yard, gathering a bunch of little seed heads and weeds that no one else would even notice, to make her own little bouquet, and then sat down on the large rock to rest with her little bouquet in her hand. That was my mom, finding beauty in the little things, and the ordinary moments, and offering the prayer that she offered so often, Deo gratias.