To try to compress a life as well lived as my mother’s into a few paragraphs is no simple task. She was so many things to so many people each of whom has their own unique memories of her - but there will be some things that all of us have in common. She often laughed, she always hugged and in her presence her open heart and love was always apparent.
She was born in 1934 and grew up in a house that remained in our family until 10 years ago. She was the second child for my grandparents - perhaps somewhat of a surprise coming 16 years after her older brother. She loved and was loved by her parents as she grew up. Her father was sadly very ill for most of her young years and she told stories of sitting beside his hospital bed that had been moved into their living room, doing her homework and practicing piano. Sadly, my mother who was very curious, smart and dedicated, had to quit school after 8th grade to go out and work to bring money in after her father died but she never stopped loving to learn and with her minimal education she became a most natural teacher.
The five children she would later parent were all beneficiaries of her love of learning. I remember encyclopedias, reading books at bedtime and yelling from room to room, “Mom, you’ve got to listen to this!” I remember spelling bees over lunch and trips to the library to find the answer to question like why is the sky blue? If she didn’t know the answer she would find a way to get it - not just for our benefit but her own.
She was very much a teacher.
As as product of the depression and the early loss of her father my mother was, well, frugal. She recycled things that shouldn’t ever be reused but growing up I don’t remember ever being in need of anything. At the tightest times trying to feed five kids on a budget we come to love her famous french fries and lots of chicken wings - cheap before they came to be the latest fad in pub fare. Until I was about 13 - which would make Drew about 16, she had us convinced that we didn’t like steak - so she and dad would split one and give us pork chops. She wore her clothes until they were thread bare but always looked beautiful. She could stretch a dime but we never were in need of anything we didn’t have.
Our mom loved being outdoors. She found beauty in all of God’s creation. All five of us grew up camping - partially because it was the cheapest way to vacation but partially because she loved to be in the middle of the woods with the stars as her ceiling. There was nothing she wouldn’t attempt - backpack camping with Drew and I (that was disastrous, by the way) and patiently teaching all of us to manage our heavy fiberglass canoe! She would take us hiking, get us lost and make us find our way back to where we started - always curious and always teaching. I can picture her in her happy place, camping beside a lake, sitting by the fire with yet another book in her hand.
All of these things, all of her curiosity, all of her teaching moments, all of her joy in the great outdoors, all of this was approached with the most open, welcoming heart and the most beautiful laugh. I know for sure that all of us five kids had friends who considered our mom their mom. There were times when the phone in our kitchen would ring and one of my own friends would sheepishly ask to speak to my mom. She was that person - the safe place to leave your secrets, the sage to whom you turned to for advice. There were very few holiday meals where we didn’t squish in just a little bit tighter to make room for someone - or two - that one of us brought home. There was always enough room in her kitchen for just one more and miraculously, the food just kept coming. I had friends who would conveniently "forget their lunch” so they could come to my house for soup and bread or, if they were lucky, for her famous pancakes. All of her grandchildren I know have fond memories of sitting on the stool at the kitchen counter making pancakes with grandma. A memory they will never forget.
Lest I sound like I am sainting my mother in her death she wasn't perfect. We know that was just as flawed as everyone one else. She was married to my father for 46 years until his death in 1999. Together the had brought up 5 children, all of whom they took great pride in. We didn't make it easy. But in spite of it all she eased our pains, comforted us in sorrow and sat vigil at our bedsides in our illness. Her humour was quiet and self depreciating but her love to laugh instilled in all of us a love of humour - all of us could get a room to laugh and that ability all began at her feet. She was a joy.
In these last years even as her memory entered into the dark fog of dementia her heart remained open. Of all of the people she had loved throughout her life she always seemed to have room to love just one more. When she moved to Calgary we were lucky enough to have her live with us. She felt so loved and welcomed here at St. Stephen’s where she, of course, leant her solid alto voice to the choir. Back in Hamilton I loved being in choir with her, blending our voices to create beautiful harmonies. There was always music in our lives - mostly because we would randomly break into song while doing dishes. She loved to sing but she especially loved singing in church. “Singing is praying twice” she would say so we sang with soul and meaning.
She never lost her faith. The Church was very much a touchstone in her world. Choir practice, every Thursday evening, volleyball every Wednesday morning in the church hall and Prayer group every Tuesday night and vacations were planned around requisite Sunday attendance. She prayed every day, sometimes silently and sometimes out loud. Her faith never faltered, her knowledge of what might happen upon the end of life her on earth was certain and sure. She knew where she was going and who would be there to greet her.
When her health became such that we worried for her safety being home alone while we worked she moved to a retirement home. She and I would go to the pub at the corner to have a pint - a long standing tradition in our world. It was some time before I found out that she’d been going without me and she told me, “Oh they never ask me for money.” It was a hefty tab by the end - she thought they were just being nice. Beside the pub there was a hotel and she told me one day that they had really nice muffins there. “Is there a restaurant there?” I asked. “Oh no, they just leave it out for anybody to have.” That’s how I found out that a few times a week after her own breakfast she was heading over and eating the continental breakfast meant for guests. They never questioned her, they never kicked her out.
Why? Because she was lovely. She was conversational and inquiring. She greeted people with such an open heart and few could resist.
And as the fog thickened, as her clarity about who was with her diminished, she was still glad to see anyone who came into her presence. Her mind may have been confused but her heart never fumbled, never forgot.
My mother was a teacher, a welcoming presence, a faithful Christian, a devoted friend, a loving wife. She was for us children a touchstone of love and acceptance that kept us centered and certain. Her children and grandchildren are, at least in part, who they are because of having been in her world.
My hope for all of us is twofold. First, all of those questions you’re curious about of someone in your life, ask before it’s too late. I often thought about “interviewing” mom about her memories and always put it off and now it's too late.
Don’t put it off.
And secondly, open your heart. The blessedness in her forgetting was that while she died in love she died without any regrets, recriminations or grudges. For her, in the end, there was only love.
May it be so for all of us.
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