It has been several days since my last post -- not a good start to the New Year, but I have been busy following through on my resolution to work through the Insanity workout program, and eat healthier things, so much experimentation time has been required in the kitchen to turn things like kale into something edible. I am happy to report no fires.
What was meant to be a Bermuda blog has been turning into a personal blog, and I will try to get back to Bermuda information very soon. Often though, it is easier to just write about what is on one's mind. At the present, that is the fact that my Grandmother passed away last weekend. I will soon be returning to Canada for the funeral, and meeting the dreaded Polar Vortex that is all over the news these days. But I did want to say a few words about "Grammers."
Born in 1918, she lived a full 95 years and true to Canadian form was as tough as can be. She was born not in a hospital but on a homestead miles away from the nearest town (which did not and still does not have a hospital). She grew up using horses and a cart for the family trips to the town when they would happen, and remembers travelling with a team of horses in sudden blinding prairies blizzards, and of wolves following the family as they rushed home with the team of horses late one night. The nearest town was not even in existence until 1913. This upbringing made her independent and resilient. Horses were around, for the plow, for transportation, and she loved them. There is an old school almost sepia photograph of her in mayber her 20's in a floral print dress on a jet black horse with a star on its head...I believe that was her favorite -- Darky he was called. The photo is a very large framed one -- and as a child I remember thinking that the only other photograph I had seen that size and period were those of Queen Elizabeth that hung in the lobby of the school. I thought she looked just as pretty.
I remember her talking about the Great Depression -- she spoke a lot less of the drought, dust, and hardship than she did of all of the things that she learned in those years -- how to make tasty pastries and treats using the most bland and plain of ingredients, and of how she used to sew and resew dresses and scraps into new things for herself and eventually for customers. When I was young and hearing these stories, I failed to translate the image of her from my Grandma to the much younger girl, in her late teens and early 20's. Grammers mainted a sort of reverence for beautiful fabric all of her life, even if just scraps and pieces -- she would turn those into beautiful quilts when she needed a break from all the knitting and crocheting. Another craft she learned she told me started back in the one room schoolrooms of her youth -- drawing and painting. She told me that the teacher used to draw a picture with each word, and she fell in love with that creativity and became a very good artist with both her painting and her drawing.
As the Depression faded into the past, WW2 began, and she watched all of the young men of the community go off to war, including her older brother Lloyd. She told me he went as far away as Africa and France before losing a leg and being discharged home. In his later years, she was his primary caregiver until he passed away.
The love of her life, her husband Frank -- or Sammy as she called him, passed away in 1965. I never met him, but she told me he could play the fiddle like you wouldn't believe. She never remarried, nor do I ever think she ever gave that idea so much as a passing thought. The main apple of her eye was her son, my dad Glenn.
Over the years she ran a lunchroom, took in sewing, and rented rooms -- this all sounding very brave and independent in my eyes at the time. But it was just another story told in her eyes. Grammers heard her calling to God, and this was more than a passion but a complete dedication. She decided to take it further and became an ordained minister when she was 62. She taught Sunday School, also gave the regular sermon, and had an after school program called Happy Bible Hour, which was like Sunday School but on Wednesday's. She maintained a vibrant and active life in her ministry as long as she was mobile, well into her late 80's. I think a minister is also a counsellor, and she spent hour after hour after hour on her phone when anyone needed her. She could also be counted on to go to people when they were sick or needed a friend, 70 plus and in a little red car with a T-Top. Until she got her brand new blue Mustang in her 80's.
Someone who lives to be 95 plays many roles to many many different people. My perspective is that of the youngest Grandchild. She always had stories to tell, some about her, some about the Bible and sometimes just made up stuff. She arranged for sleepovers and let my sister and I bake bread and buns (with a lot of supervision) when we were quite young. She took me to an art class or two, gave me my own set of paints, and would sit and do paintings with me -- not the kind of paintings kids do, the kind with real acrylic and brushes and proper easel and canvas. In the 7th grade I walked to her house from school and she made me french fries for lunch almost every day for the whole year (I was a picky eater). Her house was covered, almost every square inch, with photographs of family, friends, children from her bible classes who had grown but not forgotten her, and every surface filled with ornaments or dishes received as gifts or handpicked as treasures. She loved every item in her house, as she had learned to appreciate every little luxery growing up, and especially treasuring people she loved and memories. I do believe there is still a 3 foot tall giraffe I made from a coloring book that I had to tape all the pages together to made...she had it professionally framed and mounted by the door.
Saying goodbye is never easy. But looking back I see a woman who was strong, positive, confident, and absolute in her faith....all of which made her happy and content. A long life, well lived, well loved. I hope she is riding her horse in heaven today, with a big red Irish setter named Shawn and a little white dog named Skeeter running in tow, and a little dog named Tiny probably riding on the saddle.
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