Kay Stone's Story of her mother

My mother was born in 1911 in a tiny rural town settled on the border of North Carolina and South Carolina. When she was eight her parents and their four children moved to Windsor, Ontario, and later to Detroit across the river, where two more children were born. She met my father at a Halloween party at her church, and they were married a year later – she was seventeen. Her first child was born the next year, and nine years later I appeared in the world, the first girl. Five years later we moved to south Florida – my parents, my oldest brother Allen, me, Janet, and Jolene, all bundled into our 1944 Packard. My mother, who never learned to drive, sat in the backseat with the girls while fourteen-year-old Allen sat up with my father.

            One of my early memories from my early years in Detroit is hearing my mother singing when she was doing housework. I’m sure she had a full repertoire, but the only songs I remember clearly are “Frankie and Johnny Were Sweethearts” and “My Blue Heaven.” Later, in Miami, she was still singing popular songs of the 1940s. These were gradually replaced country songs in the days when these had more meat in them than they do now – especially those of Johnny Cash, whom she managed to see in concert once. I’m amused that song that has stayed with me from this period is “I Didn’t Know The Gun Was Loaded.” It goes well with ‘Frankie and Johnny” – two songs about women and guns. My mother went on humming them for years, even after the words had gone. Now that I have children of my own, I can only guess that these might have been healthy expressions of frustration of being a mother of six (two boys and four girls). And then there was my father, of course, who occasionally functioned as the seventh child. His story is another one altogether, and I’ll tell it another time.

            Actually she would have been a mother of eight if the two boys born between me and my older brother Allen hadn’t died young. She was most likely still in mourning when I was born, and I’m sure I absorbed some of her sadness. All I know is that she was fond of telling me that I cried for the first nine months of my life. Nine months! How did she stand it? “Sometimes,” she told me, “I just sat there and cried with you.” She also described the day when the two of us were wailing together and she noticed the neighbour’s dog lying outside with his paws over his ears. This made her laugh, and now all these years later I can laugh too.

            But what I remember most fondly and a bit regretfully about my mother was that she was a consummate gardener once her children and grandchildren (nine at that time) needed less attention from her. South Florida was a gardener’s paradise, and she took full advantage of that. By that time I was living away from home, so I didn’t see the garden develop and didn’t pay a great deal of attention to it as it grew from year to year. She was proud of her vegetables, and always gave me a garden tour when I visited, and pointed out that the only flowers she had were marigolds, planted around the borders to discourage pests.

            In fact her entire yard was a garden, and had been all the time I was growing up near Miami. The woman across the street, a lifelong friend, was also a master gardener, and helped her plant sprouts from her own trees – orange, lemon, banana, and an avocado that grew to forty feet and produced avocados the size of ostrich eggs. The coconut palm in the front yard grew there by itself, as did the giant loblolly pine on the edge of our property, one of the many old pines that gave our neighbourhood its official name of Pinewood. Looking back with an adult’s eye view, I am guessing that these growing things kept her from missing her lovely red brick house in Detroit as much as she might have. “It was the first house I really love,” she said, “and we came here to this old southern frame house in this old southern neighbourhood. I always thought we’d move, but we never did.”
* * *
            In 1989 my mother was diagnosed with colon cancer. The surgery was successful and she recovered well. That year my parents decided to leave their home of 44 years and move north to the Orlando area. Her garden was gone by then since her arthritis had made it increasingly difficult to keep up the necessary work, so she hung up her old gardening hat on the back porch.. I remember visiting her before their move and being saddened to see a large patch of grey dirt where the garden had been – with the weeds already beginning to take over. She had fought aggressive crab grass for all of her gardening years, and now it was going to take back its land, much to her annoyance. “I’ll just have to start another garden in Casselberry,” she said with a rueful smile.

            When I returned to Winnipeg after that visit, I had a brief but remarkable dream. I was walking up the front walk of my old home and my mother came out to greet me. “Go out back and see what I’ve done with the garden,” she said. I put my suitcase down on the front porch and walked through the house – living room, kitchen, back porch – and opened the back door. I stood on the cement steps my father had painted emerald green for my mother (her birth gem was emerald and green was her favourite colour). Oh my! Her garden began right at the bottom of the steps and continued across the neighbours yards and all the way to the horizon. My mother’s garden covered the earth! This dream was so memorable that a friend composed a poem that captures its earthy quality. Here is "Horizon" by Tanis MacDonald, a fruitful way to carry this story further on its journey. Her words transform the dream in ways that I resisted at first, since they were not "correct" in terms of my dream details or my mother’s garden. I reminded myself that artistic re-creation is what I am exploring, and I let the dream go free.

             I'm not over the swept threshold
            of my mother's house when she says
            come see what I've done with the garden.
            Treading through the cool dark rooms,
            I am a needle steadied for darning,
            the fuss-and-fix-it that made me,
            that chafed me. But by the back door,
            on that single step that passes as a porch,
            I stop, rooted, because
            my mother has finally done it.
            She's gardened the surface of the earth entire,
            hoed and watered the world into neat rows,
            tinkered the planet into good working order.
            She's planted all the way to the horizon,
            its calm line drawn perpendicular to
            sixty staked rows of stringbeans,
            pulling the sun down each night,
            yanking it up each morning. Raspberry canes
            swarm in the middle distance, snarling
            their fruit forward. Rhubarb begs
            for pies, heliotrope dogs the sun,
            the spider-spread of portulaca
            webs the soil at my toes.
            My mother walks the rows,
            bends to turn a tomato and show
            me the blush, how the sun ripens
            one side first

            (MacDonald, holding ground. Toronto: Seraphim Editions, 2000, page 69)

* * *
            That same year, 1989, a student in my university folklore course named Chris Barsanti told a story of gypsy origin about a crotchety old man who tricked himself into heaven, using an uncharacteristic fourth wish instead of the usual third wish. On a whim I decided to send my version of the story with a woman as the protagonist. I taped it and mailed it to her in 1991 (it took me two years of oral telling to get it in shape), but by this time my mother’s cancer had recurred and she had given up. She was declining quickly, spending a lot of time sleeping under the influence of morphine, so I do not know if my sister Jolene ever managed to play it for her. But a friend who was a professional grief counsellor assured me that if the tape had been played, my mother would have heard it even in a morphine sleep. I decided that it was enough to know that, and never asked my sister. Here is the story that she might have heard, and that I have since told again and again to a variety of listeners. The text is reprinted from my book on dreaming, The Golden Woman: Dreaming as Art (J.Gordon Shillingford Publishing Inc, 2004, 85-88).

 The Old Woman and Her Hat

An old woman sat under her old apple tree, enjoying a bright fall day. She was remembering the vegetable garden she once kept before age and infirmity caused her to abandon it. She thought about all the things she had grown. "Ah, those ripe red tomatoes and the crisp green lettuce – I can almost taste them right now. Oh well, I still have my crisp juicy apples, and I'm sure this old tree will live well beyond me."

Suddenly a voice broke into her thoughts: "Kind woman, may I have one of your apples? I'm so hungry and weary, even an old dry one would nourish me." She looked up and saw an old man, a beggar, leaning on a gnarled walking stick. Now, no one had ever called her "kind" in her entire life, and indeed she was not. In fact, she was known to be a bit sharp-tongued and short tempered. His voice, and the memories of her garden, made her feel warm and generous. She said to the ragged man, "Take what you want. I have more than enough for myself." She even stood up and picked three of the ripest apples that hung just within reach.

The man took the smallest of the apples and ate it slowly. As he swallowed the last bite, a strange thing happened. She watched in amazement as the old beggar began to transform. His bent back straightened and he grew taller, his shabby clothing began to fill with light, his face glowed like the full moon. He smiled down at the woman as he spoke: "As you can see, I am St. Peter, the guardian of heaven's gates. I walk this earth looking for acts of kindness and generosity, and when I find them I am delighted. Old woman, I offer you three wishes, one for each of these apples."

Being a practical woman, she began to look around her small yard and inside her small house. She chose her wishes from what she saw. Her first wish was that anyone who picked an apple from her tree would be stuck fast until she released them. Her second was that anyone who sat in her favourite rocking chair would be unable to rise until she permitted them to do so. Her last wish was that anyone who looked into her rain barrel would be pulled in and held there until she let them out.

St. Peter, exasperated that she hadn't wished herself into heaven, cried out, "I've never done this before, but I'm going to give you one more wish. Use it well!" Again she looked around her, and when she saw her old gardening hat hanging on a peg beside her door, she said, "Ah, there's my fourth wish – wherever my hat is, I will be." The glow left St. Peter's face. He frowned down at her. He grumblingly acknowledged her wishes with a gruff, "So be it." He stalked off without a backward glance, muttering to himself as he went. "Silly old fool. She'll get what she deserves."

More years passed, and the old woman went about her life from one day to the next, as she had always done. One bright morning a knock came at her door. She slowly opened the door, and there stood the Angel of Death. She was surprised to see that the Angel of Death was a young woman, who said to her in a calm voice, "I've been sent to claim you now. Please come." The old woman, thinking quickly, said, "I'll be right with you. I just have to find my old gardening hat. But you must be tired after such a long journey. Why don't you refresh yourself with an apple from my old tree." Death, who was rarely greeted so politely, was happy to oblige – and was soon stuck fast to the tree. "Let me go!" she demanded. "I have many more people to visit today.” "Oh yes, I can do that," said the old woman, "but only if you grant me seven more years." Death had to agree. When she was freed she went away, grumbling like St. Peter, and vowing to return.

Indeed she did return, exactly seven years later. When the old woman opened her door she saw that Death was now older and wiser. "I won't touch that tree," she snapped. "You'd better come with me straight away." "But of course I will," the old woman answered. "I've been waiting for you – I just have to get my old hat. I'll be only a moment, so why don't you rest in my rocking chair while you wait." Death sat down, and rested much longer than she wanted to. She only won her freedom by promising the old woman seven more years.

Time passed as it always does. The old woman was too busy to notice, except for her growing aches and pains. At the end of seven years the apple tree still bloomed, the rocking chair still rocked, and her rain barrel was full of fresh water. This time when the knock came she opened her door expecting to see Death even older and warier, but it was not The Angel of Death who stood there. It was the Devil himself. "Death has given you up, so now you belong to me. Come along now, and no tricks! I know all about the apple tree and the rocking chair." "Oh, I wouldn't think of it," she said. "But if you know about the apple tree and the chair, then you must also know that I never go anywhere without my old hat. While I get it, why don't you take a nice cool drink from my rain barrel? You must be thirsty after such a long journey from such a very hot place." The Devil, who was rarely offered anything so pleasant, was happy to accept. And when he lifted the wooden lid and reached in for a sip of fresh water, into the barrel he went. "You crafty old woman! Let me out immediately. I have important souls to claim – politicians, for example, and others more important than a silly old woman!" And so she won another seven years.

"Perhaps I could start another garden, just a small one," she said to herself. But she forgot, too busy enjoying the days and weeks and months of that seven years. The apple tree went on bearing fruit, losing leaves, blooming again, and putting out more fine apples, for seven more years.

At the end of this time no one appeared. She waited for that last knock at the door, but it did not come. She was weary of life, having lived far beyond her years, and found herself actually wishing to see The Angel of Death again, or even the Devil himself. But finally she understood that neither Death nor the Devil would come to her now. "Oh dear, she said, I'll have to find my own way to the other world." And being a practical woman she set off right away, taking only her old gardening hat with her, and one fine ripe apple to eat along the way. She walked farther than she had ever walked in her entire life, and at last came to a crossroad. She set off on the road to the right, and gradually it began to descend. After some time she found herself at the gates of Hell, and knocked loudly. The Devil himself answered and saw who was there. "I forbid you to enter here, old woman. You don't belong here. Go away! Go up to the other place."

She retraced her steps and eventually found herself back at the crossroad. This time she took the road to the left, which led her up and up to the very gates of heaven. St. Peter answered her knock, but when he saw her he called out, "Old woman, you had four chances to wish yourself into heaven and you refused. I cannot let you in." He began to close the great gates of heaven. They moved slowly together, and just as they were about to swing shut the old woman remembered the hat on her head, whisked it off and tossed it inside. It rolled and rolled until it came to a stop at the base of an ancient tree. And that is where she found herself, standing in heaven looking up at that towering tree that seemed to have been there forever. Slowly she sat down under the tree, reached over and placed her old hat on her head, and leaned back against the warm bark of the tree, enjoying the beauty all around her. She felt the seeds of the apple in her pocket and remembered the tree in her front yard.

"Well now," she said, smiling to herself, "this looks like a fine place to start a new garden." And she was surely right.

             My mother did indeed begin planting flowering bushes in Casselberry – hibiscus, orange, and oleander – but decided against another garden. Perhaps the adventures of this old woman might have inspired her if she hadn’t died in May of 1991, just past her 80th birthday. But this is still her story – certainly it is in my mind, and in the many people who have heard it over the last decade.

            And I am still humming many of her old songs.

Glenda Marecheau's story of Helen

My Mother Helen L. Hill always wrote in red pen..
Helen was born in Ancaster, Ont. Canada. She was the daughter of a Dairy Farmer, the middle child of 3. Her parents were Hungarian. Her mother’s mother, my great grandmother, came from Hungary when she was just 13, married and with child.  She lived on the prairies of Saskatchewan.

My great grandmother told me things I've never forgotten. She was a woman who spoke Hungarian always. She wore a dress that was 30 years old and you'd never know it, unless she showed you where she patched it. Her home was the cleanest I’ve ever known.  I looked up to her and still speak of her, driving across Canada, many times I've thought of her and spoke about where I came from as I drove... 

 My mother was a horse rider. She had her own horse as a child, always road bare back.  Helen would tell us when, after a long day out, she would lie on the back of her horse and say take me home and it would.  From that we, my brother and sister and I, grew up loving horses. My mother said they where the smartest animals in the world.  “They can feel what you feel,” she would say, “never be afraid if thrown off, just get back on.”  And that's what I did, for real once, and throughout my life it seemed, just got back on.  I used to call it getting out of a ditch that was full of mud from a hard rain. 

 I now understand my mother more and feel I know her better now that I have grown into a women and mother. Helen has been gone now for some years, passed of cancer as I sat with her that late night, holding her hand.  When she was told there was nothing they could do for the sickness, she looked at me from her hospital bed and said “Let’s get this over with fast”, so I began to pray. My mother never believed in a higher power, her mother also died from cancer.  So I asked God to take her fast - not easy but without a tear. I did this day after day. 

My girls, Countess Syanne and Glenda Maisha, remember her. Maisha called her Oddie, that was my Father’s nick name for her. Maisha was older than Countess is now when she passed and had spent a lot of time with her and my dad. My mother called her Miss MY. 

Helen began to drink when her mother died. Not having anyone to love her she believed, she turned to the bottle.  Until I was 13, that's when she finally stopped. By then I was lost to her, and we did not know each other. I had grown up without a mother, so to speak.  My sister was there for my brother and I, and my dad was the rock of the family.  My mother never seen him, even with all he did for her. 

Helen did teach us kids to be proud and stand up for ourselves. When needed she was always there for us, Helen was a strong woman. My father was native and mother Hungarian so as children we were called names by the neighbourhood kids, like Red skin, wha hoo - you know the hand over the mouth calling out wha hoo. So, anyway, that made us strong.  Helen would say show them what you’re made of, kick their ass.  So we did. Many years later my father would tell us how Helen would cry about that name calling, but it made us stronger and proud of who we were, she must know that now?? 

My mother gave us manners, pride, self respect and strength, we stand strong now.  Me with my own girls, loving them more than anyone will or ever can, holding them always, telling them and showing them how much I love them, telling them how important they are to the world.  They travel a lot, like I did and their father did when we were younger; me for my reasons, they because I want them to see the world out there, to learn about themselves and know that they can do and go as far as they want in life all they need to do is go for it and keep their dreams in front where they can see them, do their best and that's good enough.  I feel bad now that my mother and I never had the time together but, that's just the way it goes sometimes. She had her demons and she dealt with them her way; I grow up and let mine go.

When I got married, I said I'd never let my kids see what I've seen in life and they have never seen me drink; I stopped it all when I got married.  My mother and Father were married for over 40 years up until my mother passed.  I was married on their 37 wedding anniversary, the same day they were married Dec 31.

Helen did her best and I love her for that. We, my sister and I, did not wined up like most of our friends, and we turned out good I think, even if we have had troubles along the way, my brother and sister with their drinking.  I’m the youngest but in most ways the oldest as all my friends would say. Helen's words come from my mouth everyday, as I tell my girls, they too one day will say the same thing when it’s their time.  I heard a saying once by Mary J Blige. "I forgive my mother for everything, and I blame her for nothing".  Helen had a brother Murray who died when he was 13, drowned in the fall, her mother she watched die from cancer just after her and my dad was married, her father killed her dog, shot it behind the barn, Helen hated her father, she was loved by one woman her mother, when she lost her she fell, she did her best and that was good enough for me.  I speak of her always and think of her everyday and smile.

Patrick Ready's story of Bess

Bess Ready was a wonderful mother.  God knows, without her and the way she dealt with others in this life, who knows how we would have turned out.  That’s particularly referring to the seven of us—the six kids she raised, and dad.  Ultimately we all became what we became because of her, at least the good parts of us. 

Bess was born just after the first World War, in 1917, in Minnedosa, Manitoba, to John Dyer and Gertrude Dyer, formerly Gertrude Harrison.   Bess had three brothers—Philip, Hugh and David.  I have been told that both Philip and Hugh did very well in school, and were acknowledged as having some of the highest marks in Manitoba during their school years.  At the beginning of WWII Philip shipped himself off to England on a cattle ship taking care of seasick cows at sea, then joined the RAF, and soon after died over the English Channel during the Battle of Briton.  I was given Philip as my middle name when I was born just after that war.  Hugh Dyer was wounded during the war and eventually took over taking care of the family farm in Minnedosa.  David became an entomologist, and a very well known and successful entomologist.  Hugh and David both passed away within the past few years here in Victoria. 

Some stories Bess told us about the farm in the old days stick in my mind.

There was the time Grand Dad shot at a moose a couple of times that was poking it’s head around the side of the barn, only to discover he’d shot two moose, or maybe it was three, which kept the family in meat and leather for quite a while.

Bess said they were lucky during the depression, because her dad would go out and get swarms of bees off trees using smoke, and brought them on branches back to the farm for his own hives to make honey, which they could sell for cash—a very rare commodity in Minnedosa during the 30s.  Both cash and honey were rare commodities.

Hugh and Philip used to set out snare traps for animals in the winter.  And then put the animals in the larder.  One time they found a wolf frozen stiff in one of their snares and decided to put it in the larder.  Mom went down to the larder and found herself being snarled at by a very alive wolf.

Sometime during the 30s the local doctor in Minnedosa thought that Bess was a bit too nervous and prescribed she take up smoking cigarettes to calm her down.  She smoked after that until the late 60s when she quit in Hamilton, Ontario. 

Bess became a nurse in 1939, and during the war went overseas where she met dad, William Ready.  Though he called himself Ready (pronounced “Reedy”) at the time to avoid confusion, he said, with military expressions such as “Ready, Aim, Fire!,” or “Is Everybody Ready?”

They actually met in a military hospital in Assisi, Italy. Dad had gone from Oxford to the army and found himself as an officer in North Africa loading mortar shells being fired against Rommel’s troops.  The thing about loading mortar shells is that you let the previous one fire and then you hand load in the next one.  Dad was not mechanically inclined and loaded in a mortar before the previous one had fired and the explosion seriously damaged his hand.  And Bess, as his nurse, nursed him back to health and they fell in love and got married in Cardiff after the war. 

I was the eldest of the children, and was never a good example for the others to follow which wasn’t much help to mom.  I remember refusing to do dishes, being horrible as a baby sitter, keeping a very messy bedroom and fighting a lot with my brother Vincent. And I was just one of the six kids. 

But we weren’t the only difficult people in her life.  I remember one time, in a house we lived in in Stanford, California, mom had a large and lovely vegetable garden.  One morning we looked out of the windows to see an escaped herd of cows grazing in that vegetable garden.  Dad, who’d been raised in Cardiff, Wales, had never personally experienced the largess of an actual cow before, much less a herd of them – he was terrified.  Bess on the other hand was used to cattle and just wanted to go out and shoo them away from the garden, but dad refused to let her, or any of us, out of the house.  So that was it for the broccoli, cauliflower and spinach that year. 

At Christmas you would sew us little sleds out of birch bark at that house.   I’ve never heard of anyone else, anywhere, ever sewing little birch bark sleds.

After a few years we moved on to Milwaukee where Dad had got a job as the Head Librarian at Marquette University. 

We took up golf in Milwaukee.  The day before we’d go golfing we’d go to the Saint Vincent de Paul Thrift Shop and buy some clubs and golf balls, and then go to the golf course at 5 am the next morning so we wouldn’t have to pay the Green’s Fee.

The problem was we were very disorganized. We’d always skip the holes with water hazards as we only had one ball each.  Some of us would be teeing off while others were a few yards in front swinging at their second shot.  Once when Bess was swinging, one of us got her in the back of her hand with a golf ball so hard that she had to wear her arm in a sling for a long time after that.  A far distant cry from the golf we see now on TV.

Dad bought a Willis Jeep in Milwaukee, which we would travel in up to the farm in Minnedosa, Manitoba, in the summers. I’ve just looked up the journey on the internet—924 miles, which will take 14 ½ hours, it says. 

Dad would only drive the jeep at 35 miles an hour, as that was the speed he’d learned to drive at in the desert in North Africa.  When we complained he would rebut us with, “You couldn’t run this fast!”   I remember him coming home one night complaining about Pat MacDonald, one of the neighbor kids, who was waiting at a bus stop and he’d offered a lift to school.   “No thank you Mr. Ready, I’m in a rush, so I’d better take the bus,” he’d said.

So you can understand why it would take us 4 days to travel the 924 miles from Milwaukee to Minnedosa.  Usually we would camp out en route, and Bess would cook these amazing meals that included, somehow, bread.  Loaves of bread on a camp stove or an open barbecue with this tin folding oven from the Saint Vincent de Paul Thrift Shop.  And she would somehow cook everything else that would comprise a very large meal in these minimal situations.

My strongest memory of one of these meals was something Bess prepared at a motel one night.  It’s something I don’t think you would find in a prison cookbook.  And I’ve looked in a couple of them to see.  She propped up an electric iron between some books, and plugged it in.  And then put a pot of water on it full of eggs and left it like that over night.  The next day, though the water hadn’t actually been able to boil due to the low heat put out by an iron, we ate the eggs and they were cooked, but not hard boiled, nor soft boiled.  But like, what I imagine, translucent duck eggs might be like. 

I remember having a dream around this period where I’m standing in a field lazily flapping my arms.  I look over and see you Bess, leaning against a fence post.  “What are you doing Park?” you asked.  And I told you I was trying to fly.  “Well you are not trying very hard.  No wonder you can’t fly.  Flap your arms harder!”  So I flapped them a bit harder.  “Work at it! Don’t be so lazy.  Flap harder!” you commanded.   “Flap harder!”

And I flapped my arms harder and faster and began to fly.  And ever since then whenever I fly in my dreams, I’m standing straight up and down flapping my arms like a humming bird. 

But this was typical of mom.   She would only advise rarely, but firmly insisted on good advice when it was really needed.  Another example I remember occurred a long time before this, in the early 50s, when dad had written a story that he’d kept sending out to literary magazines until he’d accumulated a thick wad of rejection slips.  Mom told him that the story was very good and that he should send it to the Atlantic Monthly, the most prestigious literary magazine of those days.  He was reluctant, so she did it, and they took it.  The Atlantic Monthly took it right away, and awarded him “The Best First Short Story of The Year Award.”  As a result that same year he got another short story published in the Saturday Evening Post, and we ended up being financially secure that year as a result of his writing and her direction.

Dad passed away in 1981.  Mom then got more involved in her painting and artwork and she made many new friends here in Victoria. One day in Vancouver, where I live, I got a phone call telling me to turn on CBC TV, and there was mom with two other women in a canoe singing protest songs and wearing bizarre clothes in front of the enormous hull of an American warship with Canadian helicopters swooping down and yelling through megaphones at Bess and the others in the canoe that what they were doing was highly illegal and to leave the area immediately. The Canadian ladies were protesting the presence of US nuclear warships in Canadian waters.  This was the beginning of the Raging Grannies.

When I went over to Victoria shortly after that I met the “The Raging Grannies.”  They had actually started up in Bess’ living room in 1987 it says in Wikipedea on the internet—though I have been told by people with better memories than me that it may have been 1985.  There are now very active groups of Raging Grannies all over North America, from New York to California.

Another time during one of these Raging Granny antiwar protests mom got asked, on TV, by a young, well dressed, whipper-snapper what she was singing these ridiculous songs for.  I loved the power of her answer.  She simply said, “Because I was a nurse during the second world war.”

Anyway, mom has passed away this week, at 12:30 Monday morning.  And though I know she has gone to a far far better place, she will be sorely missed by all her children, grandchildren, relatives and friends.

Karren Dixon's story of Bernita  
 
I will never forget the very first time that my mother and I looked into each others face. To me she was beautiful. She was born to Fredell Deforest Taber and Elizabeth Marie Ball on June 4th 1927, in a small place called Fort Jones California. Her father was a farmer and her mother was a mother to 9 other children. Bernita had a very hard life as a child. Her parents couldn't look after all the children so they put my mother and uncle in the care of an aunt and uncle. My mother was a hard worker as a child and when she was in her late teens she decided to go to Portland Oregon to go into the work force.
 
Once in Portland my mother stayed with her oldest sister and family. One day when my aunt wasn't at home my uncle raped my mom and I was the result. When my mother discovered she was pregnant she went to her oldest bother and confided in him. He took her to my grandfather and together the three of them decided what to do. My mother went to a Maternity Home in Seattle Washington called The Bess Gilroy Home to have me. This was not a nice home for young mothers to be. My mother told me many horrible stories about this home.
 
When the mothers went into the home they were told to use false names but mine insisted on using her real name. Thank God for that or I would never have found her. A month before I was born my mother decided to keep me. This did not go over very well with Bess Gilroy. She was a baby black marketer. She had walked the fine line of the law for years. Bess Gilroy had already sold me to my adopted parents and she was not going to back out of this. When I was born on December 7, 1947 she told my mother I had died at birth. My mother and grandfather demanded to see my body. Bess Gilroy showed my mother a babies body but it wasn't me. From 1947 to 1992 my mother thought I was dead.
 
My mother was a trooper though. She got on with her life. She married a southern gentleman but that marriage didn't last long. After her divorce she went to San Francisco and worked for the Poseidon. There she met her second husband, Robert A. Jensen. They had a daughter together and she died at a young age of eight with meningitis. My mother and step-father were devastated. My mother had now lost both of her daughters. Life was tough for her. She went into a very bad depression. She became bi-polar and it was very hard for her to accept what was dealt to her. After years of this she found herself pregnant again and my bother Allen Jensen was born. He was her pride and joy.
 
I admired my mother. She was very kind and gentle. She accepted me and my family into her life without any conditions at all. I would like to think that our relationship helped her deal with all of her loses. She had a tough few years before she passed away. She was diabetic, very over weight and was on a lot of pills that she shouldn't have been on. She was a trouper though right until the very end. She passed away on November 12, 2005.
 
I am so thankful that she and I had those few years together. I found a whole new family and so did she.
 
I love you Mom

Jenn Griffin's story of Hilda

My mother, Hilda Margaret Hardie (nee Salter) was born May 24th, 1914 in Manchester, England. She was the first born of Maggie and Alfred Salter. Maggie was a housewife and Alfred a leather artisan, specializing in violin cases. Until the age of four, Hilda didn’t know she had a father. When Hilda asked precociously as to her father’s whereabouts Maggie replied bluntly, “You don’t ‘ave one.”  This was Maggie’s way of protecting Hilda from sadness should Alfred meet his death in battle as so many soldiers in World War 1 would. When Alfred returned from service in 1918, he knocked on the door of his home on Milton St. Four-year-old Hilda answered the knock. Alfred revealed his identity but Hilda wouldn’t let her father in the house. She announced with utter certainty,” I know you’re not my father because I don’t have one”, and slammed the door in his face.

Alfred did manage to evade Hilda’s gate keeping and in the years after his return the family grew; Harold was born in 1920 and Kathleen in 1925.

As the eldest, Hilda was expected to help with the younger children and to tend to her own needs. When Hilda asked to learn how to sew, Maggie grabbed a bolt of material, threw it at Hilda and hollered, “Teach yerself luv”. And she did. Hilda went on to teach herself to knit, play piano, garden, draw, cook and type. Ever resourceful, Hilda was a naturally gifted student but at age 16 she was required to leave school and contribute to the family income. Maggie reasoned,” Too much school’ll make you daft and no man’ll av ya”.  Self-taught skills in hand, Hilda found employment in the booming textile industry of Manchester.

In the summer of 1932, Hilda’s best friend and co-worker Marjorie talked Hilda into taking their holiday on the Isle of Mann. Marjorie at the spinsterly age of eighteen was desperate to find a husband and she recruited Hilda into her mission. Hilda was happy for the vacation but not so keen on the agenda and she deemed the Isle of Mann a destination which lacked subtlety.

Marjorie met Jim, the man who would become her future husband fifteen minutes into the trip. Hilda, left to her own devices on the Isle of Mann, had no trouble filling her dance card. She had little need of it as she found herself drawn to a dashing non-dancer with no teeth. His name was Eric. Apparently, he’d lost his teeth to a cricket bat. Hilda sat next to Eric, under the moonlight, while he ate his soggy chips (that’s all he could manage) and she knew she’d met a person of significance …if only to her.

I’m not sure if it was a condition of Hilda’s consent, but the wedding photos belie that Eric did get his teeth fixed and they were married in 1937.

Dental issues aside, Hilda and Eric were very good looking and popular. However, I believe that both she and my father married because they’d found each other. Had they not met I imagine them as people prone to long unconsummated and ultimately broken engagements. Followed by a life of solitude with a menagerie of pets.

Like Hilda, Eric was intellectually curious, self-taught and self-made. He gained certification as an engineer by putting himself through night school. Growing up in the great port city of Liverpool, the nature of Eric’s youthful rebellion took the path of all things contrary to sea faring. Aircraft figured as his main passion. He had wanted very much to be a pilot but he failed the eye exam due to slight color blindness. Eric did however find his trade in aviation; first as a fabricator and later as a designer. He was hired by Faerie Aviation in Manchester in 1935 and was transferred to London in 1939, for the duration of the war. Hilda, despite the obvious danger, was happy to re-locate to London where she gained employment as an efficiency expert.

There was the Blitz, rations and blackouts but Hilda’ eyes always lit up when they spoke of London. Even in wartime, London was rife with art, ethnic diversity and stimulating conversation.

At war’s end, Hilda found herself pregnant with their first child.  Hilda broke the news to Eric, and he countered with his news; he would be going to Berlin as part of the British Military government under General Bernard Montgomery. Although Eric was one of the few men guaranteed secure employment in aviation after the war, driven by a thirst for challenge and adventure, he opted for this more intriguing less permanent opportunity. Hilda was awkwardly left to move house back to Manchester alone and endure much of her pregnancy without Eric. Hilda found them a house in a nice area just outside Manchester called Stockport. It was a far cry from London but Faerie aviation had promised to re-hire Eric at their Manchester location upon completion of his duties in Berlin. Hilda had to make do.

Hilda gave birth to my brother Anthony in February of 1946. Eric was able to return from Germany just in time for the delivery. Anthony appeared to be in good health but upon examination the doctors determined he had irregularities in his bowel. Surgery proved the only course. One surgery did not suffice and others followed. Three weeks to the date of his birth, Anthony died on the operating table. His tiny heart gave in under the strain. Hilda and Eric were devastated. War was over and all of Britain was caught in a wave of vibrant, if naïve optimism. Hilda and Eric deep in their sorrow were at odds in a land of celebration.

Eric was obliged to return to Germany and Hilda stayed on to tend to details relating to their house in Stockport. Marjorie and Jim, the other Isle of Mann couple, took over the house with the understanding that they would sub-let the property in Hilda and Dick’s absence.

Grieving and exhausted, one month after my brother’s death, Hilda made the complicated trip to Berlin to join Eric. She was unprepared for the landscape of devastation she witnessed as she traveled across Europe en route to Germany. Berlin had experienced the worst of the wreckage and appeared to Hilda as a sprawling mound of rubble.

Loss had thrown a shadow across Hilda’s previously congenial personality. In Berlin, Hilda became withdrawn and introspective. Eric on the other hand found solace in ambition and careerism. Had Hilda not inherited a Schnauzer puppy from a German woman who regularly cleared debris across from their apartment, isolation may have caused my parent’s marriage to dissolve. Hilda named the dog Mike. Legend has it that Mike ate a hole in the apartment wall when he was left alone but later saved my parent’s lives at Checkpoint Charlie. So he was worth the trouble.

According to my mother, after the Airlift in 1948 and the arrival of American troops on British shores poised for what many thought would be World War Three, the absurdity of the Cold War and militarism in general became clear for Eric. Eric lost faith in the future of Europe and my parents decided not to resume their life in Britain. Marjorie and Jim lived on in the house in Stockport until their very recent deaths.

Naturally, Eric and Hilda found it hard to leave Mike the dog, their friends and family in England and newly acquired ties in Berlin but they opted for a new beginning; Canada.

In late 1948, Hilda and Eric began their migration “across the pond”. My parents were the only members of their entire extended family to ever emigrate.  It still strikes me as all rather curious. When I was a child, my parents would speak German or Russian when they didn’t want me to understand a topic of conversation. Truth be told, I think they were spies. Why else would this by now cultured and worldly couple make Edmonton, Alberta their destination of choice? I’ll never know but it’s interesting to ponder.

Eric found employment quickly at Northwest Industries designing Snow Planes (designed for Arctic flight) and perhaps as a cover for espionage, Hilda got a job in the hosiery department at the Bay. She also started to write stories and have them published. Hilda had long been famous for her letters within the circle of family and friends but it was a leap of confidence, sparked by a fresh start, which allowed her to submit to magazines. Throughout the 1950’s, her stories were regularly published in the Family Herald.

After ten years in Canada, my mother found herself pregnant with me. When she first experienced the bloating of early pregnancy at the age of 46, she was scared. She confided in me years later that she thought I was cancer. In 1959, I was born and my birth brought joy to my parents and relief from their many years of childlessness.

Hilda stopped working at The Bay before I was born and stopped writing after I was born. I asked her once why she’d stopped writing and she quipped, ”I didn’t need it any more Jenny, I had you”.

In 1962, Eric had his first heart attack. From then on there was a worry over his health. He’d had rheumatic fever as a child and as a result his heart was damaged.

Seemingly as a response to fear inspired by Eric’s illness, Hilda threw herself into a variety of humanitarian concerns: Native Rights, the Community League, affordable housing. Eric switched jobs after his heart attack to an executive position with Marblex Incorporated. Marblex had a contract with NASA and Eric was beyond thrilled to be working with the space program. When I was six, three astronauts came to our house for drinks. That was a big day in our neighborhood indeed.

Eric had another heart attack in 1966. In 1969 Eric had his third and fatal heart attack.

He died on May the 8th, the 44th anniversary of the end of WWII in Europe.

He never did return to Britain after his departure in 1948.

Hilda was left to do the hardest part alone, once again. She had the responsibility of raising me, a nine year old to maturity and doing it on a $90 a month widows pension. My father had lost our life savings in the stock market shortly before his death. She immediately went into wartime operations mode/ cultural renaissance. The car was sold because Hilda hadn’t managed to teach herself that particular skill. Our house became a make shift day care/ half-way house. In no time, every toddler and homeless person in the neighborhood was crawling across or sleeping on our floor. Inspired by the writings of Mahatma Gandhi my mother became a full-blown cottage industry. Hilda began making her own soap, deodorant, face cream, and dog food along with all the more predictable home made items like bread, cookies and clothes. Most of my clothes were home made, as were all the draperies, pillows and artwork.

Despite hardship, Hilda never let go of her principles. She said: “I won’t work at a silly bloody job for silly bloody man. If I have to work I’ll find a way to do it in my own home on my own terms”. She did and miraculously, there would always be money for Opera tickets, classes and special events.

As a teenager, I didn’t appreciate my mother the communist/ anarchist/earth-mother/spy. I did my best to be a precocious brat and succeeded most of the time. My mom seemed boring to me, as I was much more interested in glamour, romance and locating, purchasing and prancing around in the perfect pair of bell-bottom jeans.

Hilda died in 1979 when I was 19. We were still working out our growing pains. She had cancer. It was short and very sad.

My mom helped and inspired many people in her too short life. In honor of this a special housing project wing was named after her.

The woman I once thought of as boring and dull I now cherish as the most fascinating person I’ve ever known. The parts of her I find in me are the parts of me I value most.

Marion Eisman's story of Phyliss

Two years ago, my brother, two sisters , my husband and myself were all retired. None of us have nine to five jobs. We all acknowledge this with smug self satisfied little smiles and self congratulatory glints in our half shut eyes. In this same year, my 85 year old mother, was laid off from her job. She is a legal secretary. Her boss turned 91 and felt that he only needed one of his two employees, as work is not as abundant as he hoped. My mom was devastated.

Despite the fact that she plays competition bowls and bridge and has my devoted youngest sister, Kim and her two grandchildren to distract and care for her; she would vastly prefer to be working and earning a living.

I tell my mom about our project and ask her to write a brief synopsis of her life. She does as asked and I receive a lengthy reply. She is renowned for her frugal communication skills. She hates the phone, is irritated with e-mail but is an occasional letter writer. Since 3 out of 4 of her kids live in North America and the States, this is a major cause of concern. But she makes a special effort and here is some of what she wrote:

“I was born on September 14 1920 in a house in a middle class suburb called Doorfontein, Johannesburg, South Africa. My mother came to South Africa from England at an early age. Her family was big; 6 sisters and 4 brothers. My father came from Riga and although the family name was Anzika it was changed to Wolman. He was a very handsome man but I don’t know much about him. I was the third daughter and not a welcome sight as my mother wanted a boy ( she had an idea that a son would look after her in her old age). I grew up as a tomboy

“My mother used to make all our clothes, including the underwear and as I was the youngest, I had to have all the hand me downs as my elder sisters grew up. We were very independent and I remember going to the dentist on my own. I had long curly hair and my mother had it cut very short the day before school started. We moved when I was 8 to a better suburb. We had our own tennis court and I learned to play.

“When I was 12 my father died of Brights disease. He left us with sufficient funds but my mother, who was a very careful woman, and who could not work, sold our lovely house and bought a very small house in a much cheaper neighbourhood. I still loved tennis and swimming.

“When I turned 14, my mom decided I had had enough school and I was sent to college to learn shorthand typing and book-keeping. After 5 months the principal of the college offered me the job of secretary in his office. I was selected from about 200 students at college and felt very proud to be chosen. I earned the princely sum of 6 pounds and I had to give my mother 3 pounds for my board and lodging and pay for my tram fare, clothing, stockings etc. and I still managed to save 2 shillings a month in a savings account with the Permanent Building Society (which I still have today 70 years later).”

She goes on to tell me that she loved to ballroom dance and met my father while working for him. He was a good dancer and so they went out and got engaged and married .They had 3 kids and played bowls, tennis and golf. She did not work outside the home but baked, sewed and played bridge. “In 1956 I went with Archie (my dad) overseas to Nice, Paris, London, America and Canada which was something very different. We also took annual family holidays.”

“My biggest achievement was giving birth to 4 healthy, normal, lovely children. I won the Bowls Championships 3 years running. And I won the Bronze Championship in golf. My biggest disappointment is that I missed the daily growing up of all my grandchildren and getting to know them well and they getting to know me. Also I was not able to learn dancing.”

My biggest disappointment on reading this letter, is my mom’s lack of emotional commentary. How does she feel about her chain smoking, tough mother wanting her to be a boy? Did she resent being yanked untimely out of school? Was she close to her uncles and aunts, did they support her when she lost her dad and on and on. She omits to share with us the considerable challenges she faces, the struggles she wages and how magnificently she overcomes some of them and how vulnerable she is to others. She seems determined to make her life mirror the much desired myths of Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty, myths for which we girls yearned. 

 In truth, when her handsome, dancing prince , my kind ,dear, street toughened, stubborn dad began to have one too many drinks at business lunches and began to decline into the stupor of alcoholism, the dancing, traveling, sports loving tomboy princess had to transform herself into a modern, fiercely independent self supporting mother. And she did. And there were sacrifices to make. And she, being an ambitious person and a tough one, was able to make them. I think she is extremely practical and efficient but not as vigilant with less tangible matters.

When I asked my mom how she felt about her mothering skills, she thought it an odd question. She answered that she didn’t think about it; she just did it like everyone else. You had kids and became a mother. End of story. My dad was drinking too much? Deal with it alone. End of story.

My dad deteriorated and so did we all.

I remember night after night my dad would sit and drink scotch alone on his nicotine stained armchair, in a small corner of our large living room in the dark and talk to himself. My mom, downcast, would be sitting alone in another darkened room, listening to the radio. We would be in our bedrooms, lonely and silent. I remember my brother-in-law lashing out at my mom, blaming her 
for my dad’s addiction. “If you would dress up nicely for him and serve him appetizers and sit with him, he wouldn’t over indulge!!” Oh my goodness, the next evening my mom dressed up in black, like Betty Crocker on speed, greeted my dad at the door ....appetizers on the plate... grimacing in an attempt to please and awkward in her attempt to make polite conversation. It was awful. I prayed for a resumption of glaring looks and icy silences. Two nights later we were back to normal dysfunction and it felt much better.

The helplessness, the strain of witnessing my dad’s deterioration in silence and the subsequent losses for our family, both emotional and financial, played havoc with us all but especially with my mom’s well being. I remember her being extremely irritable, unhappy, impenetrable and angry. None of us wanted to bring friends into our home.We were embarrassed and ashamed.

In contrast, I also remember that when we were sick my mom softened and was gentle with us and we felt so wonderfully safe and happy. All she had to do was sit on the bed and work out a crossword puzzle aloud , sharing her clues with us and we were in heaven. And if you could make her laugh, crack a smile, Oh! away with the rain and hello sunshiny days!! She was very critical; for example if you came home with a test result of 80%, immediately asking what happened to the other 20%. She encouraged our ambitions however whatever they were and in those days we saw her as our rock and our saviour. She kept the house running, we had a schedule and we trusted that however bad her moods, she was there for us .

I longed to have fulltime the beautiful mother who used to get all dolled up in her gorgeous dancing gown, smelt of exotic perfume and happily twirled us around just before leaving with my handsome father on a dinner and dancing date. (I bought the fairytale, hook line and sinker). But now a lot of the time, in her place was a tight lipped, lady with curlers in her hair, in a tattered, ragged and stained housecoat grimacing as she stood at the stove boiling my dad’s dirty handkerchiefs.

Shortly after my 16th birthday, I noticed that my mom was knitting pink booties. “Who for?” I asked. “For my baby,” she replied. I remember feeling quite ill. I think my mom was genuinely thrilled. I didn’t get it at all.

I left home and went to university in another province. Our parents both valued higher education and we were fortunate that they paid for our tuition. Once I had left home, I witnessed from a distance, the transformation of my mother to working woman and her raising of my sister Kim.  She was not only responsible for earning her own money, she also engineered a restructuring of our family trust fund in such a way that a much better financial future awaited my parents.

 My beloved dad passed away sadly, too young in 1989. My mother stuck by him until the end. I think she would tell us that when you get married, you stay married for better or for worse. End of story.

She is still beautiful in 2005 at 86. I recently brought her over to the States to visit my sister and myself .She is a bundle of energy, charming, game for anything and is still very alert and creative. She still loves sports and watches it avidly on TV. She loves the winners but when they start to waver, she loses interest in them instantly. She constantly talks back to the news readers which is extremely irritating. She can be a real snob and hasn’t too much sympathy for the underdog.

There is also a fear in her that leads to dependency and a lack of generosity. She needs to be the center of attention , The changes of fortune in her life have left their mark. I think she sees herself as alone against the world. I would like to soothe her . And shake her. I am so frustrated. Will my real mom please step forward? Is this charming warm woman in her new fuchsia pedal pushers who is so glad to see me and is so effusive with her hugs the real mom or is the frugal, tight fisted woman who sits at home, stubbornly refusing to rejoin the book club because the dues are too high and she is still saving her money for a rainy day the authentic one? Where is this damn fairy godmother when you most need her? I want transformation to kind, contented elderly wise owl and I want it NOW!!! Before it is too late!!!

My mother did not go crazy. She did not give up. She went to work, she stuck by her man, she raised her family and helped ensure all her kids got an education. But it would seem, enough is never enough. End of story.

Her kids and her grandkids, have inherited awesome genes from our mama. She is the ultimate survivor and despite herself, unsolicited, we have inherited great strength and tenacity from her. She should be fiercely proud.

Khaira Ledhyo's story of Nhan Thi  

My mom’s name is Nhan Thi Nguyen. She was born in North Vietnam, in 1931. She grew up in a small village a few hours from Hanoi called Ha Dong. Her father’s last name was Nguyen and her mother’s was Dang. 

This is her story as I recall it from my memory of stories she told me and also from various accounts of her life by my older siblings. As she is now in her late stage of Alzheimer’s I have no way to verify these details with her. 

She was the fourth or fifth girl in a family of nine girls and one boy, who was also the youngest of the clan. My mom recalls how she was a lazy child, a dreamer and a tomboy. She was not considered pretty, either. She was also a little over-particular, making a point of washing her chopsticks and bowls separately from the rest of the family’s and insisting upon storing them apart from the rest, as well. 

She was first married in her early twenties. When the Vietnam War began in 1954, she was pregnant with her first son. Her husband left to South Vietnam to avoid the draft in the North. He took all their valuables and went into hiding; they planned to re-unite as soon as possible. 

My mom soon went after him, leaving her family and village for the first time in her life.  She worked  her way south, following word that he was safe, hoping to find him.  She was late in her pregnancy, and somewhere in Central Vietnam when she admitted herself into a hospital and gave birth to Tuan Ngoc Le. 

In Vietnam, hospitals were not responsible for the food or personal care of patients. Being alone, she had no food or help. The woman next to her asked her husband to bring an extra portion of food for my mom, at mealtimes. She left the hospital with my brother and when they returned to the place she had been living, she found that it had burnt down. All her belongings and her stock of rice had burnt with it. 

She sought work in an orphanage so that Tuan could stay near her throughout the day. Eventually she left the orphanage. Somebody took pity on her and helped her to start selling vegetables on the street-side, using baskets that she would balance on her shoulder. She found that she was quite enterprising and after a short time she was ready to continue her journey south, following a rumor of her husband’s whereabouts. 

There is a story that tells how my mom was raped by a border official, or a man who told her he was a friend of her husband’s and could take her to him. Either way, my mom was pregnant again. And when she finally arrived in the South, she was told that her husband had remarried and moved to the United States. 

My mom settled in a seaside town called Vung Tau, a few hours from Saigon. She began building her life again and continued to buy and sell in the marketplaces. 

In Vietnam it was acceptable for men, whose wives did not bear them sons, to seek what is called “small wives”. (It was acceptable to have a “small wife” for any reason at all, actually). One such man, apparently finding out that my mom was pregnant, thought that he could help my mom and also himself by offering to take her on as his “small wife”. In this way, she could avoid a “bad reputation” and he could possibly have a son. The arrangement did not work out as my mom gave birth to a baby girl. Since it was also acceptable for men who took on “small wives” to abandon the woman if she could not bear him a son, he ended their agreement. She named her daughter Thu. 

As the years passed, her abilities as businesswoman eventually had her excelling in buying and selling real estate as well as being the supplier to the kitchens of the U.S base in Vung Tau. 

During this time, my mom really fell in love. But he was married. According to my sister’s stories, he was well respected and well loved in the small town. They chose not to make their affair public. She became pregnant and gave birth to another girl named Hien. Shortly after Hien was born, the love of her life died in a motorcycle accident. 

My mom would rent rooms out of her properties and in the late 1960’s an army officer of the South Vietnamese army came to ask her about a room. She married this man, named Trung Dung Le and had three more children with him – a daughter in 1968, a son in 1970, and me her last daughter in 1972. Our names were Van, Ai and Huong. 

In 1975, the U.S. Army was on its’ way out of Vietnam and my mom took Tuan, Van, Ai, and me in a boat and fled Vietnam, arriving in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia after a dangerous journey. Thu and Hien were not with us. There, we stayed in a refugee camp while papers were processed for us to fly to Vancouver, Canada, where my Dad, Trung, and our Grandma were waiting. 

We arrived in the winter. We lived in Vancouver for a year and then we moved to Edmonton. My mom and dad were not happy together but because she believed she had to stay with my dad  “for the family’s sake”, we lived with him and often worked with him but, officially, they were separated. 

My mom worked every single day until she retired. She worked cleaning restaurants, in mushroom factories, selling vegetables at the flea markets, and then opened up a pizza place in 1989, where she worked even harder. 

One of her proudest moments was buying a new car – a white Chevrolet Celebrity, and in 1984, she bought a house. However, she was mostly very frugal and used to tell us, “For every grain of rice you leave uneaten at the bottom of your bowl, you will come back one lifetime as a maggot!” 

When Vietnam first re-opened its’ doors to overseas Vietnamese and tourists in 1989, my mom and my eldest brother, Tuan, returned to Vietnam and searched for Thu and Hien, my sisters who had stayed behind in Vietnam. After they found the girls, she returned to Vietnam almost every year. She was able to see her family in the North again, after almost 40 years of seemingly having disappeared. 

In 1996, she was 65 years old and moved to Vancouver to be with me. She sold the house in Edmonton, in 1998. 

In Vancouver, she spent her days with friends or at the Vietnamese Buddhist Temple on Commercial and 1st. She was well loved and very popular and respected among her friends and community. She was a very devout Buddhist. She was a joker among her friends. She was still physically and mentally very strong. I didn’t notice the signs of her becoming ill. 

In 2001, after a frightening trip alone to Vietnam, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. As her mind became weaker, I remember moments of heartbreaking beauty, like when she once called me to the window with such excitement. 

“Look, look, Huong! There is something up in the sky! What is it?”

It was the full moon.

She continued to live with me in Vancouver until it was no longer possible for me to care for her at home. My sister, Van, and I decided to bring her back to Vietnam for a final chance to see her family while she was still in the early stages of her disease. She stayed there for five years, first in Hanoi and then in Vung Tau, to be cared for day to day by Hien, and hired caregivers. In October, 2005 we brought her back to Vancouver.

She does not remember our names, nor can she acknowledge her newest grandson but, in her eyes, I can see so much of the way she was and the way she lived. She taught me, best of all, about compassion. And my favorite memory of the way my mother used to be is of all of us kids in the backseat of the rickety old van, heading out to the outskirts of Edmonton. On the metal floor of the van was a large turtle, ready to snap at our feet. We were going to release the turtle back into the wild. We arrived in Devon and my mom carried it to the edge of a marsh, lowered it into the water with a prayer, and watched it swim away. On the way home, she told us that it had turned around and nodded to her in thanks.

 Andee Frizzell's story of Mary

The story of my mother begins with her birth. My mother, Mary Helen Frizzell, was born two months premature on January 17th 1954. Her life began much like how it was lived, with struggle, adversity, fighting against all odds and hard earned success. My mother was born in the birthing room, a converted spare bedroom at the back of a farm house on a cold and blizzarding day in Prince Edward Island. Due to my mother’s unscheduled arrival and since, at that time, infant survival rates were low, my grandmother refused to acknowledge the baby. But my great-grandmother saw something in that two and a half pound baby that she wanted to nurture. She cleared out the back of the wood burning stove, laid my tiny infant mother wrapped in blankets inside and fed her on sugar and water for nearly two months. This is how my mother entered the world - early, unprepared, unwanted and hanging by a thread. That thread was my great-grandmother’s belief, her hope. So began my mother’s journey.

She lived the beginning of her life surrounded by 10 brothers and sisters, on a farm impoverished of money and means, void of a stable father figure, in a home that praised boys over girls. She survived, fighting to find equality, power and praise, which came very infrequently and dissipated almost instantly. My mother left home at eleven to work as a cleaning lady in a bed and breakfast.

Charging forward, intelligent and hard working, my mother eventually put herself through nursing school at seventeen. Nursing school had been a second choice for her. Originally my mother wanted to become a mechanic. She has always had an uncanny ability to understand even the most intricate details of the inner workings of motors and vehicles of all kinds. Unfortunately at the time for her secondary schooling, grants and loans were sexually bias and the governing bodies believed she would far better focusing on a more feminine career. My mother fought them on this issue, all the way to court, until they finally relented, giving her a grant to attend mechanic’s school. It was for not; she was already in nursing school. This then became her career.

Along the way my mother met my father. She had just started school in Halifax and commuted (hitch hiking in the 70’s) from there back to Charlottetown to see my father. Half way through her first semester, she found out she was pregnant with me. Attending an all women’s school run by nuns wasn’t exactly a nurturing environment for an unwed, pregnant, teenage mother. She endured, creating elaborate excuses for morning sickness and wearing baggy sweatshirts.

My parents were married in October 1973, in a small ceremony, my mother wearing a borrowed dress, pearl in colour. I arrived two months after her 20th birthday. My mother graduated from school married, a new mom, and the only one with an education to provide for her new family. This is where my story meets my mother’s and becomes one in the same; her story is my story.

My father tried to find work and that drove him out to Alberta into the oil fields. We followed soon after. We lived in many small towns in southern Alberta supporting my father’s quest for rig work. My father wasn’t the most reliable individual and I spent many of my younger years playing under tables at the restaurants where my mother waitressed. She finally got a position in a local hospital.

My father left when my mother was pregnant with my sister and I was four; we were suddenly alone in a province without family or friends, and broke. She made it work. At 24years old, my mother was divorced, a mother of two young children and the sole provider for her family.

We moved around a lot. Town after town, province after province. I have lived in almost every province and one territory. We covered this great land literally. My mother used to play a game with us. She would come into our room in the middle of the night with the old Twister board. She had removed the sock, hand and left and right. She replaced them with north, east, west and south. She would wake us up and tell us to “give ‘er a spin”. Whatever direction the needle landed in we headed. Right then and there. Into the car we shuffled, nightgowns and all.

We eventually found ourselves in Yellowknife NWT. A new law was coming into effect that required RNs to have a university degree. Even though she had been an RN for over 15years, she was now facing possible pay cuts and job insecurity. Once again, with her family at the forefront, she battled the governing bodies and obtained funding for school. She wagered her time to return to school at 35 years old, becoming the first RN in history to be paid 75% of her wage and school fees. Her payback was to work in the NWT for 7 years. So, my mother headed to University of Lethbridge Alberta where she graduated with a 3.6 grade point average.

On the heels of this success, she headed north. Her family nest emptied and she pursued a solo nursing career in the rural communities of the NWT. After many years of isolation in the Artic, she found her soul mate. Of all the adversity my mother has faced and all the success she has obtained, her greatest accomplishment to me has been finding her peace. She now lives in northern BC, with the love of her life, working when she chooses and redesigning her gardens. My mother has created her world through hard work, careful planning and sacrifice. The richness that encompasses her life now is the product of never being a victim to circumstance and her belief, her hope.

My mother and I sat across from each other. We were sitting on my grandmother’s back porch having breakfast - strong black coffee and cigarettes. My grandmother was dying. I had just made a whirlwind trip from Melbourne Australia to Charlottetown PEI to be right there, next to my mother. ‘Next to my mother’ was really only a physical location. Both of us were world’s apart, deep in our own thoughts.
I had arrived to a chilly reception. Death brings out the worst of our fears and sometimes the worst of character: my family was rich in both. Only when faced with death can life be brought into perspective. Without the conclusion, the inevitable ending, death, one is unable to see the real value in the middle, the living. Our thoughts were our own that morning. My mother was deep in her world of sadness contemplation, regret, past, present and future. I was struggling with coping. How could I enable my mother to cope? I was never close to my extended family and all my attention was on my mother, how could I support her?
My mother and I had never discussed death or even living for that matter. That’s where I thought I would bridge the gap. Discuss living.
“Mom, when you were younger, did you sit around with your friends and discuss the meaning of life? The question of existence, the purpose?”
My mother looked at me for a moment, as if I had just materialized right out of thin air.
“What?”
“Life, the meaning of life as you saw it. Did you ever discuss our purpose for being here with your friends?”
My mother looked at me over the rim of her coffee cup as she took another sip. I held my breath in anticipation. I was about to be passed some ancient wisdom, passed down from life experience to daughter. Some light of my mother’s history. A pearl of knowledge cultivated from different philosophies, in a different time, carried inside my mother waiting to be opened by me.
“No, no I didn’t. We all had fuckin’ jobs to go to.”
Ah. The meaning of life. Live it. Life isn’t made richer by discussing it, it is made invaluable by experiencing it. That is meaning.