Christmas for One: #1 The Plan

The tree that is in my house is the small one,
seen in the lower right hand quarter of this picture,
just an arm's length off the path the leads to the water.

The tree on the left hand quarter is not that common
where I live -- a yew tree.

My thesis, Christmas for One, is that during COVID times I can have happiness in the season, just acting as one, without the happiness I usually feel from the physical connections that usually happen at Christmas. 

So testing that thesis, I started with two plans. 

One is to talk about candy until I have nothing else to say about it. 

The second plan is to take advantage of a tree that needs to be cut, by bringing it inside and enjoying a fresh pine tree for the Christmas season.

Bonnie helped me get the tree inside the house and to the front room floor. In fact we measured the height of the ceiling and the length of the tree, and then she left for Salmon Arm.

David Wood was dropping me off from errands in town yesterday, I said, “If you have time, could you cut off the bottom 18 inches of my tree – it is too tall for my living room.”

“Can’t do that,” said David. “At your front door, I noticed the saw you borrowed from me to cut the tree, and I took the saw back home. I will bring it back in a couple of days and we will do the job.”

Tonight, David rang the doorbell. We measured again, ceiling to floor, and then he bent down to do the sawing.

“I don’t like to do this,” he said, “I am cutting off some beautiful branches.”

I am like David – everything looks beautiful to me, but I knew that leaving the tree laying horizontal across the floor for the whole season, wouldn’t work for me, either. I did find myself tucking a few decorations into it while it was prone – I just had the impulse to see how the decorations would look among the greenery once the tree was vertical.

David spent a long time adjusting the screws into the bole of the tree – still it was lop-sided, lilting gently forward. We tucked some of the branches between the spindles of the stair railing, but we could see that wasn’t a really satisfactory way of straightening the tree. So, with some kitchen twine, we tied the tree upright attaching the bole to the spindles of the railing.

I’ve tested a few decorations on it tonight, but am saving the real tree decorating for tomorrow. I told David that I am only going to put acrylic, dusted-with-gold nests on between the twigs on the tree and a lone white-owl in its branches.

As well, yesterday at the thrift store, I found a small end table made out of sticks. Thinking to tuck that alongside the tree, I am hoping to keep a simple country look to the tree.

“What about lights,” asked David.

“I am not putting lights on,” I replied.

“You are going to save a lot of time,” said David, continuing, “it is OK not to do lights if there are no children around.”

For some reason his comments brought flash backs of former family trees of my childhood decorated with lights. How long I would study the lights! I don’t think I ever got over the slim candle-like lights that had bubbles endless rising upward in them.

And the charm of watching the lights that would make a 360 degree turn of a small nativity scene or of children skating on a pond. Yes, to lights for children.

And also, yes to a simpler tree for me. A fresh one – grown just outside my door and repurposed since it was slated to be cut down anyway. And now part #1 of a Merry Christmas for One is done.

Arta

Susie Gallop's Words about Vernetta

Susie Gallop:

There’s a beautiful quote that speaks of grief and gratitude as kindred souls. I’ve grieved a lot these past days with mom’s passing, but my heart has been filled with such gratitude for the privilege it has been to call her my mom and bask in the unconditional and outrageous love she gave to me throughout my life. I don’t think there are two people that could be more different from each other though! I’m a traveller at heart. Mom was a homebody.

Chateau Renoir

And it was hard for Mom and Dad to leave their lovely Riverside Way home in the spring of 2013. 

Mom was 85, Dad was 87 and they were both struggling with health and mobility issues. 

I told them that one of the perks of moving to the Chateau Renoir was being near me and that they would even be able to see me on my frequent runs on the reservoir pathway. When they settled into their little third-floor apartment, we agreed I would phone them from the path so they could wave when I ran by. I was even able to bid on the mail route that included their building, so every day I was able to say hello as I delivered the letters. I cherish the memories of Mom sneaking a muffin from the Renoir breakfast basket for me. And it warmed my heart that it wasn’t only Mom and Dad that called me “Susie”, but the entire Renoir staff and gang.

Sadly, Dad passed only 6 months after they had moved in. It comforted Mom to know that the Renoir community knew her beloved Lorne. Most of us don’t think of Mom as an athlete, but after the loss of her first three children she had dealt with the unimaginable grief through swimming. And in time, not only had she learned to swim, but she had become a certified swimming instructor! At the Renoir, even with her many chronic health challenges, she immersed herself in the activities offered there, including aquasize.

And Mom also liked to get things done FAST! Whether it was sewing, cleaning, or shopping, she got it done! She was a 100 wpm typist, as was I, and we would often duke it out on computer typing tests when I visited. In the early years at the Chateau Renoir, Mom would practically leave us in the dust as she burned up those Renoir hallways and outside paths with her walker. However, when she started to have falls, nurses told her to slow down. One day in a phone conversation with Joanne, she admitted that she had had an epiphany on her way down to dinner at the Renoir earlier that evening… “What am I hurrying for?”

Father Lacombe

And Mom never gave up. Dad often had us laughing at the story of her diving class where the task was to dive to the pool floor and bring weights to the surface. Mom was so determined to get those weights that she actually came up feet first. Her instructor declared that she’d never seen that before.

That tenacious nature really manifested itself in the way she faced the challenges this last year and a half at Father Lacombe. She always stayed so positive! As she slowed down, it was beautiful to see how much joy she took from simple things… sitting outside enjoying the views overlooking Fish Creek, watching beautiful sunsets from a Father Lacombe window, and watching for the deer, coyotes, bunnies and squirrels that lived and frolicked on the property. She so loved to watch the birdfeeder outside her window. She especially loved when a big group of birds would gather to a freshly filled feeder to bicker and fight over the seeds!

Her last hospital admission was late June. She kept her sense of humour. We would come into her room and she would say. “Did you know I’m 92! I’m so glad. I thought I was 80!” I asked her why she was glad, and she said, “well, I’m doing pretty good for 92.”

Mom loved the kind caregivers at Father Lacombe and they loved her. They often commented on how gracious and sweet Mom was. Her last months were amazing! She had her appetite back and especially savoured the cherry tomatoes and carrot sticks I would bring on my visits. In the last week of her life, Mom fought hard to live, even as her body was shutting down. It was so hard on me to lose her and I so didn’t want her to suffer. I was grateful at the end when she gently let go. I know it was her last gift to me.

Mom worried about me and my crazy adventures her whole life. But as I’ve read her journals these last few days I’ve seen the love and the pride she took in my achievements, and the accomplishments of ALL of her children and grandchildren. She truly lived for and loved her family. I will miss you Mom. I love you.

Susie

Afterward on the Funeral for Vernetta Reed

Half way through watching Vernetta Reed’s funeral there was a call from Wyona, asking where the interment would be in the Queen’s Park Cemetery after the funeral.

She wanted to drive over there and be present.

I knew why she would call and interrupt our viewing. I was having that same impulse -- to join Vernetta for that last ride to the cemetery.

Moiya and I watched the minutes at the graveside, through the gift of Wyona’s ipad.

I am glad I didn’t miss those moments.

The dark silhouettes of the tall trees, the whiteness of the snow around the gravesite, the groups of families as they took their final leave of Vernetta, the somewhat heavy weight of the funeral, though I don’t know why I typed that.  There couldn’t have been a more respectful funeral, a monument of love and devotion from her children with their thoughts and words and music.  Maybe it is the weight of love I had for her in my heart that gave me that heavy feeling.

Here are the pictures Wyona took.

About 10 people were around the gravesite when the prayer was said.

Everyone else stayed in their cars alongside the road. Then one my one, people in the car-bubbles came out to visit the site as others would leave, all of them seemingly aware of our collective need to care for each other by observing strict COVID protocols.

Having paid for, and having supervised many music lessons myself, I was thrown back to the days of wanting my children to have, in their bones, the best of what classical music could offer to them.

I remember listening to their scales, to their attempts to learn a piece of music, one phrase at a time. I was aware of those former disappointments when a sharp or flat was missed, or wrong fingering got in the way of a smooth transition from one part of the music to another part.

When David Reed sat down to play his piece from memory, I knew that the notes were locked into the bones and sinews of his body.

Touching. So touching.

I wonder if the tears would have streamed as fast down Vernetta’s cheeks as they did mine, if she had been there to listen. It wasn’t the music I was listening to, but the investment of a mother’s love and energy. As well, I was hearing the childhood difficulty of continuing music lessons – practise after practise with no relief, it would have seemed to some of my children.

I will ask David, Darryl, Ken, Joanne and Susie if they have word copies of their talks.

If so, I will publish them here.

If not, then I will try to access the memory of the words until they fade ... as all memories do.

Arta

The Furnace had Limped Along

I hadn't noticed that it is the clump birch that hides
the east side of this cabin in the summer time.
In my mind' eye, I walk the path along the lakeside
of this cabin and over to Moiya's house, hoping
I am only seen as a friendly walk-through and not a trespasser.

My furnace has been limping along for a couple of years now. David Wood and Glen Pilling investigated its loss of power a few years ago.

Yes, the furnace still warmed the house, but the fans kept blowing incessantly, whether the heat was being generated or not.

That was good enough for me. But last week, the bitter (to me) end of the furnace came.

"The view I am never tired of photographing."

Bonnie and I planned how to make our exit from the house in Annis Bay where the temperature kept dipping down, a leave we had to make until the furnace was 

replaced.

She returned to her home in Salmon Arm. I moved in with David and Moiya, on the best of days: American Thanksgiving. Well, if not the best, one of the best days.Moiya had gone to a lot of work for breakfast, making morning glory muffins.

While she was working in the kitchen I had a chance to go out to here deck and look back at to the west at Dan and Marina Wood’s cabin.

Moiya serves her muffins on a restaurant
style triple high rack.
"Marina has one just like it," Moiya said.

I hadn’t seen that side of the cabin when the foliage was all off of the trees.

I was really curious as to what it looked like, spotting for the first time a nectarine tree on Lot 5, a twin to Moiya’s nectarine tree, one lot over.

I am wondering if my camera keeps snapping the same scene over and over, but to my eye, it is the microcosmic changes that lead me to take out my phone and do just one more snapshot.

#gratefulforDavidand Moiya

Service Missions

Dave hunches over his wheel at the dump.

Dave Wood told me he would like to go on a service mission for the church – go somewhere in the U.S.A. 

He and I were talking about this in the context of if the world were in a different place, what would be our dream ideas. 

He knows that Moiya should stay close to the help she can get in the Canadian Medical system. 

 I asked him if he had ever thought that what he does every day is exactly that – every day some service somewhere, but in a self-directed way.

“I know that,” he said with that smile of recognition that comes when someone knows that all artifice is gone in a conversation, and that two people are saying simple sentences that should be long paragraphs, even essays.

This talk was going on as we drove together in his pick-up truck. “I have to pay $1,200 for insurance on this vehicle,” he said, “because I use this truck for work, and because it rides higher on the road than other vehicles, and because ….” He went on to list several the reasons for a high price on insurance for a vehicle that only cost him $750.

In the back of the truck we were riding in were three separate dump runs. The first one, Dave had mentioned to me as we had been planning our day together. If we are going to use the truck to pick up a Black-Friday-priced TV for Bonnie in Salmon Arm, “Let’s do a dump run before we get there.” Just double the use of the vehicle on one run to town. He was thinking about the carpet from Richard’s lot – a huge pile of rotting carpet, torn out of the original cabin years ago, and just left to deteriorate beside the shed.

“That has been there 30 years – time for it to go. Whomever took the carpet out of the cabin has even forgotten they even did the job.”

We reached the place where we were to dump off metal.
David told me to stay in the truck.
Too much muck out here, he said,
his own feet sliding from place to place.

Moiya, Dave, and I and made the transfer of the carpet to the bed of his truck (with the use of a Stanley Carpet Cutting Retractable Knife). The carpet could be pulled apart in deteriorating chunks, but long strings of carpet thread kept the pieces together and as we would pull them, chunks were messy and the parts didn’t separate easily. Pulling the pieces apart we were left with something akin to unravelling long balls of wool that had no end, yet that kept the huge chunks together.

On the lot was also the plough that attaches to the truck, a plough that has cleared the roads for many years. Now the truck has been upgraded and there was a discussion as to where the plough should go: to the business that takes metal or to the dump which has begun to receive metal for free after years of having people pay to dump the metal there.

, Dave and I couldn’t get that plough into the truck. Moiya called David Pilling and asked him if he could come down and give us added muscle. He was there in about two minutes. “David Pilling is always so willing to help,” remarked Moiya. Hands up to David for he not only provided the manpower, but he scrambled into the truck bending his body over and around the garbage and ther plough parts, contortions that I can never remember making with my body.

The sun blinds us as we leave the dump.

“One thing is certain: we are not going to pay to have someone take this metal,” announced David Wood as we rode along in the truck. I would have been happy to take out my cheque book, just over the marvel of having it gone off the lot.

Dave and I did a double drive through at the dump: round one - weigh the truck, dump the garbage and pay for that load; round two- circle back through the dump on a different road; dump the metal plough, so no charge and leave the dump.

Prisa Lighting is the place to take used light bulbs. There aren’t many places in town where these can be dropped off and certainly not at  dump. Inside Prisa Lighening the boxes are carefully labelled as to where to put each kind of bulb. But the cardboard that you carry the lightbulbs in, to get them bulbs to the store, those can’t be recycled there. They have to go somewhere else.

As Dave Wood said, “A dump run, to three different spots, and still we need to go an another dump run.” That is true. Next time cardboard, plastic and broken glass. Three cheers for hearts that believe in recycling.

Arta

Questions about Death of England: Delroy

I didn't think that anyone in my cohort of loved ones had watched the National Theatre's Death of England: Delroy that streamed on Friday.  

Now from notes in the comment box, I see that Rebecca watched it.  

And as well, Bonnie watched it for she said that she had some ideas that she thought we could discuss about Death of England: Delroy, when next we meet.

I had wanted David Camps to watch the show and so had sent him 10 questions to be answered, at $1 a question.  The right answer would get him $1 per question.  Sometimes only an attempt at answer the question would get him the cash,.

If you happened to watch the show, here are the questions.  Do you think they were too easy?  Too hard?  Just right?

Question 1.  Name 4 other characters that are mentioned by the protagonist but not seen.

Questions 2, 3, 4, 5.  Tell me four of the settings of the show (for example, his work as a bailiff where the setting is that the public sphere where Delroy is out throwing people out of their homes).  Now without using that one, name 4 others that occur in the play.

Question 6.  What is the significance of the red cross on the floor of the stage.

Question 7. At the end of the play, what would you say the wrap up that Delroy gives concerning the situation he is in.

Question 8.  Who wrote the play.  You are welcome to go to Wiki or any review to get this answer.  It is co-written, so 2 names, please.  You can also find the answer at the end of this post.

Question 9. What do you think about the references to food in the play.  the Jamaican patties, for eg.

Question 10. Name two political references in the play.  You can look at a review to find these, or just get get help from  your life-lines (either Joaquim or Bonnie)

Oh yes, for a bonus dollar, what is the significance of the title?

Next time I have to get the questions to David a little sooner.

Arta

Answers: 

Question 8.  Clint Dyer and Roy Williams

The Musical Overtones of the Platelets

Thanksgiving at Moiya and Dave Wood's

The meal was a gift to the turkey, 
but somewhat sad for the steer.

I was at Moiya's American Thanksgiving feast, enjoying the scene of the lake out of the window and waiting for my furnace to be replaced the next day.

At the same time as I was enjoying the view, the CPR were removing those platelets that they put the long train rails on.

I can hear the overtones of the music that the clanging makes, as each platelet goes on the eighteen-wheeler the CPR have brought in to take them away.

The noise is rhythmic, like a metronome is being used, and the continuous sound gives me the feeling of being in a concert hall, the sound of an anvil, all the time I am in the company of friends.

As to the conversation, Dave Wood can't figure out why the CPR just didn't put the platelets on a railroad flatbed car, but as you can imagine, we who only watch, only have questions and none of the answers.

A joy to celebrate American Thanksgiving with people in my Covid bubble.

Arta

Live Streaming for 24 hours --NT's Death of England: Delroy

 

Streaming for 24hrs only See behind the scenes ★★★★ ‘A blazing powerhouse’ Daily Telegraph Following recent national Coronovirus measures, the National Theatre's Death of England: Delroy was forced to close mid-way through its run. Filmed on its opening (and closing) night, the play will now be streamed for free on YouTube at 7pm (GMT) Friday 27 November, then available on demand for 24 hours. Michael Balogun plays Delroy with 'firecracker energy’ in this new work by Clint Dyer and Roy Williams, which explores a Black working class man searching for truth and confronting his relationship with Great Britain. Ahead of the stream, you can go out to the National Theatre Live's Website and  step behind the scenes, "meet our incredible team, as we find out how they captured this sensational performance, for our audiences across the world to enjoy."   Streaming for free from Friday 27 November. a National Theatre production

Just Pick One Job

This is a confusing telephone shot of
what it is really like to attend a zoom class
at the university.  Only the middle white part
is relevant to the class.  The rest of the shot is insterts.
Subject material? Clear.  Online delivery?  Difficult.

I am listening in on Rebecca's Business Associations Law class which meets Tuesday and Thursday afternoon.

If I wake before 4:30 am on one of those days, I need a quick nap before her 3:30 pm class begins. Bonnie Wyora asked me if I had any suggestions as to what she should do for those 3 hours ( not needing a nap herself).

I thought of 10 things I wanted her to do, and then said, “Of all of the things you want to do, just pick one, and when you are finished with it, spend the rest of the afternoon doing something pleasurable. 

The tree Bonnie cut is the one on the 
lower right hand side of the picture.

Do nothing for me.”

I couldn’t have done that second task I asked her to do: find something pleasurable and do it. 

Hard for me – that task of finding something pleasurable and immersing myself in it, at least when the work ethic is so deep in me, that pleasure is seen as wasting time, maybe close to sinning. Just moving to pleasure can fill me with the feeling of ongoing anxiety – shame that I am choosing that instead of the task of getting everything off of my job list.

So it wasn’t a kindness to put Bonnie to the same task – to find something pleasurable to do -- after checking off at one chore, of course, which she insisted she would do.

I only had time to brush my teeth and then I decided to bring my phone up from downstairs.

That is when I came upon her with our Christmas tree, already cut and dragged into the middle of the front room.

I burst out with laughter.

My first real tree, after deciding never to buy another real one back in 1970.


I don’t know if it was an environmental impulse then, or an impulse to be thrifty and reuse a fake tree over and over, or an action from a hope to never have to clean up pine needles all over the floor.

I don’t know why I really did something or anything 55 years ago. 

I am sure that now I don’t have to be stuck in a loop that is 55 years old.

“How did you do that in three minutes?” I asked.

“You had pointed out that you wanted that tree cut down. I walked home with Dave Wood this morning and he gave me his saw. we had measured the height of the place and where you wanted the tree. I had figured out that I had to lean into the tree as I cut it, so that it wouldn’t get jammed in the tree unable to move if I sent at it from a horizontal position. What more was there to do that to cut through 4 inches of its bole and drag it into the house.”

Bringing in the Christmas tree – a five minutes job.

Arta

Funeral for Vernetta Reiod

Below is a note I received from Joanne Smith about Vernetta's Funeral:

1968 Bowness from Reid Family Home Movies
Vernetta trying to get her kids all in a line.
Thanks for all of the memories, Vernetta.

Here are the links for the Service Webcast and Obituary for Vernetta Reid.

Service Webcast for Vernetta Reed: https://us02web.zoom.us/j/85853404718

Both the obituary and Service Webcast can be found at:

https://www.piersons.ca/obituaries/Vernetta-Pilling-Reed?obId=19019724#/obituaryInfo

Much love,

Joanne, Dave, Darryl, Susan, and Ken

Grant supported the arts community

This is Mary Johnson with a few words about Uncle Grant: 

Photo Credit: Screen Shot from Video of Jeni Whiting Brown
"Because I Knew You"

To my Grant Johnson cousins:

While I  sad to hear of your dad’s passing, or Uncle Grant as I, of course, called him, I can say with confidence that he certainly took hold of life and lived it with gusto, appreciating everything going on around him.

One thing that has always made me smile is that Uncle Grant saw many concerts in which my now husband, Leo Brooks, was a percussionist, long before Leo and I were even dating. 

Leo did his Bachelor of Music at the University of Lethbridge and over the course of 4 years participated in the Lethbridge Symphony Orchestra, played in the live bands at Lethbridge summer musical reviews, and of course played in all sort of University concerts on campus. 

I had no clue Uncle Grant was such a great supported of live music in Lethbridge.  I found this out only at my wedding where Grant told me he had seen Leo in many concerts and had even gone to Leo’s final solo Graduation Concert. 

Not a lot of people who aren’t percussionists end up at that kind of specialized concert.

Both Rhiannon and Naomi have been in
musical theatre shows since moving to Lethbridge:
Rhiannon in Alice in Wonderland
and Naomi as the cat in Cat in the Hat.

No doubt Grant would have been there to 
watch shows where his grandnieces were performing.

We moved to Lethbridge just over a year ago so Leo could do his Master’s degree at the University of Lethbridge. 

Last fall and winter (pre-covid shutdown) I spent so many evening with my kids and Leo going to concerts, theatre production and art exhibits. I spent many moments in awe of the very strong arts community in Lethbridge and thought often about how Grant supported and loved this community as well.

Of course, I also felt it was a great blessing to my dad to get be at Seton with Grant, Sharon and Boyce. 

I was living across the country in Quebec during that time, so wasn’t able to spend much time at Seton visiting that great gang of Johnsons. 

I bet there are no other care facilities in Calgary that can boast that kind of family group care.

I will always remember Uncle Grant’s smile and warmth.

Sending you love and hugs,

Mary Johnson

Those Old Steps

Marcia said that Greg Bates uncovered the steps that used to lead downward from the tongue-and-grove cabin to the beach. He was working on his own hill when he found them. It was easy for me to bring back memories of those old times when thinking about those steps. They were the ones that Sean Bates rebuilt every year.

... the darkness of climbing the stairs on the path in the woods ...

I walked so many little children up to the cabin using that stair short-cut. The pitch of the path was steep but it was the uneven rise of the stairs that caused the most trouble. My other children would be running ahead, but the smallest one always had short legs couldn't make the height from one step to another. I would help them, though now I only have memories of me holding onto one of their hands, their bodies dang to the steep side, as though they would tumble down that hill, but battling to get both feet under them again.

Half-way up that path bees had built a hive. When we would walk children by that spot there was often a bee or two in the air that someone would try to swat away. I would be saying, just live peaceably with the bees, but their little hearts were beating and their hands were wildly waving the bees off.

One day, when Bonnie McLoone was walking her daughter, Amanda, back up to the house, Amanda so young that she could hardly talk, she spoke in a tiny voice, "There's the damn bee patch!" 

That is one of the times when Bonnie was alerted that Amanda was picking up more vocabulary than she had intended her to have.

Those are also the same steps Doral Pilling came up just about the last time he had been fishing. It was growing dark. His bones were aching. He didn't know why. “The insides of my bones were aching,” he would say. “I have to live with that. How can doctors fix an ache on the inside of your bones.”

When Doral got to the stairs that last time, he was so tired he couldn't climb them, so he came up them on his hands and knees. So dark he couldn't see in the trees, so he made his asset by braille.  Fish in hand, of course.

Thank you, Sean. Your yearly step repair helps me hold a lot of memories. Long after my children could walk the steps on their own, I would pass that place half way up to the cabin and look for the bees. I would even tell others as we climbed past that spot, “Look, that is where the damn bee patch used to be,” and I would look down and point to the left as though the bees were still present.

I am glad Greg uncovered the stairs again. I don't want to bury those memories.

Arta

Trans Day of Remembrance

November 20th was the Trans Day of Remembrance. 

Gillian Calder reminded me of this as she was re-circulating the infographic prepared by the UVicLaw OUTLaws club. 

It has links to events happening in the south island and beyond, as well as information for what we can do to build accountability on issues facing trans and gender non-conforming folks, every day. 

Next year, I hope to draw my own attention to this on the right day.  But there is no harm in me thinking about it everyday.

Arta

Yellow Post It Notes as Counters

By 5 pm last night I was exhausted and as I looked back on the day, I could not figure out what it was that had made me so tired.Still, I had to acknowledge that there wasn’t one job in me, not one job I could pick up and do – not even take a word document and just correct the errors on it, which words already done with underlining to signal to me to look at them.

... figuring out which bag I should carry all day ...
... I have to get what is downstairs, upstairs
and vice versa, though I don't know why ...
No surprise there.
As well, how do you like my new cargo pants
from the thrift store.  $5.00 was the right price.

At that point in the document, I would just have to make a decision one way or another about a word: “yes” or “no” but even that wasn’t in me.

Bonnie reminded me of a strategy that I have used in the past when I do small, insignificant-to-me jobs, but jobs that have to be done: folding the laundry, putting the laundry away; doing the dishes, working right to the last moment when the whole kitchen would be clean; thinking of words to type for a blog post, then editing it, and then posting it, and the re-editing it because the errors I didn’t find before pop out on the blog.

Anyway, the insignificant parts of the jobs above are the last ones where I really finish up what I am engaged in.

And in between the regular jobs on my list are always surprise events in the day: a knock at the door, delivery of beautiful apples that will now require peeling and making into pies as well as eating out of hand.

I have already started decorating for Xmas.
No surprise there!

 welcome gift but one that comes with responsibility.

Now here is my strategy, especially around the computer.

I have a pad of yellow post-it-notes by my side.

When I do a small job (reply to one email, three-hole punch a print out, move that printout to the right binder, that seems meaningless but takes time.

So I just put a small tick on that post-it note and when I get four of upright marks on the paper, I strike a diagonal line through that four, meaning now five small jobs are done, and I keep counting.

I can’t tell you how satisfying it is at the end of a long day when I feel that I haven’t done any work – to look at that yellow post-it-note and see how many sets of necessary, but not usually counted, tasks I have completed in the day.

A good reminder of why I am tired too to tackle one more task by 5 p.m.

Arta

Thoughts from Richard on Uncle Grant's passing

... the Lethbridge foothills and mountains of Grant's life ...

Richard asked me to post his thoughts about the passing of Uncle Grant on the blog

Richard Johnson wrote:

Uncle Grant passed away just before the weekend began. 

His passing is painful, and not celebrating his life with all of my family to me is a frightful thought. 

This will be the first funeral where I won’t be embracing my loved ones to mourn the passing of a loved one. Grieving without hugs to me sounds unbearable.

Two thoughts that come to mind when thinking about Uncle Grant.

Of course, in recent years with his memory leaving him, we have all experienced Grant introducing himself to us. He would say “Hello, I’m Grant Johnson”. The last time that we met I replied “Hello Uncle Grant, I am Richard, Kelvin Johnson's son”. 

 I thought that my introduction with a mention about my father could help him make the link. A bit silly now that I think about it and of course it didn’t. Having elderly loved ones is a different experience that is not intuitive nor is it easy.

I talked with a friend about their father and how his final years were. He conveyed that with Alzheimer's the memories left, boundaries left, simple decorum and the social graces of how to interact with each other had disappeared. Foul language was revealed, unnecessarily raising voices happened, rudeness and meanness came. Still within was the father that they loved and the memories and history were powerful in helping to ignore this now vulgar eldar, and they cared and loved him until the last day and of course beyond.

But with Grants memory loss something else happened.

He was kind, he was thoughtful. He was genuine. He was loving and kind and true. People were drawn to him and he was a pleasure to be with.

It is such a happy memory for me. Will I be a rude, crass, curmudgeon when I’m laid bare? Will I be snide or boorish or nasty? Grant, being such a lovely person, even when the walls come down raises my spirits. It also makes me wonder how to prepare my very true self to be more like him.

If I could meet Grant again, and have him say “Hello, I”m Grant Johnson”, I would like that. 

... Goodbye, Grant.  I am Kelvin's son, Richard ...

If he introduced himself once, or twice, or for an hour or a day, I wouldn’t mind. over and over again, I would like that. 

I would like to introduce myself to him one last time and enjoy the warmth of his true and honest self. 

I would like that.

Richard Johnson

Uncle Grant - Because I Knew You

 “The most important things in life are the connections you make with others.” Tom Ford

 I got a little teary today watching a video created by Jeni Whiting Brown remembering the life of Grant Johnson.  

My uncle Grant was the last surviving sibling of my father.  He was the oldest of eight children born to Miles and Bessie Johnson.  As I remember the end of this generation of relatives I am left with a profound feeling of gratitude.  We cannot but be changed by those who went before us.  The stones of our path laid down by them.  

Grant's path criss-crossed with mine at irregular but frequent intervals.  As an adult he made the effort to connect with me because we were family, and family mattered to him.  

Several interactions I had with Grant are now filling my memory.  The first as an adult is probably that of  my wedding day.  Although many of the details of that day are a blur, I'm pretty sure Grant was in the Cardston temple for the marriage ceremony.  Religious moments and connections with family were meaningful for him.  My husband Eric remembers Grant jotting down the details of his birthday and our wedding day to add to his family history records. 

Another unexpected time about 10 years ago, Grant came to visit us in Montreal.  Grant had flown out east with Arlan and Boyce.  They made a trip over to our house to catch up and chat about their adventures in Eastern Canada.

In 2015 when my own father Kelvin's health was failing and our family faced an unexpected crisis, I flew out to Alberta to help coordinate a new nursing home for my dad.  I had an unexpected but crucial connection with Grant during this visit.  On a bit of a whim, I decided to visit the nursing home where Grant was living.  It was not near my parent's home and it didn't make much sense to visit it as it was on the polar opposite end of the city.  I made the trip to the nursing home, a 45 min drive and asked the security staff if I could see Grant.  By this time, Grant had significant memory issues and was living in a secured safe unit.  The nursing staff brought me up to his floor and there he was in the hallway escorting two elderly women to lunch--one on each arm.  He was pure gentleman.  The women were all smiles and he himself exuded joy. I approached him and said, "Hi Uncle Grant.  I am your niece Catherine, Kelvin's daughter."  His reply was "wonderful, it's so nice to see you."  He then turned to his companions, in an aside and said, "This woman says she's my relative, and I don't even know her."  

He was all smiles.  I joined him for lunch and sat with him and my cousin Boyce who was also a resident at the nursing home.  After 5 minutes, I knew this was the place for my dad.  Being around Grant was easy and the environment where he was living was like nothing else I have ever seen in terms of elder care.  I couldn't think of a nicer place for my father to be than with his brother.  Within weeks, my father was moved to Seton place where he spent his last years surrounded by family.  

Eight months after that first visit at Seton place with Grant, my little family went to Calgary to visit my dad.  We shared dinner with Grant and Kelvin in the family room.  We brought homemade bread from Arta and sushi from a local restaurant.  I suspect it was the first time Grant ever tried sushi.  It wasn't his favourite meal, but he finally exclaimed, "well, I always eat what my family gives me."  We all loved his cheerful and optimistic attitude, even in the face of something foreign.

Here is the family photo we took that day with my dad and Grant.

In 2016, I flew back to Calgary when my father's health took a turn for the worse.  After a difficult week of getting him medical attention, I was getting ready to return home.  I decided to host a family meal with by then 3 siblings who were all living at Seton place.  We booked the family room and Grant, Sharon and Kelvin all sat together for dinner.  It was my privilege to attend.  Grant took Sharon by the hand when she arrived in her wheelchair and just held her hand until the dinner finally arrived.

A priceless family photo of the three of them.  I love that they joined hands and talked and laughed together.  

Connection!  I love this photo of Grant and Sharon's hands.  

What a gift it was for these three siblings to spend time together.  I will remain forever grateful for my connection to Grant Johnson.  For how he helped me find a safe and amazing place for my dad to live the last days of his life, and how he found joy in life, even when his mind became fuzzy with age. 

"Because I knew you, 

I have been changed for good."

Video by Jeni Whiting Brown
Text by Catherine Johnson

Grant Johnson (November 20, 2020)

Grant at Seton Place, Calgary, AB
Grant, his sister Sharon and his brother, Kelvin
all stauyed at this care centre at the same time.
Remarkable!

My brother-in-law, Grant Johnson, died on Friday. 

I have written elsewhere about Grant, that he was an exemplary model of a wonderful brother-in-law. 

When Grant was visiting and there was work to do, Grant didn’t waste time asking what he could do. 

He just pitched in and helped. 

There was no directing him for he was out of the starting gate before the bell for the race was sounded. 

He knew where to find a broom and sweep a floor, even if there was nothing else to do.

Seton news article telling that
three siblings were together there.

And floors always need sweeping.

I was 22 when I watched Grant and Elmoyne’s children one summer when they went on a small trip. I don’t know how long I stayed in Lethbridge. I do know that when I go into someone else’s home and take care of their children, I learn a lot about the parents. In their case, it would be things a person would want to have known about them.

Grant was family oriented – large family oriented. Long after his siblings were mature with families of their own, he was still looking out for them.

I don’t know who sent all of the Christmas cards. There were ones from Grant and Elmoyne, then ones from Arlan, Grant and Boyce, then cards from Grant, Ramona and family – always there were cards, and phone calls and visits.

My children may not know this, but Grant enlisted in the Second World War. He was based in Claresholm. One of his jobs was to train troops to march. March. Halt. Left, right, left, right. Grant had a voice that could be projected. Loud, but it never seemed angry. Full of verbs. Short. Precise. Commanding. Now that I say that, all of them will hear his voice and nod that yes, I am right. That would be the childhood sound of Grant’s voice to them. Come here. Sit down. Tell me what you have been up to.

And when my children were older Grant wanted to know, "What is your son’s name? What year was he born? Has he been baptized?"

He really wanted to know.  And he would right to down, keep a record and then share that record with everyone.

Grant was the oldest of eight children and the last to die. 

 I need some quiet time to process that loss. 

My surviving Johnson in-laws, Ralph Sabey, Maurine Johnson, and Virginia Johnson will know what I mean.

Arta

Nativity Scenes, Remembered

Santa's Toy Shop
... the first decoration I pulled out this year ...

I have three creches that I love.

The first is a five-figured 4 inch high glass set. What I love the most about that set was the price, though I can’t remember it now, just that it was ridiculously low. I bought every set that was on the shelf, and then offered them to all of my kids and my sisters and even gave some as wedding presents.

I love this set because I used it to teach Alice the story that begins, “And there were in the same country ….” Alice would often come to my house and take them out of the China cabinet and play with them, moving them back and forth on the mirror that they sit on. I would even know if Alice had come over when I wasn’t home, because when my eyes would pass over the figures in the china cabinet, they had been rearranged. I always place the set just exactly right (for me), and those are not the places in the scene that Alice likes them. 

I feel badly that the figures are clear glass. When I was Alice’s age and re-arranging my mother’s nativity set, the wise men had glitter on their hats and cloaks, and by the time a few seasons had gone by, I think Joseph had been dropped so many times that he had no nose.

 The second favourite  I creche I love was purchased because of the first – me out looking for colour. But that year I couldn’t find Nativity sets anywhere. Again, I was tossed back to my childhood and could remember that in Woolworths, there were small figures that a person could buy, probably $1 each – people richer than us could have a lot of sheep in the flock. We just had one.

At any rate, I went out looking everywhere with Wyona, and she finally told me to try 10,000 Villages for creches which is where I picked up the Peruvian scene. The camel is a llama. That bothers me a little, but it doesn’t matter to Alice when she plays with it. I keep this set in the same place, in the China cabinet beside the glass set. Alice plays with it as well. The llama has already had to have its head glue-gunned on more than once.

... Santa's desk in front of the fireplace ...

And oh yes, that scene now makes Mary a single mother, Joseph having been dropped and the figure now irreparable, gone to rest since even the glue gun couldn't fix him.

St. Joseph’s Oratory in Montreal is the origin of my third set – in its gift shop. 

Catherine asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told her a nativity set of nesting dolls (9 in all) but that I didn’t buy it – I couldn’t imagine the weight of it in my luggage, for one thing, having to fly back to Calgary. 

I was both pleased and surprised when I opened a Christmas package and she had bought it for me. 

... an elephant and a horse on one of Santa's top shelves ...

Not everyone gets exactly what they want for Christmas.


I did manage to bring the weight of it home and I don’t put this creche away after Christmas, I left it out on a chiffoniere, as well, and I have a well-spring of happiness in me when I see Alice taking the pieces apart, lining them up, putting the heads back on the bodies, and nesting the whole figures back into each other.

The three sets of nesting dolls aren’t interchangeable: that is, the tops of one set don’t fit on pieces from the other two sets. 

I have checked. All of the molds were different. Alice can get everything back together. I can’t, so secretly I wrote, A, B, and C on the bottom to help me get it right. 

That was a better solution than beating myself up over the fact I can’t disassemble and reassemble a Christmas decoration that a 7 year old can manage with aplomb.

I also love Santa's Toy shop -- no assembly required.

Arta

Vernetta Reed (November 17, 2020)

Photo of Vernetta Reed taken from
family videos of
Reed Family Chocolate Factory.mp4

There will be a Zoom funeral for my friend Vernetta Reed on Nov 26th at 11am MST. (That will be 10 am PST for me.)

Service Webcast for Vernetta Reed:   https://us02web.zoom.us/j/85853404718 

On her passing I’ve been reflecting on my past association with her. 

Vernetta and I are both Pillings, 3rd cousins, once removed, information that comes out of our shared religious heritage, where connecting to the past is deemed to be of great value.

From memory, I can recite both her lineage and mine, both of us tracing genealogy back to Richard and Catherine Pilling, early pioneers to the Aetna, Alberta pioneer region. My genealogy comes from the oldest brother, Richard Adams, and then goes William, Doral, Arta. Hers is different: Rufus, Suzannah, Vernetta.  That makes us third cousins, once removed.

There’s a lot of warmth contained in the stories of our pioneer heritage. She comes from earnest, hardworking, caring farm people.  There is a difference between her genealogical line and mine as only a Pilling from my side would say: “My stock are all that hers are, and more.” 

Tricksters on our side.  A dash of practical jokes was brought in through marriage. As the scriptures say, “Sometimes these things are passed down for seven generations.”  I always told Vernetta she was from the good side of the family and I was from the other side.

That fact hasn’t kept her and my association apart, in fact, she understood all too well the nature of all of her cousins, the good side and the other.

When it was time for Vernetta to downsize her home she moved from a larger place to two-bedroom bungalow which she spent months planning. At the same time I was upsizing, going from a 1000 square foot bungalow to 1250 square feet built at the Shuswap. Vernetta gave me ther plans for her house, which were just the size I was looking for, and that’s how it came to be that I live in Vernetta’s house.

The first time she came to visit me she gasped. I knew what she was seeing. Where there had been walls in the living room, I had inserted windows, something she might have done had she not been surrounded by neighbors on all sides. When she walked through the house, I knew that she could tell me the measurements of every room and where all the wall plugs were and how the stairwell to the basement had been designed.

Vernetta and I spoke a common language about chocolate. Both of us were skilled at the art of hand-dipping chocolates because we had learned from the same teachers and participated in the same project which had been raising money to build Mormon Church buildings. That will be the subject for another post, how Mormon women raised the funds to raise the walls of churches in central and southern Alberta. 

What would be more fun to talk about, and which we would discuss in detail if Vernetta were here, would be the different flavourings to be used in the cream or the water fondants. 

Vernetta and I both carried the art of chocolate dipping into the festivities around Christmas, and both of us knew that the project was not to make candy but to let children get their hands into the warmth of melted chocolate, or to sit by their mother rolling centers or sprinkling coconut over hand rolls. 

... making bottoms for chocolates ...

Even the youngest child knew how to take their forefinger, dip it in chocolate, and then make dots along wax paper in well-organized lines so that the chocolate, once dipped, would land there and have a reinforced bottom.

Parts of Vernetta’s life that intersected with the life I lived included Vernetta taking swimming lessons, and gathering her friends that didn’t know how to swim, and taking them to the Y.W.C.A for lessons. That is how my mother, Wyora, learned to swim.

Vernetta could sew. Proof would be that when it was time to down-size, she too had been like the rest of us who love to sew, and believing that “she who had bought the most fabric in life would win”. Vernetta told me that when she was downsizing and knew she had to get rid of that fabric, some of it went at her Yard Sale. When one sewer is speaking to another sewer about fabric that is bought with a project in mind and then has to go elsewhere, we both know the pain of that loss.

Vernetta was a project manager. When it was fashionable to buy a used school bus and fix it up to use for family vacations, she refurbished hers with class, right down to the final detail of having a special hat for Lorne when he got in the driver’s seat. He was the conductor of the band, but Vernetta had written the music and purchased the instruments.

One of my children asked me to tell her a little about Vernetta. “Was she intellectual?”

“Yes, in the best way. She was a life-long learner and I cannot think of anything it is that Vernetta would not have known,” I answered. “And if she didn’t know it she could have and would have learned it.”

“Was she social?”

“Yes. Vernetta was outgoing and she liked to entertain. Her dining room set included a side-board set that was filled with linens. I was envious.”

Elsewhere much will be written about her life.

I just want to witness that I was fortunate to have a friend like Vernetta.

Arta

Service Webcast for Vernetta Reed:   https://us02web.zoom.us/j/85853404718