Mom

It's very difficult for me to write about my mother.

She was born February 13, 1905, somewhere in upstate New York. She was the second of four children, and the older girl. Her father was Canadian; her mother, American, of Pennsylvania Dutch ancestry. When she was nine, her mother died. She lived in Montreal for a while, and then in Ottawa. After she finished high school, she went to nursing school, and was a nurse for quite a few years, until she married my dad in 1936. My dad was English, and they moved there the following year. By the time 20 years had passed, they were both anxious to return to Canada. They lived in Duncan, and later, Chemainus, on Vancouver Island until her death in 1977.

She was a stubborn, feisty, take-no-prisoners kind of person with a very soft heart. She suffered a great deal of loss and deprivation in her life. I miss her. I have missed her for nearly 30 years now. 30 Mothers' Days. One of her favourite things to say to me was, "You just wait until you have children of your own. Then you'll understand." If I had a nickel for every time I've glanced upward and said, "OK, Mom, I understand," I'd be a wealthy woman right now. I miss her voice, singing her endless round of show tunes, hymns and standards of the first half of the 20th century. I miss her letters about the birds in the apple tree and the neighbour's cat, and what she had been planting in the garden. It breaks my heart that she never knew the joy of having grandchildren and that to her grandchildren, she will never be anything but a story.

To quote Ringo Starr in "Help," I want me mum.