My Mom was born to two loving parents. Their names were Edward and Annie. Their courtship was long because Edward was two years younger than Annie - quite scandalous for the time. So for four years they worked on a knitted afghan together. He wound the skeins of yarn while she knitted. It made them good friends and kept their hands appropriately occupied until they finally wed in August of 1905.
Edward was tired of working in the coal mines so they came to Canada from England on the Empress of Ireland in the early 1900's. They had family in Indian Head, Saskatchewan but settled in Medicine Hat because of the warm chinook winds. They'd been blessed with two daughters before they left England, but the eldest, Irene, died. So only Agnes accompanied them on their voyage. Canada proved fertile ground and four strong boys followed before my Mom finally came along.
Grandma was forty when Mom was born and was growing weary of having kids underfoot by that time. So Grandpa built Mom a playhouse to keep her entertained and out from under her Mother's skirt. It was a little girl's dream. It had curtains on the windows, shingles on the roof, and two rocking chairs on either side of a little pot belly stove where Mom fried potatoes. Grandpa even erected a swing not far from the playhouse. This haven provided Mom with endless hours of occupation and enjoyment. Eventually, it became a great place to sneak a cigarette or two. Although Mom was usually a good girl she was known to push the boundaries a little. This didn't always sit well with Grandma. She was very much the proper English lady and had high expectations for her youngest daughter. Grandpa, on the other hand, never forgot what it was like to be a kid and often acted as the buffer between Mom and Grandma. This made a special bond between father and daughter.
You can tell from this photo that Mom adored her Dad. Aside from his occupation as a wheel-checker for the CPR, he was an inventor of sorts and revitalized discards by turning them into useful objects. Mom pushed apple-box-baby-doll-buggies with pride. I still have the sock-darning-tool he made out of scrap tin and an old doorknob. I doubt he ever imagined it would become an ornament or conversation piece one day. Grandpa was also an avid gardener and spent early springtime in the greenhouse he built preparing bedding plants. He grew all manner of vegetables that were enjoyed year round and dressed the old house up with beautiful flowers around the perimeter. He loved pansies, snapdragons and sweet peas the best. A ring of Marigolds around the garden kept the potato bugs at bay. After the daily maintenance was done he would sit back in his lawn chair, roll a cigarette and watch the garden grow.
Grandma and Grandpa enjoyed fifty years of marriage before she died in December 1955. My cousin Jim was born two days after her passing. He and I are the only two grandchildren who never made her acquaintance. Grandpa died when I was only six. But he had a hand in who I am today. I still remember creeping into his bedroom for a humbug candy he kept in the crinkly bag under his pillow. During Winter, he watched The Friendly Giant and Chez Helene with me as I teetered back and forth in one of the rocking chairs from Mom's old playhouse. Then in Spring, after teaching me the alphabet and how to count with every push of the swing, he sat back in his lawn chair, rolled a cigarette and watched me and the garden grow.
The courtship afghan Grandma and Grandpa made belongs to me now. I look at it and marvel at how their hands worked together to create something so beautiful. I like to think they wove their love into this precious artifact and conceived their children beneath its folds. These simple threads were just the beginning.
The rest is pixie dust...
My parents had three children. Mom always said, "Two to fight and one to break it up." But it didn't really work out that way. We were too far apart. My brother was born twelve years before me and my sister was five years my senior. Mom got one of us in school and had another. In essence we were all like only children and living in a remote area with only our cousins as neighbors didn't help. We barely knew each other.
My sister and I shared a bedroom. For much of our cohabitation I recall the room being divided by a line of masking tape and her side had the door. Even her drawers had masking tape locks and when they started to lose their grip and curl in on themselves I was instantly blamed for being the nosy little sister. I was nothing but a nuisance. But there were times when she was a good sister.
I remember being awakened on a warm summer's evening by the patter of rain on the roof. The rest of the house was asleep and my sister took me out for a walk in the rain. We didn't need our coats and I felt the rain on my skin; warm, insistent, cleansing, and reveled in the smell of the earth having a bath. It's a memory I'll always cherish. She was also there when I brought my first newborn home from the hospital. She spent time with me, helped around the house, treated me like a contemporary, loved me like a sister.
I longed for her approval. I guess that's normal for a younger sister. She was beautiful, funny, intelligent, talented, popular, all the things I wasn't, or didn't think I was. I did things and made decisions based on what she did or what I thought she would do. She cast a long shadow and I lived within it. Then, when I was thirty, she vanished.
Even though her influence wasn't always positive, I was lost. I didn't know how to be just me. For the first time in my life what she thought didn't matter. I didn't have to dress like her anymore, or try to think or act like her. It was a whole new world for me and I blossomed. Finally, I asked myself what I felt and acted on it. I thought about her. I even missed her. I wondered what would make her disappear like that.
Nearly ten years later I was walking in downtown Calgary and noticed what I thought was a familiar figure coming toward me. It was like watching a mirage take shape. As I got closer I realized my eyes weren't playing tricks on me, it was my sister. She was impeccably dressed and walked with her usual confident stride. As we approached one another she said, "Hello Cathie" and I responded, "Hello Fay" and we just kept on walking, like two ships passing. That's the last time I saw her.
I often thought how hard it must've been for my parents to lose a daughter the way they lost my sister. Mom always wondered when she heard on the news about a woman's body found in a Calgary dumpster, if it was Fay. I can't imagine that kind of pain. I know Mom missed her. When I was caring for her there were times when dementia made her think I was my sister. I didn't bother correcting her. If it gave her some comfort to finally see her long lost daughter, who was I to take that away from her. I loved my Mom too much.
I've been angry with my sister sometimes. It would've been nice to have a sister when my Mom was failing; someone to lend a hand, spell me off a bit, share the watchdog duties. But it likely wouldn't have been as ideal as my imagination depicts and the woman I've become can't live within anyone's shadow now. I have my own. I've come a long way.
Recently I went to court to have my sister declared dead, only after a lengthy, empty-handed search to find her. It was something I had to do in order to distribute my Mom's estate. Even though it was necessary, it left me feeling unsettled and without closure, even a little dirty. All the judge did was rub his furrowed brow, ask me a few questions and grant the judgement. In my mind I heard the officious tap of an imagined gavel declare, "Bang, bang... she's dead."
The rest is pixie dust...
My Mom was born to two loving parents. Their names were Edward and Annie. Their courtship was long because Edward was two years younger than Annie - quite scandalous for the time. So for four years they worked on a knitted afghan together. He wound the skeins of yarn while she knitted. It made them good friends and kept their hands appropriately occupied until they finally wed in August of 1905. 
You can tell from this photo that Mom adored her Dad. Aside from his occupation as a wheel-checker for the CPR, he was an inventor of sorts and revitalized discards by turning them into useful objects. Mom pushed apple-box-baby-doll-buggies with pride. I still have the sock-darning-tool he made out of scrap tin and an old doorknob. I doubt he ever imagined it would become an ornament or conversation piece one day. Grandpa was also an avid gardener and spent early springtime in the greenhouse he built preparing bedding plants. He grew all manner of vegetables that were enjoyed year round and dressed the old house up with beautiful flowers around the perimeter. He loved pansies, snapdragons and sweet peas the best. A ring of Marigolds around the garden kept the potato bugs at bay. After the daily maintenance was done he would sit back in his lawn chair, roll a cigarette and watch the garden grow. 
