Sunday 31 July 2005
1:22 p.m.

It is incredible how much a child can grow and change physically in five weeks.

Wednesday 27 July 2005

~ first i tour the flower beds ~

 
~ then head north ~

~ new territory ~

~ my trusty sidekick checks out the John Deere ~

 
~ off to the east ~

Actually, we are off to the west later this afternoon. A trip to the city will empty a quarter of beef from one of the deep freezes, for a friend is in need of red meat; Aunt Reta will be dropped off with relatives to visit for several days before she heads back to Kelowna and then home to Phoenix after her very long stay in Canada; and when we come home tomorrow, it will be with those two little boys who have been with their dad for the past month.

Timothy is selling some of his paintings. You might like to go have a look at them.

 Sunday 24 July 2005

~ westward walking tour ~

 
~ my pal comes to visit ~

~ retired in the field ~

~ there goes the light ~

Wednesday 20 July 2005

Grace Ann Johnson nee Benson was born in Wadena on March 28, 1941, to Doris and Emil Benson. She was raised on a farm northeast of Margo along with her sister Reta and brothers Bruce and Neil.

Grace was an eager and conscientious student who enjoyed learning and earned high marks. In 1958 she married her high school sweetheart, Don Johnson, and devoted herself to making a home for him and the family of four that followed: Kathy, Karen, Cameron, and Joan. Their friends, as well as her nieces, nephews and eventually grandkids, were always welcome. She took time to sing and play with small children, and as they grew older she took a genuine interest in everything they did. The children of her friends and neighbours were also important to her, and she happily attended many school and church performances they were involved in.

Grace liked the humour of the British TV series Coronation Street and was impatient if interrupted when “her” show was on. She loved music, played accordion and piano by ear, and sang with her younger sister Reta from the time they were little girls. As an adult she had a rich, sweet alto voice and sang with a number of choral groups. She must have had a song in her heart, for at home she was always humming and singing.

One of Grace’s passions was for fabric. She amassed an impressive collection; some she kept for years because it was, she thought, too beautiful to cut into. She initiated the Margo quilting club and joined or founded several groups. Her homes and those of her friends and family were ornamented by her creative handiwork, and in the last year of her life she inspired her daughters to work with her on quilts of their own. She was determined that at least one would be a quilter, she joked; but they knew she meant it.

Grace had another great passion: ice cream. A bowl a day was her longstanding tradition and she was known to gleefully give her grandchildren ice cream for breakfast upon occasion. Even in her last days, she perked up in anticipation of her favourite treat.

Before taking over the Johnson farm, Grace and Don lived in Regina, Saskatoon, Semans, Quill Lake, and Margo while Don went to university and then taught high school. After retiring from their farm near Margo, they moved to Osoyoos, BC; Olds, Alta; Salmon Arm, BC, and finally to Kelowna. Open and friendly, Grace made good friends wherever she went. News of her terminal kidney cancer was a blow to her friends and family, who called and visited constantly, and sent a steady flow of cards and gifts. In the past year, Grace’s home was virtually never without several colourful bouquets of fresh flowers, reminding her how dear she was to so many.

She was easygoing and goodnatured and could be relied upon for practical solutions and a positive outlook. None can hope for more than to meet our own deaths with the courage and humour with which she confronted hers. She died in the comfort of her home in Kelowna on May 27, 2005, in the constant care of her beloved sister Reta; her husband Don, still her sweetheart; and the grown children who had the good fortune to call her Mom.

Always a lady, she was Don’s best friend and beloved wife of 46 years. She was a daughter to be proud of, a sister to look up to, a cousin to laugh with, a niece to dote upon, a mother to cherish, an aunt to admire, a grandmother to adore, and a friend to confide in. She was a smiling and happy child who grew into a smiling, happy woman. She is affectionately remembered by many and will be deeply missed by her family, with great pride in the wise and lovable character she was. She could not have been more aptly named: Grace.

Tuesday 19 July 2005
9:26 a.m.

Was so busy yesterday, working at the computer and then putting together the puzzle that is the overstuffed interior of our house, that I didn’t get out for a walk till about seven o’clock. It was a beautiful evening with the sun slanting over the fields, and the pup and I followed our usual path through this gate and out to the stones. I often clamber up them, much like picking one’s way across stepping stones, to the big one, and sit or stand on top for a while. It’s a good place from which to observe my queendom.

The pup took off across the clover swaths and when I saw what she was chasing I thought “Hell, that’s a huge rabbit!” Then I realized it was a coyote, and called the dog back. She turned and ran toward me, and the coyote began to follow her, until it saw me. Then it stopped short, stood watching for a few moments, and headed northeast across the field of cut clover.
 
 

Before she’d gone far she stopped, looked toward the treed yard, and yipped loudly. Then she continued away across the field, stopping to call again toward the yard. It was a warning bark so she must have pups around somewhere and the dog and I had cut her off from them. She stopped and called a number of times as she made her way to the far end of the hay field, and though I stood quietly and still to see if anything would come out of the trees, nothing did. Finally I realized I should get out of there, as she would be worried sick until I was gone. So home we strolled, the puppy and I.

Timothy is selling some of his paintings. You might like to go have a look at them.

email:

Saturday 16 July 2005
10:10 a.m.

The little hound gets chasing her tail so fast that she ends up rolling around on her back like a ball. It makes me laugh out loud.

Sadly, the family here has decided to adopt the practice of the puppy's human birth family, which keeps its puppies on a chain for their first year of life. This is apparently so that the pup will be accustomed to staying in the farmyard and will not wander and end up hit by a car, lost, or eaten by coyotes. (Never mind what a pup's teeth will do to things it finds in the yard).

I find it very difficult to accept, doing this to a puppy -- first of all, when you live on a farm and she should have all the freedom in the world, but especially to a pup with as much energy as this one. She runs everywhere she goes, at top speed. She is clumsy still, and heedless of flowers, so she has created some havoc in the flowerbeds. That is a hard pill to swallow when you are the keeper of the flowers, but is to be expected when you have a puppy in the yard. I just try to suck it up, disappointing as it is to see a poppy, just bloomed, broken in half.

I go take her off the chain at least once a day and take her along for a walk. Usually when we get back to the yard she won't let me catch her to chain her up again. I don't try very hard, either, but only halfheartedly. I just can't bring myself to follow "the rule" with a clear conscience. There has been enough chained-up dog in this yard to do me for a lifetime, and I can't cooperate with doing the same disservice to this one, even for one year, even if it is ostensibly for the pup's own safety. But I know I should do what is requested, as this is not my decision to make.

Hm; my first act of civil disobedience in my adopted "country."

Thursday 14 July 2005

Saskatchewan is "enjoying" high temperatures and humidity. The latter is the unusual part. There are hailstorms and thunderstorms all over the place, and seemingly every day. There are funnel clouds and probably tornadoes I haven't heard about. Last night when I arrived home at midnight from a gathering of the Likeminded Ladies, the air was still HOT out in our yard. As Scott's mom had said earlier, it was like a sauna.

The white you see streaming down from the clouds above is probably hail (thank you Kate A). Usually it would appear grey, when it's raining. While at Kate's home yesterday before the other crones arrived, the two of us watched hail, some the size of large marbles, beat down upon her deck.

6pm

Call me deluded if you must, say my wishful thinking has got the best of me if you insist, but this afternoon I think Mom finally got through. I was downstairs in the bedroom, dressing to go to town and run errands. The house was silent. Scott was outside. I was reaching into my undie drawer when the CD he had in the player last night came on. The song was Led Zep's Black Dog. Granted, this would never be Mom's choice of music but come on, isn't it enough that she turned the CD-player on and/or hit the Play button? Does she have to change the CD too? Nope. That would be expecting too much. She's just a beginner over there, after all.

There was no problem with the power this afternoon. There is no way that we are aware of to pre-set the CD-player to come on at a later time. How that thing got turned on, if it wasn't Mom's doing, I can't imagine.

I'll settle for my own explanation, thanks.

Tuesday 12 July 2005

Yesterday afternoon in the course of my taking things out of boxes and finding places to keep them, I emptied the Rubbermaid container of goodies gleaned from Mom's sewing closet. As you see above, I could not stop myself from unfolding a number of pieces to admire, and laying them out on the new couch (purchased from Dad, who overhauled the furniture at his place after Mom left us). There is a lot more fabric than that ... some Mom gave me to make pillowcases, but we never got around to doing that, and some she gave me, or I chose after her passing, for a set of appliquéd curtains I plan to make.

I have a lot of Mom's love of fabric in me, because I see nothing wrong with the idea of tacking it all up on the walls so it can be there to admire at all times!

One last thing, in regard to the dream Mom had about meeting with God:

From The Dreamer’s Dictionary:
God. You can expect to achieve rare contentment and peace of mind through intelligent adjustment to circumstances and acceptance of your lot in life if you had the rare experience of seeing, hearing, or being aware of God in your dreams.

This is absolutely true about Mom. She was content with her life and always had been, to my knowledge, and was at peace about her state of health and what was to come. That was there from the beginning, mind you, not just after the dream, which came at the very end of her life.

She was quite brave about it all. "I'm not afraid of dying," she said. "I've always been looked after, and I see no reason why that won't continue."

Sometime back in early May, when the above photo was taken:
Usually when I go around the house warbling, Everett holds his ears, whines, or straight out asks me to PLEASE STOP! YOU’RE DRIVING ME CRAZY! So on Sunday I was pleasantly surprised when, after I’d practised Everything’s Coming Up Roses about four times in a row, he said, “Beautiful voice, Mom.”

He must have been buttering me up for permission to make an ice cream float shortly after. He’s no dummy.

Not long afterward, when I was practising the scat-singing for Cheek to Cheek umpteen times, he came and sat next to me and sang along. He was right into it.

This morning, July 10, 2005
On July 7th, the day of Mom's memorial, it had been 40 days since she died. I stopped refilling the glass of water set on the windowsill, and will one of these days put on some earrings or a ring again.

I had decided I would come up with some other small ritual for remembering and honouring Mom each day. But what would it be? I was pondering this, driving through busy Kelowna traffic in June, when a song came on the radio. It was called The Mother Song and its melody was familiar to me, as was the chant, so I could easily remember it. Some of the words that were not chanting were You won't see me, you won't hear me, but you will never be alone.

Now, as soon as possible after getting up in the morning, I light a candle and sing a song. I have so far sung The Mother Song and Cheek to Cheek and O What a Beautiful Morning. It won't matter what I choose; if she can hear me, she will appreciate it; if she cannot, it will still do me good. There is nothing I can think of more fitting to honour and remember Mom than to sing for her, to her, as she loved to sing and she thought my voice was beautiful, just as I thought hers was.

email:

Saturday 9 July 2005
11:32 a.m.

Well, that's done with. Nothing left but the cryin'!

Actually, the funeral wasn't tough at all (except on my vanity, because of the ugly cold sore I could not forget about, greeting everyone before I could say a word). No, aside from the churchy part of the service, which is meaningless to me -- the scripture, the hymns -- it was reasonably enjoyable. Bev's eulogy filled with memories of Mom was a pleasure to listen to, and then to see all the people who were there and to think that they came because they cared about Mom or about those of us who remain ... that was nice.

This is the tiny little church in our home town, and after about an hour there we went to the tiny town hall and were served sandwiches, coffee, and dainties by "the ladies." More hugs, more handshakes ... my favourite comment came from a man who used to be a neighbour of Mom and Dad's on the farm. He kindly said "You have lost the best of mothers." I agreed.

My partner-in-crime from high school drove many hours, as others did, to be there. It was wonderful to spend time with her later that night and again in the morning. Thank goodness for longtime friends. They have a way of making one feel as if things are not so bad, that some of the old underpinnings of one's life are still there.

She and her baby sister, who is also like a little sister to me because Kim and I tortured her as much as we did my younger siblings, sent this beautiful vase of peach roses that are now on my kitchen table reminding me every day of the beauty life still offers.

I was fortunate enough to be able to read the eulogy in private several days before it was delivered at the church. One of my aunt Reta's memories of Mom was of being told of a dream Mom had not long before she died. In the dream, she had had a visit with God. They talked about the journey she was taking and what she would do afterward, in heaven. Mom said she had always wanted to be a dancer, and God replied "Well, Mrs. Johnson, your body is a little too round and your legs a bit too short to be a dancer. Perhaps there is something else you would like to do."

Reading about this dream was the deepest comfort and relief to me. Mom had a visit with God before she left us! I cried and laughed at the same time as I read; thank goodness I didn't hear it in church for the first time.