Rain or shine, Grandma goes to church every Sunday. She virtually always puts on a skirt, not slacks, for the occasion.

Most every weekend, my two boys load themselves into my old grey van and we head toward my hometown to see Grandma. When we arrive, if it’s a Sunday, she is still dressed up and looking all spiff.

This day we picked her up and drove out to my sister Jill’s for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. I have engaged her to prepare and freeze pies for me, as well as her most excellent flax buns. I pick up and pay for them, then bring them home to my deep freeze.

The frozen pies are baked for at least an hour in the oven. Yesterday, Grandma got one too. She’s got it in her hand there as she unlocks her door, after we’ve dropped her off back home.

The first time I bit into a peach/apple pie, I went directly to the phone to call my sister and say “My God, girl, do you ever make a fantastic pie!” But her line was busy. I tried again later, while devouring my second piece. The line was still busy.

Later she called, wondering if I’d heard the news about a local lady. She was found shot, outside her vehicle on a gravel road north of town. I had heard only that circumstances were suspicious and the woman’s husband was in jail.

There’s a murder around these parts about once every 20 years, as far as I know. Our home town is said to be named after a young Metis girl murdered out at the lake a hundred years ago. Drowned.