Category Archives: My Story

Hedley Times, My Story

The Ambulance Ride

2 Comments
I considered myself fortunate to be in the care of Paramedic Tim Roberts of Keremeos.

The Ambulance Ride

If Hedley had a newspaper, my photo and name would almost certainly have been on the front page last Thursday. It wasn’t that I had done something remarkable, but when an ambulance arrives in town people take note. Because Hedley is a small community, we know most people here and immediately wonder who the ambulance has come for. On Thursday I was that someone.

This little “adventure” began when I awoke and instructed my body to exit the bed. I had things to accomplish and it was time to get moving, but my body seemed to not comprehend. When there was no response I was puzzled and troubled. What was causing this sluggishness? Had I suffered a stroke while sleeping?

My dread of strokes had settled upon me during the six years my dad was in a long term care facility in Abbotsford. Every time I visited him I saw lonely, incapacitated individuals, some of whom had been confined by a stroke to a wheelchair or bed. I was appalled at their state of helplessness and since then I’ve committed to doing whatever possible to avoid such a calamitous outcome. For years each morning Linda and I have begun our day with 45 minutes of stretches and exercises. In the late afternoon we walk around the perimeter of Hedley one or more times. In the evening I do a brief workout with light weights. I limit my coffee intake to one cup per day, drink little alcohol and have never smoked.

Lying in my bed that morning, I felt betrayed by my body. If this was what I feared, our idyllic lives in Hedley would never be the same.

These thoughts had free rein while I struggled toward the edge of the bed. With considerable effort I managed to place my feet on the floor, then by holding on to furniture wobbled toward a chair. When I tried to sit down I barely avoided crashing to the floor.

“Call 911,” I whispered to Linda. “Something has happened. I may have had a minor stroke.”

About half an hour later an ambulance arrived and I was heartened to see that one of the paramedics was our friend Tim Roberts. He helped me to our front door where another paramedic waited with a stretcher. Bereft of strength, I slumped into the stretcher and they carried me to the ambulance. Tim immediately affixed wires connecting me to a monitor. “This is to provide preliminary information for the hospital,” he explained. He asked a series of questions including “what day of the month is it today?” I guessed wrong. He also instructed me to smile. I would again be asked similar questions by nurses at the hospital.

“If you don’t find anything negative,” I said, “are you going to let me out of here?” Without pausing, Tim said, “no, we’re going to the hospital.” It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

Lying on the narrow cot with Tim at my side conducting tests, all I could do was think about the implications of this unwelcome development. I recalled my desire on my 80th birthday to finish strong. Linda and I have always sought to make a positive contribution to our community and I had hoped we’d be able to continue. And now this.

At the hospital there were more tests. Several nurses checked on me during the day and each asked what day of the month it was.(I was tempted to ask if the hospital didn’t have a calendar). They also instructed me to smile.

In the meantime, several neighbours offered to drive Linda to the hospital. Someone had my name added to the local church’s prayer list. A friend in Pt. Alberni called. Other calls indicated that people were concerned and wanted to stand by us.

At the end of a long day they did a CT Scan and then a doctor informed me the tests did not indicate a stroke. My body was beginning to function with less distress and Linda showed up to take me home. We agreed the episode was likely due to an unfamiliar sleep medication.

The experience certainly rattled me but was it a wasted day? Hardly. For me it was a reminder that life can be devastated in a moment. Life is too precious to be frittered away by complacency. I need to attend to important matters before my time runs out.

This incident occurred January 12, 2023, due to a computer glitch I was unable to post it until now.

Inspiration, My Story

Finishing Strong

5 Comments
We will encounter curves, pitfalls, unknowns and rewards. It’s always too soon to give up.

When we celebrated my 80th birthday on March 14 of this year, I felt I had attained a significant life milestone. Like many who survive to this elevated age, I had not expected to come this far along the path of life. Living to what is sometimes referred to as a “ripe old age,” was never on my bucket list.

The question that looked me squarely in the face at this juncture was one I had not anticipated. I began asking myself, “what lies ahead? Will I live out my remaining days contending with aches and pains and boredom, or is there more?” Dozing in an easy chair in front of a tv offered no appeal.

Looking back over my shoulder at the path Linda and I have travelled to this time, I realize that from the beginning, we were restless. At times we strayed somewhat inadvertently from a pretty safe path into challenging circumstances we really weren’t prepared for.

I’m certain we disappointed our parents when after about two years of marriage I left my job as a heavy equipment operator and Linda resigned from her position at the Royal Bank. We loaded our van with essentials, including camping equipment, and set off along the Trans Canada highway, without a destination or plan in mind. For almost three months we lived in a tent on the shore of Sheridan Lake, among mosquitoes, open range cattle and black bears.

Thinking about that decision now, I realize that this seemingly foolish move set the compass of our lives to this day. Sitting around our campfire one evening I said, “I’ve been thinking about our future. I’d like to go to university, but I know we don’t have the means.” Without hesitating Linda said, “I could get a job.” Shortly afterward, we took down our camp and returned to civilization.

After four years focusing on sociology and political science at SFU, I worked initially for Community Services in Abbotsford. Then, as a program coordinator with M/2W/2, I regularly interacted with inmates and staff at Oakalla, the BC Penitentiary, Matsqui Institution and other prisons. I finished my working career at the One Way Adventure Foundation, running work and recreational programs for young offenders.

In retirement Linda and I have devoted countless hours to community causes. We worked with the Lamont family to secure the release of their daughter Christine and her fiancee David Spencer from lengthy sentences in a Sao Paulo maximum security penitentiary. We also gave many hours to thwart a U.S. corporation’s plan to build a power plant that would have sent its pollution across the border to the Fraser Valley.

For eight years our adventures and challenges were featured in a weekly column I wrote for Black Press and for this blogsite. I also wrote about the people, events and history of the Similkameen Valley. Linda and I interviewed a number of individuals, including John Horgan, Princeton mayor Spencer Coyne, and John Terbasket, a highly respected elder in the Lower Similkameen Indian Band. This was an exciting, challenging time and I felt privileged to have an audience.

At the beginning of this year, after eight years of writing for Black Press, I realized I no longer wanted the pressure of producing a column each week. I decided to move on and focus on writing for the blogsite.

Although I’m tempted at times, I’m still not ready for the easy chair. Having visited my father almost daily when he was in a longterm care facility, I’m very aware of the emotional, mental and physical withering that inevitably comes with old age. I saw white haired men and women sitting quietly in their wheelchairs all day, lonely and bereft of meaning and joy. Some lived with pain.

A minority refused to bow before the onslaught of the years and compromised health. These courageous, indomitable souls won my great admiration and respect. For me they have become role models.

Now, having walked along the at times uncertain path of life so far, I consider myself blessed to still be able to walk, talk, write and more. The challenge that lies ahead is to stay as healthy as possible. Also to develop the will and courage to finish strong.

 

My Story, People

My MEI Class Reunion

Leave a comment
This is the early MEI, which was located at the corner of Clearbrook & Peardonville Roads.

I came away from my high school class reunion in August with a profound sense of respect for my former classmates. The respect is for what they have accomplished, what they endured, and who they have become.

It’s been 62 years since we walked across the stage at the Mennonite Educational Institute in Abbotsford to receive our diploma from the principal, Mr. Bill Wiebe. We were young, frisky and idealistic then. Over the intervening years the world has undergone radical change, and so have we. Now our hair is white or grey. In some cases there isn’t a lot of hair remaining. Several individuals walked with a cane or walker. Nineteen former classmates have already made the transition to what is often referred to as “a better place.”

Many of us have some common threads in our history. In most cases our ancestors fled from Ukraine. My early family, and also Linda’s, came to Canada in about 1874. There was a further substantial migration in the 1920’s. Then, when the German Wehrmacht was driven out by the Red Army in World War II, many Mennonites followed the retreating army to Germany. They feared the Bolsheviks even more than the Nazis. From Germany many emigrated to Canada or elsewhere. They spoke mostly German in their homes and churches, in some homes Low German was common. Inspite of this, they didn’t consider themselves German, but rather as Mennonites. Some of us, myself included, didn’t learn English until grade 1. For at least 30 years Linda and I have attended these gatherings every 5 years, although Covid delayed this one.

When we walked into the Azalea room at the Garden Park Tower in Abbotsford, I recognized virtually no one. As we passed a woman sitting alone at a table I stopped to introduce Linda and myself. She said, “I’m Anna.” She had been the class valedictorian. In 62 years I had not seen her at any of the previous reunions. Surprised I said, “Anna! I remember thinking you were one of the prettiest girls in our class.”

I looked around the crowded room, very aware of the excited buzz of conversation as former classmates became joyfully reacquainted. One of the individuals I especially wanted to see was Abe, a friend who had not attended MEI but had married Ann,  a girl from our grade. I asked one of the organizers if Abe was there and she said he wouldn’t be coming. I felt devastated when she added, “he has Parkinsons.”

Many years ago Abe, then well placed in the Provincial Probation Service, had recommended me for a position with the One Way Adventure Foundation, an organization working with young offenders in Surrey and Hedley. Except for his phone call asking me to apply, Linda and I likely would not be living in Hedley now. Fortunately Abe and Ann did show up briefly and I was able to have a short visit with them.

In snatches of conversation with these former classmates I learned that over the years many have experienced significant victories and also disheartening setbacks. My friend Alvin had lost his wife to illness. He has since married Flo. After a few minutes with them I turned to Alvin and said, “you found a good one.”

I was delighted to see Art, a valued friend in the upper grades. He and his wife Marlyce had both trained to become cardiologists and had made numerous trips to impoverished countries like the DCR, Tunisia, Romania, and Serbia. They lectured, consulted, and at times assisted with medical procedures. For about 20 years they have been deeply involved with the Mennonite Centre in Ukraine. In the present conflict the Centre is providing meals, refuge, transportation, hope and other needs.

MEI Grads of 1960
photo by permission of Paul Funk

Many of the classmates have volunteered in various places around the globe, usually in communities where food, clean water, and employment opportunities were scarce. A number served under the auspices of the Mennonite Central Committee (MCC) in Canada and abroad. During their working years some served in their church. In retirement they spread their wings, often to serve where it was uncomfortable and at times hazardous. I gathered from the joy in their voices that serving others has given them a great surge of satisfaction and fulfillment. Linda and I consider ourselves blessed to be part of this group of very special people.

 

 

 

My Story, People

Aunt Nettie’s Watermelon Event 2022

Leave a comment

Aunt Nettie, Uncle Abe, Aunt Ann,  August 2019

After some two years of covid induced societal panic and restraint, earlier this month my 91 year old Aunt Nettie again summoned her flock to a watermelon and roll kuchen gathering at her home in Kelowna. She’s been doing this each summer for at least a dozen years. I sense in her an understanding that family connections are vital to our well being and if no one makes the effort, this large family will fracture. Then we’ll all spin off in different directions. In each case, our parents are gone and we can no longer look to them to hold the family together. Aunt Nettie seems to grasp intuitively that there is a void and someone needs to lead the way. Like a mother hen calling her chicks to safety under her wings, once a year she stretches out her arms and beckons us to come home.

This is primarily a cousins event. She does another for her children and legions of grandchildren and great grandchildren. Because of the popularity of the gathering, we sit on lawn chairs in her spacious carport.

Some years ago at such an event I became conscious of the distinctive rumbling of an approaching Harley Davidson. I was surprised when the impressive machine turned into Aunt Nettie’s driveway and a young indigenous woman disembarked. She removed her helmet and we realized it was Andrea, one of Aunt Nettie’s foster daughters. She had come from Clearwater. Most of us had not seen her since she was a child. Then her sister Jean and her children also arrived. Being re-acquainted with them was a highlight. Linda and I arranged a further visit with Andrea at our home, which was in Abbotsford at that time.

When my sisters and I were young, special occasions like Christmas and Easter were celebrated in the home of our grandparents. After they passed on, we had smaller gatherings in the home of our parents. These times strengthened family relationships and enabled our children to understand they were part of a larger family.

Now our extended family is scattered across Canada and the U.S. Aunt Netties’s cousins gathering holds some of us together. In spite of her advanced age, many of us see her as the centre. Her hands no longer have the strength to roll out the dough for the roll kuchen (similar to dough boys), so several of the cousins come early to help.

Over the years we’ve been reminded that these gatherings are not to be taken for granted. We’ve already lost Aunt Mary, who used to arrive from Steinbach with a happy smile and sense of humour. To her this family was precious and important. We lost her a few years ago. Uncle Abe, whose voice and mobility had been taken by a stroke, passed on about two years ago. His warm handshake always conveyed his love for the family. Aunt Ann, who will turn 98 next month, used to come but now no longer ventures far from her home in Smithers. We miss her carefree laughter.

We sometimes wonder what will happen when our plucky, visionary aunt is no longer able to muster the will and stamina to hold this family together. One of us will need to call up the resolve to accept the torch she has carried for many years.

My Story

Looking Back After Eighty Years

Aside Leave a comment
This brand new Mustang gave us a few thrills, but only for a few days. It was a courtesy car provided by ICBC when our car was totaled. We opted for other sources of adventure.

I still wonder about a memory that goes back to the first year Linda and I were married. The instant I woke that sunny Saturday morning, I was conscious of a thought that would shape my life to the present time. The thought was “stop living tentatively,” and seemed to have been deposited on a shelf at eye level, where I would be certain to see it. The experience was brief but so vivid I wondered if an angel might have swooped down and bequeathed it to me. I’ve grappled with the memory frequently, hoping to understand and apply it. When I attained an important life milestone last month, I decided to look back over the years with one question. Did the “message” have a significant impact on my objectives, decisions and actions? On my life?

I recall reading “The Shipping News,” by Annie Proulx at that time. At one point a minor character, Cousin Nolan, is in an institution. Poorly educated, he is in his sunset years, keenly aware he really hasn’t accomplished anything he deems worthwhile. “I always knowed I was meant for something important,” he says, “but I didn’t know how to begin. I never had no luck.” Although I was young and possessed little sense of direction, I considered this outcome as disastrous as having a doctor tell me I had cancer. I wanted to do whatever was required to dodge such a fate.

Like Cousin Nolan, I didn’t know where to begin, but when I was asked to sponsor an inmate at Oakalla Prison (still functioning then), curiosity compelled me to agree. I was in a group of a dozen men. A burly unsmiling guard carrying a large key opened a thick metal door. When it clanged shut behind us with an ominous finality, I actually wondered if we’d be permitted to leave. Seeing the listless, grey clad men confined to their barred cells, it was here I began to understand that just as an individual can be confined by steel bars, my life could be constricted by my thinking. It was a realization I took into life, and with time it matured.

Some years later an American company with deep pockets announced it would construct a gas fired power plant (SE2) in Sumas, just across the border from Abbotsford where Linda and I lived at the time. Environmentalists warned us the plant would shower dangerous levels of polluted air on our city. We were deeply concerned but knew nothing about combating such a threat. “We’ll have to leave this to the politicians and lawyers,” Linda suggested. “We wouldn’t know where to begin.” I agreed.

Apparently the politicians and lawyers did not comprehend the potential health implications of this venture. Initially the scheme’s promoters were welcome in the mayor’s office. Because the plant would need to obtain power from the grid on our side of the border, they would require support from local authorities. When the National Energy Board (NEB) invited applications for intervenor status, a few disturbed citizens found the courage to apply. The power brokers of our community sat on their hands, seemingly not knowing how to deal with this threat.

Now Linda had a change of heart. “There aren’t enough intervenors to impress the NEB,” she said. “We will have to get involved.” I’ve learned that when Linda says “we” in such cases, she means I will have to enter the fray, albeit with her full backing. Several months later, I and other citizens stood before the NEB with quaking limbs, urging them to quash the project. Some unbelieving individuals were convinced our cause was hopeless and wrote letters to local papers claiming, “You can’t win against the Yankees. Give it up!” In time more people became enboldened and several hundred applied to be intervenors. We developed the SE2 Action Group and initiated a letter campaign to the NEB. In spite of the naysayers, we prevailed and the NEB ruled in our favour.

Since those early years, Linda and I have partnered a number of times with others in seemingly hopeless endeavours. When we celebrated my 80th birthday last month, I looked back and realized that although I often trembled, I have sought to not live tentatively.

My Story

Remembering My Father

5 Comments
My father operating the front-end loader.

(This blog was first posted June 12, 2019). After my father fell at age 89 and broke a hip, he never walked again. His previously robust body lost the capacity even to turn over in bed. Although he had long been a powerful force in my life, it was in his remaining 6 years that his values and approach to life most profoundly impacted me.

Dad was a cat operator and during most of my early years, he lived and worked in remote logging camps. I recall being awakened very early on a Monday morning to see him leave for work. I wouldn’t see him again for 2 weeks. In those years he was little more than a stranger to me.

When I was a teen, he brought the big red International TD 18 bulldozer back to the Fraser Valley where we lived and began clearing land for farmers. During my summer breaks from school, he took me along to his jobs. He wanted me to develop work skills and taught me to operate a bulldozer, drive a dump truck, use a chain saw and blow up huge old growth stumps with 20 percent dynamite. I began to understand that he possessed an uncanny ability with machinery.

Sometimes I shuddered inwardly watching him tackle a towering fir tree, or building a road down a precipitous hillside. I shuddered even more when he told me about constructing a logging road on the side of a mountain. “When I lifted the blade of my cat,” he said, “I could see the river a thousand feet below.” I knew that a slight misjudgment could have sent him and the machine hurtling down into the abyss. It seemed he harbored a need to taunt fate. Being young and impressionable, I respected his masculinity.

Although I wasn’t yet aware of it, my father was also influencing me at another, more important level. Only later did I understand he was a man of immense integrity. He didn’t lie, cheat customers, or complain when the going was tough. He reached out to people in need whether it was bringing a hitch hiker home for a meal or helping a non-mechanical neighbor replace a clutch in his car. He served on the executive of the parent group in my school and tithed faithfully to his church.

In my early 20’s our paths diverged when I attended S.F.U. Dad turned to music, playing first a bass fiddle and later a cello.

After he retired and mom passed away, my strong, self-reliant father wanted his family to draw nearer. He had for some years been battling prostate cancer and his PSA numbers were disturbing. He was living alone in an apartment when the life changing fall took away much of what had given him a sense of deep fulfillment.

Placed in a longterm care facility, he embarked on a disciplined exercise and stretching regimen, hoping to get his walking back. I asked one day if he needed to lie down and rest. Acutely aware the number of days he had left was shrinking, he replied ,“No, I don’t want to waste my time. I should be accomplishing something.” I marveled at how valiantly he pressed on, building a new life within the confines of the care facility.

Dad ready to play his cello.

A musician came weekly to help him again play the cello. I began plunking on the piano in the dining hall and together we made music for the residents. He asked the care aides about their families. They came to respect and love him. In time he became almost a local celebrity in the facility. Residents, visitors, care aides and nurses knew Jacob.

“I still like to live,” he said. But he was losing strength, the PSA numbers were creeping up and his hemoglobin was low. Near the end he was confined to his bed. I more often saw the pain lines on his face. Standing beside his bed holding his hand, I sometimes needed to turn away so he wouldn’t see my tears.

Dad didn’t complain. To the end he trusted God to see him through to “take him home” when he drew his final breath. I received the call from the facility at 5 am on December 9, 2009 telling me he had passed on. Even now I consider myself privileged to have been close to him during those last 6 years. It is still my desire to walk as much as possible in my father’s footsteps.

 

My Story

A Glance Back At 8 Years

Leave a comment
The Winter I Met Colin Ford

It was a cold wintery night when I met Colin Ford in front of his home in Hedley eight years ago. In the midst of steadily falling snow, this brief encounter would radically impact my life. I learned he was intimately familiar with computers and mentioned that I wanted to have a blogsite but didn’t know how to set it up. “I’ll come to your place tomorrow and do that,” he said. A few days later I was a citizen journalist, although Colin cautioned me with the words, “I just don’t know if anyone will see it.” Now, at the beginning of 2021, I decided to glance back over my shoulder at the challenges and joys that have come with writing for this space.

From the beginning I felt I had a responsibility to give something of value to readers. Having worked with adult prisoners and parolees, and also young offenders, I had some understanding that the lens through which we view our world to a great extent determines how we will respond to the circumstances that beset us. Believing this to be true, I began requesting interviews with individuals I felt had done something significant and interesting. Initially I hoped that of ten individuals, at least one would agree to talk. I was amazed to discover that people were extraordinarily gracious with their time and stories. Of some 300 requests over almost 8 years, I have been turned down no more than 12 times.

At the outset I occasionally sent my blog writings to the Similkameen Spotlight and Keremeos Review. Then Andrea DeMeer took over the helm at the Spotlight and I quickly learned she would be a take charge, sometimes unorthodox editor and publisher. Without consulting me, she immediately turned my next submission into a column. When I met her in what is now Save-on-Foods a few days later, she unabashedly said, “I don’t have your column for next week yet.”

I met John Horgan in the Shades on Main Restaurant in Penticton.

I decided when requesting an interview with a politician, I needed to begin with a thought that intrigued them. At the start of John Horgan’s first election campaign as leader of the NDP, I challenged myself by calling his media agent, Sheena McConnell. I explained I was with Black Press and said, “A lot of people know Mr. Horgan as a politician, but most of us don’t know him as a person. I’d like to write about who he is away from microphones and politics.” She liked the idea and two months later I met John Horgan, Sheena and a photographer for 35 minutes in the Shades on Main Restaurant in Penticton. The next morning he called me from the airport to finish a fascinating conversation. I found him to be decent, warm and candid, a politician who might be trusted by voters.

When I heard about Nora Allison, the plucky inspirational indigenous first wife of John Fall Allison, I was immediately intrigued. According to Nancy Allison, a great granddaughter, Nora ran a pack train of approximately 40 horses from Hope to Greenwood, carrying groceries, mining supplies, and other necessities. I wrote about her and also several of her numerous descendants, including Carrie Allison, a highly respected elder still living not far from Hedley.

Eric Goodfellow, Bill Robinson & Rev. John Goodfellow

I very much enjoyed a conversation with Eric Goodfellow of Princeton. At age seven, he and a number of other boys walked with his father, Reverend John Goodfellow, from Princeton to Hope. “At night we cut boughs and placed our sleeping bags on them,” he said. “We built a large fire to keep away animals.” They stopped in at Camp Defiance for a visit with the enigmatic Bill Robinson, whose cabin along the Sumallo River has long been a source of curiosity.

Enthusiastic youth also participated in the 2016 Pow Wow.

Linda and I attended the Ashnola Pow Wow and interviewed Lauren Terbasket, a lead organizer. We also participated in a health and wellness event put on by the Upper Band. For a change of pace, I wrote about Ben Murbach, who entertained a neighbour’s chickens by playing his harmonica. They seemed to enjoy the music, but I don’t know if it inspired them to lay more eggs.

Ben Murbach, entertaining the neighbour’s chickens.

As a writer, I consider it a privilege to have an audience. I feel fortunate and honoured that so many quality individuals have trusted me with their stories. I hope at times the accounts have prompted readers to ponder, reflect, consider, and maybe even look at life through a more optimistic lens.

My Story, Societal Issues

Learning From My Grandpa Funk

1 Comment
“Skinny, haggard men were incessantly on the move.” (photo shorpy.com)

In a world of unending grasping for more, I’m heartened by individuals who stand by people with serious needs. After writing recently about Bill Carmichael and Trisha Mills and their efforts to rebuild their lives, I received several notes from readers. They wanted to know if the gofundme site is still open for donations. I was able to assure them they can still give. (https;//www.gofundme.com/f/the-hitching-post-fire/donate).

This desire to encourage and bless people they don’t know caused me to ponder on memories from my childhood years when we lived in Barkfield, Manitoba, a remote, rural community. The land in this area produced mostly scrub brush and poor quality grass. It was a small settlement consisting mostly of two families, the Funks and the Martens.

Too insignificant to be shown on a map, Barkfield had one general store with limited stock. A deeply rutted, poorly maintained dirt road, connecting Steinbach and Grunthal, ran through the community. In winter snow drifts and howling prairie winds often made the road virtually invisible and impassable. Spring rains deepened the ruts and created large mud holes. At that time horses, wagons, buggies and sleighs were still more common than motorized vehicles.

My most vivid memories of this time and place are of my Mom’s family, the Funk’s. Tight knit, energetic and extremely self reliant, they stayed on when others left to seek a milder climate and more promising financial circumstances.

It is Grandpa Funk whose life still stirs me to consider what is truly important. He and Grandma were descendents of Mennonite immigrants who fled from Ukraine to Canada in the 1870’s to escape religious persecution. They brought 13 children into the world, seven boys and six girls. It was a simple, difficult time and parents had little opportunity or inclination to concoct unique names. The boys were given names like Peter, David and Henry.

Grandpa was a stocky, physically robust man. He took the boys into the bush and taught them to use axes, saws and guns. They made firewood which was taken to Winnipeg and sold. The girls, with names like Agatha, Betty and Mary, learned to dig in the bush for medicinal roots, which were also sold. In their teen years, the offspring sometimes found work on neighbouring farms to augment the family income. There was money only for necessities like flour, sugar, coffee and coal oil. Grandma and the girls planted and tended a huge garden. There were chickens for meat and eggs, a few cows provided milk. In fall they slaughtered a hog and utilized every part, including the head and hocks.

Even though every dollar came with sweat, determination, and a large measure of endurance, Grandpa and Grandma Funk were endowed with a streak of generosity. My mother frequently talked about people coming to their door looking for a meal. Especially in the Great Depression, skinny, haggard men were incessantly on the move, desperately seeking employment. Often they were on foot, going from one town to another. When the knock came, Grandpa invariably offered the weary straggler a meal and a place to sleep.

Mother particularly liked to tell us about Philippe, a travelling seller of wares. A large jolly man with a bushy beard and black patch over one eye, he lived in St. Malo, a predominantly French Canadian community. In winter he couldn’t travel fast in the deep snow. Sometimes darkness had set in when he knocked on the door of the Funk family home. Grandpa always welcomed him warmly. He would say to his sons, “boys, Philippe will stay the night with us. Put his horses in the barn, give them feed and water, and rub them down.” Although the Funk family communicated mostly in Low German, a dialect passed down to them by their ancestors, the two men came to understand and respect each other. In spite of the family’s sparse circumstances, Philippe was always given a hearty meal.

In this time when covid 19 is producing financial and emotional havoc in many homes, I find myself thinking of my grandparents. They didn’t expect the government or some charitable organization to fix things. They were grateful for what they had, and willingly shared from their limited means. To me it seems they experienced a sense of purpose, fulfillment and joy. These can be had more readily by sharing than by grasping for more.

My Story

I Bargained With Life…

Image Leave a comment
My curiosity has at times prodded me to lean on a door standing ajar. (Dreamstime photo)

On a Saturday afternoon many years ago, I attended the memorial service for a friend’s spouse. After the formal service there was a coffee time and I was sitting beside a man I didn’t know. I guessed he was about 65. His tanned visage and rugged physique suggested he had spent many years in the outdoors. Turning to me he asked, “What line of work are you in?” I sensed he wanted to know what sort of person I was. Possibly my long black hair and beard intrigued him. Funerals often prod us to dig a little deeper.

“I started as a heavy equipment operator and truck driver,” I replied. “It really wasn’t something I wanted to do my entire working life. I spent 4 years at SFU and earned a degree in sociology and political science. I got a job in community corrections and my work now takes me into prisons like the B.C. Penitentiary, Oakalla, Matsqui Institution and others. We deal with inmates and parolees who have committed serious crimes, including bank robberies, drug trafficking and murder. Our purpose is to provide the supports they need to move beyond a life of crime.”

We talked for about half an hour and when he pushed back his chair to leave he said, “you’ve had an interesting life already. I don’t regret having been a carpenter all my working years, or that my wife and I never moved from this community. I suppose though we could have ventured more.” There was a hint of chagrin in his voice.

I was reminded of this encounter recently while reading Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. She believes we are all walking repositories of buried treasure. “The hunt to uncover this treasure,” she says, “that’s creative living. The courage to go on that hunt in the first place, that’s what separates a mundane existence from a more enchanted one.”

Looking back now, I have to admit I never really had the courage to embark on that hunt. I was shy and lacked confidence in social situations. Fortunately, I did get help from several sources. Linda and I had been married about two years when I woke one morning, startled by a thought that seemed to have been placed on a shelf directly in front of my face, waiting for me. The thought was “stop living tentatively.” It unsettled me and I wondered where it had come from. Although I had little interest in religion then, I seriously wondered if an angel might have swooped down from on high and deposited it there. I pondered the meaning of this “message,” but didn’t immediately tell Linda.

A second source of help came from the oft quoted poem by Jessie B. Rittenhouse. She wrote “I bargained with life for a penny, and Life would pay no more. However I begged at eventime when I counted my scanty store. For Life is just an employer, he gives you what you ask. But once you have set the wages,why, you must bear the task. I worked for a menial’s hire, only to learn, dismayed, that any wage I had asked of Life, Life would have willingly paid.”

After much discussion, Linda and I agreed we didn’t want to arrive at the end of our days and conclude we had lived tentatively, that we had “bargained with life for a penny.” I left my job operating heavy equipment and Linda resigned from a very secure position at the Royal Bank. We loaded our van and drove to 100 Mile House, without a plan or significant means. We bought a lot on Sheridan Lake, lived there in a tent for about 3 months, then decided I should apply to attend SFU.

Looking back over the years now, I don’t feel I ever became really adept at opening doors of opportunity. However, my curiosity has at times prodded me to lean against a door standing ajar. There have been a few I should not have entered, but I’ve come to somewhat understand Elizabeth Gilbert’s contention that “a creative life is an amplified life, a more interesting life,” even if sometimes we stumble.

Inspiration, My Story

Aunt Mary’s Commitment Shaped Lives

1 Comment

Aunt Mary celebrating her 90th birthday.

I wasn’t really surprised there was no mention in the national, or even the local Manitoba media, of the recent passing of my 98 year old Aunt Mary. She had not battled for social justice like Supreme Court Judge Bertha Wilson. Nor did she have Emily Carr’s remarkable ability to create inspiring scenes on canvas. What she did have was an understanding of the importance of commitment. Especially a commitment to living in a manner that positively impacts the thinking and actions of the next generation. In my opinion, she lived in a way that is as beneficial to our country as the lives of more well known citizens.

Working with young offenders in Hedley, I saw repeatedly the unfortunate results of careless, self-indulgent, neglectful parenting. Almost without exception, the youths sent to us came from shattered, dysfunctional families. The parents seemed to not understand that their values and attitudes were exacting a toll on the future of their children. Apparently it did not occur to them that without constructive examples to observe and learn from, their offspring would be ill-equipped to participate productively in the life of our nation.

When Aunt Mary’s husband, David, lost a battle with cancer, she could have become immersed in self pity. David had been a strong man, physically, mentally and emotionally. He had brought order and stability, as well as a sense of humour. At age 46, with 2 young sons still at home, she now needed to be the one who was strong for them.

For many years I had not had much contact with Aunt Mary. To learn more of her life, I called each of her 3 older offspring, all living in Manitoba. Sara, the youngest of the 3 said “mom loved to be with people and to serve them. She was very thankful, and she knew how to laugh. She lived on the 6th floor in a residence for seniors. When a group came to provide music, she always went down to the entrance to open the door for the guests and welcome them. She would often say ‘we should be thankful for people who come to sing.’” Sara also said, “I did everything I could for her. I’m so grateful for that.” She had been inspired by her mother’s example of service to others.

Elsie, the eldest, said their mom walked a lot until she was 95. “If it’s not raining,” she would say, “I’m walking.”

“As long as she could walk,” Elsie said, “she volunteered in a care home for the elderly. Often she pushed people in their wheelchairs. When there was a potluck in her residence, if someone wasn’t well enough to attend, she would bring them a tray laden with food.”

Ed said, “Mom often wanted to visit relatives in Barkfield and Gruenthal. These relationships were important to her, so I would take her there. Sometimes there were functions in her church that involved a meal. When she finished eating, she’d get up and help with clearing tables.”

In the Fernwood residence where she lived, people place a yellow card on the outside of their entry door before retiring at night. In the morning, by 10 am, they take it back in. “For many years Mom would walk the halls on all the floors, checking for cards,” Ed said. “If there was a card after 10 am, she would knock on the door and inquire if there was a problem. She was still doing this in her nineties.”

Aunt Mary did all she could to foster strong relationships in her family. “Toward the end of her days,” Ed told me, “she encouraged us to always love one another.”

Having received only a rudimentary education in a remote one room rural school, Aunt Mary never achieved the renown of Canadian icons like Bertha Wilson and Emily Carr. After listening to members of her family and others though, I decided her commitment to service had positively shaped thinking and actions in her limited sphere of influence. She encouraged people with her smile, a cheery greeting, sometimes by noticing they had a need. Aunt Mary demonstrated that if we are alert and willing, there are many little actions that can bring a ray of sunlight and a reminder someone cares. Fortunately she isn’t the only one doing this. Our country needs many more.