When I had young children, we moved across the province to northern Alberta, an eight-hour drive from our nearest and dearest. The two grandmothers were bitterly disappointed, having had great plans to assist in rearing and spoiling our small boys.
Rob’s folks made the trip often initially, cruising into town in their motorhome, parking in our lives. Jimmy soon wasn’t able to travel the distance and we received the call to come home.
Jane continued for awhile, driving up in good weather, with Auntie Ann as a co-pilot, or sometimes a neighbour who was lonely and aching for an outing. On one occasion, the trip included Aunt Margaret and Uncle Charlie, all the way from New Brunswick.
At the time my parents worked long, hard hours cleaning first the high school and then Dad moved on to the college. They too came often, leaving home late Friday and returning Sunday night, in order to be back in time for work.
Dad fixed switches, cleaned filters, bought groceries. Mom mended torn knees in jeans, baked and canned and cuddled. As suddenly as they swept in, all too soon their vehicle pulled away. I felt the air sucked out of my life.
I enjoyed my town but it was so far away from home. We were a close-knit tribe. When one of the group came home from our far-flung jobs, Mom gathered all the kids around. Larry came from Great Falls, Judy from Calgary and later High River and me from Peace River. Carol and Warren had the pleasure of being nearby.
We descended en masse to enjoy Mom’s great cooking, shared memories and challenges and watched each other’s progeny grow. We didn’t realize that when the last car backed out of the driveway, Mom too felt her world shrink. She shed a few tears and went for a long walk to restore her spirits.
When I returned with my lanky teens in tow, I knew I was blessed. The open arms and listening ears boosted our lagging spirits. I shared a home with Jane for a few years and my kids came to really know their family. “Nanny” wasn’t just Mrs. Claus; she was a real person with concerns and needs of her own. Auntie Ann was a frequent guest as well. As she had been with Rob, she became a co-conspirator in highjinks and mischief.
When failing health found Jane moving to Hamilton to stay with Ann’s family, I was left with the huge shaggy yard, an empty granny suite and a fence that stayed up only thanks to the many layers of paint holding it together.
That house began my new responsibilities as a landlord. We rented the tiny space for a few years then also accepted a college student, a granddaughter of a friend of dad’s. We were in the process of moving house at the time and took our student with us. The renter stayed in the suite with the new landlord.
My younger son lived at home for a time, went on to college and then returned. A steady procession of students flowed through my doors, planting friendship and memories in my heart.
My youngest has been a resident of Montreal for years now. The older became the proud owner of that house recently. He had never lived in there, although visited many times. I’ve moved on to a condo, surrounded by books, yarn and music.
I still have room for visitors but not enough space to actually share with someone. From time to time I have been pressured by well-meaning individuals, looking for shared accommodations. That is not my life anymore. I’m good with that.
- Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist
