Monday Music Appreciation #40: Love Waits by Farley Magee

My heart broke on Friday afternoon when I received word that my musical and faith-filled friend, Farley, had died. He hadn't been feeling well of late, and missed our last two Sundays at Inner City Pastoral Ministry, where I liked to tease him about me being his favourite (well, only, perhaps) back up singer. No one expected this news, and we at ICPM are pretty heartbroken, though we know that Farley is with God, doing just fine, and still alive in our hearts.

I didn't know Farley very long, but what I knew of him, I loved. He was a gentle man with an ironic sense of humour, and a very talented guitarist. The day we met, I had brought my guitar because I was told I could help with the music at ICPM, but Farley's reception to that was a bit cool -- likely because I was an unknown quantity. I told him I'd just back him up and play what I could, and it worked out okay. By the end of the morning, he had warmed up and we had a good conversation -- I guess he realized that I had enough ability that I might make the music a little richer than it would have been otherwise.

It was five years later when I joined the ministry team at ICPM, right in the middle of Covid. It was a fall day, and Farley was sitting outside, playing his guitar to entertain the folks waiting in line for lunches, and I recognized a hymn he was playing and started to sing it. His head swiveled toward me, and he grinned, and from that Sunday on, he often played the tune to see if I'd catch it and sing along. It was like an unspoken communication between us.

But my favourite memory of Farley by far is a September day when we were waiting for an event we were both attending in St. Albert at the invitation of Pastor Quinn. We arrived a few hours before other folks were due, and I asked Farley if he'd like to go for a walk. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, and we walked down the hill to the Sturgeon River and wandered its banks all the way to the St. Albert community garden, enjoying the warm sun, the scents of autumn, the lazy river, and good company. I learned a bit about Farley's life, his long time grief from losing his daughter to cancer when she was only 7, and I shared some of my own grief at that time. We became better friends that afternoon.

I will really, really miss Farley every Sunday morning. His was a talent that can't be replaced. He often started our Sunday mornings with "Here Comes the Sun," and segued into bluesy riffs on a theme sounding like Fred Penner's "The Cat Came Back" or Woodie Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant." My friend, Linda, and I would dance, and people would smile. Farley's music lent a peaceful calm to many otherwise chaotic Sunday mornings. His "smudge music" was one of my favourite sounds. I only wish I had recorded it.

And this song, written by Farley, is another favourite. The first time he played it as a meditation for the Community of Emmanuel, the tears rolled down my face. It's such a beautiful expression of what Love does, what Love is. As Linda commented today, it pretty much summarizes Farley's theology and belief. I'm so grateful that he allowed me to record it. I asked him once, if his favourite artist could record his song so it became famous, who would that be? "I'll have to think about that," he said, but he never got back to me on that question.

I know I've posted the song in these moodlings twice already, but third time is the charm, or something.

I will always miss harmonizing with you, Farley, your philosophical commentaries on life and the goodness and omnipotence of God, and the twinkle in your eye when anyone made you laugh. You liked to say, "God knows. I don't." Well, now you know God's love for you in its fullness.

Farley, my musical brother, you were one in a million. Rest in peace, beloved friend.

An uncomplicated friendship -- a tribute to Mr. Ski

Mr. Ski explains a game

Mr. Ski was a one-of-a-kind friend in my life, for many reasons. His nickname among his students was an apt moniker for a Phys. Ed. and Grade 5 teacher. He was the only male teacher in St. A's elementary school when I was there, and a guy that the kids really looked up to. Though he didn't say it in so many words, he loved his students, and they knew it, which is how a teacher truly makes a difference in the lives of those entrusted to him.

I looked up to Arthur (his real name), too. When I began my teaching career in small town Alberta, Art was the guy who thought to check up on me during my second week in the classroom. He punched me on the arm, asking, "Are you gonna make it, Rookie?" and when my eyes filled with tears because of his empathy and kindness, he immediately gave me the fatherly bear hug that I needed. "You Prediger kids are huggy sorts," he joked. That was the moment when I realized that he was a kindred spirit.

When my grandpa died unexpectedly a couple of weeks later and the phone call came to me at school just before my students arrived, Art found me in my classroom to listen to a different set of tears. He hugged me again, and shared about how he'd lost his dad when he was young. I appreciated his words more than he knew. 

Art had 11 years of teaching experience beyond mine, and became the person I turned to for advice and help. He taught my Grade 3 or 4 Phys. Ed. classes and I taught his Grade 5 Religion program. He sat on the couch in the staff room during recesses and lunch time, and I sat with him, as it was in close proximity to the fridge and my mid-morning diabetic snack. Once I asked him why he chose to sit there instead of at the long staff table, and he said, "To avoid the politics." 

He became a mentor, big brother, and best friend, though I didn't notice it happening at the time. I credit him now with keeping me on an even keel through a particularly tough second year of teaching. He always seemed to know when I needed to get some frustration or other out of my system, leaning on the doorframe of my classroom, encouraging me. He picked up on the times when an invitation to hang out with his wife, Jan, and their young kids, would be most appreciated. He consistently modelled how to treat students with love.

At the end of my tough second year of teaching, Art told me that he was planning to take a year's sabbatical to be Kindergarten Dad for his youngest, and I was suddenly faced with an even tougher third school year without him. That's when I began to realize how much his friendship/mentorship meant to me, and my teaching journal from those days is filled with reflections about how much I would miss him in the year ahead. The students that were coming to me were going to be challenging, to put it mildly, and Art wouldn't be there to crack jokes to distract from ongoing staff politics.

The summer solstice evening just before Art's sabbatical is imprinted in my memory. I was ending the school year with a terrible case of laryngitis, and stayed in my classroom quite late to finish report cards. Art was cleaning out his room for his sabbatical leave. Somehow, we ended up walking from the school to the local 7-11 for throat lozenges, report card stickers and two cans of diet coke, and ended up taking a long walk in the dusky evening, discussing my recent engagement and long distance relationship, and those ever present staffroom politics. By the time we got back to school, we'd set the world straight. Art was that kind of friend.

The next day, I was still voiceless, tired and somewhat tearful, wondering how I would manage without Art at school for the next year. That's when he surprised me by telling me that we were kindred spirits in more ways than I knew. Well, he didn't exactly tell me, but for the next day or two he kept throwing hints my way, his eyes twinkling and his grin mischievous... until, on his last day at St. A's, I turned to him in shock as it finally dawned on me -- "You have Type 1 diabetes too??!!!!"

Two years of sitting together eating our recess snacks on the staff room couch, and it never once dawned on me. He ate healthy, but probably cheated on his diet as much as I did, without commenting on my misbehaviour. I do remember him pouring me some of his own fridge-stored apple juice one day when I complained of low blood sugars and feeling shaky. I wasn't the only one who didn't realize that he had Type 1 diabetes -- he never told anyone on staff because he'd had enough of being stigmatized when he was a kid. I'm not sure anyone but his family ever really knew.

But his "sweet secret" was also mine, and became a special bond of sorts between us. From then on we compared notes about our diabetes care. I survived my third year of teaching (though I'll admit, without Art there, I got sucked into staff politics and student misbehaviour and felt pretty burnt out by the end of the year). At the end of that year, I moved back to the city and got married, and somehow never did return to teaching. I had fun dancing with Art's kids at my wedding, and he took one of my favourite wedding pictures from that day.

Through the years, my friendship with Art continued, though phone calls were irregular and visits scarce, mostly because of distance. When he had his first heart attack, I learned about it from a mutual friend, and called Art. He got even more serious about looking after his diabetes then, and encouraged me to do the same, suggesting that I look into the "Edmonton Protocol" Islet Transplant Program at the University of Alberta. He applied, but didn't qualify, perhaps because he'd had diabetes too long, and they were looking for younger patients. He thought I should go for it, but I didn't want to jump through so many hoops, and the idea of taking anti-rejection drugs for the rest of my life held no appeal.

The last time I saw Art, he came for coffee and we had a really great visit about how he was spending his retirement, what his kids and mine were up to, an uncomplicated and loving conversation between two old friends. During these covid years, Lee and I have driven the road past Art and Jan's acreage a few times, but somehow I couldn't recognize the turn off. I thought of Art often, happy to imagine him kibbitzing with friends and neighbours, out on the golf course, or just hanging out with his wife, kids, and grandkids. I wish I'd phoned.

When I sent my New Year's letter this year, I certainly didn't expect Jan's response, telling me that she was sorry to realize that I hadn't heard that Art died last July. It was a shock to the system -- I wept on and off for the rest of the day. I'm broken-hearted that I missed his funeral, but more broken-hearted that I wasn't in touch more often in the last few years, and that such a wonderful friend who shared my "sweet secret" is gone from this world.

But believing in the "sweet hereafter," where I will see Art again, and expecting a joyous reunion when I get there, helps a lot. It's the only thing that does right now.

Art, you were a true gem, and ours was one of the most uncomplicated and loving friendships I never expected. Your warmth and kindness lives on in the hearts of all who knew you. I'm pretty sure there are dozens of kids for whom you were the closest thing they ever had to a loving dad, and that's huge! Thank you for the hugs, for being a kindred spirit, mentor, big brother, and best Ponoka friend. I will miss you until we meet again.

Lazarus revisited

This is still my favourite version of the Lazarus story that we hear in this Sunday's gospel reading. I share here a moodling from 5 years ago, revisited, because I think it sheds a different light on an old story, giving it a meaning that isn't usually preached in churches! 

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A friend recently returned from a L'Arche retreat with a new view of the story of the death of Lazarus from the eleventh chapter of John's Gospel (I've borrowed from The Message and the Good News Translation for the version below). When we come to the gospel reading on the fifth Sunday of Lent, I like to close my eyes and see it this way…

A man was sick, Lazarus of Bethany, the town of Mary and her sister Martha. This was the same Mary who massaged the Lord’s feet with aromatic oils and then wiped them with her hair. It was her brother Lazarus who was sick. So the sisters sent word to Jesus, “Master, the one you love so very much is sick.” 

We don’t know much at all about Lazarus, other than that he was Mary and Martha’s brother. It is unusual that the two women seem to be the heads of the household and that Lazarus doesn't seem to bear any responsibility for looking out for his unmarried sisters in the patriarchal society of Jesus’ day. There are also no recorded conversations between Lazarus and Jesus, while we know about his conversations with Martha and Mary. These things could indicate that Lazarus might have been a person with a developmental disability who lived in the care of his sisters.

It's an interesting idea, and one that makes perfect sense to me because of my experiences with family members and friends who have developmental disabilities. They have a knack for gathering special people around them simply by their desire to have friends and by their unconditional love and welcome for everyone they meet. They are unapologetic about needing help, unlike those of us who are mostly able to care for ourselves.

So it’s not hard for me to imagine Lazarus seeing Jesus somewhere in his travels, taking a liking to him, asking him for help to do up his sandal, then inviting him to supper. This vision of Lazarus reminds me of my friend Harry*, who invited a solitary Japanese tourist at a campground to join his L'Arche vacation group for supper (Hiro was so moved by Harry’s openness and hospitality that later he returned to Canada to join our L’Arche community on a permanent basis, and Harry and Hiro are friends to this day).

I imagine that because of Lazarus, Jesus meets Mary and Martha, their brother’s caregivers, who are used to Lazarus bringing home stray dogs and new friends. They all welcome Jesus as if he was an expected dinner guest, and a deep friendship begins -- one that I'm guessing is full of fun, laughter and unconditional love. That’s why, when Lazarus becomes ill, his sisters send word to Jesus. They know that Jesus loves Lazarus, and they trust that their healer friend will help.

But Jesus is held up for a few days because his disciples want him to lay low, afraid after an encounter with some Jews who are accusing him of blasphemy and who might still be carrying stones in their pockets in case they meet Jesus again. So he appeases his disciples, saying that

“This sickness is not fatal. It will become an occasion to show God’s glory by glorifying God’s Son.”

Clearly, Jesus knows things that the disciples, Martha and Mary don’t…

When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had been buried four days before. Bethany was less than two miles from Jerusalem, and many Judeans had come to see Martha and Mary to comfort them about their brother's death. 

When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went out to meet him, but Mary stayed in the house. Martha said to Jesus, “If you had been here, Lord, my brother would not have died! But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask him for.” 

“Your brother will rise to life,” Jesus told her. Martha replied, “I know that he will be raised up in the resurrection at the end of time.”

Jesus gives Martha a triple-whammy of good news. 1) Lazarus will rise, 2) knowing Jesus himself is life itself, and therefore 3) Martha and anyone who believes in Jesus will also have eternal life! He says:

“You don’t have to wait for the End. I am, right now, Resurrection and Life. The one who believes in me, even though he or she dies, will live. And everyone who lives believing in me does not ultimately die at all. Do you believe this?”

“Yes, Lord!” she answered. “I do believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who was to come into the world.” After saying this, she went to her sister Mary and whispered in her ear, “The Teacher is here and is asking for you.”  

The moment Mary heard it, she jumped up and ran out to him. Jesus had not yet entered the town but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The people who were in the house with Mary comforting her followed her when they saw her get up and hurry out. They thought that she was going to the grave to weep there. 

Mary arrived where Jesus was, and as soon as she saw him, she fell at his feet. “Lord,” she said, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died!” 

Mary is completely at home with Jesus. Her grief at losing Lazarus knocks her to the ground, and she doesn't care if Jesus sees it. She knows that he feels it too. If you've ever lost someone dear to you, you know what it can be like when a friend comes to be with you in your grief...

Jesus saw her weeping, and he saw how the people with her were weeping also; his heart was touched, and he was deeply moved.  

Jesus wept.

I love that these two words are the shortest verse in the Bible. If Jesus weeps, we all have permission to weep, and more than that, we all need to allow ourselves to grieve. He’s showing us that our human emotions are gifts, too. And if Jesus can weep, in public, every person can do the same no matter their gender, never mind the idea that "Men don't cry."

“See how much he loved him!” the people said. Others among them said, “Well, if he loved him so much, why didn’t he do something to keep him from dying? After all, he opened the eyes of a blind man.” 

In my mind, these are also people who loved Lazarus deeply. Lazarus probably united all the neighbours in Bethany – everyone knew him, and everyone looked out for him – and he looked out for everyone too (like my friend Thomas* does), greeted them all by name every day, smiled at them even when they didn’t smile back, and doled out plenty of hugs. So of course they’re a little miffed that Jesus would heal a blind man and not their beloved friend. And Jesus hears their murmurings and feels the same way about Lazarus as they do.

Deeply moved once more, Jesus went to the tomb, which was a cave with a stone placed at the entrance. Martha, the dead man's sister, said, “There will be a bad smell, Lord. He has been buried four days!” Jesus said to her, “Didn't I tell you that you would see God's glory if you believed?” 

Martha’s heart leaps. Of course she believes in Jesus, who loves her brother so deeply. Anything is possible with that kind of love.

They took the stone away. Jesus looked up and said, “I thank you, Father, that you listen to me. I know that you always listen to me, but I say this for the sake of the people here, so that they will believe that you sent me.” After he had said this, he called out in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”  

He came out, his hands and feet wrapped in grave cloths, and with a cloth around his face. “Unbind him,” Jesus told them, “and let him go.” 

And there stands Lazarus, fumbling with the cloths with one hand, his other hand reaching out for his friends, the hugest smile on his face, probably even laughing with delight, as if to say, “I’m so glad you came! This calls for a celebration!”

Jesus healed many people in his short ministry, and could have raised many more people from the dead, but according to John's gospel, Lazarus is the only one. If Lazarus was a man with a developmental disability, Jesus' attentiveness and love for him tells us a lot about God's special love for people with disabilities of any kind.

And if God loves them so much, it seems we need to allow them more room to bind us together as community, to pay attention to how they call forth our love, and how their love helps us to accept our own limitations. Relationships with persons with disabilities help us to become people who celebrate -- not money, fame, or power, but rather -- every person because all of us have our own abilities and disabilities. Let's face it, none of us are perfect.

John's gospel tells this amazing story about life and death and life again before we hear about Jesus' death and resurrection. Maybe we've heard this story so many times that it's ceased to be amazing for us. But this version helped me to view it in a way that makes all its characters more real to me. My reflection for today is to imagine the celebrations that ensued for Lazarus, the man who called forth so much compassion and joy in Bethany. What an incredible party!

And when we all walk out of our graves to endless life with our loved ones, it will be even moreso!

*I use pseudonyms for my L'Arche friends.

A song for Debbie Mellor

Sing it with me:

Edelweiss, edelweiss,

every morning you greet me.

Small and white, clean and bright,

you look happy to meet me.

Blossom of snow, may you bloom and grow,

bloom and grow forever.

Eidelweiss, edelweiss,

bless my homeland forever.

It was Debbie's favourite song, and she sang it often. Whenever I took my guitar to Discovery Day Program at L'Arche, she requested it, and sang it, or at least its opening bars, at the top of her lungs. She loved The Sound of Music, Rogers and Hamerstein's musical/movie that brought the song to the world's attention, with a passion beyond passion! And though the consonants were missing from its songs when she sang them, it was hard to mistake what she was singing, because she could definitely carry a tune.

A week ago today, we lost Debbie -- whose pseudonym in these pages up until now has been Sandy -- to protect her privacy -- simply because Simple Moodlings is in the public domain. People like Debbie aren't often given much attention, so this is my humble attempt to pay tribute to a beautiful friend and human being. Readers who follow these moodlings know my tributes are also my way to process the loss of people I love.

I can't begin to tell you the story of Debbie's life; I'll just tell you how I know and love her. Debbie has been in my awareness for most of my life because the L'Arche community came to our church as I grew up. In fact, Debbie once came and helped me lead the singing of the closing hymn when I was doing music at mass, a special memory that still makes me smile. 

It's only in the past 12 years or so that our friendship solidified as I became a regular in the L'Arche offices through my role as admin assistant and volunteer. In that time, Debbie and I took many walks down the hallways, often holding hands because she was visually impaired and sometimes unsteady on her feet. We would sing as we went, or comment on the pictures in the hallways. Sometimes we would work -- Debbie would help me with shredding, or push the button on the photocopier as needed. She loved the photocopier. If we ran out of things to do, she liked to take scrap paper and print her name and the names of her family members over and over, pretending to be an executive at work. 

Her love for her family was constant, and in our morning prayer circle she would inevitably begin her prayers by saying "I pray my mom-MIE, my dad-DIE, my bro-THER..." When her father, and some years later, her mother, passed away, the wind went out of her sails, and though she carried on, her sadness was always evident during every prayer circle.

When I became The Baking Lady at Day Program, Debbie was in there like a dirty shirt. Not that she was ever unkempt -- her clothes and matching purses are legendary in the community, and she loved it whenever anyone commented on her attire or her fancy nail polish. When it came to baking, she loved to help measure ingredients or run the hand mixer, and especially, to eat what we made, sometimes before it was ready. I would often catch her snitching bits of cookie dough as we formed the cookies!

Debbie was part of the L'Arche Edmonton community for almost 43 years. Because I was given the opportunity to work on the History of L'Arche Edmonton, I was able to interview people from Debbie's past. My favourite stories about her demonstrate her tenacity and determination -- as one friend put it, she was an "empowered woman." She grew up in a loving farm family, and when her siblings left home to marry or go to university, Debbie decided it was her turn to leave, too, so she packed a suitcase and set it at the front door, as if to say, "My turn to go." 

Debbie's mom unpacked and put everything away, only to find the repacked suitcase at the door again a short time later. Debbie meant business, and her parents eventually decided that the L'Arche community's model of homes -- where people with and without disabilities create a family-like setting for its core members -- was the right place for their daughter to live as independently as she could.

My other favourite story from the past is about Debbie's trip to Japan in 1982. Everyone from the L'Arche community who went as part of an exchange between two communities of people with disabilities had to abide by the suitcase rule: each person could pack what they liked, but they had to be able to carry their own suitcase to the far end of their block and back without help, a very practical standard that stood the group in good stead. The group was very tired by the time they reached their destination, and unfortunately, there was a long flight of stairs to reach the main level of the Sapporo airport. Seeing the steps, Debbie put her suitcase down and gave it a good kick before she picked it up and kept moving!

Debbie’s enthusiasm for life, her constancy, and her unconditional (and sometimes conditional, when she was feeling stubborn) love moved me more than I realized until, suddenly, we have lost her too soon. Not to covid... that loving heart of hers gave out unexpectedly. I'm not sure when covid will let up and allow me to go back to visit my friends at Day Program, but I know the first return visit will be missing something important without Debbie there to welcome me with "Hi, Reea!" There's comfort in knowing how happy she is to be with her parents again in the Great Beyond, but the Day Program community is missing her terribly. Thomas* will especially miss her, I'm sure.

Debbie, my friend, given your love of music, I hope that you're singing and dancing to your heart's content with the L'Arche communion of saints and your parents. I look forward to the day we meet again, but until then, climb ev'ry mountain, my friend, and don't forget -- I love you, too. So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodnight...

A moodling revisited... Patience and Love

This week, I am thinking of and praying for a dear friend who was admitted to ICU this week because of a heart attack. This little story about her was written nearly ten years ago, but what I have learned in my relationship with Sandy (not her real name) is timeless. She is a wonderful and valued member of our L'Arche Edmonton community, and I post this in her honour, and in the hopes that her health will continue to improve. Please, my friends, pray with me for her.

* * * * * * *

While I was working at the L'Arche offices this morning, Sandy, one of our members with a disability, came into my office. Sometimes she comes in while I'm in the middle of something important and starts fiddling with the books on the shelf or the boxes of brochures. She likes to help, so when I don't have shredding for her to do, she often "makes" her own work. Unfortunately, she doesn't know the kind of assistance that's helpful. Today, by the time I freed my brain from the document I was typing, Sandy had a handful of fundraising envelopes that she was spreading across a table. "How you?" she asked, when she realized that I was watching her. 

It's easy to get impatient when work is interrupted, but at L'Arche we do our best to see the interruptions as part of the job. "I'm fine," I said, as I got up from my desk, gently took the envelopes from Sandy and put them back on the shelf where she had found them. Instead of shooing Sandy back downstairs as I often do, I took her hand and said, "Would you like to help me go find something in the community room?"

" 'Kay," she said. As we walked down the stairs holding hands, she counted the steps from one to nine, and echoed me as I counted the remainder. At the bottom, we reached the door of the Day Program where Sandy and the other core members engage in all sorts of activities. The sounds of drumming and singing emanated from the room, and Sandy suddenly remembered where she was supposed to be. "Bye," she said, and left me standing in the hallway. She loves music; I had to finish my errand alone.

About an hour later, I was engrossed in my work on the computer screen again, and didn't really notice Sandy slip into my office until she put an arm around me, kissed me on the top of the head, and said in her soft, squeaky voice, "I love you, Reea."

"I love you, too," I said, as she disappeared again. I guess patience with Sandy's little interruptions reaps rewards. She never told me she loved me until today.

A small tribute to Dr. Walter Moser

Walter, centre, playing French horn

When I walked (with considerable trepidation) into the Ed North amphitheatre for the first class of my university education, I had no idea that I was about to meet an important new friend, though I wouldn't actually call him friend for some years.  

Two professors stood on the stage, only one whose name I can clearly remember. The younger man, dressed in corduroys and a loud sweater, left no lasting impression on me other than his clothing, but the elder, Dr. Walter Moser, wore suit and tie and had a thick Austrian accent that took a few minutes for me to understand. Once my ear had acclimatized, I found myself fascinated -- and amused -- by him and his dry sense of humour, as he taught us basic undergrad biology.

I looked forward to Dr. Moser's lectures much more than the other prof's. I can't really remember any lecture details so many years later, but I do remember Dr. Moser's little jokes, usually directed at himself. He would rattle through his notes and chuckle whenever something about the natural world amused him, when his chalk broke, or the slide projector malfunctioned, or a student question struck him as particularly interesting. Because the class was large, I don't think I ever interacted with him directly, just completed what he called "multiple guess" exams, and was sad when the class ended in December that year and there would be no more of Dr. Moser's gentle humour in my life.

Fast forward maybe eight years. At the end of a Taizé Prayer evening at St. Paul's United Church on campus, my very musical friend, Karen, was helping me lead the prayer with only guitar, voices, and her trumpet. As we often did, we asked if there were any musicians in the crowd who would be willing to help us lead our monthly musical meditation. 

We'd asked the same question many times without results, but this time, a couple approached and explained that they were delighted to find our prayer, that Walter played french horn and cello, Clara played piano and flute, and that they had come very early to the prayer, expecting the church to be so full that they might not get seats. They had heard about Taizé from a friend in Innsbruck who had been there, and they were very excited about joining our music group. And so, as Clara recently reminded me, they joined our very next rehearsal in my living room a few weeks later, using music I had photocopied for them until they could purchase their own books.

From then on, Clara and Walter became invaluable members of our musicians' group, and a beautiful and prayerful musical collaboration was born. Karen and I took to calling Walter "the Maestro" because he had a fine sensibility when it came to how the music should be sung and played -- I fondly remember him reminding us to go gently on the words "in laetitia" and suggesting not to sing "Dona la pace, Signore" so heavily -- "You're singing about peace, make it peaceful, but with longing!" The Mosers also brought many friends to make music, and where it had once only been Karen and me, we nearly had an orchestra!

After a few years of praying together at our monthly prayer evenings, the Mosers took a trip to Basel, Switzerland, and decided to experience Taizé themselves. It took them three trains and a bus to get to la Communité, and they thoroughly enjoyed their week there. Having an extra day before their train would take them back to Switzerland, they wanted to remain in Taizé, but their room was spoken for by new visitors. 

Having heard me announce at the beginning of many prayer evenings that Taizé was a small village "not far" from the town of Cluny in France, they  decided they could walk from Taizé to Cluny. After all, the bus ride had been only a few minutes between the two villages. Of course, after a few kilometers of carrying their heavy suitcase between them, they found themselves standing on the winding, shoulder-less road from Cluny to Taizé laughing hard. "Not far!" Clara exclaimed as she told me the story upon their return, and they both laughed again, wiping at their eyes, "it was 15 km!"

Not long after Clara and Walter's trip to Taizé we had a mix-up with music that Walter inadvertently blamed on me. He could sometimes come across as a bit gruff, and I was quite surprised by his reaction to a bit of confusion at one evening prayer. What happened was that, at Taizé, he had bought new music books with different page numbers than the North American books, and neither of us knew it beforehand. Being a very organized man, he was upset about having to scramble to find the right music, flipping pages and missing the start of each song, and he let me know in no uncertain terms.

When I pointed out the difference between our books, he was mortified to realize that he had blamed me for an honest mistake. A few days later, a package arrived in the mail with a letter of apology, an index of songs listed by titles, page numbers, and the books in which they appeared, and a music book with the "right" page numbers, matching his. It is my favourite music book because of its inscription: "From Walter Moser to MARIA." I am still deeply touched by his determination to make things right.

I don't know how long it took for me to connect the Austrian cellist with the Austrian biology prof. Longer than it should have! I think, though, it might have happened when we had a music rehearsal at Clara and Walter's acreage east of Edmonton, and he made a joke that finally reminded me of the man who stood on the stage at the Ed North amphitheatre. Walter seemed to be quite serious a lot of the time, but his eyes twinkled with mischief when glee broke through... and I'm sure that's what helped me to finally make the connection between Dr. Moser in my university years and Maestro Walter.

Regardless, I'm sure it was shortly after I told him that I had been a student of his when he and Clara invited me to bring my kids for time in the great outdoors. I don't have any really good pictures of Walter, but this is my favourite -- him wandering along their acreage cross country ski/hiking trail with my two-year-old in hot pursuit! The kids had a lovely time learning about life at the edge of the pond, chasing butterflies, and roasting wieners for lunch. I'm not sure they remember that outing anymore, but I will never forget it -- warm hospitality, and child-appropriate biology lessons.

Walter and Clara's involvement in our Taizé musicians' group lasted several years, until they decided it was time to "retire." Their absence left a huge hole in the rich music we had enjoyed making together... it was back to guitar, voices and flute (if we were lucky) -- no more cello, horn, sax, or piano, as several of the other musicians that came with the Mosers also moved on. But I kept Clara and Walter on the email list to let them know of our prayer evenings, hoping they could join us now and then.

In February of 2020, just before Covid-19, I received an email from Clara to let me know that she and Walter were downsizing and had some extra Taizé music books -- could I use them? So I had a lovely cup of tea with Clara (Walter was napping) and brought home more Taizé music books than I know what to do with. I wish I had seen Walter then, because now he is gone -- Karen called last week to let me know he has recently passed away.

Dr. Walter Moser was a biology professor who, I'm sure, inspired many of his students. I can't begin to speak to all that he accomplished in his years in academia because I don't know very much about that side of him. I am quite sure that he was a devoted father and grandfather (probably great-grandfather by now) just by the way he treated my own children, and that he passed his love of music on to his very musical family.

If you are someone with a story of Walter, or if you knew him better as Dr. Moser and don't mind sharing something in the comments below, I think that would be a wonderful thing. Because his academic career was mostly before our internet age, and because he was a humble man, it's next to impossible to know about him because he flew under the world's radar when it comes to fame and fortune. But those of us who loved him know him as someone very special, and our stories about him are definitely worth sharing.

What I know for certain is that my time with Walter the musician proved that he was a friend who was gentle, funny, talented, kind, and passionate about music -- and prayer. I will never forget the twinkle in his eye and the kindness in his smile. Certain people leave indelible marks on the hearts of those they meet, and he has definitely left his mark on mine. 

Hugs and heartfelt condolences to Clara and the family. 

Dear Walter, I look forward to making more beautiful music with you in the great beyond! I'm so grateful that you were so much more than a single-term biology professor in my life. Thank you for all the joy you brought, and the beauty of your soulful cello and exultant French horn that still resonate somewhere in my heart and soul.

Rest in peace, my friend.

Reflections on National Indigenous Peoples' Day 2021

The t-shirt I'm wearing today

With the recent revelation of the discovery of 215 unmarked graves at a former Residential School in Kamloops, BC, 104 others near Brandon, Manitoba, and the potential for many more across the country (the Truth and Reconciliation Commission gave 4,100 as a number of named and unnamed students who died at the schools -- but it's likely higher), our Indigenous brothers and sisters, and hopefully those of us around them, are very aware that there's a lot of grief that comes with being of Aboriginal descent these days. Yesterday at the Inner City Pastoral Ministry, Garry* told me that he was a Kamloops survivor. I'm so glad he is! His smile is a reflection of the sun even as his community carries so much pain... pain that no one should ever have to carry.

Today I'm marking National Indigenous Peoples' Day quietly, thinking of him, and of the childhood friend who taught me about indigeneity through her friendship. We were friends for just a few years in my childhood, as my family moved away from our shared small town in Saskatchewan when I was nine years old. Noreen was a child of the Sixties Scoop and a wonderful friend, but wasn't a letter writer, so we lost touch. She paid my family a visit in Edmonton when I was in High School and it was so great to see her again, but again, we lost touch. For many years. And I never stopped missing her.

When the internet became a place to find people, I googled her and found a picture of her riding a camel in Madagascar, but the website that displayed it offered no way to reach her. Then in 2015, Facebook came to the rescue. I found someone with her name, sent a tentative message, and our friendship as adults (in the same city!) began. 

Then three years ago, Noreen returned to her First Nations community in Saskatchewan, and lost her connection with Facebook when her phone died. I tried everything I could think of to reconnect, but was at a complete loss. I wrote a poem for her and sent it to her last email address, not knowing what else to do. That didn't work either.

But with the announcement of the 215 children lost because of the Kamloops Residential School just recently, I dreamed of my friend, and redoubled my effort to find her. Fortunately, I discovered her daughter on social media and asked to connect with her mom once again. And in no time at all, Noreen and I were texting like no time had passed, talking about our families and gardens and friendship. She has made a huge difference in my life in ways I can't even begin to express, but mostly in giving me an unending desire to connect with many other Indigenous sisters and brothers. Her friendship is an incredible gift, one I've done nothing to deserve, and I am grateful for her, so today I sent her the poem that got lost in cyberspace, and tomorrow we might video call each other, I hope!

I'm very grateful for her, and for the wisdom and goodness of Turtle Island's Original peoples, who have forgiven us so much already, and who are willing to work with us toward reconciliation of the many wrongs Canada's settler population have ignored for too long. There's so much I learned in the Indigenous Canada course two months ago that all Canadians should know -- so that we can begin to heal the hurts.

I pray that in the years to come, we will become aware of all the festering issues that need to be healed and attend to them with speed and compassion. We have so much work to do to apologize and fix things, and it all starts with reaching out to each other. Yesterday at the Inner City Pastoral Ministry, a group of dancers came to do a demonstration and educate us a little bit. I leave you with a few beautiful images from a very touching morning with such kind, and talented dancers, all! Their strength and goodness were more than inspiring. 

May we all be inspired to build relationships of peace and justice!

*Not his real name.

11,550 days -- A tribute to Vivien

That's how long I knew her. 11,550 days. I know the date that I met my mother-in-law because it was the same day that I met my life partner. I remember Vivien meeting me at the door of her home with a big smile and a hug, even though she had never seen me before. I didn't expect her to be so tiny, barely reaching my chin, but soon realized that her small frame held vast amounts of energy.

We met because my best friend was marrying Vivien's third son, and Vivien was holding a wedding shower for Sue. As Sue's maid of honour, I was expected to be there to note down the gifts given and to help with hostessing. It was a whirlwind of a weekend, and I don't remember very much about it, other than meeting Vivien, her husband, Louis, and their second son, Lee, who is now the most important person in my life.

Mothers-in-law have some sort of reputation for causing trouble, but somehow she and I connected like magnets on fridges (she had lots of those, to hold up grandkids' art). Mom, as I was soon to call Vivien, had a deep, deep faith in God. She watched morning mass on TV every day that she couldn't attend in person, and surrounded herself with handwritten prayers jotted on small pieces of paper. She cooked up storms of food, shared dozens (if not hundreds) of recipes, usually with copious notes in the margins, and dispensed equal amounts of prayers, hugs, and cookies whenever she and Dad came to visit their kids in Edmonton. 

Vivien's 65th birthday

Vivien was a wonderful grandma who loved to read to her grandkids, play with playdough and Legos, or help little fingers to decorate cookies and cakes. She organized Easter Egg hunts in her back yard, baked many birthday treats, and never failed to ask, "how are the kids?" when we phoned her. She kept Canada Post in business, never forgetting to send a birthday or anniversary card, enclosing generous monetary gifts. She camped with us and sang with us and loved us well. She was a force of nature, and I'm pretty sure she's already prayed us all into heaven.

Somewhere around her 80th birthday, she tripped off a curb in a grocery store parking lot and fractured her pelvis. (We teased her that the wind had finally managed to blow her over!) After four days in hospital, she checked herself out because her food allergies were causing more problems than the fracture. 

Unfortunately, that was the beginning of a long slow decline -- during which, she still found the capacity to do good. She sponsored a younger sister of one of her home caregivers to come to Canada and assist her full time, with a two year contract leading toward permanent residency. Mom rarely did things for herself unless they helped others, too. Many of our Christmas gifts were purchased from organizations that supported the less fortunate, or came in the form of donations to charities on our behalf. 

Five-year-old Vivien

I probably didn't properly appreciate my mother-in-law until my children grew up and we had more time to chat without their small hands pulling her away to some activity or other. That's when I learned more about Vivien's life -- how she had grown up singing daily Mass in a small Cape Breton town, gone to college to learn "proper" French, and been a Home Economics circuit teacher -- moving every few days to teach at two different rural Cape Breton schools.

In 1959, Vivien's friend, Mary, found a newspaper ad inviting young people to work at the Banff Springs Hotel for the summer, and the two decided to apply for a Western Canada adventure that, for Vivien, lasted the rest of her life. She was thrilled to be working in Banff for Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip's visit that year, proven by a blurry motorcade photograph of the couple, and her lifelong love for the Royals. She never missed the Queen's Christmas message, and if Elizabeth II showed up on TV, Mom always commented on her elegance. 

As a young woman, Vivien herself was very stylish, and people often commented on the sharp outfits she sewed for herself. She loved to tell the story of how she first saw her future husband at a dance, wearing bright orange pants, and how she immediately told Mary that he was the man she was going to marry. Mary replied, "You'd better do something to fix his sense of style!"

Stylish lady

After the couple's first child arrived, Vivien's teaching career ended, and she immersed herself in being a mother (of five, eventually) and a farm wife, teaching herself to keep the books for the family's farm operation. She also designed and oversaw the construction of one of the family's homes. 

One by one, her kids headed to Edmonton for university, and she supported them with her prayers from afar. She was so proud of all her children and grandchildren (and one wee great-grandchild) and always looked forward to having visitors. Living on the prairies, she often commented on how much she missed being around water, and I will always remember how happy she was when we camped together near the shore in Waterton Lakes National Park.

She loved music, especially anything Celtic, and I have fond memories of Mom dancing in the living room with my kids. After receiving a palliative diagnosis in January, she was delighted when two of those grandchildren made a special trip, ukuleles in tow, to sing for Grandma, masks on. At a previous concert, before covid restrictions prevented indoor visits, she had them give their entire performance twice!

Vivien had her share of sorrows and struggles, carrying many of them in silence, turning them over to God daily. During our last visit with her the weekend before she died, she shared them in a whisper, and then fell into a deep sleep, from which it seemed no one could wake her. Not knowing what to do, we played her favourite hymns sung by fellow Nova Scotian, Anne Murray, spoke to her quietly, and shed many tears, thinking she was leaving us. However, after several hours, during my husband's vigil shift, she woke up, looked at him and whispered, "Lee, go to bed! It's late!"

Watching Mom's energy dwindle over the last few years has been a source of sadness for her whole family. With Dad being a man of few words, she was usually the one to carry our long-distance phone conversations, but over the last six months, her voice became weaker and weaker, though she usually managed to at least sign off with her trademark, "Love to you all." 

But at the end of a call the night before she died, she barely managed to whisper, "Love you." We told her we loved her too, as always. The next afternoon, we received the news that she had peacefully slipped away to be with the God in whom she entrusted all her cares. We miss her very much, but we know that she's pulling on God's apron strings for us, the family members and friends she left behind. That, or cooking with God in heaven's big, beautiful kitchen!

Vivien, Mom, you were a good woman, generous and strong, a friend, confidante, and support to many, including me, and a brilliant example of faith, hope and love. I am so blessed that you were my mother-in-law. I have no doubt that you are being celebrated in heaven with all the holy souls, and I look forward to meeting you again. Maybe then we'll finally have time to bake your famous apple turnovers together...

A Tribute to Lidia

When the text came this morning, I was surprised by how hard grief hit me. Alfonso, the son of my 85-year-old Italian neighbour, Lidia, texted to let me know that his mom had died.

Lidia was an extraordinary friend, arriving in my life just when I really needed someone like her to make me laugh and to commiserate with me over the difficulties of raising kids. She was balm for my soul at a time when I was finding motherhood particularly challenging. Over the last few years, I spent many mornings in her kitchen -- she didn't have to twist my arm very hard to convince me to come in for coff (coffee, in Lidia's inimitable English) which often turned into lunch before I even realized it. 

Lidia had this knack for pulling food out of thin air, often a homemade minestrone with bread and asiago cheese, or a simple pasta dish with her homemade tomato sauce. And if someone extra showed up, there was always room for one more! Good Italian espresso was ever present, leaving me buzzing a little for the rest of the day. When I told her how much I loved her "coff," she gave me one of her little espresso makers, which I used this morning so that my daughter and I could drink a fitting toast in Lidia's honour. It went well with the last few Bertozzi ciambelline cookies she gave me on one of my last visits with her. Shadow-dog enjoyed a cookie in Lidia's honour, too. Whenever we walked past her house, he would automatically turn up her sidewalk.

Through long chats since her husband of 67 years died almost 18 months ago, I learned a lot about her life. An farm girl whose father died when she was 17, Lidia was married "by proxy" in Italy (an uncle stood in for her husband-to-be, Ralph, who was 27, and already in Canada). Ralph promised to send money back to support her mother and siblings near Cosenza (close to Naples) in exchange for Lidia's hand in marriage, and sponsored many of them to come to Canada in the years following. In the meantime, Lidia arrived in Edmonton at the age of 18, an early Italian immigrant who, to hear her tell it, "lost my papa, and married another papa." I suspect the difference in their ages became less of a factor over time as they grew into love for each other, and that love became clearly visible in their care for each other.

Ralph, who had found a job with one of Canada's railways after the end of World War II, already spoke passable English and knew his way around, but Lidia didn't know the language and stayed alone in their apartment for a time -- with a chair to hold the door shut as there was no lock. Her husband did most of the errands around town, and I don't think Lidia ever learned to drive. But at some point she found work in a Chinese restaurant (which turned her off restaurant food for life when she found a mouse in the soup) then as a cleaner of a large office building, and eventually a seamstress. As the Italian community grew in the 1950s, so did Lidia's circle of friends. She was very happy when one of her sisters came to live nearby.

Lidia's three children, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were the loves of her life, but she "adopted" me because her own daughter lives "too far" in Hamilton, ON. Whenever I phoned, it made it easier if I began, "Hello, my Italian mama," because she knew exactly who she was talking to, and she would often reply, "My daughter, you been away too long. You sick?" Other Lidia-isms -- "No to Fi'e Guys with Fries! I cooka my own food!" "Dat'sa da life," and "Goooda luck!" used both to exclaim over any kind of news or to wish someone well. How I loved her accent, though it sometimes made it difficult for me to understand her over the phone. She made me wish I could speak Italian!

The last year of Lidia's life was probably her most challenging because she was a social butterfly who loved to share food and stories with everyone she met. It was nearly impossible to visit without Lidia serving some kind of food. After losing Ralph to cancer, she found it hard to be alone -- and then the pandemic hit. Because she was unsteady on her feet, I worried about her, and sure enough, she had a few falls that left her bruised and sore. But she kept on going, determined to live out her life in her family home. 

I tried to check in regularly, usually standing at the door of Lidia's porch, though it took a while and many COVID deaths in her beloved Italy for her to understand why I would no longer come into her kitchen. Through the summer, we managed many visits in her back yard because she and her sons let me plant corn, peppers, tomatoes and a friend's perennials in her garden and greenhouse. 

Whenever I stopped by to water plants, I tried to make sure that Lidia and I sat properly distanced on the patio to chat, though it was always hard to dissuade her from bringing out cookies and coffee. If Shadow was with me, she gave him bits of ciambellini, and if it was late in the day and I complained about not knowing what to make for supper, she often had a perfect idea about what I could do. She gave me my one and only lesson on making gnocchi, and everything I know about cooking with squash blossoms, I learned from her.

When the weather got colder and we couldn't sit outside, I phoned each week, just to check in and make sure she was okay, and whenever Lee and I took our evening neighbourhood dog-walk past her house, we would look to be sure the hood light over her oven was on, a sign that all was well. But one evening in early December, only the porch light was on. So I texted Alfonso, and learned that Lidia had a stroke and was in the Glenrose Rehab Hospital, going through tests. About ten days ago, he let me know that she had been diagnosed with a brain tumour, and this morning, he let me know that she had "passed."

I have many reminders of my friend... a few perennials in my yard, my Lidia rose bush, a couple of houseplants she gave me, a couple of embroidered linens she created for her hope chest as a young woman, and the aforementioned espresso pot that has become my "Lidia coff" Sunday morning ritual. 

How I will miss my friend who, in her own words, "spoke English like minestrone," mixing it with her native Italian. I will miss the way she and her boys teased each other in "Lidia's Restaurant -- Please leave a tip" as the sign over her kitchen door announced. Lidia's voice was always the loudest, and her laughter was contagious. 

I will miss Lidia's phone calls and how she sometimes got my phone number mixed up with that of her neighbour next door, who is also named Maria. I will miss the way she could cry one minute and roar with laughter the next, her emotions always close to the surface. I will miss her way of looking at the world with deep faith in God, and optimism in spite of life's sorrows and struggles. 

Lidia, how blessed I was to know you. Thank you for being my friend, and for all your kindness since we met in 2013. I hope you and Ralph have had a joyful reunion! You both have a room in my heart. I have been missing you a lot over the last three months, and I hope that when you see those pink flowers (Lavatera, they’re called) in God’s garden, you’ll remember me, too. I look forward to a cup of espresso together with you and Ralph in heaven. I love you, my friend!

A good, good woman: a tribute to Auntie Barbara

Auntie Barbara, July 2019

A few weeks ago, one of my favourite aunties took the path to the pearly gates. Though Auntie Barbara lived a hidden life as far as our world is concerned, she had an immeasurable impact in our family and her wider community. She knew the hard work of the farm for many years, and when she and Uncle Steve retired, heavy physical labour was replaced by valuable volunteering. She was hospitable and generous -- with her, there was always room for one more. Though she spoke her mind, she did it gently and kindly, but in a way that left no doubt where she stood on an issue. She was, to put it simply, a good, good woman.

My earliest memories of Auntie Barbara are from when my parents left my sisters and me with her family so Dad and Mom could get away for a few days. I remember her being a warm presence, though at the time I was more interested in her kids than in her. 

For Auntie Barbara, it was no big deal to have three extra kids around, even if the littlest one was pretty homesick. Whenever we visited, it seemed there were always extra people at her family's farm -- in fact, I remember being a bit confused about which kids were my cousins and which were my cousins' cousins because they were all so nice to us.

As I grew, so did my connection with Auntie Barbara. As one of a great multitude of nieces and nephews (77 grandchildren for her parents!), I was always amazed at how she made the rounds, having little personal conversations with anybody and everybody at our big family gatherings. Next to Grandma, I think Auntie Barbara probably knew the most about the whole family, though I could be wrong. Nevertheless, she seemed to possess a natural curiosity that led her to go deeper than just hi-how-are-you conversations. When she asked a question about someone's life, she really wanted to know the answer. I can still picture her frowning and pursing her lips when news wasn't so good, or see her smile and hear her laugh when something was funny.

Auntie Barbara was the eldest of what I like to call a record-breaking family that never made it into Guiness' book because they weren't interested in being World Record holders. She was the firstborn of twelve siblings from the same two parents, all of whom made it past the age of 71. If I've done the math correctly, their collective years add up to 969, a rather impressive number that we all would have liked to see extended a few more years. But it wasn't meant to be.

As the eldest of her family, Barbara was a hard worker, like all my aunties, though she started earliest. Her gardens on the farm and in town were exceptionally pretty (Uncle Steve helped her a fair bit in the gardening department if I'm not mistaken), and her homes were well kept. There was often a quilt in progress somewhere to be found, and hand-me-downs to be shared. She and Uncle Steve raised six wonderful kids, who knew their routines and did their chores, and when we visited, I loved to tag along with them to find barn kittens, feed chickens, and learn about things that town kids like me generally didn't know. 

Besides admiring her as a good, good woman, a loving sister, mom, aunt, grandma and great-grandma, I was impressed by how Auntie followed her own dreams while caring for others. In Grade 8 she had to leave school to help Grandma out at home, but years later, after having her own family, Barbara returned to studies for her High School Diploma and "graduated" with one of her kids. She was a regular contributor to her small town's newspaper, and took some pretty wonderful photos. She'd probably laugh if I told her she was one of the artsiest farm wives I'll ever know, but she was.

When I wrote a story about the faith of my grandparents, it was Auntie Barbara who suggested I send it to be published in a local magazine, and who phoned to congratulate me when it was. Shortly after that, she shared my story with another writer in her town, who offered to include a revised version of it in an anthology of stories called Saskatchewan 2000 Remembers.... Auntie Barbara had several short pieces in the same book, so it made me smile to think we were published "authors" together. Five years later, when a second anthology containing more of her writing was published, she sent me a copy of it as well. Yesterday, I went looking for it and was delighted to rediscover the fact that she had signed it for her niece "with the same interests."

From that time forward, whenever we saw each other, the question was always, "What have you been writing lately?" Though following Simple Moodlings was a challenge for someone who wasn't fond of computers, she did try for a little while. She was always working on writing of some sort, and my mom often passed along clippings of Auntie Barbara's articles from The Prairie Messenger or The Macklin Mirror. Mom tells me that one of the last times she spoke to her eldest sister, Barbara was lamenting the fact that she didn't have enough time to write. She intended to produce a little booklet with some of her life's stories, like Rudy, her younger brother did, but company and events were keeping her from it.

A few years ago, when I admitted to her that I had written a novel for which I couldn't find a publisher, she insisted on reading the manuscript. We had quite a discussion about it afterward, and the story, which was about a girl caught in the sex trade, moved Auntie Barbara to send a donation to the Centre to End All Sexual Exploitation, an Edmonton organization that helps women leave street life. I might not have known about the donation, but because I had also shared my story with CEASE's director, she sent a note to tell me about Auntie Barbara's gift. I was deeply touched.

Being a lover of handwritten letters, I found a kindred spirit in Auntie Barbara (and a few of her sisters, too). One year when I mailed a very late Christmas letter to her in March, I received an Easter card thanking me for it and saying how nice it was to get mail after the Christmas rush. From then on, I made sure to send my Christmas letter late. Her own epistles arrived at the most unexpected times, like when she got wind of an award I'd received because one of those confusing cousins of my cousins mentioned it to her. Receiving an envelope with her compact handwriting on it was always a treat, as it held her thought as she sat down to write, maybe with one of her special photographs made into a card, often with a clipping of a cartoon or some jokes tucked inside. It was almost like having coffee at her kitchen table.

The last time I actually saw Auntie Barbara was last summer, when Lee and I stopped by her place the weekend of her brother and sister-in-law's 60th wedding anniversary celebrations. It was almost lunch time, so we picked up a few buns and some cold cuts, and when we arrived at her home, as per usual, a few extra folks had appeared. "I guess I didn't make enough chicken noodle soup," she said, "but we can always stretch it a little." Typical Auntie Barbara. Add a little water, salt, and a few more homemade noodles, and there was just enough of her infamous homemade soup to go around, with buns, cold cuts and the ever-present instant coffee that tastes so good anywhere but my own home. Cousin Leon told some hilarious stories, and we all enjoyed a simple meal with a feast of family connection on the side. 

Not too long ago Auntie Barbara called me to find out how my vertigo was, as her daughter, Wendy, was struggling with it too. I had no helpful suggestions for her to pass to my cousin, but was grateful for a little chat. It was the one time we forgot to talk about writing. Auntie told me that she was doing pretty well for being her age, and mentioned her amazement at her total of years creeping toward 90. 

When I stop for backyard social distance visits with my parents, I often ask for updates about my uncles and aunts. Over the summer, Mom mentioned that her eldest sister had been in and out of hospital a few times, nothing to do with covid, as there haven't been many cases in rural Saskatchewan. But in the beginning of October, my parents called to let me know that Auntie Barbara had gone to hospital and been moved into palliative care, and that her family was gathering to be with her. 

I kept a candle burning through that Sunday evening and all of Monday, as is my habit when I want to be reminded to pray for someone. On Tuesday morning when I lit my candle, which had gotten quite short, it went out within minutes, more quickly than I expected. I was looking for another candle when the phone rang and my mom told me that Auntie Barbara had "gone home" early that morning. Her faith in God was deep and strong, and I have no doubt she's found a huge welcome with all those angels and saints.

In this time of pandemic, attending a funeral three hours away isn't do-able when you come from a city with too many covid infections, so Lee and I were really grateful for the technology that allowed us to attend the service online. There were well over 1600 views by the end of the day, a sign of the many people who valued Auntie Barbara's friendship, more than a full cathedral's worth. None of us shed our tears alone.

Auntie Barbara, I remain so grateful for your friendship, warmth, and kindness. I have no doubt that you have found your way to the Source of All Being and are reunited with Uncle Steve and so many other loved ones. Thank you for being you, and sharing your interests with me. I'll miss you and your after Christmas letters, but will look forward to catching up somewhere in the Great Beyond. In the meantime, I continue to count you among my blessings.

With love,

Maria

My Lidia rose

This pandemic has been challenging for all of us, but especially my elderly Italian friend, Lidia. 

For the first few weeks back in March, she couldn't understand why I wouldn't come in for my weekly visit and cup of espresso, though she knew that thousands of people were dying in Italy. I would come to her doorway, but no further, much to her frustration, and it got to the point that I decided to stop going past her place. I phoned her instead. 

When the weather improved and spring warmed her back patio, I let Lidia know that we could sit outside and visit, socially-distanced, of course. But even that proved to be a challenge. Always concerned about offering hospitality, she would come out with cookies and a bottle of water or orangina. The day after my birthday, when I came to her door, she said, "Come in, come in, I make you caffe!" I could hear her putting together the espresso pot like she would not take no for an answer, so I said, "I'm sorry, Lidia, but I can't do that," and headed for home. The next thing I knew, she was standing on her back step, shouting, "Where you going? Come back!" and waving an envelope. "Your birthday card!"

It held a twenty dollar bill and a note saying that she was glad we are friends. I told her I would take the twenty dollars, buy a rose bush, and name it Lidia. And that is what I did. I also told her yet again that I couldn't eat or drink at her house, but that we could have a nice visit without food, and she finally agreed... though she still insisted on giving cookies to Shadow-dog if he was with me.

Perhaps foolishly, I made a deal with her son, Alfonso, to plant a few tomato and pepper plants in Lidia's greenhouse, with the promise to help with watering. I also put some petunias, clarkia and lavatera in her heavy cement planters beside the house and kept them deadheaded all summer for the most part. It was my reason to stop by each day and check how she was doing without getting too close.

Most times I've gone over to her place to weed or water, we've managed to keep our distance. But once Lidia decided to water the grape vines on the south side of the house, sat on a low step to do it, and couldn't get up. So I helped her. Another time, she dropped her cane and couldn't reach it to pick it up. So I did. And then there was the time that she was expecting an important call, but forgot the portable phone inside her back door and begged me to go get it. How could I refuse when she doesn't have an answering machine?

I worry about my friend with winter coming on. Her 85th birthday is on Tuesday, and though her family is very attentive, Lidia wants to be more of a social butterfly than she can be with two busy sons and a love for company of any stripe. I worry that she's not careful enough when it comes to the covid virus, and wish there was a way to connect her to some sort of video chat program so that she could see all the people she loves online, and chat anytime she feels lonely, as I'm probably not the only one who finds it challenging to understand her thick accent through the phone. But online chats would never satisfy her, I suspect. We all converse so much better in person. 

And in person, I could show her a picture of my Lidia rose now that she's finally blooming.

The pandemic vaccine can't come soon enough for our planet, or for friends like Lidia and me!

Breaking down barriers

Here's the video I mentioned in yesterday's moodling. If you've ever met my friend B., you know her smile and soft voice knocks down walls even better than she breaks boards. Enjoy! And click here if you would like to subscribe to see more of Michael McDonald's wonderful L'Arche videos.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAxbdIJL7l4

A cooking lesson with Lidia

This morning the snow was falling so thickly that Shadow-dog and I couldn't see downtown across the river from Strathearn Park. He had to galumph through the snow, his short legs barely making it over the berms along the edge of the bikepath. By the time we arrived at my dear Italian friend Lidia's, he was half black and half white, but she welcomed us in with a warmth that melted the snow in a hurry.

"Today you come for gnocchi?" she asked. I told her that I couldn't stay for lunch because I had a physio appointment to attend. That did not make her happy.

"I cook potato, we make gnocchi." She went to her fridge and brought out a large baking potato, skin on, that she had boiled yesterday, and proceeded to give me the gnocchi-making lesson I had jokingly suggested during my visit last week. After peeling the potato, she sliced it into her Italian potato grater, a piece of stainless steel sieve-shaped equipment that fits over a bowl, with a crank and an augur-like piece that pushes the finely-shredded potato through the bottom. I wasn't very good at operating the thing -- it kept going cockeyed -- so she took over and had the job done in two minutes (after I had been trying for five). 

"Two potatoes, two eggs. One potato, one egg," she said, mixing the one egg with one tablespoon of olive oil and beating it in a small bowl. She poured it onto the grated potato, and threw in a few handsful of flour.

"Lidia! You cook like my grandma," I teased. "You don't measure. How am I supposed to follow your recipe when my hands are bigger than yours?" 

She laughed and shrugged. "You tell by how it feel, not too hard, not too soff." When she had kneaded everything into a nice dough, she started to roll it into thin ropes, and chop it into small pieces that she tossed into a bit more flour. 

Then, the magic. 

She took a fork and rolled a piece of the dough on its tines with one finger, and voila! A beautiful little gnoccha. I laughed out loud! So that's why those little potato dumplings are so pretty! I got my own fork and we bent over the task together, me grinning like the Cheshire cat, exclaiming over the process. Doesn't take much to delight me! Hers had nice plump shapes, but mine looked like they were underfed.

By the time I had to leave, we had enough gnocchi for my family's supper. Of course Lidia sent it home with me, along with a jar of her wonderful homemade tomato sauce (with real Italian basil, grown by Ralph last summer) and instructions on how to put it all together. I told her she should be the star of "Cooking with Lidia" on TV, and she waved me off, saying I should go and get my own potato/tomato grater at the Italian Centre.

How I love my tiny Italian mamma!

I can't wait to eat supper tonight!

Ralph

When you become friends with an 88-year-old neighbour, it's probably wise to tell your heart that the friendship won't last as long as you'd like.

My dear friend, Ralph, died recently, and my heart is broken. We became friends in September six years ago, and I am very grateful for those six years. I continue to be grateful for his wife, Lidia, who is struggling with widowhood after 65 years of marriage.

Ralph's actual name was Raffaele, so much more poetic than I realized in all the time I knew him. And what a delight he was to me. The day that we first met under his plum trees, I thought him to be a bit gruff and unsmiling, but that first impression was incorrect. Within minutes, he had invited me into his home for coffee and Italian cookies, and we gardeners became fast friends, sharing produce and swapping garden stories. Lidia taught me how to make minestrone with squash blossoms, and makes me laugh when she says, "I speak English like minestrone!" All mixed-up, in otherwords. I fell in love with these two neighbours, no question!

It wasn't long before I kept an eye out for them every time I walked the dog past their house, and I would stop to say hello if Ralph was in his garden or greenhouse. I didn't really see him and Lidia very much over the winters. It's only been the last two years or so that I've made a point to go and visit them more frequently, including through the cold, dark, non-gardening seasons.

This year, I've tried to visit at least once a week, mainly because if I didn't, Ralph would come looking for me to be sure that I was okay. During planting time this past spring, I missed a week or two and was surprised when I arrived home from running some errands to find him standing in the middle of my backyard, saying, "It's been a longa time since you came over."

That's when I knew that I wasn't the nuisance neighbour who showed up and drank his coffee in the mornings, but a beloved friend who was missed if she didn't turn up on a regular basis. It made my day! But I was also very aware that it was a major effort for him to come looking for me, so I started letting him and Lidia know about my schedule and when to expect my next visit. I didn't want to be the reason for him to have any sort of accident, vehicular or otherwise.

One morning in August, on my way past his garden with the dog, I noticed him sitting rather listlessly on his back patio, and when I climbed the steps to say hello, he barely cracked a smile. Uh-oh. He mentioned that he was having pain in his left abdominal area, and he winced a few times as I sat with him and he told me about the tests he'd gone for.

The following week, when I came to the door, Lidia answered. I asked how she was, and she said, "Bad." We had a whispered conversation right there about liver cancer and how radiation or chemo were out of the question for a 94-year-old man. But Ralph was in fairly good spirits -- the doctor had given him some painkillers, and he was only taking them when it hurt too much. He was feeling okay, he said. Lidia complained that he wasn't eating her cooking, but he waved her off, saying he wasn't hungry, so I ate lunch with them that day to take some of Lidia's attention off his lack of appetite.

For the past few weeks, I was surprised each time I visited by how much Ralph had declined. The man who bragged about partying at his grandson's wedding until 1 a.m. was fading away. He had always impressed me with his robustness for a man in his nineties, but now his lack of appetite was clearly taking its toll. My last visit with him, he sat slumped in his kitchen chair, and he looked very pale. It was the day of his brother-in-law's funeral, and he wasn't feeling up to going. So we sat and visited and drank Lidia's espresso, but Ralph didn't have much to say, other than to tell me that he'd finally met his first great grandchild, named for him.

I was chatting with a visiting nephew (Ralph and Lidia often had visitors) when Ralph announced that he wasn't feeling well. Lidia and I watched him closely and did what we could to make him more comfortable. She kept insisting that he drink some orange juice, but I suggested that if he wasn't feeling good, something acidic might not be the best idea. She plopped a cool cloth on his forehead, but looked like she was going to teeter over herself, so I encouraged her to sit down, and took the cloth to wipe his dear old face.

Ralph's colour returned, and I laid the cloth over his forehead, kissed his cheek and told him that I had to catch a bus to our local Climate Strike, but that I'd see him again soon. That evening, Lee and I stopped by with some gingerale for him, but he was already in bed, so we had a little visit with Lidia, her son and his wife.


Monday morning when I returned from walking the dog, there was a message on my answering machine. Ralph's son called to let me know that he had died on Sunday afternoon. I had a little cry, then walked over to see Lidia, and we cried all over again. And I imagine we will for a while.

I miss my neighbour -- his quiet and gentle way, the way a smile would slide across his face when I teased him about being a magic gardener, his laugh when I told him that his lavatera plant was a tree compared to mine.

Thank you, Ralph, for six years of friendship, gardening companionship, and generous hospitality. Thank you for the tomato and squash plants and seeds you shared with me. Thank you for all our little garden visits. I would have enjoyed more time with you, but I am grateful for the precious memories you've left me.

We'll meet again in God's garden, I'm sure.