Forget Me Not
My grandma used to host these Women’s Institute and Women of Unifarm meetings. Everything had to be just so. She’d ask my dad to mow the lawn around her small white farmhouse. It’s never been seeded, and remains prairie grass today. She’d put out her best china. White with a spray of blue forget-me-nots. There were ribbon sandwiches – alternating slices of brown and white bread stacked with ham and cheese and egg salad. She’d take down the Tupperware from the high cupboard where she hid the home-made candy – brown sugar fudge and (my favourite) pink marshmallows. There would be squares and pies. All beautifully arranged on the formica kitchen table covered with a hand-embroidered cloth. Served with tea, of course. I remember the ladies trickling in. There was a formal meeting, but I would have been kicked out before that. I mainly remember the food. And the hub-bub of getting ready.
Grandma was the Constituency Convener for the Women’s Institute or WI. The Women’s Institute was organized in Ontario in 1897. The group’s goal was to “acquire and spread information” which would help rural women with their responsibilities at home and in their communities. The WI became a national organization in 1919 and international in 1933, first traveling to England and Wales. Her Majesty Queen Mary was the President there and the Women’s Institute was called, “Canada’s gift to the motherland.” The WI still exists. A photo on their website shows a small group of older ladies out for their annual greenhouse tour.
The Women of Unifarm, however, disbanded over twenty years ago due to aging membership and no money. The Women of Unifarm was an off-shoot of the United Farmers of Alberta or UFA and was established in 1915. Their focus was social welfare and betterment of rural life. The organization lobbied for safe drinking water, sponsored agricultural fairs and traveling libraries, knit scarves for soldiers, and raised money for the war effort. Over time, their focus expanded to the legal status of women and children, property rights for farm women, reproductive rights, farm economics, marketing, and safety, stress on the farm, affordable medical care, and rural services. The group wasn’t without controversy, supporting the sterilization of people released from psychiatric hospitals. The Sexual Sterilization Act was passed in 1928 in Alberta and wasn’t repealed until fifty years later. Despite this, they were respected for their advocacy and lobbying. Yet, they were not allowed to petition government without permission from the UFA – the men’s group.
Grandma lived through World War II. The Depression. She told us about the hobos (her words, not mine) that would walk through her parent’s homestead and ask for food or water or lodging. They were never turned away. Even when there was little or nothing to spare. Perhaps living through these times fueled her interest in joining women’s groups with a mission of helping others.
She grew up in eastern Alberta, but was proud that her parents had emigrated from the States. She would regale us with tales of her basketball prowess. The other children would yell, “Pass it to Frances! She’ll get a basket!” She won a set of books for the best marks in the school division. She was annoyed that they had been inscribed with “Francis” with an “i” instead of an “e”, assuming that she was a boy.
Grandma was a lady. She dressed well. Always wore lipstick. And never left the house without a hat. I later learned that she was embarrassed of her thinning hair. I thought she was quite glamorous. For an old lady. She would swear, but it, too, was quite lady-like, “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!”
Grandma started losing her memory when I was pretty young – around 10. Her house stopped smelling like cinnamon and fresh buns. It smelled stale, like burnt toast. Her lipstick was wonky and she started looking disheveled. Grandma would ask the same question over and over again. She worried about money and food. She’d wring her hands and ask for a glass of water or a crust of bread, even if she’d just eaten. She worried about things. Once, I’d borrowed her rubber boots to help my dad with the cows. Grandma kept coming to the fence and asking when I’d return them. I got frustrated and took them off, carrying on in my sock feet. My dad couldn’t understand and hollered, “What is wrong with you, Mother?” We didn’t understand Alzheimer’s.
Grandma would wander the house muttering lines from the Robert Browning poem – “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made.” My mom would sometimes grumble after the second line, “It sure is,” as she rummaged through dresser drawers for scraps of food that Grandma had squirreled away or tried to convince her to return the wet bedsheets that were hanging from the backs of furniture to the dryer.
I was talking to my mom recently, Grandma’s daughter-in-law, when she commented, “Your grandmother never spanked her children. She was progressive, you know?” She was a liberal. An avid NDP-er in a sea of Social Credit, and later, Progressive Conservative, neighbours. She was a big fan of Tommy Douglas.
She was a feminist, for women’s lib – or as my grandfather referred to it – women’s “lip.” She was smart and strong and capable. She would have given anything to go to University, but she couldn’t afford it. She worked as a housekeeper for the doctor’s family in town. As legend has it, she taught Jean Pare, the famous cookbook author, how to cook. I remember being gifted a children’s baking set, with tiny jars of pungent spices. Grandma was known for her baking, and I desperately wanted her to teach me. I don’t remember ever baking with her, though. I was young, and Grandma was a perfectionist. I don’t think she would have had much patience for my mucking about in the kitchen.
She got married in her mid-30s and had her second, and last, child at the age of 40. She kept chickens and pigs and did all of the things that farm women had to do. She read. She wrote short stories and poetry. She gardened and baked and cooked and sewed. One of her cross stitch pieces won first prize at the local fair – even though it had been wrong side up for the judging.
Grandma never learned to drive. She was married to a man who fought in WWII and didn’t receive the help that he surely needed upon his return home. A man who drank. He wasn’t well and went to live in a nearby town to be closer to the hospital. That’s what they told everyone. She still cooked him home-made meals and caught rides to deliver them in person. He passed away when I was very young.
Grandma lived on the farm for as long as she could. She probably stayed too long. Eventually she moved to a long-term care facility. She had some trouble or as they called it “behaviours.” She once marched into a neighboring room where the TV was blaring and knocked it off its stand, shattering it, and then marched out. She had to go to Ponoka - a town synonymous with its mental health facility - to have her medications adjusted and monitored. We visited her there, but I remember it being hush-hush. She would have seen it as a shame. She still worried about food. During a family conference at her long term care facility, the dietitian commented that she couldn’t understand why Grandma was gaining weight. My dad piped up, “I do. Every time I visit, I bring her a handful of chocolate bars.”
Grandma died seventeen years ago. I was in University and had Finals. A big scary one that I’d been preparing for and stressing over. I didn’t go to her funeral. Everyone told me that she would have wanted me to write my exams. So I did. She had insisted on the cheapest casket. She was practical like that. The casket was awful – covered in ugly grey carpeting, but draped with a beautiful flower arrangement. Prairie flowers. Flowers that Grandma loved and grew.
My great-aunt, Grandma’s sister, was in the same facility. I went to visit her and then walked to the other wing where Grandma was. I realized when I arrived that she wasn’t there. I’d forgotten that she died. I wish I would have went to her funeral. I wish I wouldn’t have gotten frustrated about the rubber boots. I wish we wouldn’t have corrected her when she mistook us for some long-dead relative. I wish she would have taught me how to bake. I wish I could sit in on one of her women’s meetings. And that we could have talked politics and books – and maybe even fashion.
Sometimes I feel as if I don’t fit in – in our family, in our small town, with the other moms. I do things a little differently. Not better, just different. I don’t do time-outs or rewards or bribes. I don’t make them clean their plates or take two more bites. And I don’t follow them around enthusing, “Good job!” or warning, “Be careful.” I’m a little weird. I like reading and listening to podcasts – learning. I like theatre and writing and talking about psychology and social issues.
I wonder if maybe one day my child will be talking with my grandchild and casually say, “Your grandma was progressive, you know.”
