Today is my grandma's funeral in rural Saskatchewan, Canada. I live in Australia so I’m unable to attend. I feel like I should be there for the family. Although geography has kept us physically a part, I feel my contribution is to let people in on a few snippets of my experiences with this amazing woman, and reflect on how Vera Donison was such a shining star to all those who met her.
On first meeting, you might believe my grandma eccentric, if not a tad weird. Like her big personality, she had a penchant for big bright hats that matched her big bright dresses. She was a farmer first, so the bright attire only came out at social events like church gatherings, and later in life, the procession of funerals she used to attend. Even though she had long, beautiful, flowing hair, you would never see her, unless you were family, without her trademark wig. I never understood her need to wear it but never really asked. It was her thing. It made her grandma.
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| The last photo I have with my grandma |
She even gave me one of her ‘old’ wigs. I remember wearing it in my early twenties on a spontaneous ’crazy hat/wig’ theme night with some friends where we crashed, and got kicked out of, two weddings and a Christmas party at the Regina Inn hotel. It’s hard to blend in when you’re wearing a brown, curly wig with a bandana wrapped around it, and another friend is wearing a ‘coon skin hat. That wig helped make for one memorable night though.
Grandma came from a generation of farmers that was insulated from city life and city views. Trust me, you don't even want to ride in her, police-car-looking, Crown Victoria in the “big” city. (The big city of course is Regina, Saskatchewan Canada. Population: 180k. But to a farmer who's nearest neighbour is about 5km away, it's a big city).
The one time I can remember riding with her through the city, she was straddling two lanes and driving 40kmh. Even though her average speed on a country gravel (grid) road was a brisk 80 to 100. I remember, at about the age of 11, her picking my friend Larry and I up the day before Easter to drive the 60km to the farm. We were laughing and goofing in the back seat when PLONK! she hit a rabbit. That's right, my grandma hit the Easter Bunny a day before the big day. And what do you think she did? She pulled the car over, threw the dead bunny in the trunk (boot in Australia) and exclaimed that it would be "fed to the cats and dogs". We were a mix of horrified and in stitches at the same time. Life is definitely viewed differently on the farm.
The only time my grandma cared what people thought of her was when she was going to church or attending some kind of church function. It was a way to socialise and a place to belong. As a young kid, I used to attend the Romanian Orthodox services with her on Sundays. My grandpa would stay home and listen to records on his favourite chair, and I'd head out to church with my grandma, who sang in the choir. You are probably familiar with those choirs that make you want to get up and dance, or at least clap your hands, to the beautiful sounds emanating from the loft. Well, this wasn't that choir. Not even close. How do I put this politely? These little old ‘Bettys’ each had their individual harmonies that didn’t quite blend. But, grandma loved it. She would record that Sunday's choir on a tape recorder, and listen to it back on the farm. That would be the hour I would choose to go play with the dogs and cats, or sneak onto the “dangerous” hail stacks, jumping from bail to bail, feeling like a ninja. I would return a couple hours later to the safety, and silence, of the house.
She never pushed religion on me. Instead let me decide my beliefs for myself. Grandma definitely believed in God, serving for the betterment of the community. But, unfortunately it was the community who tested her belief many a time. From what I remember from my youth, some of the folk in the local town of Avonlea, and many of those church parishioners seemed to be friendly in front of my grandma’s face, but talk about her behind her back. But, she always took the high road. For a small, country, community it was like a soap opera. I remember walking into my grandma’s upstairs living room, and asking where all the church paraphernalia came from. Crosses, candles, priest’s robes…etc. Things that only belong in a church. My grandma told me, after one of the priests passed away, the ‘friendly’ folks on the church board decided to throw his belongings and church artifacts into the local dump. My grandma saw this, picked up every item, and brought it back to her house. She never called anyone on their misdeeds, but she held onto those items because it was the right thing to do. She didn’t know where to take them, or who to give them to so she kept them safe. I believe my grandma was the heart and conscience in that tainted church community. I’m not religious. But I believe your religion, and your god, should be a reflection of those around you. She later found those people after leaving the politics of the Romanian Orthodox church and joining a United church.
When my grandfather was alive, he would be the hard working, soft spoken one. My grandma definitely wore the pants. “GEORGE! “ ‘Do this or Do that’ I would hear from a kilometre away.
I wouldn’t get disciplined often by her, but I do remember a time when I was having some kind of tantrum, she picked me up with one arm, gave me a shake and said “calm down!’. I guess that’s farmer strength. I respected her even more than I already did from that moment on.
After my grandpa passed away, through her words and actions I could see that my tough, pant wearing, grandma had a definitive soft spot for my grandpa. Which left a big, gaping, hole in her heart for years after.
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| photo courtesy: C. Donison |
For those people who visited 'the farm’, and would later tell stories of her six deep freezes and four fridges, would be witness to her generosity from the moment they walked through her door. “You want pie?” She probably had about 5 different kinds in one of the freezers.
What about chicken?
Yes.
Cabbage rolls?
Yes.
Perogies?
Yes.
Chickens feet?
Dear god, no thank you!!
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| photo courtesy: C Donison |
If you had a dinner, lunch or were lucky enough to spend the night, snuggled into one of the goose down quilts, you know that meals and socialising took place in the basement. The upstairs was more for show, where she kept her fine china, boxes of family photos and multiple snaps of flowers from her yard. The upstairs living room had an organ and a piano which she loved to play and sing a little, and one of three bedrooms where her wig room was located. Otherwise everyone stayed downstairs.
She had what I call “The Last Supper” table. There were two, 6 person tables, laid out in a row. Above those tables, adorned on the wall, where dozens of framed Jesus and Mary paintings packed millimetres apart from one another. She would spread the dishes from one end of the table to the other. After the mega-meal, guests, which sometimes included Bishops and Arch Bishops, would stretch out in the adjoining living room and enter food comas. The kids (my aunts, cousin, and myself…) would do the dishes, and prepare ourselves for a “light snack” of leftovers and dessert a couple hours later.
From the age of ten or eleven, my grandma would let me drive the truck from the farm, ten of the twelve kilometres to the nearest town of Avonlea (couldn’t let the local police see me driving). She was fine with me driving on slippery gravel roads, barely able to see over the dashboard, But for some reason would dress me up in the thickest snow suit and mitts that were three sizes too big, a motorcycle helmet, and repeatedly tell me to “make big circles” when taking the snow mobile out into the snow fields. I'm kind of glad she did, there were some close calls. I never did make big circles. Sorry grandma.
She loved animals. But hated them in her yard (definition: the fenced area of her house). This included cats and dogs. If she spied a cat sneaking into the yard she would grab her whip located near the door and “shew” them away. Or for those cats who were repeat offenders, she would grab the BB rifle and charge onto her footpath screaming “Get! Get! Get You’s Cats!” while firing off a couple rounds. I would have been sad if she ever hit anything, but her aim was terrible. Or a least she had us believe it was.
There was only one cat, we called Mama Cat, who was allowed in the yard. Not sure why this particular cat had a pass. But, I blame Mama Cat to this day for snatching away the gopher I thought I could tame with a leash of twine, walking it around the yard. About then minutes into the walk, Mama Cat ran out of the bush and snatched the little gopher, ripping the twine from my hand. My first, and last gopher pet was never to be seen again. Damn you Mama Cat! Damn You!!!
Later in life, the cats and dogs got closer, her love for them grew stronger, and It would’t be a surprise to see a cat, or dog, strolling around the house. It was probably in part due to my cousin Tyler’s love for dogs and her tremendous love for grandma. She eventually won the right to bring her dog Hexe (sp?) into the inner sanctum. At first grandma would pretend to complain, but would eventually give in and admit to enjoying the company of her furry friends.
The funeral is over by now, the family gathered back on the farm, left to dig through the six deep freezes, scrounging up a few items for "The Last Supper” to serve guests. It’s eleven in the morning here on an Australian Sunday, which means it’s seven in the evening on a Saturday in Regina, Canada. I’m hoping, along with the tears shed and food shared on this sad day, those who loved Vera Donison will remember her kind heart, good deeds, and giggle at all the laughs she gave us.
As you may recall I said my grandma was eccentric, and a tad weird. That’s not a negative description at all. In our family we like to call it the “Donison Charm”. My dad, aunts, two of my sisters, cousin Tyler, and myself, all share these traits (My mom is zany as well, so I never stood a chance.) And each one of us is thankful those traits got passed down to us. We’ll make you laugh, shake your head in disbelief, and be there for you in a pinch. We just want the best for others. And that’s all my grandma ever wanted. I wish I would have thanked her for some of the best experiences, and lessons, of my life. Thank you grandma for leading by example. Educating me in strength, integrity, and showing me it’s okay to be an individual, to keep an open mind, and to hold onto my beliefs as long as they contribute positively to those around me.
I would pay good money to walk through her farmhouse door, and hear her singing along ‘ in harmony’ with her choir recordings one last time.
Rest well grandma. Thank you for the memories. I’ll miss you.
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| photo courtesy - D Donison (19/03/2016) |
Love,
James Donison
March 20 (March 19 in Canada), 2016
