Blackboard Education

School is memorable for so many reasons.

Friends. Enemies. Sports.

Life lessons.

The occasional chance bit of education that slips in and the teacher(s) who accidentally accomplish it . . .

In Lethbridge, Alberta in the early ‘40s, there a great teacher.

Young and energetic, he was one of those inspiring men with the enthusiasm and determination needed to pour knowledge into thirty-plus mostly-resistant heads.

One of which was my dad’s.

Every day, this teacher would painstakingly write out his lessons—filling the blackboard.

Then, just before the end of the period arrived, just as painstakingly review everything he had struggled so hard to put down.

And, every day, he would begin said review with these words: “Class? Watch the board while I go through it.”

Now, admittedly, to him, these words were supposed to suggest exactly what he said. The review was about to begin.

To his students, something far different was understood.

And they waited, day after day, for it to happen.

But never, in all the years this man taught my dad did he actually go through the board.

Rats.

Because that would have been an education.

Home Again. Home Again...

This says it all...

Two years in the planning. Check.
Savings gone. Check.
Cruisewear purchased. Check.
Flight to Sant Maartin. Check.
Luggage sent to Miami. Check.
Luggage found and returned. Check.
Ship boarded. Check.
The occasional bout of mild seasickness (remember, I am a child of the prairies.) Check.
Own weight in food consumed. Check.
Sunscreen applied. Check.
Sand waded through. Check.
Islands of the sea explored. Check.
Shopping on said islands of the sea. Check.
Sting Rays fed. Check.
Blue, Caribbean waves floated on. Check.
Afternoon naps in the sun. Check.
New, forever friends found. Check.
Long, starlit evenings under a Caribbean moon. Check.
Laughter and singing and dancing and visiting and reading and writing and quiet times. Check.
Wonderful, marvellous, stupendous once-in-a-lifetime experience. Check.
Planning underway for the next time. Check.

And: Won't forget important foundation garments next time. Check.

First glimpse of the Caribbean

First selfie on the beach

First glimpse of the Star Clipper.

Canadian hits the beach.

Sailing with our sister ship! The Royal Clipper.

Steering the ship. Sorta.

Iles de Saintes. I wanna live there!

Lifeboat drill. Expressions of terror optional.

Moonrise over Saba Rock.
Where they paved paradise and put up a restaurant . . .

New wonderful friends, Staci and David.

The only time these guys stood still.

Watching the Batik happen.

The last bell tower.

View from Brimstone Hill fortress on St. Kitts.

Ditto.

The view from our bedroom. Sigh

We're Off!

Ready for anything . . .

My Husby loves to travel,

It’s just the way he is,

North or South; East or West,

The world is truly his.

He loves to take me with him,

(It’s good I love to go)

Foreign or domestic,

Above or Down Below.

But there’s one thing problematic,

One teeny, little blight - 

To see most things he wants to see,

We have to take a flight.

To get us two from here to there

We hurtle through the air,

While all around me talk and eat,

I curl up in despair.

He says we’re safe, quotes stats galore,

The balanced dance of gear.

I see a tube with flimsy wings,

That gives me naught but fear.

This time, our target’s tropical,

We'll cruise and eat and swim,

But though I will be happy there,

The problem's flying in.

I love to go to a'travelling,

And be sunstroke aware.

I’ll treasure each small moment,

The pain is getting there!

Tomorrow morning, Husby and I head out for three wonderful weeks of sea and sun. We'll talk when I get home . . . 

I'll miss you! 

Adventure Calling

Sometime, I’d like to take a trip,

To parts mysterious and deep,

‘Cross vast and strange new lands, I’d skip,

Go tooling in my trusty jeep.

Taking everything in stride,

No mayhem, monsters, storms or signs

Would startle me or turn the tide,

From exploration I’d designed.

I’d walk on lands both near and far,

And check out strains indigenous,

No qualms, no fears of things bizarre.

No misgivings to discuss.

I’d leave my sterile world behind,

And print my own exciting map,

Feeling free and unconfined,

Adventures falling in my lap.

I’d learn the jargon: trudge, poop deck,

Adventure, survey, navigate,

Tramp, spelunk and cruise and trek,

Ramble, hike, triangulate.

I’d do all this, and without fear,

Though one thing dims my zeal somewhat,

To see those worlds both far and near,

I’d have to get up off my butt.

Just a note: Two more days and I will be getting up off my butt . . .

On Cow Watch

Don’t ask me how he got it,

(I don’t know anyway!)

But Ol’ Jones owned a golden watch,

‘Twas with him every day.

Then, one sad day, he lost it,

Out, somewhere in the plain.

Mid grazing cows and antelope,

And miles of golden grain.

For hours his household searched there,

(It was that dear, you see),

But none could catch one glint of gold,

Though days were spent on knees.

The watch was not recovered,

And years would pass away,

At times, Ol’ Jones still pondered hard

‘Bout where it went that day.

Then, one day, took to market,

A grand old ‘herbivore’,

It was her time, the poor old dear,

To serve the carnivores.

The butcher soon discovered,

(With meat before him spread),

A glint of gold in the old girl’s gut,

(She’d clearly been well fed.)

The watch had been discovered,

And this I must admit,

Restored to the old farmer there,

When it’d be cleaned a bit.

Now the part that’s hard to ‘swallow’,

Is this part coming now . . .

For the golden watch was running true!

After years inside the cow.

Now how could this one object,

So miraculously found,

Survived the years down deep inside,

While keeping itself wound?

The experts speculated,

With their investigations done.

That the churning of the stomach there,

Had made the gold watch run.

Well now you’ve heard the story,

As my dad told it to me,

Of farmer, cow and running watch,

Do you, like me, believe?

Four-Footed Saviour

Us. And Mike as a puppy.

We had a dog. 

Mike. 
Big dog. 
Saint Bernard. 
Very protective. 
He thought nothing of risking his very life defending us from such dangerous things as – the cat. Tumbleweeds. 
The occasional cardboard box, blowing in the wind. 
Laundry. 
In the history of the world, no one was safer. 

My parents could relax, knowing that Mike was on duty . . .

It was summer.

Summer meant swimming on the ranch.

How convenient that the south fork of the Milk River curved  around the ranch buildings like loving arms.

Baking in the hot sun while lying on the sandy shore.

Looking up through the cloudy water to see the particles of grit suspended in the light.

The very best of times.

Back to Mike.

Such bliss needed to be shared with our very best friend.

Right?

Well it seemed like a good idea at the time . . .

We didn’t realize that Mike was a mountain dog. Swimming hadn’t been programmed into his non-rewritable brain. 

He knew only two things. 
Snow. 
And saving people. 
Oops. 
At first everything went well. 
We swam. 
Mike ran up and down the bank, barking frantically. 

Then, the problems started.

If anyone ventured near enough to grab, he did so by whatever protruded. 

And drag them further up onto the beach.

To his horror, the ‘saved’ person would inevitably extricate themselves and, without even a thank you, nullify all his best efforts by charging back into the milky waters.

It was more than the 'saving people' part of him could stand.

He started venturing further and further into the uber-dangerous, monster filled water, seeking someone to save. 

He'd find a limb. 
Or a backside. 
Then grab it, and whoever it was attached to, and drag them out of the water kicking and screaming. 
How happy they must be that he was on hand to save them! 
Listen to the sound of their relief! 
He would bark happily and charge in for the next heroic act . . .
He never managed to drown anyone that day. 
A true miracle. 

And we learned from the experience.
After that, when we went swimming, our hero guarded the garage. 
From the inside.

More Than a Bargain

Most of the ranching families of my acquaintance were hard-working, honest folk; generous and helpful and willing to pitch in if ever a colleague or neighbour—or even a stranger—needed it.

Maybe it had something to do with the isolation their chosen profession necessitates. Miles between neighbours. Vast tracts of land stretching forever, inhabited only by cows, antelope and the occasional tumbleweed.

My grandfather, George Lewis Stringam (a member of this noble and notable group), was a man of scrupulous honesty and a wonderfully overdeveloped sense of fairness.

Qualities he passed on to his sons . . .

Uncle Owen, eldest of Grandpa Stringam’s nine sons was a rancher like his father. For some years, he ranched near the hamlet of Blindloss in southern Alberta.

While there, he made the acquaintance of a young, newly-minted and recently-married rancher, Bradley. The two men helped each other out on several occasions and became good friends.

When Owen sold his ranch and bought another near Duchess, Alberta, the two families kept up their friendship.

A couple of years later, Bradley came to Owen for advice. He had a chance, he said, to sell his ranch and go farming. The offer had been made for his land and he had one day to consider it and give an answer.

Owen counselled him to wait. At that point in time, 1948, there was an embargo on cattle sales in their area. An embargo that everyone expected to be lifted at any moment.

Once it was off, cattle prices would soar.

But young Bradley didn’t want to wait for some future event that could possibly be far in the future.

Giving in, Uncle Owen sat with him and figured a price for his land, buildings, cattle, horses and machinery. Then suggested a compromise.

If Bradley refused the present offer, Owen would come down and look over the land. And, if it was as good as he remembered, he would pay $5000.00 more than what they had just estimated.

Happily, Bradley agreed and the deal was struck.

Owen duly came, looked over the land, and, after once more cautioning Bradley to wait for the embargo to be lifted, agreed to the greater price.

Papers were drawn up by the bank. A down payment changed hands.

And Bradley and his wife headed for the last time toward the home they had just sold.

But the story doesn’t end there.

As they drove, an announcement came over the radio that the embargo had just been lifted. Cattle were selling for twice what they had brought only four hours before.

The couple turned around and hurried back to Owen, asking that he tear up the papers and forget the deal.

Owen refused, saying that he had repeatedly warned Bradley and that they had made a more-than-fair agreement.

Disappointed, the couple left once more.

But for the next two months, Bradley kept calling, asking Owen to reconsider.

Owen and his brother, Bryce, took a portion of their newly-acquired herd to market.

And made enough to pay for the entire ranch.

Plus $6000.00.

The two brothers decided to do something unusual.

They would offer the remainder of the herd—some 240-plus head—back to Bradley.

Then throw in the ranch and machinery.

As a gift.

Nope. Owen definitely wasn’t about to cancel a bargain.

But he didn’t have a problem making a new . . . and infinitely better . . . one.

Swinging Away

Photo Credit

Dances are fun.

Even for the unenlightened (ie. non-dancer).

In my Dad’s younger days, dancing was one of few forms of entertainment.

Alongside books (Google it) and games.

Let’s face it. It was the 1930s. Electricity was just out of the gate. Radio was the sought-after-but-not-yet-universally-available ‘new’ home amusement and only Jules Verne or H.G. Wells had any conception of electronic devices.

Soooo . . . dances.

Dad went to a lot of them. Some at his school, but most in the basement of the local church.

Taught basic steps by his Sunday School teacher, he tried to wow the ladies in his adolescent circle. In those days, it wasn’t really a necessity. Everyone danced with everyone, regardless of dance ability or social prowess.

One evening, his future brother-in-law, Ken, was one of the dancers.

A Virginia Reel was introduced.

I should probably mention, if you are not already aware, that the Virginia Reel is a fun, old-time dance that involves a lot of swinging. And/or whooping.

Usually at the same time.

But occasionally for different reasons . . .

Ken’s partner was a woman of . . . well, let’s just say she was large and leave it at that.

Ken was a stick of a man. Tall and slender.

The two had been doing well to this point in the dance. Then came the swing.

Hooking elbows in the tried and true technique, they started in.

Now, normally, there is no cause for alarm during this manoeuvre.

The partners simply swing around and return to their usual positions.

Easy.

Except when there is . . . enthusiasm.

And a difference in weights.

As they swung, Ken felt himself being lifted right off his feet.

In a blind panic, he let go.

The woman went down on her . . . erm . . . posterior, and slid ten feet across the dusty, waxed floor; sweeping a nice, clean path two feet wide.

The dancers froze.

Then the whole room erupted into laughter.

The whole room.

Dancers and sliders.

Say what you will about dancing.

Even for the non-participant, it has entertainment potential.

Meeting Movements

See? 4-H. Totally important.

 I was raised on a ranch near the small town of Milk River, Alberta.

On the Alberta/Montana border.

Farming and ranching country.

We were, quite literally, children of the prairies.

Big brother, George. And calf.

And the highlight of our young lives - the very pinnacle we could aspire to – was 4-H Calf Club.

Our world was small, I admit it.

Yep. When we turned the age of twelve, we could – at last! – join the calf club.

We learned many things there.

Of course, the main (and most obvious) were the care and feeding of your calf.

In my case, handled almost exclusively by my big brother, George.

Because he’s amazing. (Are you reading this, George?)

Big brother, Jerry, ditto.

But there was also the record keeping. (Which George completely refused to do for me. Sigh.)

And the monthly meetings.

Wherein (Oooh! Good word!) we were supposed to learn the proper, accepted, efficient way to run a gathering of that type.

I emphasize the words ‘supposed to’.

Because we didn’t.

Always.

In fact, at some point during many of our meetings, our current club president would throw up his hands and exclaim, in loud and carrying tones, “I don’t know why I do this! I’m getting outta here!”

Something he never did.

Returning to the idea of running a proper meeting . . .

Me. With glasses. And calf.

We had been taught that, if we had something to offer, we should do it in the form of a ‘motion’. As in: ‘I would like to make a motion.’ And then followed by ‘I move . . .’

We were getting it. We were.

One evening, the meeting had been going well.

Everyone had been unusually attentive.

And our leader hadn’t, even once, cried out in despair.

Then one shy young man stuck up his hand.

He was recognized by the ‘Chair’.

And he proceeded. “I-I-I w-would like to m-make a movement!”

There was silence. Then some sniggers.

Umm . . . first door down the hall? Says ‘boys’ on the door?

One of the leaders whispered into his ear, “Motion.”

“Motion!” he corrected himself, turning bright red. “I-I w-would like to make a motion!”

Things carried on.

But the mood had definitely been lightened.

Who says meetings have to be boring?

4-H. Don't you wish you were here?

The grand finale.

Size Matters

My youngest daughter and I were grocery shopping yesterday.

That in itself may seem unremarkable.

But, in the course of the conversation as we were wandering up and down aisles, she reminded me of something.

Allow me to share . . .

Our family is large. In a couple of ways.

Six kids, most of whom are over six feet in height.

When they were all still home, these large people ate large meals.

Back then, our supplies were, justifiably, bought in bulk.

It was a necessity if one didn’t want to shop for groceries every. Single. Day.

Which I didn’t.

Sooo . . . bulk.

To us, it was a normal way to live. Peanut butter, miracle whip, honey, pickles, salad dressings, oil, margarine and other foods by the pail. Ketchup in a bag. Soups in gallon containers. Large quantities were deposited in the cold storage according to directions. Then small containers were filled from larger containers and kept in the kitchen for easy access.

By the time the younger kids were helping with meal preparation, this had been the ongoing practice for as long as they’d been alive. Even the older kids had forgotten their ‘long-ago’ when food was purchased in normal sized containers.

We walked past a tub of margarine. I looked at it. “Huh. Remember when we bought margarine in that size?”

My daughter laughed. “I remember when we bought it in the five-gallon pail and I had to take a smaller container and fill it from the big one!” She went on. “One of my first discoveries when I moved away from home was that food comes in smaller containers. I thought they were so cute and tiny. Little jars of peanut butter and miracle whip. I even had to bring one home to show you.”

“I remember.”

“My roommates thought I was crazy.”

“That goes without saying.” For that comment, I got ‘the look’.

“A person learns so many things when you leave home.”

It’s true.

Life comes in all shapes and sizes.

Small, medium, large. Extra large.

The trick is finding which you need.

Barn(yard) Dance

Old Ranch. The barnyard is out there.
Near the  . . . ummm . . . barn.

My very first ranch memory occurred when I was two. 

I had my new little red cowboy boots on. I was ready for anything. 

Dad was out in the blacksmith shop and I knew he would be happy to see me. Certainly, I would be happy to see him and though there was a fence and a large barnyard between us, I decided to make the journey. 

I'm afraid I rather discounted the importance of . . . the Cow.

Oh, I knew she was there. I just didn't think it was important.
It was the custom in those days to take the calf away from the milk cow and only put the two of them together morning and evening, after the cow had been milked. That way, the cow’s production stayed very high, we were assured a constant supply of milk, and the calf received enough to ensure its proper growth.

A good system all around.

Except that one usually ended up with a rather irate, over-protective full-grown mama cow wandering at will in the barnyard. 

No problem. If you were an adult, or very fast.
I probably don't have to tell you - I was neither . . .

I approached the gate.

I don't know what it is about little children. But cows seem to think they are something dangerous. A dog, perhaps. Or a coyote or wolf.

I do know that this particular cow spotted me the moment I came into view.

And went into instant I-must-watch-this-creature-because-I-have-a-baby-and-who-knows-what-said-creature-may-do mode.

I stood just inside the gate and watched her. 

She looked . . . nervous. Twitchy.

Perhaps what she needed was some conversation!

Having been raised to nearly three on a ranch, I was fully confident of my ability to speak cow. I walked over to the fence, put my face against the bars of the gate and proceeded to bellow impressively. I don’t know what I said, but it must have been interesting because the cow began to make noises of her own. 

And then she started running feints at the gate. 

Being two, I thought she was merely trying to amaze me. I continued to ‘talk’. She continued to react.
We were communicating.

Finally, in a positive froth, she pounded over to the barn to make sure that her baby was still in his pen, unharmed. 

The way was clear for me to climb the fence and cross the no-man’s (or children's) land that was the barn yard. I proceeded to do so. 

I probably made it a few yards before she hit me. I don’t remember much about that part.

My mother takes over the story from there.
She had been working in the kitchen and keeping an eye on me through the window. She had seen me standing beside the gate. Suddenly, as with any toddler, I disappeared. She didn't waste time in searching. She knew instinctively where I had gone. She started out on the run, spotting me just as I dropped down from the fence in triumph.
On the cow side.
Mom’s sight was obscured for a few moments as she ran. 

Trees. Sweat. Whatever. 

By the time she again had me in her sights, I was down and the cow was turning for a second engagement.
Mom leapt the fence at a single bound (maybe she opened the gate and ran through, but this sounds better) reaching me just ahead of the black and white frenzy. 

She scooped me up and screamed for my Dad, while the cow tried to knock me out of her arms. For a few seconds, Mom avoided the angry, gesticulating cow by spinning, pirouetting gracefully.
There was some real ‘bull-fighter’ potential in my mother.
But soon, the cow tired of the performance and changed tactics. 

She decided that the best way to the child was through the mother. Fortunately this new ‘barn(yard) dance’ with me at the centre was cut short by the arrival of my enraged father.
When anyone, or anything, was threatening one of his children, my dad would . . . well let me put it this way. 

Mount Vesuvius. 

In work boots. 

Needless to say, in short order, the cow forgot all about her ongoing problems with me and  headed for the nearest far-away place with her tail tucked – figuratively speaking – between her legs, while a tear-stained toddler was being closely examined by two anxious parents. 

My only injuries were a couple of bruises and a red cowboy boot crushed flat. 

My sense of adventure remained unscathed.

My poor parents.

'Modern' Archealogy

Looking for this?

In 1979, Husby and I moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba, so he could complete his Master’s degree in history.

It was an interesting, eye-opening experience for a girl who had never been off the ranch for more than a few days.

We were there for eight months.

It was as long as I could be away from my beloved Alberta prairies.

But moving back to Alberta necessitated some commuting back and forth as he completed his thesis.

These trips, a necessity for him, were pure holidays for me.

One, in particular, stands out . . .

We had packed up another couple, parked our kids with our respective mothers, and headed out.

It was a joyous, happy group that talked and laughed our way across Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba.

One evening, the four of us camped at Buffalo Pound Provincial Park, an historic buffalo hunting site just outside of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. (Yes, there really is a place called Moose Jaw.)  Years ago, native hunters used to drive herds of buffalo into the bogs in the area, dispatching them easily as they struggled in the mud.

Umm . . . ick.

Remember where I said that Husby’s thesis was in history?

Well, that would become important here . . .

 Because such sites are good places to find artifacts. Husby’s favourite pastime.

And what else would one want to do when holidaying?

Immediately after setting up camp, the two husbys set out, most notably looking for arrow heads.

We wives stayed at the campsite, visiting, preparing the evening meal and generally enjoying the outdoors and the fact that we weren’t sitting in a car.

About half-an-hour after they set out, our Husbys returned.

With broad grins denoting success.

“We found an arrowhead!” they announced.

“Really?” Okay, we wives were a little bit surprised. Pleased for them. But surprised.

“It really wasn’t that hard! We just looked around and there it was, laying right out in the open!”

“Well, let us see it! Let us see it!”

A hand was extended and there, in the palm, was indeed an arrowhead.

A real arrowhead.

Rubber. With a suction cup on one end.

Carbon dating is ongoing . . .

Airborn

Sometimes, walking softly and carrying a big stick isn’t all that effective.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Uncle Leif, then eight or nine years old, had been assigned to go to the field and retrieve Sorrel.

I should probably tell you that Sorrel was a flashy-looking, reddish-brown mare. A passably good cow horse except for a couple of glaring faults. Faults that involved teeth and hooves.

Sorrel liked her own company. And only her own company. When other horses came too near, she would bite or kick viciously.

Woe unto anyone trying to bring her in from the field. She would wait until the climactic moment, then let fly with both hind legs.

One had to be especially vigilant to avoid skin and/or bone-breakage.

With accompanying discomfort.

On this particular day, Leif, mounted on poor, long suffering Shorty, tried for some time to manoeuvre/avoid.

It was a tricky task.

Finally he grew tired of Sorrel’s ‘shenanigans’.

Clever out-foxing was indicated.

Returning to the farm, he found a fifteen foot pole-vault pole (On a farm with eight brothers, such a thing was entirely too common). This ‘lance’ would allow him to herd the mare while staying happily out of reach of anything sharp or bite-y.

Thus armed, he returned to the field and his arch-nemesis.

Moving stealthily into position near the grazing mare, he grasped his weapon by the very end to allow for the greatest safety margin, raised the pole into the approved jousting/poking position . . .

And charged.

But before he could get close enough to contact his victim, said victim took to her heels.

Not one to be outdone by such an obvious manoeuvre, Leif, lance still raised, urged Shorty to increase his pace and follow.

Now all would have been well except for one thing. Leif was holding the pole by the very end.

Arm extended for greatest reach.

Control was fast becoming a problem.

Just as he was pulling the reins to stop his horse, the lance tip . . . dipped.

And poked into the ground.

Launching Leif spectacularly into the air. He landed some feet away.

On his back.

With a thud.

Fortunately, the only damage was the loss of air from tortured lungs.

After some minutes, he recovered both air and equilibrium.

But lost all inclination to complete his assigned task.

Sorrel, happily munching grass, watched him go.

Stupid/smart horse.

'Flu Nurse

I had a little bird,

Its name was Enza.

I opened the window,

And in-flu-enza.

-A children’s skipping rope chant from the 1918 flu epidemic

The influenza pandemic of 1918-1919 killed more people than the Great War, known today as World War I (WWI), at somewhere between 20 and 40 million people. It has been cited as the most devastating epidemic in recorded world history. More people died of influenza in a single year than in four years of the Black Death Bubonic Plague from 1347 to 1351. Known as "Spanish Flu" or "La Grippe" the influenza of 1918-1919 was a global disaster.

My Grandmother, Sarah Lovina Stringam was the nurse in the tiny town of Glenwood, Alberta. Called upon for everything from bruises and scrapes to severe frostbite, she became accepted as the hands and knowledge that made the difference between life and death.

Then came 1918. The Great and horrible war was finally winding down.

The Spanish Flu epidemic was just getting started . . . 

From her journals and in her own words, Grandma gives us quite a glimpse of her life at that time:

“I did quite a bit of nursing during the year of the flu epidemic, both for the family and for the neighbours.  It was frightening because there were so many deaths, especially women who were pregnant.

One of our hired men was the first to have it at our house. I kept him in his room and wouldn’t let him out until he was over it. My husband took it next and I kept him isolated from the rest of the family until he was well. He was just over it when Lono Brown, one of our friends, came to see if I would help him with his wife.

Lono’s first wife had died a few years before, leaving him with two small boys. He had married a young widow from Utah with two small girls. They had been married less than a year.

I told him, when he came for me, that I was still nursing a baby and would have to come home every four or five hours for that.

There was only one telephone in Glenwood, a toll office at the home of Edward Leavitt. He took me to the telephone and we talked to the doctor.

The doctor was getting only two to four hours sleep a day and just couldn’t keep up with all the calls. He told me what to do and said he could come as soon as he could.

For three days, I went to the Brown home and did what I could.

Every few hours I would go home and drop my clothing into a box in our wash house to fumigate them. Then I would change into clothing I kept in another box and go into my home to nurse the baby and see how the household was managing.

Eldest daughter, Emily was twelve at that time.

On the fourth day, Sister Brown, who was six months pregnant started with labour pains. By this time the doctor had come. He stayed for a while but it looked like it would be some time before the baby came and there were other people needing him so much so he decided he had better go.

Right after he went it looked as if things were going to happen so I asked Lono to go for a midwife, Sister Newby.

She came and delivered the baby, who was stillborn.

She said because she was a midwife she was not allowed to handle a dead body. She told me how to wash and prepare the baby for burial and when I had finished, she went home.

The next few hours were hard. I kept praying that her [Mrs. Brown’s] life would be spared because of the children and because she was so far away from her old home and her people but she kept getting weaker and weaker.

She died about six hours after the baby.

Sister Newby came back and told me what to do to prepare her for burial.

I did it and I was surprised that I was able to do it. It was a testimony to me that you can receive divine guidance in time of need if you ask for it.”

What a truly heartbreaking and terrifying experience. I admire my grandmother and others, like her, who simply ‘carried on’ and made all the difference in their world.

Thank you.