3:55 p.m. - 2002-09-02
Weekend homily
I usually spend some time with my Dad each weekend. Nothing fancy. When I was little, the whole family would pile into the station wagon on Sunday after church and lunch. We'd cruise around town or in the country for hours - gasoline was dirt cheap then. That's what my Dad still likes to do when he gets the chance.
This morning we traveled through the foothills and to the shoulders of the mountains. This isn't a long journey. Calgary is at the cusp of the plains and the foothills. The plains stretch south from the Bow River in the center of the city, to the horizon and beyond. The foothills embrace the Bow River Valley starting at the escarpments that ring downtown on the north, west, and east. Five minutes out of the city you can be deep in the forest. Pine, fir, and aspen mostly. Right now a riot of colour as the wildflowers peak in bloom and beauty. It brings a deep sense of peace and timelessness.
As we travel we usually chat about the past. My Dad grew up in interesting times. A child on a farm in the Depression, 8 when World War II began. His Father had part of the contract to build the Alaska-Canada Highway as a possible line of defense in those times. They lived in Dawson Creek and worked out into the forests and muskeg. It was a staging point for American troops - although I don't understand the strategy except that it was closer to Russia than most other places. My Uncle, 10 years older than my Dad, was training as a pilot in the RCAF. As a teen living in Calgary. Then, as a young man, back up north to work in the oil exploration going on at that time; Northern British Columbia, the southern Northwest Territories then, as my sisters, brother, and I were born, closer to home in Calgary. Finally he bought his own business which he still runs.
His Mom's family emigrated to Canada via the US from Sweden at the beginning of the 1900's. They left the old family farm that lies midway in a line between Stockholm and Goteborg. Spent some time in the American mid-west then moved to southern Alberta. One of the best laughs I had was when we were examining a history book called the Mosquito Creek Roundup which dealt with the settlement of that part of Alberta.
Now I need to admit some members of my family have looked askance at some of my volunteer activities since it has involved a lot of public debate, sort of "the ugly duckling among the swans - she isn't like us!". My Dad describes his Grandmother and Mother as a gentle, sweet ladies with soft voices.
Thumbing through this history, produced by the good ladies of the area, I came across an article that included a description of some of the activities my Great-Grandmother Peterson had been involved in. In 1916 she was the founding President of the local chapter of the United Farm Women of Alberta. Their objectives: to improve living conditions for women, to improve education and health care for their children, to seek legal rights for women, and to encourage women to seek public office. This was an umbrella organization that became the one of the vehicles used to secure the right of women to vote in Alberta and Canada and to hold office as persons in their own right in the British Empire. Was my Grandmother specifically involved in all those endeavors? I'd have to go look at the records. But it's safe to assume she was up to her elbows in a lot of it. My Dad's Mom was the local president of the American Women's League. Among her other volunteer work she helped raise the funds to set up a memorial cairn in the foothills that marks the place where one American and one Canadian pilot training for war duties crashed and died. She looked after it until she died, probably thinking of my uncle and what she would have wanted for him if he had died far from home. Now my Father carries on. It is part of some our drives.
Sooo... , it's in the blood and I can't help myself. Like my forebears I can be described as a gentle sweet lady with a soft voice (okay work with me on this) as well as any number of less than flattering monikers usually applied to people like me who advocate on behalf of those less able to speak for themselves just as my foremothers had. Mess with our babies and you mess with the momma bear. That's all it is about.
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