There is a woman who I’d like to take the chance to celebrate this month, although she’s not from this community and none of you will have heard of her. But she is a woman who helped make me who I am.
My grandma, Peggy Margaret Fry, died on January 28th, just two weeks before what would have been her 96th birthday. I’m writing this as I travel back to Vancouver Island from her funeral in England. I am so grateful to have had a grandparent right into my forties – and for my kids to have had a great-grandmother who they will remember.
Funny, sharp-witted and intelligent, with an independent spirit that sometimes seemed at odds with the times she lived through, Peg made an impact on many lives. I’ve been thinking a lot about her stories. Stories about her childhood; the village she grew up in; about my great granny; about my grandad Os; and of course stories about the war. She told me stories about my dad when he was little and then stories about me and my brothers when we were young. They were always the same stories, told each time with the same enthusiasm and humour. Peg captured all those memories for us and shared them; reminded us and told us where we came from.
It’s a fantastic skill to tell a story, to pick out the funny bits and capture the essence of the person or time you’re relating. Peg’s stories have given me a sense of history and connection to my ancestors. Peg would want you to sit right next to her, to walk arm-in-arm or with your hand in hers. The physical connection was a gift. It said ‘I love you’, and ‘I’m proud of you’, ‘I’m pleased to see you’ and ‘I want you near’. I knew I would always be wanted, and welcomed with a story, any time.
From my grandma I’ve inherited that love of storytelling (and also of flamboyant footwear). I hope I can make even half the impact that she has on the many people she touched over her long life.
