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Remembrance

The dance when it’s been danced

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“Because children grow up, we think a child’s purpose is to grow up. But a child’s purpose is to be a child. Nature doesn’t disdain what lives only for a day. It pours the whole of itself into the each moment. We don’t value the lily less for not being made of flint and built to last. Life’s bounty is in its flow, later is too late. Where is the song when it’s been sung? The dance when it’s been danced? It’s only we humans who want to own the future, too. We persuade ourselves that the universe is modestly employed in unfolding our destination. We note the haphazard chaos of history by the day, by the hour, but there is something wrong with the picture. Where is the unity, the meaning, of nature’s highest creation? Surely those millions of little streams of accident and wilfulness have their correction in the vast underground river which, without a doubt, is carrying us to the place where we’re expected! But there is no such place, that’s why it’s called utopia. The death of a child has no more meaning than the death of armies, of nations. Was the child happy while he lived? That is a proper question, the only question. If we can’t arrange our own happiness, it’s a conceit beyond vulgarity to arrange the happiness of those who come after us.”

Tom Stoppard – ‘Coast of Utopia’

2026 is, it would seem, a year in which life has decided that for us at least, further urgent lessons are needed to complete our schooling; particularly when it comes to matters of mortality.

As we grow older and gingerly approaching our dotage, it is perhaps little surprise that for many of us our thoughts increasingly incline toward the fragility of our existence on this blue/green orb and to the contemplation of whether the ‘after’ has any meaning at all when it comes to the curtailment of ‘our little lives’.

Against this sombre background the untimely and increasingly frequent passing of our greatest heroes and icons (the loss late last year, for example, of the literary giant that was Tom Stoppard and, just this very week, of the incomparable Dolly Parton) – leaves us shell-shocked and wrung-out, engulfed in tearful melancholy.

This it turns out, however – is just the tip of the iceberg. In a world already beset by a sea of troubles, it is losing those who are close to us that wounds the most, leaving us lost without a compass in miasmas of incomprehension, rapidly ending up shipwrecked on the jagged shores of grief.

This year has also marked the passing of loved ones, of friends, of family,  of those who we loved but with whom we have lost touch… even of much respected neighbours.

This feels too much…

Next time – I promise more positivity!

The song when it’s been sung…

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For reasons that will very rapidly become apparent, this post (promised in my last as a rounding off to the series which featured our recent visit to the interior) comprises a rare treat; a piece written by The Girl herself.

More I need not say:

 

 

Full circle moment.  Or at least it felt like that to me.

One early afternoon in August 1972 my Aunt M called me at my best friend’s house and said I had to come home – my granny’s house actually, but also home.  I was not impressed at being torn away from my friend, but I was ultimately obedient and I went.  When I arrived, I learned that my mom had been rushed to hospital.  One update was that they were doing a tracheotomy and she had a 50/50 chance of survival.  Looking back, I realise now that meant nothing to me – I could only see the 50% as a positive thing.  I had zero experience with death.  We waited for more news.  I told myself that I would wait for one more update and then I was riding my bike to the hospital.  She died of a brain aneurysm before I could get there.  She was 39. 

Skip forward 54 years.  My husband and I are visiting the Interior of the province and catching up with family.  I want to visit Aunt M, my mom’s sister, and the youngest of the family – she is 90 and I don’t get to where she lives very often.  I probably thought that this might be the last time I see her.  She was recently moved from assisted living to long term care and even more recently to a room on a different floor with fewer people with cognitive decline.  This was important because Aunt M is sharp – funny and on it.  She sent me stories of the residents and what they got up to and had me in stitches.  She didn’t even complain about being an island surrounded by people who are living in their own worlds.  She was not impressed by the food unfortunately and had lost weight since she arrived.  She would often ask for more mashed potatoes at meals as she loved them and it was something she found palatable.  Sadly this request was not always granted.  We had a good visit and when she indicated she might like to go to mass we took that as our cue to leave. 

We travelled to the Okanagan and visited friends and stopped by my cousin’s summer place on the way back. We learned that Aunt M had a brain aneurysm early in the morning and my cousin, her husband and daughter were on their way to the hospital.  We followed shortly after.  We learned that she had a massive brain bleed and was at the end of her life.  She was not conscious.  I stroked her hair and talked to her – I told her she was doing a great job – her body knew what to do and all she had to do was let go.  I promised her all the mashed potatoes she could eat – that she would reunite with her husband whom she missed so much and all the people that went before her.  As I had very recent experience (March 2026) of watching my beloved stepmother pass, I could tell that she was very near the end. She passed very early the next morning.

90 is a noble age to pass, I think.  I am not sure my auntie had the easiest life, but her later years were spent with a man she loved – a man who adored her – her daughter, grandchildren, and lots of nieces and nephews who loved her. 

And what is a life really, but the sum of our experiences and the people we love and who love us.  I will miss her and her funny stories and I hope with all my heart that wherever she is there is lots of mashed potatoes.

Rest in Peace

 

Passing the baton

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<a href="https://www.wannapik.com/vectors/18027">"This work"</a> is licensed under <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0" target="_blank" rel="noopener">CC BY-NC 4.0</a>As a matter of self-discipline I have for some years now tried my best to post to this journal at least once a week. Eagle-eyed observers will have noticed that I have – of late – fallen down on the job somewhat.

On this occasion there is good reason for such lacklustre performance. I hope that the gentle reader will indulge me if I meander around the houses a little by way of explanation…

Back in the dim and distant past – on March 7th 2014 to be precise – I posted to this forum a missive entitled ‘The Music of Time‘. As is my habit that post too danced around its true topic for a while, before heading for the home plate. The subjects of this creed were a pair of engagements on consecutive days in March 2014 with which The Girl and I had been involved. Remember that we were yet living in the UK at that juncture – and neither of us had reached the point of retiring (for the first time!). The key element of that posting ran as follows:

“The first of the weekend’s events was the memorial service for a very long-standing acquaintance – my oldest-friend’s wife’s father – whom I have known for more than four decades. He was, of course, of my parents’ generation – of whom in our circle only a very few now remain. He enjoyed a good life and the occasion was very much a celebration thereof rather than being overly solemn. None the less, such acts of remembrance always invite a degree of introspection regarding the transience of our existence – this one being no exception”.

A dozen and more years have passed since that gathering and you will doubtless be unsurprised to hear that of those of my parents’ generation who were closely connected to us in the UK – by familial bonds or by mutual friendship – there are now none left alive. Little less surprising will be the fact that on this side of the pond – with a few exceptions – the same applies (The Girl is four years younger than I!).

Sadly there is now one less. Last week The Girl’s step mother passed away in Nanaimo here on Vancouver Island. This wonderful woman – at the age of 89 and having endured years of chronic pain – checked herself into hospital on a premonition that her time was approaching.

I met this splendidly independent and indomitable woman (who would think nothing of disappearing into the desert on her own for weeks at a time) when The Girl first brought me to Canada in 2006. She and the Girl’s father then lived in Nanaimo, but they had previously lived on Gabriola island (when not voyaging to Desolation Sound and beyond on one of their boats – ‘The Kindred Spirit’ or ‘Halcyon II’). The Girl and her step mother had a great deal in common and they were very close.

The Girl being the sole executor of her step mother’s estate we are now having to spend much time in Nanaimo, sorting out the issues of the estate. For her this we are happy to do.

Rest in Peace – Alice June Dawson.

Brian Wilson

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Brian Wilson
1942 – 2025
RIP
Takahiro Kyono from Tokyo, Japan, CC BY 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

Whenever I post one of these messages lamenting the loss of one of the great figures of my (or the adjacent) generation(s) I do so with sadness but also with gratitude for their influence as ‘hero’ figures throughout my formative years. My aim is to compose something that captures their personal importance to me.

Sometimes, however, no words can be found truly capable of expressing the extent of the loss.

To those of us who reached the age of majority in the late sixties and early seventies and who harboured ambitions to become songwriters, Brian Wilson was – and will always remain – a seminal figure. Should the gentle reader be unaware of his greatness all that he or she need do is to listen to the music.

I need say no more…

Rest in peace

I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I’ll make you so sure about it
God only knows what I’d be without you

If you should ever leave me
Though life would still go on believe me
The world could show nothing to me
So what good would living do me
God only knows what I’d be without you

Troy ‘Bubba’ Cook

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Troy ‘Bubba’ Cook
1969 – 2022
RIP


The Chanteuse and I were greatly saddened to hear over the weekend of the passing of Troy Cook. Troy was a creative force who was a writer, artist and musician and was born, lived and worked in Fernie, BC.

Earlier this year, in spite of his illness, Troy agreed to create the artwork for the recent Anam Danu album – ‘Soul Making‘. He most generously refused to accept any payment for his work – saying:

“I like to promote original music and this is my way of helping other musicians”.

Troy was a long standing friend of The Chanteuse’s husband – they having known each other for 37 years – and he was much loved by the whole family.

In this video clip Troy explains how his art helped him to deal with his illness.

Our sympathies and thoughts are with Troy’s family.

Rest In Peace

Doddie Weir

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Doddie Weir
1970 – 2022
RIP


Very sad to report that the much loved Scottish and British and Irish Lions lock forward, Doddie Weir, passed away at the end of last week at the age of 52. Doddie was a fixture in the Scottish squad at around the time that Rugby turned professional in the 1990s and was a fan-favourite with the Murrayfield crowd. He turned out sixty one times for his country, played for the Barbarians six times and went on the 1997 British and Irish Lions tour to South Africa.

Weir is known just as much, however, for the time after his retirement from the game. It was announced in 2017 that he had been diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease (MND), with the prediction that he would be unable to walk within a year. Instead of sitting back to await the inevitable Weir threw himself into campaigning and fundraising to help find a cure for MND, setting up the “My Name’5 Doddie” foundation which had, by June 2022, raised in excess of £8 million.

The “My Name’5 Doddie” foundation website obituary includes the following:

“Since making his condition known, Doddie has championed the campaign for more to be done for sufferers of the disease, both in terms of finding a possible cure, and with the treatment and welfare of patients and their carers.

Doddie’s work over the past five years saw him recognised with several honours and accolades, including an OBE, presented by Queen Elizabeth II for his services to rugby, MND research and the Borders community. He also collected Honorary Doctorates from both Glasgow Caledonian and Abertay Universities, as well as becoming a recipient of the prestigious Edinburgh Award. Within sport, a trophy named after him is now contested between Scotland and Wales, and he became recipient of the Helen Rollason Award at the BBC Sports Personality of the Year ceremony in 2019.

He also became a best-selling and nominated author, oversaw the design of his own distinctive tartan, and was captured on canvas by artist Gerard Burns, the painting now hung in the National Portrait Gallery in Edinburgh.”

A giant of a man in every sense and a Rugby legend, Doddie Weir will be sadly missed.

No words

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I try – for the most part – to keep the posts to this gazette relatively light-hearted, the which – for the most part – reflects the blessed lives that The Girl and I lead out here in Beautiful British Columbia. Regular readers will know that this praxis occasionally falls by the wayside should there be happenings out in the wider world on which I just feel the absolute need to comment.

It is our great good fortune that only very rarely are there circumstances in which the dark clouds gather nearer to home and that some grim situation intrudes upon our privileged existence.

This, sadly, is one such…

The Girl has been greatly affected in this last period by the news from our very doorstep of the terrible discovery of the unmarked graves of 215 children at the former Kamloops Residential School here in BC. This news has been published around that world and you may have already read something of it wherever you are. The Girl was… is… understandably deeply upset by the news and moved to put something into words.

With your indulgence I will upload her reflections in my next post:

VE Day

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This weekend has seen the seventy fifth anniversary of the end of the Second World War in Europe, the which was celebrated on May 8th 1945 on what was given the soubriquet – ‘VE Day’ – or ‘V-E Day’ – or ‘V Day’ – or ‘Victory Day’ – depending whereabouts on the continent one was.

That this auspicious anniversary should occur in the midst of a global pandemic has, naturally, caused some controversy, since the public celebrations that might have been thought to be the order of the day could not reasonably take place. In the UK at least I can’t help feeling that – even had the situation not been as it is – there would have been some disputes as to the nature and relevance of any celebrations.

David Lloyd George said of the end of the Great War in Europe:

“At eleven o’clock this morning came to an end the cruellest and most terrible War that has ever scourged mankind. I hope we may say that thus, this fateful morning, came to an end all wars.”

There are those among us who believe that such a hope should still be the basis of any and all remembrance. In his notable Zurich speech of 1946, Churchill said:

“We must build a kind of United States of Europe. The structure of the United States of Europe, if well and truly built, will be such as to make the material strength of a single state less important.”

There are – sadly – those in the UK who happily forget that VE Day was a celebration of the coming together of a continent of nations to defeat a small group of aggressors amongst its number and that the day itself is celebrated by more than just the plucky Brits. These zealots cleave to the image of Britain standing alone (regardless of the fact that she was backed by a huge world-wide empire and openly looked to the New World for salvation) and would love to see VE Day as a celebration of a victory over Europe rather than for it.

The exceptionalism that the UK currently shares with the US has served both nations poorly in their responses to the current pandemic and one of the rich ironies in the UK is that what remains of the generation that fought and won the war is currently dying miserable deaths in the nation’s ravaged care homes. The inevitable eventual inquiry into this tragedy will doubtless record that there had been a number of warnings in recent years as to just such vulnerabilities, the which were – sadly – ignored by successive careless or mendacious governments.

As is so often the case The Guardian cartoonist – Martin Rowson – manages to express in a single image that which I struggle to express in many words.

This moves me – at least – to tears.

Lest we forget

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Remembrance day is with us again.

I have written on the subject of Remembrance Day itself more than once before in these musings and feel no need to add to those thoughts here.

I have been aware this year, however… or maybe actually for the past few years… of a seemingly increasing number of anniversaries that demand reflection and which give us pause for thought.

Now – to my way of thinking these febrile times mean that  ‘pause for thought’ is no bad thing and I have indeed myself been taking the opportunity to reflect on a variety of past events and occurrences which – for many reasons – merit our attention.

Last year brought to an end the four year cycle of commemorations of the centenaries of the many momentous events from the Great War on which we rightly reflect. 2018 also marked the fiftieth anniversary of the happenings of that most startling of post-war years – 1968.

2019 – however – boasts its own share of dramatic commemorations. It is fifty years since the moon landings – and who of my generation can forget that extraordinary accomplishment. It is the fiftieth anniversary of Woodstock and – yet to come – of Altamont, as well as of the start of the troubles in Northern Ireland. It is also the fortieth anniversary of the assassination of Lord Louis Mountbatten. I have written in these pages several times of the urgency of remembering these latter events and of how they came about… in the urgent interests of preventing them from so doing again.

The development at this juncture in the calendar that we perhaps remember as having the greatest emotional impact on those of my generation occurred thirty years ago. I still find it difficult to ruminate upon that extraordinary period in which the Berlin Wall came down and the communist empire that was the USSR dissolved before our disbelieving eyes without finding myself once again moved to tears and I know from the testimony of others that I am far from alone in this reaction.

When I was growing up – turning slowly and belatedly from a callow teenage youth to a young man – there were a number of situations around the world for which we just could not see any hope of resolution. There was the cold war – apartheid – the Arab/Israeli imbroglio – Northern Ireland. These situations we had grown up with and we were resigned to their perpetual continuation.

The fall of the wall thus came as an unexpected and joyful shock that moved grown and hard-bitten men to tears. That it should be followed in the subsequent decades by the ending of apartheid and the (hopefully) permanent resolution of the Troubles in Ireland were more than we could rightly hope for. The middle east? Some things are sadly just too intractable for such hope of success.

One of the many reasons that I could never agree with the frankly ignorant critics who would carelessly destroy the beleaguered BBC is the continuing and excellent quality and relevance of their many documentary strands, the which have enabled me and many others like me to come to understand more fully the essence of these events, as well as to remember and to commemorate them in our own ways in the light of that greatly needed and massively appreciated knowledge.

In memoriam…