Sweetness of a Lamb, Courage of a Lion

On Monday, February 24, we lost our Mum, Gram and Great-grandma. She was just over a hundred, and for all but the last month or two, always in good health and independent in spirit. All four foot eleven inches of her.

The daughter of a prosperous Liverpool merchant, her childhood was a privileged one, with private schools and long vacations in her mother’s ancestral Wales. Foreshadowing the life she was to lead, it was always Hilda who was the first to dive off the sea ledge, rescue an errant football from a gated estate, lead the charge in field hockey, or break up a dog fight. To her last day she had scars to testify to these things.

When war broke out, she served her country in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (the “WAAFs”). It was at a service dance that she met a handsome young Canadian soldier and her life changed forever.

The Ontario farm which became home in 1946 had few amenities– heated by the kitchen wood stove, water from a hand pump at the kitchen sink, and an outdoor privy, it was a far cry from the genteel Liverpool home with its conservatory, chauffeur, and maid. And there were cows to tend, threshing crews to feed, fruit to pick, but never a vacation.

I’ve read my Mum’s letters home written during those hard times, and they were universally upbeat and joyous, with never a hint of hardship or privation. In part, because Mum wanted to shield her family from the harsh realities of farm life, but mostly because she found deep joy in the daily adventures, the wonder of newborn calves, the bounty of the fruit trees, and the warmth and generosity of neighbours.

To Mum, it wasn’t about surviving. To her, every morning’s sunrise was a time of beauty, of hope and of promise. Learning to drive a team of horses, or the family’s first tractor, was an adventure. In hay season, she didn’t complain about the back-breaking work, but rather savoured the fragrance of fresh-cut hay. Every cow and every horse had a name and was her friend. To Mum, it wasn’t a question of the glass half full or half empty– to her it was always full and overflowing. She just knew where to look for God’s bounty.

Her only disappointment was that her dream of a large family was not to be. Miscarriage after miscarriage, she never lost hope, and when she finally delivered her only child, a son, in the middle of a Canadian blizzard, she gave him all the love she had been saving up. I was spoiled, not materially, but spiritually.

Mum’s spirit continues in her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, for they too possess the same indomitable courage and boundless love of life. She lives on in the hope and promise of their lives.