It was my first time on a paved road – with lines down the middle – some dashed and some double. My brother Greg explains what they mean – you can either pass or you can’t. I was fascinated.

Not that we’d pass a car, my dad was driving, and he was never in a hurry.  He just lit one of his roll-your-owns, a strong one, and will light many more on this road between two Saskatchewan towns.   

After she left in the ambulance, we had some days at home, and I am not sure how we found out the baby was born, and both were fine.  We didn’t have a phone.  

I remember how caring our  neighbours were.  My teacher in my school, all the folks who dropped of pies and hot cross buns.  Yes, many, many hot cross buns, it was Easter week.  The pies and buns lined our counters, our wood stove and our kitchen table.  There seemed to be so much happening in our small home, so no one noticed when my brother Allan and I (and who knows maybe the older sibs too) couldn’t resist dipping our fingers into the icing on the crosses of every bun. 

Weeks earlier, we had talked about what the baby’s name should be.  Seems the whole family chimed in. Lots of interest in Tammy Joan if it was girl, or Brian if a boy.  Since the last two babies were boys, I think there was a hope, likely unexpressed that it would be girl. 

And it was months earlier I was lying in bed, and I heard my sister, Ann, say, ‘Mom is going to have a baby’, ‘no she’s not,’ said my brother.  I jumped out of bed.  I couldn’t believe it.  It’s 1961 when 42-year-old moms seemed OLD, and especially old to have a baby.  My mom was embarrassed, she said she only knew one other woman who had a baby at that age.  

She was always on the go, except for a few weeks, or maybe a few days, before this birth.  My friend, Leona, and I were playing near the room where she was resting, a rare site for her at that time of day. She wasn’t feeling well, and she asked us to be quiet and stop ‘skinning the cat’ in the doorway to the bedroom and suggested we go to Leona’s house to play. 

When we picked up mom, it was from her uncle’s house outside the city where she stayed after the hospital.   The baby was big – I think well over nine pounds.     My dad disliked driving in the city, so to head home, we took a gravel road.  I remember the challenge of driving on that road, not sure where we’d connect to a highway, and my mom being a bit anxious with a babe in her arms, no seat belts, drivers passing us and blowing up the dust on the road.  

Looking back, I wonder how traumatic this was for all of us, my mom, my dad, all of us.  My mom’s age, the emergency, so few ways to communicate. The looming medical bills. 

My dad must have been terrified.  My sister, 15 at the time, stayed home to look after two younger brothers. Her memory of the time was filled with responsibility and worry. She feared mom might die and remembers Mom looking tired and thin when she returned and crying often. We each hold a part of the story in our own way. 

When I went to the Easter Service at our tiny church after we arrived home, all I recall is that our family was gifted the Easter lily.   Every year the Easter lily went to a family, maybe in grief or in need.

We’d never had flowers in our home. Just berries and a garden that grew what we could eat. But that Easter lily felt like a gift of love and care. I can still see it now, in our modest kitchen.  

To this day, I love lilies. And hot cross buns. They bring to mind, my mom, Ruth.

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I also wrote about me having a baby. It was a different story in 1969. 1969 and I am having a baby.

I delight in sharing my thoughts, such as these, in a newsletter, typically every few months. And now and then, ideas show up our Facebook page. Always love to hear from you via email. Would love to hear if you are finding ways to slather blessings!

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