sassykg • July 12, 2020

We live storied lives and our stories are a powerful way to help us understand our world, inspire us and create solid connections with each other. Whether it is a parable from Aesop’s fables or a lyric laden country western song, storytelling is universal. Stories transport us from the mundane to the extraordinary and often allow us to walk in someone else’s shoes. Stories assist us in making sense of what can seem an illogical world. Certainly, telling our stories during this current pandemic could provide a vital connection to each other and perhaps strike a collective nerve. And if we are lucky enough they could help us escape to another reality.

Who does not have “that” friend who can be relied on to tell a great anecdote remembered from the past or maybe embellished from the present. With the current concern about “fake news” I can understand some reluctance to rely on the veracity of a personal narrative. But the reality is that stories whether factually accurate events or aggrandized versions of authenticity, are an opportunity to recognize reflections of ourselves and learn about each other.

It seems I have become a blog writer and the truth is – it was the result of happenstance. First of all, when covid hit I really would have been hard pressed to define the word blog let alone have a clue about how to create one. In fact, my grandson Ryder was working on a school project that required him to write a blog. I made the deduction that it was an assignment to write a paragraph or two about some particular topic. Over the years I have taught grade six, grade three and adults preparing to write their GED. I understood the importance of creative writing and was pleased that respect for writing and telling stories was enjoying a renewed respect. My blogs are basically personal stories often rooted in the past with links to today.

My recollection of starting this blog was a chance text with one of my American friends just about the time we became aware of the Covid threat. My husband and I were in Palm Desert on Sunday March 15. We were looking forward to a yearly birthday celebration on St Patrick’s Day with our friend – intentionality and appropriately named Patrick. We were happily anticipating his annual birthday celebration when Covid issues were emerging. Canadians are for the most part compliant with government directives. Our Canadian national “motto” is “Peace, order and good government.” So when our Prime Minister summoned us home due to Covid concerns- the good government piece kicked in so… home we went.

The day after we arrived back in our home town I was connecting with one of south of the border friends. We were musing about the Covid threat and jokingly shared how we might write a blog about the whole situation. My friend texted this as her possible initial blog:

“I can start the blog by saying, when I watch TV and see how people actually leave the house, hug their friends and family- just do normal things…I can’t believe that we are living like this. It is very lonely.”

There are countless media stories that highlight how the Covid pandemic has created a new reality. From uplifting stories about neighbours helping neighbours to young children setting up lemonade stands to raise money to provide face masks to health providers, the narratives capture differing responses.

In keeping with the story theme I want to offer a sequel to the story I told about my friend Deb and her husband that I previously recounted. Here is the recap.

Deb’s husband Craig was scheduled to return to Edmonton from Switzerland where he is currently working. He planned to stay for three weeks, the first two of which required self isolation. At the last minute Craig heard that the Swiss government could require him to isolate upon his return to Lausanne. So the staff at Craig’s office who are accustomed to organizing international travel booked Deb’s flight scheduled for last Sunday departing in the early morning.

The evening before her departure, Deb attempted to print her boarding pass but was denied. Thinking that this was a minor inconvenience resulting from Covid restrictions she was not overly concerned. Soon she would learn differently!

On her departure day Deb arose at 3:15 am and determined not to miss her daily running regime, completed a 45 minute run on the treadmill. In Alberta, early mornings in July burst through the darkness around 5 -5:30 am. Deb drove the 35 minute airport run with the sun shining – such a promising day.

The Edmonton airport was deadly quiet that day and Deb was happy to see there was no line up at the check in desk . Despite her required face protection, my friend approached the Air Canada agent with an undetectable smile. She handed the agent her passport and began to load the heavy suitcases she had packed. The representative keyed in Deb’s travel information. Although the agent was masked, Deb could see her furrowed brow. A warning sign had appeared on the Air Canada computer: Entry Denied!

The story of why this happened is not entirely clear. Certainly Air Canada was not aware of why a Canadian was denied entry to Switzerland. Should she have needed a visa, was this a new Covid issue that sprung up overnight? The Swiss travel site indicated that Canadians were free to enter Swiss territory.

The Air Canada agent valiantly retried entering Deb’s travel details. Encountering no success she called her supervisor but to no avail. Deb retrieved her bags and drove back home.

On her drive back to Edmonton Deb gave me a call. She knew Craig would feel let down. But always one to be ready with a laugh, Deb quipped “ My kids will be most disappointed!’

Originally I had intended this blog to be a tale about travel during Covid. For some reason the theme song from a Western tv show aired between 1957 and 1963 came to mind. The lyrics of the chorus were “Paladin Paladin – Where do you roam? – Paladin Paladin – far far from home.” This old song may not be a profound story but what could be it’s takeaway? Here is my thought:

During this unusual year we may all feel “far far from home.” But I am confident our stories will keep us connected, humanize us and help us find commonality.

“So powerful is our impulse to detect story patterns that we see them even when they are not there.”

So click in the music video below. Sometimes our stories just have to be hokey !!!






Kathy's Blog

Good Friends, Great Stories...

By K Grieve • September 17, 2026
Good Friends, Great Stories Friendship isn’t always about who you have known the longest. Friendship is about the memories we’ve made, the laughter we shared and the the experiences that have woven our lives together. Friendship is about favourite traditional experiences, shared history and laughter that never fades. Friendship is about sharing margaritas at lunch, downing junk food, not counting calories and knowing that at least one of you will never make it to dinner. Friendship is about stories that get better as they are retold. My husband Ross and I have enjoyed incredible friendships throughout the years. Each one has brought its own special kind of companionship and fond memories. The following stories offer a glimpse into a few of the lasting connections that have shaped our lives. Some friendships arrive early when we really can’t appreciate their worth. I was ten years old, newly arrived from Victoria to Winnipeg when such a friendship began on a concrete playground at Frontenac School. It was early September and the prairie elm trees were beginning to show shades of burnt orange and golden yellow as I made my way to my new school. I could see a flock of Canada geese winging their way South, as far as Mexico I had heard. Dressed in turquoise peddle pushers, topped with a white tee and flowered cardigan I carried my metal “ponytail” embossed lunch kit tightly in my hand feeling both anxious and hopeful. I arrived in time to find teachers standing along the edge of the playground calling out student names and classroom numbers. I lined up behind Mrs. King who was teaching one of the two grade five classes. I followed her in line with about twenty-five rambunctious boys and girls as we made our way to the second floor to our assigned classroom. Cautiously, I headed to one of the oak desks arranged in neat rows atop the dark green linoleum floor. It seemed like a nano second later when the bell rang announcing recess and within minutes the classroom emptied. I cautiously entered the noisy playground and looked around, not knowing a single soul. The schoolyard was filled with laughing girls happily skipping double Dutch on the cracked concrete. Screaming boys were energetically playing soccer on the coarse grass and others took turns powerfully swatting at the hard tetherball. I guess it was a typical play area but to me it looked like unfamiliar territory where everyone knew the rules but me. Enter what today would be known as a “geeky” looking girl: Davette Kent. She was gawky and wore knee highs on her gangly legs. She peered at me through dark, heavy rimmed glasses. Her mousey brown hair was limp, with bangs cut straight across her high forehead. A few pimples were poking through her pale skin. Like me, she was standing alone, gazing around. She mirrored my anxiousness. Both Davette and I were in need of a fast friend that September day, and that is exactly what we found in one another. We tossed each other a lifeline, and neither of us let go. When the bell rang, we lined up holding hands and kept that tradition for the next two years when we separated and went to different schools. … My husband Ross began a friendship with a young fellow named Bob. They met in grade eight in Winnipeg Manitoba. It was a friendship that carried on through high school, university and beyond. In high school they made what they considered a particularly strategic decision: they joined the choir, not because either had dreams of musical greatness, but because they had discovered that the choir was an excellent place to meet girls. It may not have launched a singing career, but it reinforced a friendship that would last a lifetime. Years later, it was early spring in Toronto on a late Wednesday afternoon in 1977 when my husband, Ross got “the call”. The streets were filled with the grey slush of the melting snow from a colder than usual T.O winter when he made his way to the office that day. Working for a large family owned Canadian construction company since 1969, he was accustomed to surprises and was deft at handling them. This call was different and very much out of the ordinary. It was a call that changed the course of his life and mine. That afternoon one of the company executives from head office in Edmonton reached out to Ross and told him to make his way to the Toronto airport at midnight. He was told to pick up a package at Canadian Airlines. “What’s it about?”, Ross asked. “Just be there!” the executive replied, and “make your way to Edmonton on Saturday for a morning meeting at the Van Winkle Hotel.” It all seemed strange and almost clandestine! Navigating the dimly lit streets, Ross arrived home from the airport and opened the “mysterious” package. He learned that the Poole family was selling the company they had founded in 1906. The company’s visionary president since 1947 was leading a management buyout and his plan was to invite twenty four of his managers of the day to buy the company. Each invitee was offered a small interest with the president taking the biggest proportion. Ross was the youngest of the group and had just recently been given the manager designation. He felt honored and lucky to be given this extraordinary invitation. It certainly turned out be be an opportunity of a lifetime. Ross did get to the Saturday morning meeting and agreed to accept his offering which was a total investment of $8000. Although he agreed to invest he didn’t have the $8000 readily available but figured he could find a way to make it happen. That Saturday afternoon on his return to Toronto he stopped in his hometown of Winnipeg to see his family but first met his best friend Bob at the Norwood Hotel that Bob and his family owned. Over an ice-cold beer, Ross told Bob the story about the surprising sale. He told Bob he would like to invest but wondered how on earth he was going to come up with the money. Bob said “Ross you have to do it. Wait here I will be right back .” Bob returned in ten minutes with a brown paper bag and handed it to Ross. Inside was $8000 cash that Bob pulled from his vault. This generous gesture was unconditional and given without hesitation. A testament to a friendship built to last. Many years later, the friendship went the other direction and Ross returned the favor by investing in a project that Bob was spear heading. Through the decades, Ross and Bob’s friendship continued to build on loyalty, shared history and stories worth retelling. More than six decades later, their friendship lives on. It’s a friendship shaped by growing up together, knowing each other stories, sharing life‘s joys and challenges, and enjoying professional success. Here is Ross and I (left) with Bob and his wife Dianne (right)

Aging: Boldness and Courage

By K Grieve • February 20, 2026
“Helen Mirren, who turned 80 in 2025, rejects the term “aging gracefully,” preferring to describe her approach as "aging with fun, commitment, and unapologetic realism". She advocates for embracing the natural process of getting older as a "beautiful thing" rather than fighting it, encouraging others to live in the moment and accept physical changes.” Aging is not for the faint of heart! It creeps up on you before you actually know it’s happening. It demands courage, boldness, wisdom, resilience, and realism. Add to that, growing older centers on the stories you carry and the memories you hold. For me, many of those lessons were learned from stories about my mother’s life, her choices, and the way she met hardship and joy. How Mom lived her life gave me my first understanding of what it means to live and to age with determination. My mother Marjorie lived until 95. Mom’s married life was pretty much emblematic of her generation. A devout Catholic, she learned the hard way that the ‘Rhythm Method’ (the practice of choosing specific days for intimacy to avoid pregnancy) of birth control was not in the least dependable. Think five kids with the last, our youngest brother Doug, born when my mom was 40. She smoked Crave M cigarettes. Back then, you could send a kid to the local drugstore with a quarter and a note to the pharmacist to get your cigarettes. Unheard of in today’s world. Almost weekly, my mom made homemade bread which filled the house with a yeasty and comforting smell. And her doughnuts were the talk of the neighborhood. Deep-fried and laid out on brown paper to cool, she dipped them in sugar, and we ate them while they were still warm. It was one of Mom’s ways of showing us love: one delicious donut at a time! My mom’s early life was less typical. Born in 1921 in Saskatchewan, she was a child of the Dust Bowl era. The middle child of six kids, she had a pleasing personality and was known as a hard worker. Perhaps that explains why, when she was just nine years old, she was sent to her Aunt Kate, where she helped in the Red and White store that Kate managed. Mom cried her eyes out for a year after she arrived because she missed home. Seven years later, she cried her eyes out when she was sent back home. My mom met those challenging years away from home with realism that helped to shape her resolve and solidified her perseverance. Her way of handling hardships and setbacks helped shape my understanding of how to approach life’s highs and lows. Looking back, it’s hard not to appreciate Mom’s handling of her early life challenges. At a time when most children are living with their parents and siblings, she learned to adapt, work, and endure separation. The tears marked her sadness, but the fact that she endured it speaks to her strength and courage. As she aged, life asked more of her, not less. She met aging the only way she knew: steadily and cheerfully. Aging didn’t soften her resolve; it strengthened it. My mother was lucky in many important ways. She was surrounded by her family and wonderful caregivers that went above and beyond the call of duty. In the last chapter of her life, she lived with my sister Gail and her partner Andrew. Helped by my other siblings, she was given something money can’t buy: a life that felt like hers. One special caregiver, Helen, understood that caring for another is more than schedules and medications. She would play one of Mom’s favourite songs, and the two would dance, smiling and giggling as they moved to the rhythm of the song. And God only knows why Mom had a parrot for a pet; a parrot that hated everyone but Mom. That bird squawked and tried to attack anyone who entered: except my mom. Strange as it may seem, that annoying parrot triggered my mom’s lifelong ability to tolerate difficult personalities. It seems to me that Mom’s life may have slowed, but it remained rich. Hearing my mom’s stories showed me that tears do not mean fragility. Tears mark courage, determination, and boldness. Now, as I grow older, I begin to see these same qualities as the core to aging. Aging hasn’t softened me: it has required me to stand more firmly, speak more directly, and, like Mom, to keep moving forward with resolve. “Do not go gentle into the night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” (Dylan Thomas) For most of my life, I believe I have been considered outspoken. But with aging, I have honed that characteristic to a fine point. Not long ago, I was part of a conversation about “the state of the world.” All of us were well into our seventies. We lamented days gone by and talked about how chaotic and fractured everything seems and how our reality is disturbing and disconcerting. The group represented different points of view, and the talk moved rather awkwardly but cautiously into politics. Definitive statements were made as if all would agree. Boldness took over me! I spoke up, standing my ground without apology. I felt something in me shift. It would have been easy to try to smooth things over, but instead, I chose to be bold and stand my ground. I am older now and believe aging is not about retreating from the world. It’s about resolve and courage in the face of opposition. Aging, of course, isn’t just philosophical. It shows up in physical ways. Knees and hips need replacing, bodies that don’t bounce back the way they used to, medications and vitamins galore to swallow. And tragically for some, illnesses occur that can be life-threatening. There is no bravery in pretending otherwise. But boldness and courage still have a place here. They help in deciding to face head-on what lies ahead, to ask the right questions, and to endure treatment and recovery. Aging asks us to be realistic, accepting the challenges aging can present. Aging isn’t always about changes to ones body but the evolving nature of our character. Inspired by my mother, I now feel that I am entering a period of my life where I am more determined to uphold my principles and stand up for the things that I believe. Time won’t always be on your side. It’s the simple truth, and it’s no surprise. But now and then, like my mom, there is still time for a dance!! “The years teach much which the days never know.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)