sassykg • May 22, 2021

My maternal grandmother was named Josephine but everyone called her Josie. To me, my siblings and my cousins she was called “Grannie McGurran”. She was vivacious and assertive especially by stereotypical grandmother standards.

My grandfather Daniel McGurran was a US citizen born in North Dakota. Hearing about a Canadian offer of free farmland and never one to pass up a good economic opportunity he uprooted and headed to one of Canada’s western prairie provinces, Saskatchewan, to homestead. There he met my grandmother, a girl born in the Canadian maritime province of Nova Scotia. Saskatchewan is known for its harsh winters and exceedingly short summers. Farming certainly worked there but it was not the easiest of enterprises. It took true grit and strong determination to make a “go” of cultivating and harvesting prairie crops.

Josie married my grandfather Daniel when she was fifteen years old and he was thirty four. Shortly after tying the knot my grandmother became pregnant. As Grannie went into labor, my grandpa raced to fetch the local doctor some many miles away. Who knows how it happened? Either the baby came fast or my grandfather and the doctor were delayed. Nonetheless baby John arrived and Grannie gave birth alone at the tender age of sixteen.

At some point Grannie and Grandpa ended up living in Vancouver, British Columbia. My grandfather worked as a carpenter there and they lived near Hastings Street which today is an address you would be best to avoid.

For a short while my mother, father and I lived with my grandparents on a street just off Hastings. We were an extended family because my aging great grandparents, Josie’s mom and dad, lived in the two bedrooms on the upper level of the house. Grannie took care of them, cooking their meals and carrying trays of food and drink up and down the narrow stairs to where they lived. They were ghostlike to me as I saw and heard them rarely. My favourite aunt, Marie, also shared our house. She worked as a secretary downtown and around 5:30 each weekday I would anxiously sit on the porch in anticipation of seeing her round the corner of our street after she descended the streetcar she took to and from work. As soon as I spied her I would give a great cry “Auntie Ree ( as I affectionately called her) is home!”

At the time the Hastings Street district was populated by working class people that currently would be deemed a diverse population. My memories of that neighbourhood are good ones filled with fondness. Our next door neighbour was an Italian woman and she regularly offered me delicacies like light donuts that I later learned are called fritelle. She passed them over the short picket fence between our front yards and enthusiastically offered them to me in her mother tongue. As she handed me the sweets she rapidly spoke in Italian. I smiled broadly and nodded as I pretended to understand.

Another sentimental memory of that Vancouver community was Grandfather taking me for walks down Hastings to a small grocery store where he would buy me an Eat-More bar and pay for chewing tobacco for himself. We joked that my Eat-More candybar was chewing tobacco for young kids.

My grandfather would also regale me with old guy tricks. He had dentures and delighted in letting them drop from his upper palate and enticed me to try to mimic him. Despite trying with all my might I could not dislodge my tiny baby teeth.

Not all my recollections of living in Vancouver are tender. My grandfather died while my parents and I were living in that cozy but crowded Vancouver house. I certainly recall going to church or perhaps it was prayers at the funeral home. Grandpa McGurran was in an open casket and although he looked peaceful I clearly remember desperately wanting to wake him up. I believe it was my very first inkling that life was not everlasting.

After my grandfather’s death my parents and I moved to Winnipeg where my father took a new job with the Otis elevator company. We lived in a young community called Windsor Park near to my mother’s brother, John, where his wife and their eight children, my first cousins lived. Grannie would often visit us from Vancouver and shared her time between the two families.

Josie was quite young when she became a grandmother and the nomenclature “Grannie” was ill suited to her. When she came to stay in Winnipeg all of us kids would pile into our Ford Fairlane and go to the airport to greet her. Beautifully dressed, she would most often arrive in a well tailored suit and matching high heels. Her short hair was jet black and her trademark was deep red lipstick that she could expertly apply even without using a mirror. As she began to age she “supplemented” her dark tinted coif with a black synthetic wig she bought at the Kresge store or what she called the five and dime. Whether intentional or not, Grandma placed that hair piece off kilter with the part well off center and to the right. It drew laughs from the family and we will remember her as vain with a twist!

I was definitely convinced that I was Grannie McGurran’s favourite grandchild. Despite the fact that she had twenty-one grandchildren it seemed to me that I received the most attention and affection from her. When I shared this belief with my siblings and cousins I was shocked to learn that each of them claimed favored grandchild status. Now I realize Grannie was adept at loving generously and equitably.

As Josie entered her late 80s it became necessary for her to move into a long term care facility in a suburb of Vancouver. “Auntie Ree” and two of my cousins lived close by and regularly checked up on her so she continued to feel family love and support. My husband and I visited her there while on a west coast trip. As we entered her tiny room we spied her fast asleep on the single bed with her head propped up on two pillows. We could not help but smile as we noticed what lay beside her on the white pillows. The black synthetic hairpiece she relied on to keep up appearances was but three inches from her sleeping head!! Perhaps she purposefully positioned it there for easy access at a moment’s notice!

The COVID pandemic has wrecked havoc with many of our most vulnerable. In particular, long term care homes have been disproportionately affected by COVID. Here in Canada my sister, Margaret Ann-Gillis, is the Canadian head of an international organization that advocates for seniors. When the pandemic hit she was one of the first to publicly voice the horrors of many long term care facilities pre and post COVID. In her role as the president of the International Longevity Centre Canada she brought focus to the need to radically address the sorry state of facilities for the aging. Several people in one room sharing bathrooms, staff shortages and bad working conditions are unacceptable examples of challenges facing care facilities. The latest issue concerns the fact that many residents in care have been fully vaccinated yet are denied the opportunity to eat and recreate together.

My understanding of aging is shaped by my family experience not the least of which is witnessing my grandmother attentively caring for her parents in her own home. I was not taught to distance my elders but rather to feel a part of an extended family. Grannie McGurran was a person to be reckoned with who was not afraid to speak her mind. It well may be that her tenacity inspired my sister Margaret-Ann to determinedly advocate for older people.

My nature is to push back on the unpleasant aspects of aging. However : Aging is a privilege! Celebrate longevity!

“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage rage against the dying of the light.” Dylan Thomas

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)