Florence Welsh, 1917-2007
By My mother’s mother — my only surviving grandparent — passed away earlier today. It’s very sad, but as the cliche goes probably for the best. The last time I saw her in January she no longer recognized me, and she had effectively stopped eating for two weeks. The last years of her life were in large measure sad and (by choice) lonely, and I hope she’s found peace.
My mother asked me today if I remembered when she was happy, and I do; I still remember visiting her in a small town in Saskatchewan, helping her pick peas from the garden or playing cribbage or 500. In the end, I hope everyone who knew her will remember her that way. I know my mother remembers that her sacrifices were enormous; growing up on a small farm with a fairly harsh climate and no running water, her parents worked to send her boarding school and university, at a time in which neglecting a girl’s education in particular wouldn’t have been unusual. I know that whatever my sister and I achieve will be an indirect product of that. R.I.P.