Isabel's Passing
Last night I heard that my Aunt Isabel Peterson passed on, a few weeks shy of her 88th birthday. I am happy for her.
She was the most Christian woman I have ever known, and no doubt woke up this morning in God's kingdom. She and my Uncle Harry are now reunited with their son Patrick, who at a tender age was taken from them in a tragic car accident crossing the road to go to school. They always spoke of him as if he were still among us, as if he was not gone. Little Patrick was frozen in time in their minds, a beautiful little boy who would never grow old, and would surely walk in the door any moment and announce he was home from school. So very sad and sweet, to feel that way.
I could pack this with stories of what a tireless worker she was for others, and list many a kindness she had shown to me, but I prefer to relate one story. My wife and I were returned from the prairies to place my sister Geraldine's affairs in order. She succumbed to the ravages of diabetes in her early forties. Isabel and Harry ferried us about and stood with us as we interned her ashes at the family graveyard in the Miramachi Valley village of Macnamee, also my birthplace.
Before we went up the river to do this, I went downtown shopping with Isabel. We could not move five feet without someone stopping her to say hello. I was introduced and re-introduced about twenty times in an hour. One stop I made was to attempt to rent a guitar so I could play some music when we went up the river to their tiny cabin. It had been a dicey negotiation on the phone, but they told me to drop in and they would see what could be done. As they took my particulars they asked if I had a local phone number. I mentioned Isabel, who was waiting outside in the car, and the atmosphere changed completely. I was given a fine instrument, not a rental, and told that deposits and credit card numbers were unnecessary if I was Isabel Peterson's nephew. I recall they charged me ten dollars for the week I wanted to use it. Coming from Winnipeg, where shopkeepers will bite your folding money to see if it's real, I was astounded. Such was the respect and good will towards my aunt in that community. Not something you can buy, but something you earn over a lifetime by being an exemplary citizen and human being, which she surely was.
RIP Aunt Isabel. Say hi to Harry and give Patrick a hug from his Uncle Byron.
She was the most Christian woman I have ever known, and no doubt woke up this morning in God's kingdom. She and my Uncle Harry are now reunited with their son Patrick, who at a tender age was taken from them in a tragic car accident crossing the road to go to school. They always spoke of him as if he were still among us, as if he was not gone. Little Patrick was frozen in time in their minds, a beautiful little boy who would never grow old, and would surely walk in the door any moment and announce he was home from school. So very sad and sweet, to feel that way.
I could pack this with stories of what a tireless worker she was for others, and list many a kindness she had shown to me, but I prefer to relate one story. My wife and I were returned from the prairies to place my sister Geraldine's affairs in order. She succumbed to the ravages of diabetes in her early forties. Isabel and Harry ferried us about and stood with us as we interned her ashes at the family graveyard in the Miramachi Valley village of Macnamee, also my birthplace.
Before we went up the river to do this, I went downtown shopping with Isabel. We could not move five feet without someone stopping her to say hello. I was introduced and re-introduced about twenty times in an hour. One stop I made was to attempt to rent a guitar so I could play some music when we went up the river to their tiny cabin. It had been a dicey negotiation on the phone, but they told me to drop in and they would see what could be done. As they took my particulars they asked if I had a local phone number. I mentioned Isabel, who was waiting outside in the car, and the atmosphere changed completely. I was given a fine instrument, not a rental, and told that deposits and credit card numbers were unnecessary if I was Isabel Peterson's nephew. I recall they charged me ten dollars for the week I wanted to use it. Coming from Winnipeg, where shopkeepers will bite your folding money to see if it's real, I was astounded. Such was the respect and good will towards my aunt in that community. Not something you can buy, but something you earn over a lifetime by being an exemplary citizen and human being, which she surely was.
RIP Aunt Isabel. Say hi to Harry and give Patrick a hug from his Uncle Byron.
posted by Byron | 4:05 AM
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