Project Family History

My family seems to have been very good at taking pictures,

not so good at getting them into albums.

'

Or writing the who, where, why, what and when on the back of each photo.

When I left the farm I brought everything with me.

I had to use this wall organizer for the hundreds of loose photos.

Each pocket has a title like  Mom, Dad, Dad War, 1950s, 1960s, Farm, etc.

My mother's albums were fairly easy to put together.

I am familiar with the people and places.

I really enjoyed this.

Here she is as a young woman in her backyard

in downtown St. Catharines, probably in the 1930s.

Her father's family came to this area from the US

because of the American Revolution.

I'm very proud of my U.E. status.

This is the contents of the Dad, War pocket which I'm working on now.

Unfortunately he didn't write much of the back of his pictures.

And none of the places and people are familiar to me.

His sister did save all of the post cards he sent home.

Most just tell his family that he is well.

Some items are easy to identify but I have no idea of the story behind this.

Maybe that's a good thing.

Some people are easy to identify.

He was stationed in the Caribbean before being sent to England

 in preparation for D Day so perhaps

 the Duke and Duchess of Windsor visited the troops.

The few albums that my parents had are so old the paper is crumbling.

I'm taking them apart and putting the pages in archival plastic

before I put them together again.

The old covers are astonishingly strong though.

Much like the family history found within.

Flying Into the Cukoo's nest

Image via Wikipedia

My elderly father has been in a Niagara hospital for over 3 weeks now.

I have no complaints about the way he is treated.

I do however, have a problem with the communication between hospital and family.

My questions and concerns about my father's well being are often taken as an intrusion into something that isn't my business or as  a personal insult to the professionalism of the nurse to whom I am speaking.

It is as if I've entered a reality game where I have to guess what the rules are, guess how to address the other players and worst of all guess how to make sense of the difference between what I see happening and what I am told is actually happening.

The Niagara health System is under a great deal of stress right now.

I am under a great deal of stress.

It isn't a good combination.

 

 

Related articles

• Niagara hospital system faces government control (cbc.ca)

Man Talk

Dad and great granddaughter, Cora, last Father's Day

After my mother lost her battle with Alzheimer's a few years ago, I sold my house and moved into my dad's farm to look after him.


Now I have to tell you that it has been years since I've shared a house with a male person and one tends to forget how their minds work.



Last week I was taking Dad someplace in the spy car.

Flynn-the-dog was in the back seat.



Dad was telling me that my brother, Ian, is looking to buy a retirement property just outside of Timmons.



"Sh-t!" said Dad suddenly in the middle of his monologue, "I forgot to ask Roger about Doug Wells!"

(Roger is the farmer down the road who ploughs Dad's driveways in the winter in exchange for the use of the land.)



I thought, "Doug Wells, Doug Wells ... Who the heck is Doug Wells?"



"I think Ian is going to need a pick and a shovel," he said peering at me with such ferocious eyebrow knitting that I became alarmed.


I wasn't finding any connection between my brother who lives in Moose Factory, Ontario, Roger the farmer down the road and the stranger Doug Wells.



"But I don't know anything about them." Dad sounded worried as he turned to look out the window.


Flynn-the-dog sensing his distress, whimpered.


"Them?"


I was starting to think that Doug Wells was part of some terrible gang and my brother in Moose Factory was going to have to defend himself with a special pick and shovel he could only get from Roger the farmer down the road.



"This is getting scary, Dad," I said.


"Yeah, he agreed, "but I think Roger has a dug one."



Clickety, clickety, clickety clack, I could feel the pieces falling into place.



Not Doug Wells - dug wells.

My brother needed a dug well as opposed to a drilled well on his property.




I laughed so hard I almost put the spy car in the ditch.



Jeesh.



Can't men ever say what they mean?