Country Roads . . . Take Me Home

This home in Welling, Alberta, Canada belonged to Amasi Bullock, the brother of my great grandfather, Ernest Bullock. My great grandfather's home was right across the highway and was pretty much identical to this home but it's been moved to a different town and remodeled so I photographed this one to show what it looked like.
My Aunt Peggy and my mom (on the right) taken about two and a half years ago.
Welling, Alberta, Canada. Looking down the gravel road, east of the home where my mother was raised. If you keep going down this road for several miles you'll come to the old Temple Hill Cemetery where my mom's parents, two brothers, grandparents, several aunts, uncles and cousins and many friends are buried.
This photo was taken on my Aunt Peggy and Uncle Jack's farm in Metcalf, Ontario, Canada. This is actually a photo that I took of a photo that Aunt Peggy has had hanging on her kitchen wall for many years. Aunt Peggy is on the left and my mom is on the right. I wish I could have actually seen these two bombing around on those little motorbikes!

I must warn anyone who's venturing to read through this post that it's long and probably only of interest to a very few people, mostly my immediate family. I've written things, here, that I don't want to forget, things that are precious to me.
Last month, I had the great blessing of being with my mom in Alberta, Canada, where she was born and raised. She and my brother and sister flew into Calgary, Alberta, where I met them and then we all drove to Lethbridge together to attend the funeral of my cousin, Robbie. Robbie passed away after a many years battle with cancer. It's amazing how an occasion like that can be so sad and so sweet at the same time. It was wonderful to see Robbie's family . . . her husband Tony and her three beautiful daughters, their husbands and her nine grandchildren. It was also great to see Robbie's three sisters and my other cousins who live in the area. I loved the time spent with my brother and sister, who I don't get to see nearly enough and my brother's daughter Sarah and her husband Zac, who live in Lethbridge.
My Aunt Peggy, my mom's only surviving sibling was in a Lethbridge hospital where she had been since suffering a stroke back in October. She had been steadily improving until she picked up two awful viruses in the hospital (Norwalk virus and the C diff virus) that left her extremely weak. Mom and Peggy have been very close through the years . . . loved to talk on the phone and to visit each other when they could. I know it was very difficult for my mom to see her beloved sister in such a weakened condition. For the next few days mom and I went to the hospital to sit with Peggy (my brother and sister had to fly home the day after Robbie's funeral) and visit with her when she was feeling strong enough. The stroke had left her with some memory and speech dysfunction but for the most part she could communicate pretty well with us. One evening, my mom was sitting beside Aunt Peggy and looking out her hospital room window at the lights of Lethbridge twinkling through the darkness. She said, "Can you see out that window, Peggy? That view reminds me of a poem that we used to recite in school."
Then my mom started to recite a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow called The Day is Done. It went like this:

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o"er me
that my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of they voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Somewhere around the second verse my Aunt Peggy and my mom locked eyes and Peggy started to recite the poem with mom. I think they recited through the fifth verse together. I watched, very aware that I was observing something so beautiful, so poignant that it was almost breathtaking to me. The love, the shared experiences and emotions of their Southern Alberta prairie upbringing and the years that they raised their families together in Sherwood Park . . . so many things that passed between them during the few lines of that poem .
We visited Aunt Peggy on Saturday, Sunday and twice on Monday. During our earlier visit
on Monday, she seemed very low and she slept a lot. Her daughter, my cousin Carmen, and I both felt that she was drifting away. Mom and I left for a few hours, to have some dinner with my niece, Sarah, and when we returned to the hospital we were surprised to see that Aunt Peggy had perked right up and was visiting happily with her son Orin and his wife Val (they'd driven down from Calgary to see her). We only stayed for a few minutes because we didn't want to interrupt Peggy's visit with Orin and Val.
Aunt Peggy died the next morning. The nurses had taken care of her morning routine including giving her some medicine at about 9:00 am. When they look in on her just a few minutes later, she was gone. She had never been unconscious or shown a major change in her vital signs. It seemed, she just left. Carmen called us at about 9:30 am to let us know that she was gone. Carmen picked us up and we went up to the hospital to sit with Peggy for awhile, pick up her things and do some paperwork. Carmen had much to do, so Mom and I said good-bye and we drove south to Welling and then east from Welling to the old Temple Hill cemetery where many of my mom's family and extended family are buried. We spent a couple of wonderful hours, in that wind-blown cemetery, finding my mom's family members and friends. Mom told me some great stories about the different people buried there . . . I'll bet she knew half the people in that little cemetery. When it was time to go (we were driving up to Calgary that night to stay with my cousin, Carolyn, as we both had planes to catch home the next morning) we drove out through the arched gate of Temple Hill Cemetery and I said to my mom, "I'm going to take a couple more pictures". Do you want to get out of the car and take one more look back over the cemetery?" She looked at me and said something like, "No. I'm not going to look back. It's time to look forward now. I won't be coming back here." It was something like watching her turning the last page of a long chapter in the book of her life. . . the chapter that had her parents and siblings in it was over . . . she was now the last surviving member of the family she was born to. As we headed back west towards the main highway, past the home where she was born and raised and then turned north towards Calgary, she spoke tenderly of my dad and how anxious she was to get home to him. She missed him and needed the comfort of his presence. The sun set as we drove and talked about things past and things that were to come. It was precious time spent with my mom. I'll never forget it.
This is the home where my mom was raised. My grandmother worked hard and turned their yard into a green oasis on the prairie. There were lots of trees, well-trimmed shrubs and beautiful flowers and a big lawn. I know that it's been hard for my mom to see the home fall into disrepair and the yard to become overgrown and neglected.
Looking toward the west, from the old yard, as the sun was going down on the prairie.
Looking down the road to the east, from the old farm house.
Another view of the house.
Looking to the north, across the land that used to belong to my Grandma and Grandpa Bullock.
The long driveway up to their house.
Another view of the old road looking east.
This was the same road but looking west towards the Pothole Coulee where mom spent hours, playing, swimming and fishing.
The Pothole Coulee frozen over.
The entrance to the Temple Hill Cemetery.
Me, standing by the graves of my Grandma and Grandpa Bullock.
My mom, by her parents' grave site.
A couple of different views of the cemetery.

Leaving Temple Hill cemetery. Mom said she wouldn't be coming back. The photo below is looking down the road coming away from the cemetery. Mom finished one chapter of her life and moved onto another as we drove that little stretch of road. It was both sad and beautiful to watch. Thanks for sharing this time with me, Mom. It was a little slice of heaven. Til next time.