1959. The year our home was built. A mid century bungalow in the rural farmland of Alberta.
I am connected to this place.
My grandparents arrived here in the summer of 1960, an answered prayer in a time of hardship.
This little plot of land had offered my family a new page in their story. A chance to put the broken pieces back together again.
The gratitude is still felt in these walls, even after all these years of raising children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, there is gratitude. After all these years, with my grandparents now passed, there is love here.
This story has never been about the bricks and mortar, this is a story that speaks to the soul of a home.
And to know the soul of a home is to know the stories of your ancestors, understanding that home has never been a question of where but one of whom.
Who is home for you?
The greatest gift my grandmother ever gave me was her story. Pages and pages of handwritten memories. I sit and read her words and it’s as if she is here, sitting right next to me.
Sharing her struggles, her adventures, and the lessons she learned. Her story is an offering, a sharing of oneself with another. It’s impossible to receive such a gift without being altered in some way.
My grandmother’s story is also my story, just as her story belonged to her mother and so on it goes. It’s something we pass on, for the next generation to carry.
This is a collection that honours those who walked before me and those who walk with me, who have in one way or another become a part of my story. My home.