Feeling the Distance, Missing my People

When we moved to Nova Scotia in 2007, other than our realtor and the neighbours next door, everyone was a stranger. This was going to be home; intent on meeting people, I’d strike up a conversation with practically anyone: at the grocery store, on the beach, at local fundraising breakfasts and suppers. I’d sometimes be asked: “who are your people?”, a tagline to help locate who and where is your extended family. In my personal aversion to ‘being labelled’ (I’m not alone on this one) I initially found it off-putting. But I’ve accepted it as a curiosity, “with whom do you belong?”and that is a human hunger I can relate to.

Still considering this question, who are my people, they are many.

They are my children and grandchildren who currently live in Quebec and the Southern States.

They are my siblings and extended family who live ‘out West’: people with whom I share roots and memories, and visit at least annually for reunions, summer vacations, seasonal celebrations, weddings.

They are the people I have come from – immigrants with broad hopes and dreams for their people. They raised their families in the province of Alberta, as I did: there were many of us families within a couple hours of each other.

I respond to the query with “I’m born and raised Albertan”: and sometimes add – “my people are MacKays and Forsbergs hailing from Scotland and Sweden”.

This blessing of being born and raised in a happily-connected wide circle of ‘my people’ has another edge: the sense of loss and sadness when you are separated.

And missing the funerals is when I especially feel the distance. Yes, Derryl and I travel to share the times when close family members have passed. But we both have a large host of relations, and we often have to say our good-bye’s from afar.

This winter I especially felt that loss of shared touch and tears – in January, a month in itself a darker season of seeking comfort and warmth. Two of my maternal (MacKay) cousins – Sonja and Dwight – died about two weeks apart. How I wanted to be there to hug Sonja’s daughters – loving and supportive to their Mom – and mourn with my aunt and uncle saying good bye to their son. Only 60, his signature impish smile and sparkling eyes will never be forgotten.

These two cousins and their families lived several miles apart in the eastern zone of Alberta, where my maternal Scottish grandparents and two children immigrated to, in 1926. More children were born, some married and stayed in that same area – Mom was one of a few siblings who moved to about 100 miles west of there. Extended family ties were important: in spite of milk cows and other related farm chores, we visited back and forth several times a year in all seasons. Summer reunions we showed up, not wanting to miss the delicious food, the ballgames and all that laughter.

The seven ‘original MacKays’. Left to right: Lil, Joan, Don, Jack, Ellen, Bet (my Mom), Nan. Francis, a step-brother, was not in attendance at this reunion.

Auntie Joan and Uncle Jack live in their same communities, the others in the photo are deceased.

Not every extended family feels connected, for myriad reasons. However it happened that I received this gift of God’s kindness, I hope and pray these blessings of extended family friendship-relationship will not end with me:

• Not having to explain why you feel a certain way or understand details about a specific happening – there’s just a knowing – we were there at the reunion or the wedding. Or you’ve heard the details from those who were – multiple times.
• There’s a thing about just being yourself.
• You belong – just because of who you are.
• Messy bits belong as much as the hilarious times.
• Always an open door to visit – and knew you could give or receive acceptance and help.

Thanks to technology, I could watch both of my cousin’s farewell services streamed online. Dwight’s ended with this song: ‘Til you Can’t by Cody Johnson. Keep dreaming, keep hugging, and keep sharing love.

There’s so much more that could be added to a piece like this: both my maternal and paternal grandparents immigrated and were never being able to ‘go back’ to share the tears and condolences with their loved ones: stories to be shared with younger generations.

Our world has become a puzzle of displaced and misplaced people: suffering loss. Many feel unsafe to share their pain in a world void of compassion.

My hope, with a prayer and reminder to the universal ‘be kind’, is to be aware of others also feeling the distance. And to keep on ‘livin’ and lovin’ til I can’t’.

Thanks for reading…

Love, Karen