Kay Pfahl

Ed Pfahl, me, Kay Pfahl, September 2009

Six weeks ago, around the time of my sister's birthday, she and I drove to Ottawa to see Kay Pfahl and her family. Kay had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She didn't have much time.  

On September 23rd, my birthday, we drove to Ottawa again to see Kay's family, who greeted us as always with warmth and hospitality, but without Kay. She had died on 20 September. 

L to R, back row: Kim Clark, Kevan Macrow, Ed Pfahl, Alan Pfahl, me, Bruce Clarke.
L to R, front row: The Pfahl sisters Debbie, Kerry, Sandie; Carol Myers. 

The Pfahls were our next-door neighbours in Winnipeg, and lived around the corner from us in Edmonton. Armed forces families say "you never say good-bye, just see you later." But most of the folks we knew back then, we never did see again. The Pfahls were the exception.

Kay and Ed and their kids were a few years younger than my parents and their brood. We kids played backyard games. I recall tag, red rover, statues, and cap pistols. Indoors there were board games, an ant farm, and a rock collection.  

The families' deepest bond was the abiding love between Kay Pfahl and my mother. After they left Edmonton, the Pfahls moved around some before finally settling in Ottawa. We were never neighbours again, but in 1979, when my father was in an Ottawa hospital for six months, mom took the bus from Trenton and stayed with the Pfahls every weekend so she could visit dad. 

Some years later, as my father lay dying in the same hospital, Kay and Ed opened their home to an endless stream of Clarks.

My mother died in 2005, but Kay's love and the Pfahl's special place in our hearts abides. 

In that strange way of memorials, it was inexpressibly sad on the 23rd to be mourning Kay with her family but also wonderful to see them all together, her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. 

The world has lost a caring, compassionate, deeply lovely human being, but all of her love survives in the lives she touched and the family she made.

Rest in peace, Kay. You were absolutely awesome.

Karen

Peace and (Almost) Quiet

Sunset, Georgian Bay, September 2022.

We're on an island in Bayfield Inlet, about halfway along the Alexander Passage on Georgian Bay. In terms of mainland landmarks, we're west of Point au Baril Station on Highway 69. Still have no idea where we are? Neither do we. But it doesn't matter. 

Cottage country after Labour Day is quiet. The few boats skimming the inlet are loaded with contractors headed to work on properties left empty now that the season is over.

The real locals, the ducks, crows, fish, turtles, spiders, slugs, crickets, mosquitoes and hornets are back to being the boss of the place.

A mess of Mergansers, Georgian Bay, September 2022.

Our presence disturbs the peace when we call to one another to say we've found something, or when the dogs, Golda and Lester, bark their fool heads off.

The nighttime quiet and perfect darkness make me aware of how used I've become to the permanent luminescence and shaking hum of the city. I don't miss these. I just get the occasional start when I notice their absence, like when a bad smell you've become accustomed to is suddenly gone. 

We're here a couple more days, then off to another cottage rental on the shore of the much smaller Ameliasburgh mill pond. 

Thanks for reading!

Have a great week!

Karen

Cardinal flower, on the island with no 
name, Georgian Bay, September, 2022.

Flights of Angels

June 2021: impressive weather, Georgian Bay

I assume the Queen's death means something to me. Like increasingly few people these days, she was around long before I was born. Her picture's on the money. Her offspring often cause a stir.

I watched King Charles's speech on YouTube. In the comments people noted the beauty of his last words, "And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

Not a single one seemed to know Horatio speaks these words to Hamlet's still warm corpse in the blood-soaked final scene of Shakespeare's best-known play.

Which means to me that the power of Shakespeare's words has outlasted his fame. 

That's a trick few achieve. Her late Majesty was known more for her works than her words, but most of all known for her determined constancy, her dedication to her role. Even without paying much attention, or caring one way or the other, I understood that.

Seventy years of consistent effort is worthy of respect, and some sadness now that it's done.

Thanks for reading.

Karen

We're headed back to Georgian Bay this week.
We will be keeping an eye out for bears.

 

Trouble

I found someone living in my crawlspace. 

After binge-watching Hoarders episodes, I decided, for the second time in two years, to clean out the half-height cubby hole above the kitchen.

The last time I'd gone in there, I'd found file boxes full of old documents. I didn't have the mental strength then to sort through them all, so I just put them back.

This time I pulled those boxes out, lifted the lids, hauled out the contents. And started to read.

And that's how I found the person in my crawlspace. She's in the box with twenty plus years' worth of journals extending from 1976 to 1998. 

It's me, but an exotic, unfamiliar me from so far in the past that she might just as well be a different person. But that was the point of writing those journals ... I left a record for my future self, so I could look back on the details of my life and perhaps find meaning, maybe solve the problem of the inscrutability of existence.

Maybe.

I did throw out a lot of what I found. Eight boxes' worth. But I kept the journals, put them in order and affixed a fresh label on the box so I can find them again when I'm ready to complete the assignment I set myself.

Even if that's just looking for trouble.

Thanks for reading!

Happy Labour Day Weekend!

Karen

Also found/almost unrecognizable. My sisters and
I circa 1963 in Winnipeg. Guess which one's me.