The Letter Grandma J. Might Have Written to Me

I wish I’d known my dad’s mom from an adult perspective. Grandma J. passed away when I was 19 – too young to know what I didn’t know. Now, I realize that I have many questions about her life that will always go unanswered.

I wonder what it would have been like to walk in her shoes. If I’d asked Grandma what her life was like at the time my dad was born and his father passed away, what would she have told me?

I imagine she might have responded to me in a letter that would have gone something like this –

Dear Kathi,

You’ve asked me to share about a time in my life that I seldom talk about. I tend to avoid it so that I don’t have to relive the emotions of grief, sadness and uncertainty that the memories bring up for me. But, I think it’s an important story for you to know and important for me to share the lessons that come along with the perspective of passing time.  

In the late 1920’s, I met your grandfather, Bernard Ostrom. He’d emigrated from Varmland County, Sweden to settle here in Castlegar, B.C., a place where paddle wheelers and trains carried goods and passengers via river, lake and land throughout the valley. At the time, the area was known for its mining, mainly lead-zinc ore, also called galena.  

Bernard’s older brother, Peter, was already here so he’d heard all about the opportunities for a good life. He wanted to be like Peter and escape their father who was, apparently, quite a tyrant. He arrived with big plans for a fresh start and to make something of himself.

Castlegar was a small community so everyone knew everybody else. Bernard and I chummed around a bit with a common group of friends and it wasn’t long before feelings developed between us. He was a real catch – a hard worker, a car owner and oh, so handsome.

We were married in my parent’s home on Aug. 16, 1931 at 2 p.m. It was a fine summer day for our Presbyterian service with a few family members and some friends in attendance.  

By that time, Bernard had secured himself a stable job at the Cominco plant in Trail, B.C. Thanks to a fairly modern highway (for the day) and depressed house prices in Rossland, due to mine closures, Bernard decided we’d build our home there. He commuted the six miles back and forth between Rossland and Trail to work each day. If weather permitted, Bernard liked to limit wear and tear on the car and save a little in gas money by riding his bike down into work and uphill home afterward. 

When your dad, Iver John Bernard, was born on July 18^th, 1932, it was a happy time. Bernard and I were building a good life together.

I remember Feb. 17, 1933 as a cool and snowy day. With fresh snow on the ground that morning, Bernard decided to drive and because he drove he was able to work later. By the time he arrived home it was already dark.  

We’d had a late dinner and Bernard, saying something about feeling extra tired, retired early. I wasn’t surprised the long day had caught up with him. I’d had a long day, too. I was discovering life with a seven-month-old son, while a joy, could wear a girl out. I was anxious to get Iver to bed and crawl under the blankets myself.

Once Iver had settled, I tucked myself in quietly so as not to disturb Bernard. I cozied up to him in hopes his warmth would take my chill away. I was sound asleep before I knew it.  

Bernard usually woke up before me, ready to take on the day. The morning of Feb. 18, I woke to Iver’s crying and Bernard still in bed beside me. I ran for Iver and went back to shake Bernard for work. He wouldn’t wake up. I shook him again and again with no response. Something was very wrong. I ran to a neighbour who drove to Kinnaird to fetch Peter. By the time he arrived I’d already determined that Bernard was gone. I learned later that he’d died due to a brain aneurism.  

One day, I was a young mom full of hope and dreams. The next day was filled with uncertainty, fear and the greatest sadness one could imagine.

I thought he’d be with me forever. I’d been so busy with Iver the night before, that I hadn’t said a proper good night to Bernard. I hadn’t given him a good night kiss. I’d not told him how much I loved him. I had so many regrets.

That day, I learned how fragile and uncertain life is. We never know how much time any of us have, do we?  

Kathi, may you learn to never take your partner for granted. May you be generous with your expressions of love. And, may you always appreciate your family connections.

There you have it. I hope this is what you wanted.  

Life went on for Iver and me, but that’s a longer story. I’ll save that one for another time.

Love,

Grandma xo

It seems an odd exercise to answer questions from the imagined perspective of those who have passed on. But, in an attempt to answer just one and in the process of writing this letter, I began to see Grandma as a woman of great strength. She found her way in life after a tragic incident that most of us never have the misfortune to experience.

In order to get a feel for her life, I researched and learned about the Kootenay’s in the ‘30’s and let myself imagine her life in that time and space.

As a curator of family history and legacy, I dug up a few details of our family’s history and through my imagination, it all came together as an opportunity for Grandma to share some wisdom with all of us.

May you always appreciate your family connections.