2005

My journal writing is sporadic at best. Last night, I was going through my bookcase looking for something and I came across a book/journal that I assumed was empty. It has what I believe to be a Mary Cassatt print on the cover and when I opened it I saw that I had purchased the book in Honolulu, Hawaii in May of 1999 – as it is my habit to write my name, date and place of purchase on all my books. Continuing on, I was then surprised to discover I had used this book to journal in 2005. My initial reaction was to toss it, but curiosity got the better of me so I sat down and read it...and was glad I did. The events that unfolded in the journal happened only six years ago, but I still could not believe how many significant changes have happened in my life since then. The year 2005 was a pivotal year in my life and I am so grateful now that I had the sense to document it.



One of the very first entries of the year documented my brother’s six week check-up with his doctor following his Cancer surgery. Six years later, I am happy to report he is still Cancer free. I then documented that I was waiting to hear from the University of Toronto about my application to the Master’s degree program in its Faculty of Information Studies. On the 12th of March, I documented that I had received my acceptance letter from the University. Also dotting these initial entries are mention of visits with Grammie in Souris West and the adventure in wallpapering that Hilda and I undertook when we papered Grammie’s bedroom that January.

June marked a trip to Ottawa for my friend Beth’s wedding. Six years later, her and her husband are separated and she is living in another country. While in Ottawa, I stayed with my cousins – Patsy and Gene Lewis – and also had great visits with the rest of my Lewis cousins. Six years later, Patsy is now deceased.

July of 2005 marked one of the two pivotal events of that year for me. On the 28th of July, I took my Grandmother to the hospital and sometime the following week wrote:

After work on July 28th (Thursday), I took her to the hospital. She had trouble breathing, but managed to walk into the hospital on her own accord. At that time, no one was sure what was wrong with her, but I had a sinking feeling in my gut it was not good.

The following Thursday she died, surrounded by Mom, me, Margie, Walter, Allen & Betty, and her nieces Theresa Murphy and Cathy Gallant, in the same hospital room that Auntie had died in two years earlier. There are then pages and pages documenting all the facets of her wake and funeral and the kindness of our friends, neighbours and community in their expressions of sympathy. One thing I documented that I had forgotten was Father Gallant noting in his homily of Grammie’s “fondness for poetry and the soil east of Souris,” which was so touching.

I say that this was a pivotal event in my life, because I was so incredibly close to my Grandmother. I now realize how fortunate I was to get to know her as an adult. I saw her at least once a week and if I was working in another province, we’d frequently talk on the telephone. She told me on more than one occasion that she felt I was like another daughter to her rather than a granddaughter. I was dreading saying good-bye to her when I was to leave for Toronto that September, but as it turned out my good-bye to her happened sooner than I had expected. Within three weeks of her death, I was in Toronto set to begin a new chapter in my life, but I of course took her, and continue to take her in my heart wherever I go. Here is a photo of us I keep on my fridge.


September of 2005 marked my move to Toronto – the second pivotal event in my life that year. My diary entries document the challenges, uncertainties and eventual triumphs that came with returning to school to do a graduate degree in a city unknown to me - in my mid-thirties. My diary also documents that I realized I needed the challenge, and I took pride in fact that I excelled in my studies. Six years later these studies now seem so long ago and I will soon be entering my fifth year of employment in the second largest Archives in the country.

My diary entries that Fall also document a reunion with my friend and former Professor, Dr. John Thomas. He was a wonderful mentor to me during my undergraduate degree at Acadia. Another Acadia History pal and I had three knee slapping beer swilling outings with Dr. Thomas that Fall. That Christmas, John was diagnosed with cancer of the tongue. I only saw him one more time. Within a year John was dead at the age of 56. His death was devastating for me, but I was grateful for these outings, for all the office time, advice and guidance he gave to me at Acadia and for all he taught me in his death. Six years later, I have become friends with John’s parents, and completely dissolved the friendship with the Acadia History pal with whom I enjoyed the visits with Thomas that Fall.

That Fall, my journal also documents attending book readings by Margaret Atwood and Frank McCourt. I met them after the readings and had books signed by both authors. Frank McCourt was of course charming in typical Irish fashion. When he heard that my name was “Juanita” he proceeded to sing to me a few lines from the old ballad “Juanita.” I was completely charmed – and of course loved the Teacher Man novel that I purchased and had him sign that night. Six years later, Frank McCourt is also dead. I recall Margaret Atwood looking at me – one of those looks that go straight through you – and the small smile she gave me. I was grateful for that smile because she is, well, terrifying.


On November 22nd, 2005, I made the following entry in my diary:

“Today I discovered that FIS are going to be able to send two students to South Africa to work with the Nelson Mandela Foundation. My heart skipped a beat when I heard this. I want to go.”

Within six months I was in South Africa. I was one of two students chosen from eighteen applicants to go to South Africa to work in the NMF’s Centre of Memory. Verne Harris became a friend. I met Nelson Mandela. In addition to South Africa, I visited Lesotho, Swaziland, Botswana, and Namibia. It was a hell of a summer.

The year 2005, brought with it a lot of ups and downs and twists and turns – more so than usual. I am just glad I had the sense to document it all. And reading this journal has encouraged me to be more diligent in my journal writing.

Held in the arms of your words

I am grateful to a co-worker for introduced me to “Tired Pony.” My new favourite song is “Held in the Arms of Your Words” that is oh, so romantic...here are the lyrics and the vocals via YouTube.


This light at the end of the day
When even the highways seem still
The map in my hands folded shut

There isn't one magical word
But a carnival of them instead
Like an old silent cinema screen

And in this light you are framed classically
Just a painting that hangs in my head
That I know like the back of my hand

With the sunset the neon awakes
And the cold colours dance on your skin
And finally the modern makes sense... to me

You're effortless you know you are and all I want to do
Is let you lead me off into the dusk

Our shadows kiss before we do and right here in the dark
I revel in the calm before the storm

The garden is haunted by us
And every mistake that we've made
Is at peace cause it lead us both here

The thought that just burns into me
Of you in the ink of the night
Is the breathtaking danger of you

You're effortless you know you are and all I want to do
Is let you lead me off into the dusk

Our shadows kiss before we do and right here in the dark
I revel in the calm before the storm

This is life, this is all I want from life
It's the fervour and the tenderness combined

In the dark, in the ever-falling dark
We are anchorless adrift but barely notice

January reads

For whatever reason, my latest trend in reading is to have three books on the go: (1) A book on my bedside table that I read in bed at night; (2) a book on my kitchen table that I read every morning while eating my breakfast; and (3) a book on my Kobo that I read on my daily commute. In January, I finished two out of the three, both of which were incredibly engaging reads.

My friend Laura is always sending me interesting books. For Christmas, she gave me a book written by Acadia graduate Andria Hill entitled Mona Parsons: From Privilege to Prison, from Nova Scotia to Nazi Europe (2000). As soon as I saw it, I instantly remembered seeing it on my fiend Marlene’s coffee table many years ago. I started reading it immediately and the story of Mona Parson’s life quickly drew me in.


Mona was born in 1901, grew up in Nova Scotia’s Annapolis Valley, and eventually graduated from Acadia’s Ladies Seminary. She married millionaire Willem Leonhardt in 1937 and they lived as husband and wife in Leonhardt’s native Holland. The majority of the book centres on Mona’s time in Holland with Willem. Unfortunately, the majority of Mona’s time in Holland also coincided with WWII, which set the stage for an extraordinary chapter in Mona’s life.

After only three years of married life, Mona was in Holland when it was invaded by Nazi Germany in 1940. Although Mona was a wealthy socialite, she believed it was necessary to resist the Nazi occupation in whatever way she could. Mona and Willem joined a network of people who vowed to do whatever they could to counter the Nazis' invasion and their efforts were often concentrated in helping downed Allied fliers evade capture and help them return to England. This was a cause for which both Mona and Willem were eventually imprisoned:

"In April 1945, in the small town of Vlagtwedde, near the German border in north-eastern Holland, members of the North Nova Scotia Highlanders were astounded when an emaciated and sick woman approached them for help, claiming that, after nearly four years in Nazi prisons and camps, she had walked across Germany following a desperate and dramatic escape. Badly infected blisters on her bare feet were evidence of her three-week trek, but the soldiers were incredulous when she told them she was a Canadian - Mona Parsons from Wolfville, Nova Scotia."

What particularly drew me in about this book was the difficulty Andria Hill admitted she had in piecing together Mona’s story. In putting together this story, Hill relied on correspondence, interviews with people who knew Mona and of course archival records. Hill made several research trips to Holland and references visiting various local archives there. In my own line of work, I also have to often rely on dissection of records to piece together stories of people’s lives. Andria Hill did a great job piecing together the various chapters of Mona’s life.

The second book I read in January was All that is Bitter and Sweet: A Memoir by Ashley Judd. I confess to having watched some episodes of “The Judds” that aired on the OWN network. In doing so, I recall an episode where Naomi revealed she was upset after reading a memoir recently written by her daughter Ashley. My first thought was that Ashley Judd seemed young to be writing a memoir. After some Googling, I was then perplexed as to why Archbishop Desmond Tutu would write a glowing review of Judd’s book. Curiosity got the better of me so I decided this book would be the first purchase on the Kobo I received for Christmas.


I was surprised at how engaging the book was, or rather how Ashley Judd’s life story read. For me, the book had three prominent sections. The first focused on Ashley’s childhood – and the abuse, neglect, and depression that came as a result. The second section, which made up the majority of the book, emerged from diaries written by Judd during her work and subsequent travels with Population Services International (PSI). And thirdly, Judd reveals intimate details surrounding her process of therapy and recovery and working her way through it.

The dysfunctional childhood didn’t surprise me. But what did was Ashley’s work with PIS International. I will admit I hadn’t heard of PSI before, but now know that is a global non-profit organization “dedicated to improving the health of people in the developing world by focusing on serious challenges like a lack of family planning, HIV/AIDS, and maternal health.” Judd joined the PIS Board of Directors in 2004 and has even addressed the General Assembly of the UN on its behalf. A large portion of the book was developed from diaries Judd kept during her visits to developing countries on behalf of PSI. What was revealed is not for the faint of heart. Alongside PSI staff, Judd visited the dirtiest and most inhumane brothels in Southeast Asia, Africa and India, so as to meet, talk and educate women trapped in the sex trade. As difficult as it was to read in places, it also inspiring and reminded me to be appreciative of the life into which I was born.

No doubt it was her work with PSI that led to Judd enrolling in Harvard University’s John F. Kennedy School of Government, where she graduated with a Masters Degree in Public Administration in 2010. I could totally associate with her description of the difficulties in enrolling in a masters Degree and entering an academic environment after you have been out of school for more than ten years. I think this book would be appealing on many levels to a lot of women in their late 30s and 40s. Archbishop Tutu summarized it best:

“Ashley Judd has written a deeply moving story — amazingly, searingly, frank. It is her life story, warts and all. As I read her account of her childhood, I ask ‘How could one so traumatized, so abused in childhood, become the woman we know, so caring, so altruistic, so compassionate, so concerned for others, and so joyful?’”
–Archbishop Desmond Tutu