Bunica

In a few days I will take a plane to join my daughter R on a long road trip. We will visit my eldest daughter whom we have not seen for a few months. I love being with my daughters and am looking forward to this adventure. We live in a time and have the resources where seeing our children requires little more than really good planning.

As I consider how easy things are for me, I am reminded of my Great-Grandmother Softa Badea and her determination and hard work to see one of her children.

She and most of her family had immigrated to Canada to claim homesteads in Saskatchewan. One daughter, already married with children, stayed behind in Romania with the plan that they would come later. But when it was time to depart, Maria's husband changed his mind and so Maria and her four children went ahead.They arrived in Montreal, Quebec but could go no further because she did not have enough money to travel to Saskatchewan. She wrote her parents announcing her arrival in Canada and requesting their financial help. No instant messenging. No emails. No cell phones. By the time the letter arrived on the farm, a few weeks had already passed. My great-grandmother did not have the money. But longing to see her daughter and her grandchildren, she began her crusade to raise the money. Her humble solicitations to siblings, cousins, neighbors and friends were inadequate. She sold eggs. She sold milk. Pennies here and there were collected until finally after what seemed an eternity she had the fare for their train trip. There was no place from which she could wire the money and so one morning with her cane and a small sack containing some food, a sealer jar of water and her shawl, Softa headed on foot from the farm to the nearest train station where she would wire the money. Her journey of 165 kilometres from Wood Mountain to Moose Jaw took six days. She wasn't young. She limped along with her cane for support. The road was hilly in parts particularly around Mossbank. Did she feel afraid walking alone along the road? Did she worry that a coyote or porcupine or snake would trouble her path? Did her legs and hips and bones ache when she slept? Or did she sleep? Can you see her lying there uncomfortably in a ditch trying to rest before she would continue? Can she see the stars overhead as she lays awake listening to the crickets chirp? When it grows dark, is she bothered by the mosquitoes? Bats? Did the darkness close in on her and cause her heart to tremble? Sadly I do not know. Like most mothers, she must have remembered the last time she had seen her grandchildren and her daughter. Her imagination for their much anticipated reunion must have overshadowed her weariness. Wouldn't she have contemplated the gratitude she felt for having this opportunity to help? Wouldn't she have also thought about her chickens and milking cows and the garden that would weeding or harvesting?

It took only a few minutes to wire the money once she arrived. I try to conjure in my mind how she appeared before that agent. Dusty? Dirty? Tired? And yet too, proudly handing over that hard earned and borrowed money - mostly in coins - to the agent explaining that this would bring her daughter and grandchildren from Montreal, that it had been a few years since she had last seen them. And with her mission accomplished, she headed home. I am quite certain that she walked with a glad heart. Carpe diem. Empowered. Mother love at its noblest.

What my Great-Grandmother did not know was that at that same time she walked home with the bald prairie blowing on her back and the grasshoppers keeping pace with her that Immigration had discovered that Maria's husband was not in Canada and assumed she had no financial support in Canada. She did not speak English. They provided no interpreters. And so the Federal Government following their rules and regulations deported her. Even while my great-grandmother trudged along back to the homestead, her daughter and grandchildren were boarding a ship that would take them back to where they had came from. Imagine Maria's horror when she discovered that she was not enroute to Saskatchewan as she had believed. Imagine her tears and her pleading that there was a mistake. A big mistake. She had family in Saskatchewan. They were sending money. Weren't they? Imagine her despair wondering why her family did not or could not help her. Imagine her sorrow later when her youngest son Marin would take ill, most likely with dysentary, and would die in Germany before they would arrive home to Coza Voda, Romania. Imagine my Great-Grandmother's grief that she never again saw this beloved daughter. Never again saw the beauty of her smile nor hear the music that was her laughter. Never saw her grandchildren nor felt their tender kisses on her cheek. And all the while blaming herself that if only she could have walked faster, if only she could have earned the money quicker, if only she could have convinced her daughter's husband to join them when they first came. If only her efforts had been enough. If only.

I wonder what part of my Great-Grandmother remains in me. What have I inherited from her? What is lingering there in the corner of my heart or in my DNA that comes from her?