Wednesday, December 26, 2018
Helen May Armstrong
January 13,1932 – March 25, 2014
Some of the earliest vivid memories I have of my mother are from my preschool years, likely sometime in the spring of 1968 when I was about 4 years old. I remember one particularly sunny morning during the early spring when mom and I were at our family home in Courtice. I suppose my father was at work that morning and my older brother and sister were in school. On that particularly sunny day mom had allowed me to go outside to enjoy the warm spring sun. While outside that morning I recall being completely absorbed in the sounds and smells of spring while poking about our driveway in the sparkling rivers of melting snow. Using a broken twig, I would rearrange each little rivers path, watching them sparkle in the sun. As I followed those paths down towards the roadway the little sparkling rivers became wider and flowed faster. Without too much care I eventually had wandered closer to the roadway where those rivers flowed into the ditches at the side of the country road we lived on and changed from being sparkling little rivers into sandy brown rushing waters. Being somewhat taken and drawn towards those rushing waters suddenly I was interrupted by the physical presence of my mother watching over me, suddenly appearing and reminding me that these waters could be quite dangerous for a boy my age.
That was mom. She always allowed me to explore and yet always seemed to show up at the right moment with gentle guidance if she thought I was in some sort of danger. Gently she would guide me in another direction while still allowing me to explore some more.
Another day, perhaps during that same year, in the early summer one morning, mom had dug out two old metal toy Tonka trucks that were dirty and rusted. It didn’t seem to me that they could be turned into much of anything. However, despite my doubts we proceeded to cleaned them up. Once they were clean and dry, mom went to the basement and when she returned she laid out three cans of paint. We both sat there with newspapers spread over the kitchen table and painted those two trucks. The first of the two trucks was a pick-up truck which we painted read on the body and silver on the roof. The second was a dump truck and we painted it all in black. When we were done they both looked fantastic!!! I played with those trucks often for many years and they were always my favorite toys.
Taking something old and making it look new again and giving it new life is something I enjoy doing to this day, thanks to mom.
A few seasons later I recall being old enough and interested enough to take part in the process of planting our sizeable family vegetable garden. I don’t remember being of much help in those early years but I do remember that each year the gardening season came and went those gardens seemed to grow larger and larger until at their peak when mom and dad would have been about 40 years old they seemed to have taken on a life of their own and had become these amazing accomplishments that filled our dinner tables throughout the summer and into the winter months.
The simple pleasure of growing a garden was something both my mother and father both enjoyed and took great pride in. A simple, humble, down to earth pleasure in life that seems is forgotten these days. Over and over, again and again, my mother’s example is something I remember and value highly and strive for in a world that often measures success in other more complex ways.
Valuing what you have and making it the best it can be is a gift. My mother not only valued this gift, she lived it in such a way that it became part of who she is and part of every person in our family.
Every single day of her life my mother led her family in many of these ways in which we remember today. She was honest, displayed great integrity and had a natural gift for doing what was good and right. She quietly and humbly led by example and passes onto us a legacy that is much stronger and more powerful than I think any of us can comprehend. A legacy that no doubt came from her roots growing up on her family’s farm in Innisfil, Ontario and matured during the 45 years she spent living on Nash road in Courtice.
A legacy that will without a doubt, continue to be passed along from generation to generation.
Love always & forever, from your son Allan
