I had the honour of reading this at my Memere's funeral on December 7, 2013 as part of the Eulogy.

Memere was the kindest, sweetest, gentlest person I know.

As the oldest granddaughter, I got to spend a lot of time helping with little ones. There’s a whole slough of them around my little sister Bonnie’s age.  Memere was the master at quieting a crying baby or a screaming toddler.  She would distract them with a calm quiet voice, “Oh goodness, what’s this over here, look at this” and suddenly a photograph or a mirror or a book made the baby forget mommy wasn’t in the room or made the toddler forget they were having a tantrum.  A true role model, I never saw her angry or speak harshly to anyone - although she did raise my Dad, so I'm guessing she may have raised her voice on occasion - She had never-ending patience, and was always calm and capable no matter what task she took on.

We all have memories of spending time with Memere in the kitchen – Tourtiere, flapper pie, pate chinois, making snow taffy, Sucre a Creme - in the little blue glass dish with a handle - baking bread – and after kneading you always end by poking the sign of the cross in the dough before you cover with a tea towel, Always cookies in the blue cookie jar, and always a pie in the cupboard when you reached for a plate.  I remember her garden was always brimming with raspberries to pick and peas to be shelled, and I remember  the tummyaches from eating too many of the raspberries or too many of the peas. 

I have older memories too.  One of my oldest memories is of being potty trained.  My Dad remembers pulling into the yard, and she had me hanging over the edge of porch railing, telling me to feel the cool breeze, or in the bathroom she would turn on the tap a little bit and tell me to listen to the sound of the running water.  To this day I can’t drive by a waterfall without wondering where the nearest washroom is. 

But she didn't just potty train us. Memere was always teaching without you knowing you were learning.  When I was a little girl – only 3 or 4 years old? - she would let me help her in the store they had in St. Denis.  How to put the prices on the items, how to count money.  She even had a dish of money next to the till, so if I wanted something I had to ‘buy’ it with money from the dish – my bar six or Cuban lunch or little icy cup in the foil cup.  She showed me how to use the old wringer washer, and how to make salad dressing – mayonnaise, vinegar, salt and pepper, always in the little blue plastic mug with a handle and she'd let me stir it with a fork.  Memere never made you feel like you were too little to help or too little to try things, or that she didn't have time for you.

Somehow she managed to make all of her grandchildren feel special, when you visited her you never felt like just 1 of 19, you were 1 of 1 for that time you with her.  As a teenager, watching soap operas with her on a visit, she would fill me in with a hushed voice “You know, he’s sleeping with her, but married to the other one...”  So out of character for her, but she loved her soaps!  Her sharing that with me made me feel special.  Even at age 40, visiting in the nursing home, she not only knew exactly who I was but even gave me heck “You never come from Regina to visit me”.  It made me feel like I mattered, like I was special.  She remembered that I was the one who lived in Regina, she cared that I hadn’t been there in a while, just as she cared about every single one of her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

Janelle posted a picture of Memere holding  baby Michael, and it reminded me of countless similar pictures of her holding babies, but especially of one I took of her holding her first great-grandchild, my little Kristin, 21 years ago, and also one of her holding little me many more years ago, always with the baby in the left arm, the right hand ready to smooth a shirt, wipe a tear, tickle a belly, stroke a cheek.  That’s what I remember most, Memere’s love for the little ones.  They were all a joy to her, each and every special one. 

But none of us are as special as she was.

Rest in Peace Memere Aline.