Much Ado

 People call it a "widow's hump" but I think it was from the weight of disillusion. Her tiny hands are like tissue and minute, blue veins criss-cross over arthritic bones. her sight has been forever veiled, and her face is a patchwork of folds and wrinkles. My Grannie - a little piece of Scotland transplanted to a life of labour on a prairie homestead.
 Grannie was a World War 1 bride. Grandpa was a Canadian soldier on leave in Glasgow when they met. After a short courtship, he proposed marriage with a ring she didn't like. After finding one that was acceptable, he proposed again and she accepted. With spirits high she joined him in the "Land of Milk and Honey" as Canada was touted in posters of the time. She had brought with her only one large, second-hand, seaworthy trunk and the ever-present handbag clutched in her hand. They were wed in his parents' home in Ontario then rushed to catch the Trans-Canada train that would take them to their Veteran's homestead out west - way out west.
 They disembarked after their week long train ride only to find they still had to travel by wagon before they finally reached their new farm and new beginning. Grandpa unhitched the horses and gave them a rubdown and oats before husband and wife fell into bed still fully clothed. About midnight they were jolted from their deep slumber by blood curdling screams and banging on pots. Grannie was sure they were being attacked by those wild Indians she had heard about back home. She clung to Grandpa for protection. He just laughed...the neighbours had gathered to give them a shivaree. Good wishes and little gifts were left and a quick toast to the newly weds with homemade dandelion wine. They vanished back into the night while Grannie pondered this strange ritual.
 Grannie had never lived in the country and Grandpa had never farmed. She did not know to make soap or butter or bread - he didn't know how to break land for seeding or how to raise farm animals and the nightmares of war had stayed with him.
 In the first years of her marriage she was desperately homesick. How could she gather with friends, family and neighbours for Hogmanay when even the closest neighbour was a mile away? To go out for dinner was a trek into the closest town sixteen miles away, the nearest cinema was one hundred and a theater with live entertainment was two hundred miles down the road. In Glasgow she had worked across the street from a live theater and just down the block was a cinema. She had not realized how much she would miss the city life. The pain of leaving her homeland was as a sharp knife used to slice her soul raw. That pain gradually gave way to a dull ache of separation never fully erased. Once she had settled into life on the bald prairie, she knew there were some things she could change. One of her first endeavours was spruce trees. Using her cream money, she purchased fir seedlings and planted them around their huge garden plot. Every drop of water - from doing dishes or laundry or bath nights - went to those spruce trees. She loathed the prairies where not even a bush broke the unending landscape. Those spruce trees shielded her from that reality.
 Grannie went on to bear five children in a space of ten years of marriage. One of the babes died shortly after birth as the mid-wife hadn't got there in time. He was laid to rest in a wooden orange crate beneath the arms of the sheltering spruce. Her legacy of fir still stands tall and strong. Much like her beloved trees Grannie endured and flourished.
 I dreaded having to tell her my news - my feet were leaden as I trudged up the lane to her home. Grannie had instilled in me her own traits of determination, tenacity, compassion, gentle spirit and Scottish pride. Today that stubborn Scottish pride would have to be placed in my back pocket.
 "How do you tell someone born in the Victorian era - this?" I queried myself.
 There she was standing at the back door waving to me with her hankie as if I might miss her. Her faded pull-over apron fluttered in the breeze. Everything about her was squeaky clean. Grannie's adage was "you're never too poor that you can't be clean." As a child it seemed to me that every interaction with Grannie started with "wash your patties bairn" and the phrase would roll of her tongue with a soft Scottish burr.
 Tea and biscuits were already laid out on the kitchen table. The teacloth was crisp and white but, on closer inspection, one could see faded blue printing. A long time ago this teacloth had been a 50-pound sack for flour. Grannie saved everything. She would often say "waste not, want not" while rolling up bits of string or searching through her button box. Her hands shook as she raised the pot to serve the tea. I would never dream of offering my help (but did keep my fingers crossed)."Black or white", "lemon or sugar" she asked while she re-enacted the ritual of afternoon tea.
 Ever since the day I had accidently drown six of her money-making chicks in the rain barrel, she had called me "Chickie".
 "Chickie - you have something to tell me". It was a half-question, half -statement. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then took a large pull from my cup of tea before answering.
 "I'm sorry Grannie but I have to tell you I'm getting a divorce". I blurted it all out in one long, extended word.
 I cringed with trepidation of her projected response.
 Nothing happened - her tea didn't spill, there was no horrendous gasp, no register of shock. My dear Grannie just leaned across the table, patted my arm and, in her soft Gaelic way, said  -

"You know Chickie, I'd have left your grandfather years ago but I didn't know hot to hitch up the horses."