"I love you both so much. Thanks for everything."

Hi Ms J. I'm home. I had a brilliant time at Mum and Dad's. We did a lot of work, but we had a lovely visit.


We trimmed and tied up the "razbries".

Dad calls them razbries. Grandma called them razbries, too. I know. They're raspberries. But I like how my father says it. Razbreeze. Funny, eh? Dad and I worked in the garden all day on Monday. I mowed the lawn and then we picked cucumbers and onions and green tomatoes and peppers for the hot dog relish Mum and I would make on Tuesday and Wednesday. Mum busied herself in the kitchen making "bread and butter" and "icicle" pickles with the baskets of bumpy cucumbers we brought her.

For as long as I can remember, Mum has preserved summer's bounty in sealable glass jars. She makes jams and jellies, chili sauce, beans, beets, peaches. And pickles. Lots of pickles. Her pickles have often won first prize at the local fall fair. Her jams too. My favourite though, is still the relish.


Some work. Some play. All in the right measure. I love being with my dad.

It has occurred to my brother and sisters and me that when Mum is gone, we'll have no more preserves. Not only that, but a part of our heritage will die with her. So the past few years, we've all tried to spend time with Mum in late summer to help her make her delicious preserves. We visit our parents and learn how to "do down" fruits and veggies. It's a dying art, I think.

I'm a seventh generation Canadian-born Pringle. I'm very proud of that. Both Mum and Dad grew up on farms. Farming is part of my heritage. Growing things. Caring for mother earth, and enjoying what she provides. It would be a dreadful shame if that torch were passed to our generation, and we dropped it. Or refused it.

On Tuesday, the three of us worked together in the kitchen. We sang and told stories and jokes. We shared memories of home. It feels good just to be with them. Dad's hearing is failing. His legs aren't as strong as they once were. And Mum sometimes struggles to remember things. But I love them both. And I owe them much more than I can ever hope to repay.


Dad chopped the onions. "They don't bother my eyes a'toll."


Mum used her old veggie chopper to cut up the tomatoes. "They have to be green. Firm and hard."


My turn now. Mum sliced the cucumbers and I put them through the chopper.

Dad cut up most of the green peppers. When his legs got tired from standing at the counter, I finished the job, but not before I sliced my finger. Dad fetched a band-aid and tended to my bloody finger. His Love made the hurt go away. I know I'll always be his little boy. He'll always be my daddy.

All the vegetables went into a great chrome pot. Mum poured a cup of coarse pickling salt on top and we covered it and left it on the counter til the next day. We retired to the livingroom to watch the television. Dad's a news junky. He likes to watch the news at 10:00 and again at 11:00.

"You never know what might happen in an hour," he says.

Canada's national broadcaster, the CBC, is on strike. So we watched the BBC.

"What the hell is this?" said a crabby old Dad. "Turn it up, Ma. I can't understand a goddamn word they're saying."

My dad curses. A lot. But he makes me laugh.

On Wednesday morning, I rose early with Mum. I went outside with her to enjoy the first of the day's sunshine. I love taking photos early in the morning. Everything looks so still and bright.


Mum filled her watering can.


And watered all her flowers.

Even the bonny sunflowers.


I don't know why, but sunflowers bring me such joy I sometimes laugh out loud.

Of all the leaves in the garden, this next one is the most resplendant. This one never fails to fill my heart, Ms J.


Our beloved Maple Leaf. We Canadians love our country too.

After breakfast, Dad and I washed the dishes while Mum made the beds. We sat around the table and drank coffee and chatted (Mum loved my sermon!) and soon it was lunchtime. We had hotdogs for lunch. We garnished the wieners with last year's relish.

"Let's clean up this mess," Mum said when we were done, "and finish our batch of relish, shall we?"

So we did.

We added vinegar, sugar, celery seed and dry mustard and curry. And we stirred it all up and put it on the stove to boil. We added a few drops of food colouring and thickened the mixture with flour and water. That's how we did it, Ms J. Just as my grandmother had done it. And her mother before her. Finally, it was ready to go into the jars. Mum poured boiling water on the lids and the jars to sterilize them and ensure a good seal.


"Mind you don't spill it. And be careful. The jars are really hot."

We ended up with a dozen jars. I took three home with me. The rest will stay in Mum's cellar. It'll get used up over the next twelve months. Mum and Dad will eat some of it, but most will go to Jill and June and Helen and Patrick and Donna.


Twelve jars. Still hot. A family tradition.

I made relish, Ms J! I helped Mum do it, anyway. Now I know how it's done. I can make it myself. I wrote down the recipe. The recipe my grandma wrote down some sixty years ago. Hotdog relish. Pringle hotdog relish. I'll teach Meagan how to make it one day. Dan too, if he wants to learn. And the great circle will continue.

Is there anything more important to us than family? Family defines us, gives us roots, supports us. Our family, nuclear or extended, offers us a glimpse of our past, the promise of tomorrow, and a blessing for today.

Good-bye, Mum. Bye, Dad. I love you both so much. And thanks. For everything.

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