You have heard about Joyce as a child in the north, as a friend and teacher, and as a Mother. I have the difficult honour of trying to tie all the pieces together. Thing is, Mom would just tell me to stop making such a fuss.

She worked quietly in the background, only raising her voice when you were doing something stupid that warranted it.

This, she got from her father Peter.

She worked hard in the background, and did what needed to be done without complaint.

This, she got from her mother, Edna.

She led a quietly distinguished life, marked by her strength of character, her consistent work ethic, and her demonstrated love to her family.

She stuck by my sister when she was ready to quit school.

She stuck by dad when a sudden brain aneurysm set him up for a year of intensive recovery and a lifetime of altered roles & responsibilities.

She stuck by me, the son that she quietly believed was never living up to his potential. 
“If he could ONLY stop procrastinating…”

She stuck by the Duncans, never taking sides in the dispute of the moment, which sometimes made our house seem like the gap between North and South Korea, brokering peace talks by phone call and email.
I never ONCE heard her publically regret these roles. They were, in fact, responsibilities that she shouldered without complaint.

You know, growing up, I only really ever saw her cry twice; once falling down the stairs on a plastic toy that I probably left out, and once, driving away down Bridge Street in Sackville, New Brunswick, having left her first-born son in a strange Maritime university town TWO DAYS BEFORE I HAD A PLACE TO STAY so that she could make the drive home in time for HER first day back teaching. Parental love could not trump obligation. She wanted me to have a university experience that would stretch my boundaries, and allow me the independence to find my own path.

It wasn’t until we were at the doctor’s office for her cancer diagnosis that I saw her cry once more, and shortly afterwards, her brave face recomposed, she never more complained about that particular cross which she had to bear.

You may be getting the impression that Mom was stalwart, in control and never worried about a thing. Not true:

• She worried that I’d sleep through school without her constant reminders.
• She worried that her perfectionist son would never EVER get anything done on time.
• She worried that my Duncan side would leave me predisposed to booze and emotional avoidance.

Well, I can say with confidence:

• regarding the first, it’s Beki’s problem now, ad has been for some time.
• regarding the second, the main reason I’ve worked for newspapers, concerts and live events my entire life, is that they have deadlines which cannot be pushed.
• And considering the nature of the today’s service, I think I can be forgiven a drink, and in this room there is no sign of emotional avoidance.

It’s funny that growing up, it’s hard to imagine your parents at work. Thing is, you can take the teacher out of the classroom, but you can’t take the classroom out of the teacher.

I’d like to say that Mom never took her work home with her, but that would be a lie. By Grade 11 I was marking the straight answer questions for her Grade 9s, and tallying red inked numbers in the margin.

Never the “show your work” questions, because only Mom was allowed to grant part marks.

I also know that she would dedicate much time drawing up worksheets and remedial tests for the many immigrant students who arrived at her school, who were placed several grades above their math skills, simply because of their age.
She had all the patience in the world for a poor or struggling student who was TRYING. That was key, and it rained down on our head at home that not TRYING was worse than bad marks any day. In fact, even good marks gained without EFFORT were viewed with much suspicion.

Personally, as a student under her tutelage, I stunk. This just reinforced the similarities between us, you know your magnet rules – opposites attract and like repels like, and all that. This was evident to anyone who witnessed her try to teach me anything directly – either high school math, swimming (she was a bronze medallion lifeguard and swim instructor in Kenora), or – ahem – time management.

I can only imagine how difficult it is to butt heads with a little version of yourself — wait, actually Mora has already begun to grant me that gift.

Thanks Mom, what goes around, comes around. I only wish you were here to smirk and feel vindicated. Eh, probably not your style.

Her best teaching to me was entirely by principle, and by example. She pushed on the points she knew were worth winning, and learned to live with the rest.

The rules were simple:

• DON’T LIE
• CLEAN UP YOUR MESS
• DON’T PLAY AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS
• NO BITING

A simple list, and resistant to misinterpretation.

DITTO lying. Let me tell a story. When I was in Grade 5 or so, I had a paper route. It required stuffing the flyers into the paper and then walking a short route around my neighbourhood. I didn’t mind walking the route, but really hated having to individually stuff the flyers into each paper. One day, I decided that stuffing flyers was optional, and stuffed them instead in a garbage bag at the back of the garage. I was wracked with guilt, figured I had got away with it. When I heard my mom call my name, in a certain tone, that guilt was replaced by utter fear. She did the parental thing (that I’m just starting to recognize in me), and gave me the chance to come clean. “Anything you’d like to tell me?” “About what?” “The paper route.” Head pounding, sweat dripping, I was stupid enough to think there was still a chance. “Uh, no?” She dropped the bag at my feet. And started in about how lying was the worst possible thing I could do. And when she told me this, SHE STARTED TO CRY, she was so upset. This, I did not expect. Pretty soon, everyone is crying, and I’m in pretty big trouble.

Thank you Mom and Dad,

• for raising me with the right focus
• for taking us outdoors
• for letting me pick my own path, but never letting me give up before I’d started.
• for gently suggesting a slightly different path, when this one just wasn’t cutting it.
• for threatening, but never actually throwing water on me to get me out of bed.

For letting us move in with you when Mira was born:

You and Dad let Beki and I move back home for Mira’s early years. At the time, I thought it was the gift of free rent – to sink our student debt and build up the house fund – but what we really gained was the wisdom and perspective of 2 additional parents. Mira is who she is because of her deep connection with Mom and Dad, and I was able to continue learning by example. I’m devastated that Liam will not have the same opportunity. A quick glance at the photos on display here will show you the deep connection Mom had with my children.

In fact, when Beki sat down with Mira to tell her that her “regular” Grandma was dying, her first thought (after “will it hurt?”) was that “we have to move back to the house so that Grampa won’t be alone”. Pretty selfless and solid for a 4 and a half year old, no? Mira and Liam also carries Mom’s light inside of her.

Mom retired from teaching in 2002, and the 1st grandchild appeared in 2005, in preparation for which, an onslaught of sweaters, pullovers, toques, mitts and overalls appeared. Sharon, my step-mother-in-law once joked that (of Mira and Liam’s grandmothers), “Joyce knits, Pamela bakes, and I buy.” Or, more accurately, scavenges for deals at thrift shops.

But it is true, that my mother could be found in the family room, watching CSI and knitting something, ANYTHING to keep busy. After a year in retirement, she decided to take some seasonal work with H&R Block, more for the fun of math than anything, and so became a tax filer. What she discovered was that it was really enjoyable helping people with something that they found difficult and complicated. She would actually teach the seniors that came to her how simple it was to file their own taxes in order to save money. Not good business for her employer, but a real help for the people who crossed her desk. It goes without saying, that I’ve lost the best tax filer and prudent business advisor I could have wished for.

Mom quit H&R Block because she thought that it was making it more difficult for Beki and I to schedule Mira around our schedules. She made it possible for us to be flexible and grow our businesses.

Mom had endless time for Mira, until a knee injury in 2006, and the cancer in 2008 made it difficult to play on a toddlers level. The end of tea parties on the floor, and long days of gardening was hard to acknowledge. It was devastating to Mira, and no doubt to Mom as well, since an admission of weakness was difficult for a woman who both lived in the wilds of the North until she was 4, and went camping, IN A TENT, for fun, well into her 50s.

Mom,
Your quiet suffering through the past 14 months, inevitably answering “How are you doing?” with “not too bad” or “just fine”, even while confined to the couch, or unable to remember the word for ‘chair’. We both knew this was not the case. What she meant though, is “don’t let my troubles stop you from achieving your goals. I am not more important than you”. This is not surprising, considering her mother Edna, my grandmother, even while unable to eat with her own cancer in her 80s, would answer that same question with a flippant, “not bad for an old gal”.

She was not too proud for help – everyone chipped in to get her to doctors appointments, help her with her daily routine and keep her mind off the sick. It just seems that most of the time, she didn’t need it.

I admire your strength, both of body and of character.
Your patient determination with sometimes two idiot children.
Your commitment to Dad, after his aneurism and for 15 years following.
I could always count on you to burst my bubble, to question my extravagances, and to squash frivolous dreaming. It sounds miserable, but on the whole, she was always right.

She had only retired 7 years ago, and had looked forward to retirement – alumni teacher curling, grandkids, and some time for herself. To die just short of 63 is a life taken to soon. I am being selfish, I know [sorry, Mom], but I know that my children, and Arleigh’s future childen, indeed all of us, will suffer from her absence.

I told you the night you died that everything would be okay, and I meant it — not just to reassure myself, but to codify the promise that intend to keep. All your efforts to raise us right were not in vain, and will be repaid ten-fold. I swear.