Author Archives: Myrtle Siebert

What’s in a Scholarship?

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This is the story about a child who grew up on the remote coast of mainland British Columbia living in a house pulled up on to a float of logs and surrounded by water. The few people living in the area, or passing through, were hand loggers, beach combers, and fishermen. Early schooling was taught by her mother because there was no school, or even other children to attend one. The mail and groceries came by boat every two weeks.

When she was nine years old her family moved and she was able to go to a one-room school, where one teacher taught twenty-eight pupils. It was typical then in many rural areas of Canada. But there wasn’t a high school in the logging camp so she was sent, at age thirteen, to board with a family she didn’t know, and only occasionally visited her parents on weekends.

Four years later, near the end of her grade twelve year, a favourite English teacher approached her saying “You need to write the government finals anyway, so maybe you’ll think about filling out these application forms for a scholarship.” In 1955 the 400-student school was not yet accredited, and finals in all senior courses were mandatory.

When the school principal called her to his office, he told her basically the same thing. She learned the scholarship was a gift Crown Zellerbach, then primary employer of the town. It provided $500 for each year for four years, to a student studying at university to become a teacher. Did she want to be a teacher? She hadn’t ever thought of it.

Her mind whirled as she signed the forms, wrote the exams and then secured a good job selling ladies clothing. She had a steady boyfriend, as most of her girlfriends had. Her family assumed they would marry soon, and she would become a homemaker and mother as both her mother and grandmothers had been.

It may come as no surprise to those who know me that it was my picture in the local newspaper when scholarship winners were announced. Then everything was turned upside down. There I was, a logging camp mill-town girl, going off to find her way in a big city. I hastily made the arrangements: secured space in the dormitory and registered at the University of British Columbia.

Culture shock set in when I arrived: sorority girls wearing cashmere and pearls (my best sweaters were Kitten brand in Orlon except for one Dalkeith in wool), dances were called “mixers,” afternoon science labs in cold, drafty, army huts, Saturday morning lectures, bus schedules needing transfers, heavy cafeteria food, line-ups for absolutely everything, but oh, it was all so new, and such fun.

I went home for that first Thanksgiving weekend and broke off with my boyfriend. From that time onward I didn’t really fit in at home. I had discovered a whole new world that I had not been aware of, and had decided to be a part of it.

I learned new ways of looking at life, obtained a university degree from UBC, met lifelong friends, including my best friend who became my husband, and developed a satisfying, varied, career that included motherhood also. It has been a very good life – one beyond my wildest expectations. Winning the scholarship did all that – it was indeed life changing.

If you remember nothing else about stories of award winners, even small amounts that provide approval and encouragement to a student, please never underestimate the change that can result in the lives of these students to whom our CFUW clubs give money. If they are ready to make the change it has potential for a whole different, improved life.

Thankfulness for My Home

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Photo of beautiful waterfront propertyA television ad last evening showed a glorious sunset. It reminded me of the beautiful sunsets I regularly witness from this location. It challenged me to explain the reasons why I am so thankful for this life I enjoy here.

My story begins with finding this beautiful seaside location. It is 1.9 acres of waterfront with views of Patricia Bay, Mill Bay and farther out to Satellite Channel. After a full year of seeking properties with one Realtor in the Victoria area, and with another Realtor in Richmond, seeking a place for us to live where my husband could fly directly to his employment on North Vancouver Island. We fell in love with this acreage, on one September evening, during our first sunset viewing. Yes, I am indeed fortunate to live where I do.

I live alone here now, in the home we built together, but I am not lonely. Because of the 45 years of love and partnership we spent together, nearly 30 years of them here, evidence of Dale is all around me. There are memories in pictures to enjoy, a home built to suit our specifications, by a well certified builder and with a garden we created together in cooperation.

The shrubs and hedges are mature, their nests produce baby birds. I can watch a bald eagle perched on a waterfront tree, as he looks for his dinner. Occasionally I see a peregrine falcon, often hear the call of a sassy blue jay or raven and always there are crows and sea gulls who seem to enjoy my new roof.

The ocean before me is filled with activity every day. Occasionally porpoises frolic through the bay, always there are seals and river otter to watch. On calm days there are paddle boarders, some with a dog or babe in life jacket, along for the ride. Frequently I watch kayakers who appear to appreciate the water as I do. On warm summer days I can, and do, swim on the incoming tide.

I have so much more to be thankful for. It includes three adult children, each established in their own satisfying career. In these difficult times of staying at home, they are living on sizable pieces of land that they each own. There is plenty of worthwhile work to be done without having to leave the property.

I am most grateful for having three delightfully different grandchildren, whose parents have taught and encouraged them in fields of endeavour, and interests they seek. School is at home just now, and that means in addition to the usual farm chores at 7:30 AM, each one takes some responsibility for part of the household jobs in order to be ready by 9:00 for a school to start in their rooms. With a short recess break with a snack and some physical activity, lesson time is usually finished by noon.

I have every reason to be grateful, with only one exception. At this time in our ‘unhinged’ world — that’s how it sometimes feels — I cannot travel to be able to hug these young ones. But I do now have their email address and have begun to use it.

Note: This piece was written during the pandemic lock-down.

Our Grandpa

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by Lisa Siebert

 In passing times and moments

    we think of you again

you were so kind and gentle

you were our perfect friend.

    It started with a knee ride

and song to make us laugh,

soon nature’s simple pleasures

were the beginnings of our craft.

Whistles, bows and arrows,

you made them from the land,

a man with understanding

and the largest pair of hands.

Respect is something special

    you had it from the start,

we’ll always remember this

    deep inside our hearts.

You see, there really is no end

for the memories stay within

    this patient, gentle giant

Our Grandpa. Our Friend.

The Importance of Grandparents

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Einar Einarson Forberg

Ten years after grandpa Andy had immigrated to Canada, he returned to Norway to find a wife. My mom had said they had played together as children. Of course, she was his cousin. In 1909 he returned to Canada with my grandmother, Gunhild Gunnulfson. She had been teaching young women in Oslo to be housekeepers, a similar field of teaching that I had undertaken at university! Life is so strange. Upon returning to Canada the two were married in a New Westminster church before they began a life together in the places where I knew them both well.

In August of 1998, and after three years of family history research, I made my first trip to Norway where I met 18 second cousins and three elderly ladies who were first cousins of my deceased father, Einar Forberg. Hosted by the families of the grandchildren of two of my grandfather’s brothers, I walked the farm Grandpa had chosen to leave and explored the old church and cemetery that held the names and was the seat of the Forberg relatives.

I will never know why he left his birth place. It was likely a desire for a better life because with large families, and the scarcity of what farmland produced, life was not easy. But his determination not to live as a farmer was more likely the reason. Before making a firm decision to emigrate, he had left home to work in a forested area.

I had only recently learned that he was the eldest of four brothers and according to the rules of the country at the time, he would have inherited the large Forberg family farm. This was apparently not a role he wanted, so he left the farmer responsibility to his next eldest brother whose grandson, Einar, now runs the Forberg farm that I had been visiting. At the farmhouse I saw the family heritage displayed: the original home he had left. It included carved boxes made by a younger brother who did not marry, wooden trunks, bowls and implements decorating with rosemaling and the family bible. My grandfather had returned the bible to Norway after he had decided not to move back to his original ‘home.’

In a roundabout way this brings me to an important observation, since it relates to genealogy. I am the eldest child of the eldest Forberg son and my father, Einar Rise, was the eldest son of our Canadian Forberg ancestor Einar, who emigrated in 1896. Dad had no sons, only my younger sister and me. Rules of inheritance have changed since 1896 and in Norway a daughter is now eligible for a primary inheritance. Had my grandfather remained in Norway, as the eldest grandchild, I could now be running that Forberg family farm!

In his Canadian home I recall being absolutely mesmerized by the process he went through each evening, to prepare and smoke his pipe. For special occasions he would use a traditionally carved long Norwegian pipe festooned with red tassels, attached to a cord from which the pipe hung on the living room wall.

I would watch him lift it from the wall hook and pack the bowl with a particularly pungent brand of tobacco that he smoked only rarely. Seeing him hold the bowl almost at arms length, suck into it to get a fire started enough that we could smell smoke, was an even more fascinating procedure for a little girl of six years to observe.

I remember Grandpa Andy as a quiet elderly gentleman; by the time I was six years old he would have been seventy-one, comfortable at home in his rocking chair, and though tired after his work day in the bush, willing to make room for me on his knee with a picture book. Although he appeared to enjoy watching his granddaughters, Grandpa Andy never said much even in adult company. Whenever I hear the lilting accent of a Norwegian-born person I remember those infrequent conversations again. Having mastered speaking the English language, reading it was difficult for him and he made little effort to read much more than newspaper headlines. He did however, spend time reading a Norwegian magazine that arrived regularly in the mail.

Finding Family

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Old family photosPeople react to death in many different ways. Sudden deaths are perhaps most difficult, leaving family and friends to suffer the shock as well as the grief. Expected death may trigger feelings from anger, to loss, to relief. What if the death is that of a parent who has lived long and well and whose passing can be considered a blessed release from a debilitated illness or of long suffering.

Such was the end of my mother’s struggle from a stroke that had left her without speech and unable to support her own body for six years. My father had already passed on, leaving me face to face with my own mortality.

As her grandchildren assembled with the rest of the family and her many friends, it occurred to me that my sister and I had suddenly become the “older generation.” I am the eldest daughter. Did my place in the family devolve upon me any responsibility?

For most of my adult life I had been busy getting an education, raising three children, running a small business, and responding to community appeals for volunteer assistance that my flexible schedule allowed. Small changes in work and family commitments had more recently left a few more hours of free time. I began to contemplate my place in the family web and what this all meant.

As for all those who are left when someone dies, decisions about personal effects of the deceased must be made and a lifetime collection of “things” sifted through. This process had already begun when my parent’s home was sold and they had each moved into a long-term care residence. Now there were only several boxes stored in my basement that my sister and I could attend to at our leisure.

Rifling through the boxes I found three main items of interest. Of course, there was a lifetime collection of photograph albums that my sister and I laughed and cried over. My folks had taken pictures at significant events even when they did not have much money. Mom recorded family holidays and visits to special people in their (and our) lives. But she had also been the repository of other albums that had belonged to her mother, my grandmother, my dad’s sister, my aunt, when each had died.

Two photographs from the belongings of my aunt sparked the greatest interest. One was a 4” by 6” photo of a stern woman in white, standing at a table where other white-clad younger women with caps stood. She seemed to be in charge and the back of the picture was dated and stamped by a firm in Norway. Was this my Grandmother Gunhild?

My First Travel Experience

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Coastline at sunsetI am in the process of writing a large travel book, that I hope you will enjoy as each section is completed. With the first six travel events listed I can generalize that most were cruises. But before I begin the text of describing these travel adventures, I want to tell you about my life before them. Think of this as an introduction to my travel stories.

I was born in a Vancouver, British Columbia hospital. When Mom’s doctor decided we were both well enough to travel, my mother bundled me up and took me to the Union Steamship docks. There we boarded the Chelosin bound northward for Port Neville. That first cruise, stopping along the way, took two days, and we finally arrive at the government dock.  My father was waiting there with his small boat, ready to take us farther up the inlet to our float-house home.

At six years of age, I began correspondence school, taught by my mother. Printed lessons were sent from Victoria every two weeks, and returned to Victoria when they had been completed. By the time I was nine years old Forberg Logging had removed all the timber allowed from that hillside location. Our floating house was then towed south to another land base, pulled off the float and positioned on to land in Rock Bay. Here I could actually attend a real school. The single classroom consisted of 28 students, including seven grades, all taught by one teacher alone.

High school was not available in Rock Bay where we lived, so for the next four years I attended school in a small coastal town, (Campbell River) boarding each year with a different family. With only 400 students enrolled, the school was not yet accredited, which meant all senior students were required to write final exams for their courses. Encouraged by my instructors I completed the application forms for a substantial scholarship. Two weeks later with shock and surprise, I was the chosen applicant to receive a five-year university education.

Surrey International Writers Conference

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Those of you who enjoy writing, or at least appreciate reading works of others, may enjoy learning about an excellent opportunity to be immersed in both endeavours.

I attended the Surrey International Writers Conference. I stayed at the Sheraton Vancouver Guilford that has been our host hotel for all but the first two years of this thirty-year-old event. Because of COVID the planners had to go partly to Zoom-style recordings. They are available to registered attendees for 30 days following the in-person sessions.

In their report to attendees the committee organizers wrote that there had been presenters and attendees from nine provinces. Additionally, there were attendees from 28 of the United States. People attended from at least 14 countries: Canada, Australia, China, England, France, Germany, Mexico, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Scotland, Switzerland, Trinidad and the United States. “It all made for a superb lineup of 63 presenters, 46 in person and 17 online.”

This 31st anniversary of the Surrey Writers Conference concluded Sunday afternoon after a four-day blended in-person and virtual conference. In closing the organizers stated, “It was a pleasure to constantly hear about connections forged, inspirations generated, and eschewing, ‘see you in Surrey next year.’”

A well respected and favourite presenter, Robert Dugoni, bequeathed us with the SIWC tag line in his keynote speech about 10 years ago, “This day we Write!” I have a leather notebook with that saying.

There are many examples of how the conference is a labour of love for the co-chairs, Ursula Maxwell Lewis and the conference coordinator, Kathy Chung. I look forward to attending again next October.