My mother’s family was not one for hugs and kisses when I was growing up.

The RIACH clan in the early 50s - my mother is standing on the right, her oldest brother, Lorne (Curly) on the left.

That doesn’t mean the affection wasn’t there, and very REAL… solid and firm as the granite rock that forms the foundation of the Scottish soul. I suspect their behaviour was somehow rooted in the family’s Scottish Presbyterian origins.

The ruins of Elgin Cathedral in northern Scotland - destroyed long before my many-times-great grandfather, John Riach, was born in 1814 and his descendants emigrated to Canada. 

In the Riach family, certain emotions were not displayed! Discussion and debate was always acceptable… the louder and more vigorous the better! Riach family gatherings were a ideal place to practise and hone the skills (and lungs) needed to present and argue a strongly held viewpoint. In the Riach family, the more contentious the argument, the better. Neither age nor gender was a handicap; although good voice control and substantial volume were both definite assets.

The cool façade with regards to hugs and kisses gradually weakened as the years passed and my mother and her siblings married. Spouses from more demonstrative families introduced each of them in turn to the pleasures and joys of the occasional hug and kiss. Their children strained the boundaries even more, and, finally, when grandchildren entered the picture, those boundaries got blown all to hell! The Riachs of today hug and kiss with the best of them, although I have noted an occasional look of combined astonishment and pleasure on an uncle’s face when one of their daughters, daughters-in-law, or nieces give them a hug.

Four brothers survived to adulthood; now only two remain.

Lorne (Uncle Curly), who died early Sunday morning, was the oldest brother. He was the closest to my mother in age, the only one she was too young to care for as a child. He was the one she fought with, the one she shared the most memories with, the only one, I suspect, who didn’t always treat her as “big sister.”

I’m sure she greeted him with a hug in heaven.

 (”Cuimhnich” means “remember” in Scottish Gaelic.)

At an early age, I decided I was NOT going to be a teacher.

My mother was a teacher. I KNEW about the long hours, the poor pay, the stubborn students who refused to work, the obnoxious parents who blamed the teacher because their “little darlings” were not progressing the way they thought they should.

I resented her commitment to the “strangers” who were her students, the concerts and “parents-invited” times she couldn’t attend at my school because she had to be at “her” school instead, the evenings and weekends she couldn’t spend with me because she had to mark assignments and prepare for class, the school vacation activities that she couldn’t share with the family because she was busy preparing for the next term or the next year.

In my teens, I made the mistake of declaring, “I don’t know what I’m going to be when I grow up, but I am NOT going to be a teacher!”

My mother remembered.

And so, I grew up and became a communicator… and discovered that I get BORED.

Later, my mother said she should have anticipated the problem when she showed me how to make an angel food cake (bear with me, there IS a point to this digression).

Making an angel food cake is not like making an ordinary cake.

Making an angel food cake (from scratch) requires multiple egg whites, which must be carefully separated from their yolks. Even a “bit” of yolk in the mix can play havoc with the next step, which is to beat the whites “vigorously” until they’re fluffy and cloud-like. Once they are fluffy, but not “stiff,” the other ingredients (special cake flour, sugar, vanilla, etc.) are “folded” in gently. If the other ingredients are mixed in carelessly or too quickly, the cake won’t “rise.” It’s all very precise, and I wanted to learn how. I’m not sure why; I didn’t even LIKE angel food cake. Probably what motivated me was that my mother said it was “difficult” and I was “too young.”

So, I nagged… and nagged… until she gave in, took out her “special” recipe, and let me try. I followed the recipe, and her direction, and my first cake turned out PERFECTLY.  So did my second, which I made by myself with only the recipe book.

I think there was a third, after Mother pleaded, but no more. When my mother asked why I’d wanted to learn so badly if I wasn’t going to use what I’d learned, I told her it was the CHALLENGE.

What I gradually realized as a working adult was that the thrill of learning a new job was much the same as that of learning how to make a successful angel food cake – it was the thrill of CHALLENGE. I loved getting to know new colleagues and a new workplace, figuring out how to apply my skills and abilities to new duties, acquiring additional knowledge to meet new demands. I also realized that, once I was familiar with the people, the culture, the work, once things settled into a routine, I got bored.

My mother claimed it was usually in the spring. She was surprised the first time I lasted more than three years in the same job.

Then I learned about teaching… and students.

My first “student” was my assistant in that job where I lasted more than three years.

Melva wanted to be MORE than a clerk in the communications office of a federal government department. She actively went “after” the job of Communications Clerk because she wanted to learn to “write,” to become a communicator herself. She asked me (let’s be honest, she NAGGED) to let her do some of the writing for the office. Then, when I edited what she wrote, she nagged some more until I explained why I’d changed what I’d changed. To do that, I had to analyze what I did when I wrote in order to figure it out myself.

Melva made me a better editor. In answering her questions, I learned the difference between an edit that made the writing BETTER, and a change that just made the writing into what I would have written. In observing, and sharing, her satisfaction as she got better and better, I also learned that helping someone else learn carries the same thrill as doing it yourself – maybe even more.

A few years later, when I was asked to teach an evening course in “Writing for Communicators,” I accepted the opportunity, and the rest is history. In some way or another, I’ve been teaching ever since.

Some years after I started teaching part time, I talked to my mother about how much I enjoyed it. She laughed, and reminded me of what I’d said when I was a teenager.  We talked about the “joy” of teaching, and how it was all about the students, about the CHALLENGE.

Learning a new job – the duties, the culture, the “tricks” – is great, but, once learned, it’s like making an angel food cake. If you do it carefully, and correctly, you know you’ll get good results. Occasionally you may encounter a glitch, but, with the confidence gained from experience, even the challenge of overcoming the glitches lessens.

As a teacher, the challenge never goes away. There is always a new class, new students.

Teaching is a joy!  

Here’s to the women in my life…

Here’s to both my grandmothers: Grandma Lee, who valued learning and inspired her grandchildren to love it as well, who accepted the risks of travelling to a new continent in a new century to create a better life for herself and her family, who spoke up for what she believed when others kept silent, while always retaining her manners and her dignity; and Grandma Riach, who loved reading and babies, who played solitaire and walked it “off” when she got “antsy,” who, as a girl, learned to drive her father’s spirited teams of horses to do the field work because he needed help and her brothers were too young, and who, as the oldest, stayed at home and helped on the farm so her sisters could go to school and follow their dreams of becoming teachers.

Here’s to my mother, who taught me to finish what I start, even when it’s no longer “fun;” who taught me that “loving” someone means letting them make their own choices even when you’re afraid they might get hurt, being there for them when things go wrong, and “offering” help rather than making them “ask” for it, who showed me how a “soft answer” can work better than confrontation.

Here’s to my sister, with whom I fought like cat & dog as long as we lived together, who shares my memories, our family and our children, and is now my best friend.

Here’s to my female friends & buddies, those I’ve known for years, and those I’ve just met. In almost every case, our connection has been instant, and lasting. Even though we may not meet or talk for long stretches, we share joy & sorrow, satisfaction and frustration, laughter and tears. Each of us is different, and yet the experiences we’ve shared have shaped us into the women we’ve become.

Here’s to my daughter, who proves to me that the next generation really does “get it,” that we really HAVE come a long way. She’s smarter, braver, more confident than I was at the same age… and I take pride in knowing that, somehow, I have contributed to the person she’s becoming.

L’Chaim – “to life!”