sassykg • July 9, 2022

It was 1982 on an unbearably cold January day in Edmonton when I first met a beautiful early 30s woman named Peggy. That day the wintery streets were slick with black ice and I was nervous navigating the winding road to my destination. The bottom of my used car hit the snow windrows left by the snowplough that had cleared the streets in the wee hours of the morning. Well before high tech navigation aids were available, I relied on a city map to find my way to the family sports club we had recently joined.

I dropped off Noah, my oldest son, at his new French immersion school. My almost two year old son, Matthew was well secured in his car seat in the back of my red Plymouth Cricket. I had bought the car in my hometown of Winnipeg from a family friend whose father owned a car dealership. To say that it was a lemon is giving it much more credit than it was due. I crossed my fingers that the two of us would arrive safely and on time.

The club had a babysitting service which meant I could brave the well below minus temperature and go for an outdoor run. I was scheduled to meet the new sports coordinator, Linda, who told me she would introduce me to some fellow runners. I was eager to get oriented to our new club and perhaps connect with a regular running group.

After a short but tearful goodbye to Matthew at the babysitting room, I headed to meet Linda. For some reason the gathering place for the running group was in the ladies locker room which was drab with tall metal lockers fitted with combination locks. The well worn carpet showed of understandable abuse from food spills and some toddlers’ missed opportunity to make it to the bathroom.

Linda arrived right on time for our 9:15 am appointment. She was a fit and wiry woman in her twenties and to me she seemed a well-suited fitness professional. New to her job, she was enthusiastic and greeted me with a wide smile and firm handshake. She filled me in on the makeup of the running group which she believed had been together for at least two years and varied from 5-6 women.

It seems that freezing January day was too daunting for most of the running crew. The usual meeting time was 9:30 but by 9:40 no one had appeared. Shortly after that one member arrived. Linda broke into a grin and welcomed her. And so I met Peggy!

Peggy was a fashionable runner. Her blonde locks fell beneath the Fila touque she had pulled down over her forehead. A black and and grey scarf was tied around her neck that was embossed with alternating upright and inverted capital Gs. A quilted ski jacket topped her black running pants and her runners were black with a white Nike emblem on the side. She wore bright white sunglasses with a logo that I did not recognize.

After brief introductions we headed out the front door of the building, turning left across the parking lot and up a steep hill behind the club. Peggy was a relaxed runner compared to my more antsy style. We chatted amiably and traded the usual getting to know you information. Born and raised in Edmonton, Peggy was married to Roger and had two young girls who were attending the same school as Noah. It was the first coincidence we shared. I told her the address of the new home my husband and I had just purchased. Peggy’s face took on a surprised expression. The house we bought was Peg’s family home and where she had fond memories of growing up. It was the second coincidence we had in common.

As January turned into February I began to meet the other runners in the group. Some had spent the past month in Hawaii and others had various different commitments. The gang knew each other well and routinely ended the run with coffee in the cafeteria. At the time I was not sure what they shared in common besides running. But I did know one thing. They all wore those white sunglasses. But that’s another story for another day.

Joining the running group was the beginning of many happy years and memories in Edmonton that involved Peggy. We were a tight group and we often had days when a birthday lunch stretched into late night shenanigans. We were young and almost always ready to party but were still able to rally the next day and share a “dusty” run.

Our running group had it’s moment of fame one gorgeous day in 1983 when fall was inching toward winter. It was the one day when for some reason, only three runners showed up. Peg and two others were jogging on one of our regular routes in the river valley. An Edmonton Journal photographer captured them on film. The beautiful picture “made the paper’. The rest of were choked that the one day we missed was the day the three became celebrities. It has been a bone of contention ever since!

Eleanor was one of the friends I met through running and we hit it off so well that we decided to host a joint party. We held it at my home and invited about 60 people. Those were the days before we hired caterers so Eleanor and I researched recipes, shopped for ingredients and prepared the dishes.

On the night of the party people were enjoying themselves, eating drinking and sharing the latest local rumours. It was well past midnight and the event was still going strong. I was in the kitchen sitting around the table laughing and sharing stories with Peg and a few others. Roger came in and signaled to Peggy that it was time to go home. Peg did not look like she was about to head out anytime soon. Roger sensed this and said “Peg we told the kids we would be home by midnight.” Our witty Peggy cocked her head, narrowed her eyes and retorted “So we lied to the kids!”

Peggy was a determined and focused person and nothing personifies it better than her decision to go back to university. Having her girls at a young age meant Peggy had not completed an undergraduate degree. At some point in the 1980s Peg went back to university and continued on to earn a law degree in 1989. She practiced real estate and estate law for many years and was known to have met clients in parking lots to sign papers that needed immediate attention. Peg could get things done no matter how inconvenient.

I cannot recall exactly what celebration we were commemorating when this next story took place. It may well have been Peggy’s birthday. Again there was a big gathering this time at Roger and Peg’s elegant home in a well-established Edmonton neighborhood. The next part of the tale is one that I am a little embarrassed to admit. I had the bright idea to hire a male stripper to surprise Peggy. And certainly it was a surprise. The “performer” was very thin and ill-dressed in not so clean clothes and he wore fingerless leather gloves. Accompanied by sketchy music from a boom box it was apparent he was not a graduate of the Fred Astair dance studio. The nervousness in the room was palpable. No one was quite sure where to look. Typically, Peggy rose to the occasion. She somehow kept eye contact with the “entertainer” and with her usual class and grace she managed to dissipate a very awkward situation. She applauded and that was the end of that!

True love

Roger and Peg were childhood sweethearts who met and fell in love in high school. Their long marriage was admired by many and emulated by few. Meeting as teenagers when Peg was in Grade 10 they travelled together to Europe after Peggy graduated from high school. They married and raised two wonderful daughters together. It was their strong bond that supported their journey through Peg’s brave battle against cancer. The love they shared and the love of her family and friends helps to make our loss a little more bearable.

Peggy was a classy, elegant, composed and extremely well-liked woman. Her infectious smile and sly sense of humor were her trademarks, her unflappable demeanor her forte and her integrity her long suit. The memories Peg created will live on. We miss you my friend.

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Kathy's Blog

Aging: Boldness and Courage

By K Grieve • February 20, 2026
“Helen Mirren, who turned 80 in 2025, rejects the term “aging gracefully,” preferring to describe her approach as "aging with fun, commitment, and unapologetic realism". She advocates for embracing the natural process of getting older as a "beautiful thing" rather than fighting it, encouraging others to live in the moment and accept physical changes.” Aging is not for the faint of heart! It creeps up on you before you actually know it’s happening. It demands courage, boldness, wisdom, resilience, and realism. Add to that, growing older centers on the stories you carry and the memories you hold. For me, many of those lessons were learned from stories about my mother’s life, her choices, and the way she met hardship and joy. How Mom lived her life gave me my first understanding of what it means to live and to age with determination. My mother Marjorie lived until 95. Mom’s married life was pretty much emblematic of her generation. A devout Catholic, she learned the hard way that the ‘Rhythm Method’ (the practice of choosing specific days for intimacy to avoid pregnancy) of birth control was not in the least dependable. Think five kids with the last, our youngest brother Doug, born when my mom was 40. She smoked Crave M cigarettes. Back then, you could send a kid to the local drugstore with a quarter and a note to the pharmacist to get your cigarettes. Unheard of in today’s world. Almost weekly, my mom made homemade bread which filled the house with a yeasty and comforting smell. And her doughnuts were the talk of the neighborhood. Deep-fried and laid out on brown paper to cool, she dipped them in sugar, and we ate them while they were still warm. It was one of Mom’s ways of showing us love: one delicious donut at a time! My mom’s early life was less typical. Born in 1921 in Saskatchewan, she was a child of the Dust Bowl era. The middle child of six kids, she had a pleasing personality and was known as a hard worker. Perhaps that explains why, when she was just nine years old, she was sent to her Aunt Kate, where she helped in the Red and White store that Kate managed. Mom cried her eyes out for a year after she arrived because she missed home. Seven years later, she cried her eyes out when she was sent back home. My mom met those challenging years away from home with realism that helped to shape her resolve and solidified her perseverance. Her way of handling hardships and setbacks helped shape my understanding of how to approach life’s highs and lows. Looking back, it’s hard not to appreciate Mom’s handling of her early life challenges. At a time when most children are living with their parents and siblings, she learned to adapt, work, and endure separation. The tears marked her sadness, but the fact that she endured it speaks to her strength and courage. As she aged, life asked more of her, not less. She met aging the only way she knew: steadily and cheerfully. Aging didn’t soften her resolve; it strengthened it. My mother was lucky in many important ways. She was surrounded by her family and wonderful caregivers that went above and beyond the call of duty. In the last chapter of her life, she lived with my sister Gail and her partner Andrew. Helped by my other siblings, she was given something money can’t buy: a life that felt like hers. One special caregiver, Helen, understood that caring for another is more than schedules and medications. She would play one of Mom’s favourite songs, and the two would dance, smiling and giggling as they moved to the rhythm of the song. And God only knows why Mom had a parrot for a pet; a parrot that hated everyone but Mom. That bird squawked and tried to attack anyone who entered: except my mom. Strange as it may seem, that annoying parrot triggered my mom’s lifelong ability to tolerate difficult personalities. It seems to me that Mom’s life may have slowed, but it remained rich. Hearing my mom’s stories showed me that tears do not mean fragility. Tears mark courage, determination, and boldness. Now, as I grow older, I begin to see these same qualities as the core to aging. Aging hasn’t softened me: it has required me to stand more firmly, speak more directly, and, like Mom, to keep moving forward with resolve. “Do not go gentle into the night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” (Dylan Thomas) For most of my life, I believe I have been considered outspoken. But with aging, I have honed that characteristic to a fine point. Not long ago, I was part of a conversation about “the state of the world.” All of us were well into our seventies. We lamented days gone by and talked about how chaotic and fractured everything seems and how our reality is disturbing and disconcerting. The group represented different points of view, and the talk moved rather awkwardly but cautiously into politics. Definitive statements were made as if all would agree. Boldness took over me! I spoke up, standing my ground without apology. I felt something in me shift. It would have been easy to try to smooth things over, but instead, I chose to be bold and stand my ground. I am older now and believe aging is not about retreating from the world. It’s about resolve and courage in the face of opposition. Aging, of course, isn’t just philosophical. It shows up in physical ways. Knees and hips need replacing, bodies that don’t bounce back the way they used to, medications and vitamins galore to swallow. And tragically for some, illnesses occur that can be life-threatening. There is no bravery in pretending otherwise. But boldness and courage still have a place here. They help in deciding to face head-on what lies ahead, to ask the right questions, and to endure treatment and recovery. Aging asks us to be realistic, accepting the challenges aging can present. Aging isn’t always about changes to ones body but the evolving nature of our character. Inspired by my mother, I now feel that I am entering a period of my life where I am more determined to uphold my principles and stand up for the things that I believe. Time won’t always be on your side. It’s the simple truth, and it’s no surprise. But now and then, like my mom, there is still time for a dance!! “The years teach much which the days never know.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Inner City Hope

By K Grieve • January 9, 2026
Inside One Inner City School and the People Who Refused to Look Away Every morning, there are children who walk to an inner city elementary school in Edmonton Alberta carrying backpacks far heavier than books. Some of the weight is invisible: fear, hunger, worry. Burdens that no child should be forced to endure. The daily journey to school is not the “stuff” of fairytales. These young students must step carefully over sleeping bodies-the smell of alcohol and human waste filling the air. They pass by unhoused men and women bundled up in rotting blankets as they huddle on concrete doorways. People shooting up drugs is a regular scene. Some of these people the kids know-some are even family members. Shocking? unthinkable? Not for many of these children. It is simply the reality of their childhood. Inside the school walls, conversations are a chorus of languages and a mosaic of accents and cultures. Many have emigrated to Canada and English isn’t their first language. Some are Indigenous children. Some are housed in shelters or even live on their own. Most are trying to learn how to be heard, struggling with how to tell teachers they have a tummy ache or to confess they are afraid. Yet they are all determined to belong, to be noticed, to be loved and to have hope. Far too many arrive hungry, their empty stomachs growling. Food insecurity is a reality. No breakfast nor lunch packed in cute little personalized lunchboxes. Kim, a dedicated teacher at the school told me there is a breakfast program the school calls “morning meal” that is available to all kids. It may be simple but it matters greatly-yogurt, bananas and sandwiches are given to any child who needs it. There is no formal lunch program, so when extra food is available, it is saved for students without lunch. Slim pickings by most standards. During the school day, these children carry a heavy weight of uncertainty; they are not sure how to make sense of addition and subtraction, not sure what the teacher is saying, not sure where their next meal is coming from, not if the person greeting them at home is friend or foe. The uncertainty fuels their anxiety. The uncertainty robs them of joy. The uncertainty intensifies their fear. Beyond this there are stories even more disturbing. Abuse. Neglect. Physical violence. These realities have taught some children to be on their guard and to always be on the defensive. These children are not “difficult.” They are hurt. A number of the children arrive each day living in what we adults call “fight or flight”. Their antennae are on high alert. Teachers gently tell them how to breathe, how to name feelings and how to calm their bodies. As if these challenges weren’t already overwhelming, the school faces a constant battle with head lice. Despite these struggles, teachers and school administrators show up, day after day, ready to provide stability and predictability. They notice who hasn’t eaten or who is wearing the same clothes day after day. These teachers wear many hats. They are educators, counsellors and protectors. Most classrooms in this school follow a “trauma informed approach”: soft lighting, minimal clutter, consistent routines and predictable schedules. For children whose lives are filled with trepidation, school becomes their dependable constant. The goal isn’t just academics-it’s helping children feel safe and strong enough to begin to heal. Enter my friend Deb! Deb, who is affectionately called Miss Deb, volunteers at this challenging school. Two to three times a week she shows up at the school and does what committed school volunteers do. She gives her time, her heart and her presence to children who need all three. Kim says this about Deb. “I can recall a moment this fall where a student was upset. I was trying to distract him and get him thinking positively so he would calm down. I asked him to tell me things that made him happy. He listed three things. One of them was Miss Deb.” That says it all. But for Deb the stories she hears about the kids have keep her up at night, anxious and worrying. Could there be some tangible way to help? Deb knew the principal and staff had been working for a long time to secure the funding needed to build a new playground for the school. They managed to raise some of the money but were short by $35,000 to make the playground a reality. And for that reason, Deb sent out a heartfelt plea to community members to help fund the long needed play ground. This could not be some ordinary playground. Because of the surrounding environment, it needed to be “ special”: fully enclosed and carefully designed to protect the kids from hazards, like discarded needles from drug use. This playground had to be designed to prevent it from being used as sleeping spaces for the homeless or individuals affected by addiction. What should be a simple place to play must also be a protected space where children can feel safe and simply just be children. And then something special happened. Deb’s plea did not fall on deaf ears. Within minutes of Deb’s email being sent, the local community stepped up. The response was overwhelming. One donor, a well known Edmonton philanthropist, immediately responded and pledged the full $35,000! Others stepped up as well. And most recently a charitable foundation matched the $35,000 which will fund other critical school priorities. It was an astonishing level of generosity and a reminder of how much people care when they are asked. As a former teacher and one who has spent years in public service in Edmonton, I have witnessed first hand how these serious struggles intersect - each intensifying emotional and physical strain. Poverty, homelessness, addiction and family violence are profoundly intensified by our already strained and outdated support systems. Certainly, this local community response was remarkable. It’s proof of the power of a combination of compassion and generosity. This story exemplifies that help can be available when need is shared; it underscores the positive and critical impact of volunteerism. “Sometimes miracles are just good people with kind hearts” But it also leaves us with a bigger and more disturbing question: What can we do as a society to address the deep challenges that at-risk children face? How can we break the cycle that has trapped them? How can we help them envision a brighter future? A playground is a powerful beginning, but it cannot carry the weight.