Two weeks ago, with my sister holding his left hand and me holding his right, our Dad passed away. Thanks to wonderful caregivers and modern medicine, his passing at the St. Mary’s Hospital in Camrose was peaceful. There was no last big gasp. Four months before he would have been 87 years old, Hans Espe, the tall handsome Norwegian from Montney, just quietly stopped breathing.

There is no way to describe in one blog post the multitude of feelings and emotions, let alone tasks and duties, that a family must deal with in the days following a loved one’s death, so I won’t even try.

There is one story on my mind this morning, though.

First, I have to go back a few years.

In 1939, when Dad was seven years old, his appendix ruptured. My panicked grandmother, Kari, wrapped him in a blanket, picked him up and started walking towards Fort St. John. Once on the main road she flagged a big old coupe of a car and asked for a ride.  The elderly couple in the back seat, and the young driver up front, decided there wasn’t enough room for them, and drove on (Dad never told me this part of the story until I was much older). Gramma then carried Dad the roughly 2 km to Clay Martin’s farm. Clay hitched a horse to his cutter and drove them 20 km, give or take, through the snow to the hospital in town. The legendary Dr. Kearney removed Dad’s appendix and saved his life. From the scar Dad was left with, it looked like the doctor used a scoop shovel.

Dad remained in critical condition for almost a week. My grandfather, who had been away working, trekked to town to be with him and Gramma. However, after a couple of days he was forced to return to the farm to care for their livestock. A day or two later, with no other way to communicate with anyone regarding Dad’s condition, Grampa took the only money he had up to the Montney corner (about 2m from the farm) to make a phone call. The “lady at the store” would not take his money for the call.

Sadly, I don’t know who the “lady at the store” was because at one time there were three stores in Montney and I just never asked. I’m guessing it could have been Mrs. Bissett, Mrs. Tucker, or Mrs. Titus… or some lady who simply worked for them. Regardless of who it was, my Grampa never forgot her generosity and compassion.

The coin he had taken with him that day was a 1934 US silver dollar. It became a prized possession. He scratched “Montney BC” onto the eagle side of it and put it in a safe place.

I’d heard this story several times over the years, but I don’t remember ever seeing the coin and didn’t know where it ended up.

It showed up last week when my sister, Carol and I began our “executor” duties with a visit to Dad’s safe-deposit box. The coin was there along with some envelopes, three pocket watches and my Grampa Olaf’s pocket knife. Holding those things, especially the coin, brought the appendix story back to me in full colour.

Montney memories are almost always on my mind in some way. Right now, they are on my mind more than ever.

PS:  In 1984 I began teaching at Dr. Kearney Junior Secondary School. One day in early September, the staffroom banter was about home towns. Teachers were taking turns sharing where they’d come from. Vancouver, Saskatchewan, Nova Scotia, Jamaica… When it got to me I simply said, “What if I told you that my dad had his appendix removed by Dr. Garnet Kearney?”