June 29th, 1923, Swanson, Saskatchewan – July 30th, 2026, Dundas, Ontario
I didn’t meet Pat, my husband Paul Wilson’s aunt by marriage, until after her husband David’s death, and she was already in her mid-70s. I knew little of the details of her early life, but her reputation as the feisty doyen of the Wilson family preceded her. I learned that she was originally from Saskatchewan, that her forebears were of sturdy Swedish farming stock, that she had ridden bareback to school on a horse, that, in the 30s, she had been one of the first women to be enrolled in the Faculty of Engineering at the University of Saskatchewan and that during the war she had been talent-scouted by the British Admiralty and had ‘emigrated’ to Ontario where, while working in a munitions’ factory in Hamilton, she had met David Wilson who became the love of her life. I later learned that she and David had built a house on the hill above Hamilton and that, after the war, she had transitioned from building torpedoes to building young minds, working initially as an elementary school teacher and librarian before gaining a degree from McMaster University in psychology and education and spending the rest of her working life as a much admired teacher. Based on these and other apocryphal tales, I was eager to meet her. She did not disappoint.
My most vivid memory of our first visit to the house on the hill was Pat’s garden, a broad swathe of lawn lined with lush herbaceous borders. It was stunning and rose-filled, not surprisingly as she was a regular gold medalist in the yearly competitions of the Rose Society of the Hamilton Botanical Gardens. On that occasion, she took me down to the basement where, under an array of fluorescent lights, she was nurturing dozens of cuttings and seedlings. It was the impressive laboratory of a serious gardener. The house itself was full of books and memorabilia from the travels that she and David had undertaken over the years to many parts of the globe, and she regaled us with stories of their life together. It was clear that her late husband still held sway over her heart.
In the ensuing years, I would meet Pat many times at Wilson family gatherings, often in Stratford, David’s hometown, and she would visit Paul and me in Heathcote, usually to celebrate her birthday. She was extremely well-read and up to date on the arts scene and the latest news. She took an active interest in what was going on in the world, so we had much in common, over and above sharing the same first name. In those days when she visited Heathcote, apart from stocking up on red pepper jelly from the local bakery and gathering up as many books for the Amica library as she could carry, she would sit in the kitchen and hold court, commenting on how our garden was doing, on what I was cooking, on what we were reading, on Paul’s work as a writer and translator, on what was happening in Canada and the world. She had a wicked sense of humour and a biting wit and we had fun.
When she eventually sold her house and moved into Amica Dundas in 2011, she was still extremely active, taking classes in everything from art history to cookery, running the Amica library, participating in numerous book clubs and leading a rich social life as an active member of the University Women’s Club. But with the deterioration of her eyesight, she was gradually deprived of the joy of reading and later also of listening to both books and music as the manipulation of electronic devices became difficult. Yet even as she became less mobile, she remained engaged with the world around her. To celebrate her birthday in 2018, we took her to see Stephen Frye’s “Mythos”, a profoundly erudite one-man show at the Shaw Festival, about Greek Gods and mythology. It might have bored the pants off most nonagenarians, but in spite of her vision and hearing impairments, she loved it.
She was, however, anything but “a sweet old lady”! And this may have been her secret, the magic elixir that kept her going. She had strong opinions and expressed them without hesitation. She did not suffer fools lightly, but she had a satirical sense and a gift of the gab which made her good company, and she drew people to her until the end.
So, Pat, on the occasion of your passing, I celebrate your indomitable spirit and your singular presence in our lives. 103 years is a pretty good innings. You were indeed remarkable. May you rest in peace.
With love, Patricia