A Moment In Time

Snow falls relentlessly as I rummage through my walk-in closet for the perfect woollen scarf. On my knees with head bent to the task, I unearth an old grocery bag filled with god only knows what. It doesn't feel soft enough to hold what I am looking for, but I open it anyway. I eagerly unwrap layers of white tissue paper to reveal a blood-red lady's clutch purse. My head cocks to one side, and I feel my eyes squint ever so slightly as I try to place the bag.

Shuffling awkwardly to my feet, I take the unexpected find to my brightly lit bedroom so I can inspect it closely. It's made of red satiny material; the top clasp is approximately eight inches wide and trimmed with an ornate, bejewelled black metal. It looks to be in excellent condition despite its apparent age.

Without hesitation, I open it, wondering if perhaps there is any money inside. (I'm always so happy when money falls in my lap.) I didn't find money, but what I did find would turn out to be more valuable to me than any forgotten five-dollar bill.

In my dry, wrinkled, 56-year-old hands, I held my grandmother Elsie's dance cards from 1921. There was also a letter with detailed instructions and protocol from the Garrison Officer's Dance Club, dated October 1920, duly announcing the new season.

My knees buckled, and I slowly sank to my bed. I held history in the palm of my hands, a stark reminder that time stands still for no one. My funny, loving grandma was once a young woman looking forward to dancing her troubles away at the local dance club on Winchester Road, Half Way Tree in Jamaica.

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I wondered why? Was it because she was gone, having passed away years earlier at 89. Perhaps it was an automatic response to the knowledge that while I hadn't consciously thought about her in years, in that instant, I was enveloped in her love and overcome by the simple beauty of it.

Yes, that was it is.

My grandma Evelyn Borrie, my mother's mom, was known as Miss Elsie. She was simply the best, the funniest, most vivacious grandma on the block. My girlfriends loved her deeply and often asked what mischief my granny had gotten up to that day. She immigrated to Canada with us and lived like a queen in her ground floor suite of our modest home.

Born in 1896 in Trelawny, Jamaica, she was twice married and mother to three girls. Long before she played out her life, having lived in Jamaica and Canada, she was a 25-year-old woman dancing the foxtrot, waltz and one step with gentlemen of the day.

I imagined she preened, smiled and jauntily carried herself around the hall, to the terrace and the powder room. I saw her flirting, laughing and sipping gin and tonics.

Woollen scarf forgotten, I indulged in an afternoon of memories, some wonderful and some heartbreaking. My grandmother lived a full life doing what she wanted when she wanted, with (I hope) little regret. Not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, she still managed to draw people to her like bees to honey. Smiling to myself, I forgot my tears and vowed to think of Miss Elsie more often. We are still connected; she and I, across time and across realms. I was, after all, holding a piece of her in my hands.

A snowy day in Alberta was the backdrop to my moment in time with grandma.