A life lived

Vivienne Beck Kelly (1928 - 2022)

It is widely believed that the Great Generation consisted of those who parented the Baby Boomers.  They fought in World War II after all.  My response is, “Yes but they parented the Baby Boomers.”  I am not sure that my cohort is a ringing testament to the greatness of their parents.  Please don’t misunderstand – I have the deepest respect for my parents, but it is to their parents that I ascribe greatness.  They were born into a technologically pre-modern world, fought the First Great War, had their lives and souls destroyed by the Great Depression and then launched their sons and daughters into a new world war.  Some even signed up again for the adventure. Through it all they sired and raised the Great Generation.  See what I mean?

It is said that history records the activities of the five percent of humanity that is known to us by name.  The Romans were aware of this and took steps ensure their own posterity by recording their wins and losses and paying to have the homages repeated.  That doesn’t happen much anymore and all to our impoverishment.  Shakespeare codified this human desire for future recognition by giving the St. Crispin’s speech to Henry V on the eve of the Battle of Agincourt.

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.

 This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

This post is in front of you by virtue of the passing of another of the Great Generation and, by the post “let the good man/woman teach his/her son/daughter.”  It is not to give honour to battlefield victory but to recognize a life well lived in a rapidly changing century.

My wife’s great grandmother started her life in what is now Belize and lived her early youth in the Pearl River valley of Mississippi.  From there she went to Portland, Oregon with her husband and then on to Edmonton, Alberta.  When he turned out to be a bum, she stoically ventured 800 km further north opening a small store near the shore of Great Slave Lake in Canada’s north.  A rather long way from Belize.  And her store was situated next to the Hudson Bay trading post.  If you are going to challenge the competition, then go straight after the big guys.  Anna Marsden was worthy of a St. Crispin’s mention.  Over the period of her life, she married a few times and brought four sons and a daughter into the world.  This is the story of the daughter, Vivienne Beck Kelly.

Vivienne was born in Fort Resolution, NWT, spent her toddler years in Edmonton and lived all but the last four years of her life in Canada’s north.  Her friends were from the local indigenous community, but it was with her brothers that she had to compete.  So, she learned to hunt and fish and trap and mush dogs.  By the end of her life, she was one of the few remaining people who could sew mukluks, moccasins, and fur trimmed parkas.  At one point in her life, she was hired by the government to give classes in these traditional practices.  In fact, when she died, she left behind three pairs of moccasins in various stages of near completion.  Certainly, my family never suffered for the want of a warm pair of mukluks, a silver fox trimmed parka, or rabbit fur mittens.

At age sixteen Vivienne married a young man from the community whose father had brought him north when he was nine, taught him how to cut wood and then disappeared for months at a time.  Together Vivienne and Stuart made a living from the fur pelts they trapped.  In hauling cat trains of equipment to build the DEW line installations across the north, he pioneered the ice road technology that allows today’s diamond mines to operate.  When it was time for the eldest of their four children to begin school, they moved the family to Yellowknife on the opposite shore of Great Slave Lake where Stu ferried material across the lake by boat and barge in the summer and by a tracked, bombadier vehicle in the winter. Later he found employment as an equipment operator and foreman on the many projects that were opening Canada’s North. 

When their youngest son was killed while piloting his bush plane, the strain was too much for their marriage.  Vivienne, by this time, was plotting her own foray into the entrepreneurial world and, with no kids at home, launched what was to become a successful fashion design and clothing factory outlet called Polar Parkas.  Using her knowledge of furs, hides, and layering, Vivienne sold her creations to the local population as well as to the movie stars and politicians who were trekking through the rapidly growing Yellowknife.  It was not unusual for purchase orders in the many thousands of dollars to come in from Ottawa, New York, and Los Angeles.  The profits from the store were reinvested in local real estate adding to an already impressive portfolio and the girl from Rocher River who had no formal education shamed the university trained like me with the innateness of her business skills.  Had I only invested early in whatever it was that she was doing.

Soon enough a handsome Irishman with flaming red hair decided that his ideal companion would be a woman who could mush dogs and skin out a caribou.  He soon found Vivienne and they spent a harmonious fifty years together.  They bought a large, lakefront property, installed up to 120 dogs and devoted their lives to training and racing them around Western Canada.  Frank, a successful businessman in his own right, became a prominent and successful dog breeder/trainer/racer, and Vivienne was his loudest cheerleader.

When a Yellowknife promoter convinced Japanese tourists that procreation under the Northern Lights resulted in brilliant progeny, Vivienne’s entrepreneurial instincts kicked in and soon she and Frank were taking tourists from far off lands on dog sled rides across their lake.  The income generated during the relatively short tourist season justified feeding so many dogs for the entire year.  A visit to Grandma’s always meant time in dog kennels playing with the many pups that were born every year.

My introduction to Vivienne came when my then-girlfriend felt that I was a sufficient gentleman to introduce to her parents.  It was a formidable moment in my life because I knew about the growing up in an indigenous community and trapping and dog mushing and proficiency with rifles and knives.  You don’t mess with people that have these skills.  My father-in-law lived up to his billing and I was always a bit conscious of being closer to death when in his presence (In fact, Stu became almost a second father to me), but Vivienne was then and always a warm presence and steady defender of my virtue when her daughter was given cause to doubt it.

So why write this encomium to my mother-in-law?  Perhaps Vivienne’s elevation to Heaven has stung me with my own mortality.  Mostly I sense an important passing of an age.  This young girl, raised in an era of poverty where an orange in the Christmas stocking was a big deal, successfully navigated a rapidly changing world that went from travel behind a team of dogs to putting a man on the moon.  A world that understood the slight difference between life and death to one in which death always comes as a surprise.  She did it successfully from a financial perspective and with a grace and composure that often escapes the generation that follows her. 

From Belize to Rocher River to Yellowknife to Calgary.  Two women of remarkable strength and innate ability.  Neither of them sought St. Crispin’s fame and glory and, despite sometimes significant hurdles, I never once heard my mother-in-law whine about her situation.  I am well pleased that my daughters and granddaughters share that bloodline and am happy to shine whatever light I can upon these lives well lived. 

Vivienne left us on Christmas Eve and, in her passing, truly represents “one for the ages”.