sassykg • January 30, 2021

I was twelve when I first remember “taking on the system”. It was a wintery evening like most other January nights in Winnipeg. Temperatures were well below what any human being should be expected to withstand. A sea of snow covered our yard and my two younger brothers were arguing over whose turn it was to shovel our driveway, punctuating their points with a few not so well placed jabs to each other’s shoulders. Rough housing is what Dad called it, saying it with a certain amount of pride. I was smug in the confidence that the shovelling debate excluded me because at the time in my family, my gender kept me out of contention for such a chore. I believe I had just finished doing the dishes (mismatched melmac plates that came “for free” inside boxes of laundry detergent). I was layering myself into bulky ski pants, thick sweaters, a pair of mismatched mittens and a white “fun fur” hat I bought on sale downtown at The Bay. I was on my way to our local branch of the library, a six block walk.

I was heading to pick up something to read to fill the restless moments when my father took to hogging the television as he watched some of his favourite programs like the Canadian variety show: The Juliette Show. We had only one TV which was pretty much par for the course at the time and it stood at the head of the living like some revered idol. So all in all, it was a seemingly routine night in a reasonably conventional family. Not the kind of night you could have predicted would initiate me into the world of social action.

Reading was a fundamental part of my childhood and teenaged life. I cut my teeth on “Ann of Green Gables” and “Gone With the Wind”. The library was the main source for my reading material. I enjoyed my trips there because the building was usually filled with kids my age, ostensibly there to look up stuff in the Junior Britannica in order to complete homework assignments. This January night was no different and I remember being in a happy mood despite the nasty weather.

I spent about a half hour perusing the young reader section of the library, a category reserved for readers 10-13 years. Not finding anything to my liking, I ventured into the teenage section and several books there piqued my attention. I settled on one called “Hawaii” by James Michner. The jacket summary promised me an opportunity to experience the life of Malama a woman who survived hardship, heartbreak and other tribulations on a beautiful Pacific island. I plucked the book from the shelf and headed toward the circulation desk.

It was there I encountered Mrs. Blackmore, the assistant librarian, a woman short in stature and long on procedures and regulations. She accepted the book from me with something approximating disinterest and moved to withdraw the card that was tucked inside the paper pocket glued to the inside page. Here is where the trouble began but not where it ended!

Unbeknownst to me, the book was classified OTR (Older Teenage Reader). One look at my outfit alone clued Mrs. Blackmore into the fact that I was a far cry from the 17-18 year old that I would have to be to “legally” withdraw the book. When she asked me my age (probably the required procedure outlined in the librarian assistant’s handbook) it crossed my mind that it could be a question crucial to my obtaining the novel. I wanted to at least qualify for the early teenage section so I raised my head and shoulders in a puffed-up kind of way and said in a not so loud voice “13 last November!” Whether she believed me or not was irrelevant because what I needed to be was at least 17. She denied me the book.

Dejected, I headed home in the dark. As I walked up the newly cleared driveway I noticed a 1959 Ford Fairlane that was not so expertly parked behind my dad’s 1958 two-tone blue model. This meant that either my Uncle John or his wife, Aunt Bea, or both were visiting. They were the parents of my eight first cousins who lived about a mile away.

I came through the side entrance, the one we called the back door to find my mother and aunt ensconced at our brown arborite kitchen table. It didn’t take me a minute to blurt out my angry reaction to the unjust library incident. I doubt that I expected much of a helpful response from the two women, after all, what interest would they have in a 12 year old’s grievance?But to my amazement they seemed more than concerned. They shared my exasperation and sense of unfairness.

I joined them at the table and helped myself to the homemade biscuits that sat in a small wicker basket. My mom wanted to phone the librarian on my behalf and explain that I was a mostly sensible grade 8 student. After all, she and my dad were scrimping and saving to send me to an all girls’ Catholic school so I would be the product of a superior education. To my mom’s way of thinking that gave me a definite edge. She would tell the library powers that be that I had her permission to read the book and that should be the end of it. The idea appealed to me. I saw it as expedient and it required no effort on my part.

Auntie Bea had another idea. Why didn’t I write to city council about the discrimination? She pointed out that the library’s policy not only discriminated against young readers but was also a form of censorship which she personally found reprehensible. I thought “reprehensible” was a nifty word and stored it away for future use. Aunt Bea felt the library policy would never change if the people in charge were not made aware of the problem. My mother suggested that I might first alert the “head guy” of the library but Aunt Bea was convinced that I should bypass the bureaucracy (another great word) and work with the politicians. She explained there was a greater likelihood my concern would be addressed if I sought the help of elected officials because they mostly liked to help their constituents. Besides, my Uncle John was an alderman and would ensure that my letter received some attention.

To say that I got caught up in the fever of the moment is to say that William F. Buckley was somewhat conservative. I composed what to me, and as it turns out to the head librarian, was a scathing letter denouncing the library policy and it’s discrimination against younger readers. My uncle reported that the letter was read aloud at the council meeting and it was tabled. Unsure of just what tabled meant I nonetheless considered my protest a success. For the next three days I basked in the glory of triumph.

On the fourth day I was still high on the sweet taste of victory. I made my way back to the library fully convinced that I could withdraw the exciting novel. I gingerly entered the teenage section and found the publication. Feeling powerful and self assured I marched to the circulation desk and presented the book and my library card. I recognized the head librarian, Mrs Cantor, and offered her an amiable smile. What I got in return was a scowl and a very stiff, very loud and very public reprimand,

I guess Mrs. Cantor missed the positive spirit in which my complaint was offered. Instead of seeing my letter as constructive criticism of the system, she took my critique extremely personally. She was more than prepared to defend not only her position but also make it unlikely I would ever want to step foot into “her” library any time soon. Obviously my letter had more repercussions than I could have anticipated. The head librarian’s thunderous reproach left me shaking in my mukluks and reassessing the virtues of single handed political protest.

All these years later I believe my adolescent foray into challenging injustice set the stage for my future concern for inequity. It is not lost on me that of the options my mother and aunt offered me, I chose what some would call the rebellious route. Recognition that power differentials exist and that they support injustice has remained with me to this day. Those who know me best will acknowledge a feisty side to me and a penchant for arguing for the disenfranchised. And I am comfortable with that.

A few days ago I was walking with a friend on an unusually cold desert morning. We rarely run out of good conversation and that day was no different. We talked about having strong positions on issues and differing world views. At some point my walking partner shared a saying that her husband often uses. It has resonance for me and puts some levity to my inclination to having unbending points of view.

“I am often wrong but never in doubt!”

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Sassy Blog

The Way We Were: A Boomer's Journey Through Changing Times

By K Grieve • October 20, 2025
The Way We Were Inspired by a piece called “We are the Bridge” We baby boomers have lived through more change than perhaps any generation before us. Born into a world of black-and-white televisions and handwritten letters, I, like most “boomers,” oddly find myself checking facts on Google, ordering everything and anything online, and FaceTiming my grandchildren from the dock at our lake place, Alexander Point. Most of us “boomers” are well past our 60s and have maneuvered technological change and societal upheaval. We have lived through a century of change - all condensed into one lifetime. We began in an age when milk was delivered to the door, phones were attached to walls, and families gathered around the evening news. Now we live in a world where our grandchildren carry the universe in their pockets and talk to digital assistants as if they were family. I grew up in a Catholic family in Winnipeg, where the rhythm of life followed the church bells — Mass on Sundays, confession on Saturdays, and a firm belief that nuns had eyes in the back of their heads. Faith was as much about community as it was about doctrine; it shaped how we showed up for one another. Even now, I hold on to the parts that speak to compassion, social justice, and the quiet sense that we’re all meant to look out for each other. In those days, Winnipeg felt both small and vast. The kind of place where most everyone in your neighborhood knew your last name and where you were on Friday nights. Summers meant escaping the city and heading to the many magnificent Manitoba lakes or where those of us without lake access went to the free admission community swimming pool. We learned to swim, meet with friends, ride bikes, play tag, and stretch the days long past sunset. It was a world without screens or schedules. Time felt good. Then life accelerated. We watched Kennedy promise the moon and for Man actually get there. Women, including many of us, symbolically burned their bras and then stepped confidently into new careers and public life. We typed on manual typewriters, progressed to IBM Selectrics, and eventually learned to “click send.” The first time I used email, I remember thinking it felt unreal - a letter that didn’t need a stamp. We’ve seen family life reinvented, gender roles rewritten, and communication transformed from handwritten letters to emoji-laden texts. We remember when a photo meant developing film and waiting days to see if it “turned out.” Now we can take a dozen shots before breakfast and (my personal favorite) delete the ones that don’t flatter. Now, my grandchildren can find anything with a swipe of a finger, and they ask Siri questions we used to save for the Encyclopedia Britannica. When they show me how to work a new app or laugh that I “still type with two fingers,” I remind them that my generation invented the personal computer, the protest march, and the peace sign - we’re hardly “not with it.” We watched Elvis shake his hips, Kennedy inspire a nation, Martin Luther King Jr. dream, the Beatles redefine music, and Neil Armstrong “Take one step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” We questioned authority, protested wars, fought for rights, and then, almost without noticing, became the authority. And then, the impossible happened: our Dick Tracy dreams came true. We once giggled at that comic-strip detective talking into his wristwatch; now our Apple Watches tell us when to stand, remind us to breathe, and nudge us toward our daily steps. How were we to know that Maxwell Smart’s shoe phone was a precursor to today’s iPhone? Technology, once the stuff of fantasy, has become as ordinary as brushing our teeth. What amazes me most is how the threads of then and now connect. At Alexander Point, our summer retreat, I watch my grandchildren leap off the dock, their laughter echoing across the water just as mine once did when leaping into the community pool. Different time, same joy. They may post their memories instantly; I write mine down and shape them into stories, but it’s the same impulse: to remember, to share, and to belong. We baby boomers are the bridge between worlds - from the catechism to the cloud, from handwritten letters to video calls, from milkmen to meal kits. We carry the past in our bones and the future in our hands. And standing on that bridge, with a grandchild’s hand in mine and the summer wind off the lake “ruining” my hair, I can’t help but feel grateful to have lived through it all - the slow and the fast, the sacred and the digital, the then and the now. We may not dance like we once did, but we still know all the words to the songs that shaped us. We may scroll slower than the younger generation, but we still want to know what’s happening in the world…and if we pause to reflect, as boomers tend to do, we realize how lucky we are to have witnessed humanity stretch, stumble, and soar. Our phones, those sleek rectangles that never leave our sides, are more powerful than the computers that sent astronauts to the moon. We once shared one rotary phone in the kitchen, its long, twisted cord stretched around corners so we could whisper secrets. Now we carry the world in our pockets and see our grandchildren’s faces light up in real time, oceans away. Then the Internet showed up! What a game changer! It linked the world in ways we could hardly have imagined, making libraries, classrooms, and newsrooms just a click away. It amplified voices that often went unheard and opened up a world of knowledge, opportunities, and connections. But along with these benefits came a lot of noise — misinformation, division, and a constant stream of opinions. We gained immediate access to a wealth of information, yet sometimes lost that essential quiet space needed for reflection. Despite its contradictions, the Internet has transformed how we communicate. It brought us closer together and broadened the horizons of what we could learn — as long as we choose wisely about what we pay attention to. Worse still, the Internet gave cover to cruelty. The anonymity of the Internet seems to grant some people license to say things our generation would never have tolerated in public. We were taught to bite our tongues, to disagree without tearing someone down. Today, behind screens and usernames, too many speak without kindness or consequence. It’s a loss of civility that still startles me - how easily respect can evaporate when faces are hidden. It’s shocking to witness how quickly respect can vanish when people aren’t face-to-face. Even shopping has transformed from an errand to an algorithm. I remember the thrill of department stores - the clatter of hangers and the excitement of the Sears’ Christmas catalogue arriving in the mail. Today, a few taps on Amazon, and a box appears at the door by morning. I still find it astonishing- and a little sad - that convenience has replaced conversation. A. nd somewhere along the way, waiting disappeared. We used to line up at the bank on Fridays to cash our paychecks, and at McDonald’s to order a burger and fries that actually took a few minutes to cook. Now, we get restless if a website takes more than three seconds to load. Groceries arrive within hours; packages appear the next day. What once felt like luxury is now expected. We’ve become so accustomed to immediacy that patience, once a virtue, is now a shortcoming! And along comes Artificial Intelligence— this strange, brilliant new frontier. It writes, paints, answers questions, even mimics voices. Part of me is amazed: after all, it’s just another step in our long dance with progress. But another part wonders what happens when machines begin to “think” faster than we do. Will curiosity fade when answers come too easily? Will we forget how to reflect, to wrestle with ideas, to linger in uncertainty - the very things that make us human? Will one of my protégés marry an AI creation? Yet, through all of it, faith, family, technology, and time, one truth endures: connection. Whether through handwritten letters or instant messages, church basements or Zoom calls, it has always been about reaching out, holding on, staying close. The Wi-Fi at Alexander Point is often spotty, but the sunsets never fail. I watch my grandchildren leap off the “bouncy thing”, their laughter carrying across the water. I remember jumping off the cracked concrete dock that my in-laws had at their cozy cottage at White Lake in Manitoba. My grandchildren post their memories instantly; I write mine down and shape them into stories. But it’s the same impulse— to remember, to share, to belong. We baby boomers are the bridge between worlds - from catechism to cloud, from rotary dials to smartwatches, from handwritten notes to emojis. We carry the past in our bones and the future in our hands. And standing on that “bridge” with a grandchild standing beside me and the lake spread before us, I can’t help but feel grateful for the slowness that shaped us, and the speed that still surprises us.

Faith, Found and Misplaced

By K Grieve • May 12, 2025
My mother Marjorie ensured I grew up Catholic - deeply, thoroughly, unmistakably Catholic. The kind of Catholic that meant school uniforms, fish on Fridays, and Mass every Sunday whether you wanted to be there or not. But more than rituals and doctrine, what stayed with me - even now, when I’m no longer a practicing Catholic - is the former Pope Francis’s heartfelt call to justice, unity and looking out for the persecuted and forgotten. Those are still part of me, even if my church attendance record would suggest otherwise. I went to an all girls Catholic school, and as I recall, it was in grade 11 that I first ran afoul of my faith. Sister Agatha (pseudonym) taught us religious studies that year and she gave us an assignment to present an aspect of faith to the class. Now I can’t claim that I was a regular reader of Time magazine. But somehow I came across that publication that posed the question “Is God Dead?” on its cover. Perhaps I saw the cover of Time on a newspaper stand in the grocery store. Whatever! I somehow managed to notice the publication’s headline asking “Is God Dead?”. That sounded unabashedly provocative and at that stage of my life , I was steadfastly taking any opportunity to provoke. In light of that, I asked myself: “Why not give a talk that caused a bit of a stir? My topic was solidified: “Is God Dead?” I was naive not expect it to spark recrimination, not to mention bigger questions about change, meaning and permanence. I spoke to the class confidently and with determination, as if I really understood the topic. Waxing poetic, I somehow managed to mention some well known Jesuit priests, the Berrigan brothers, Daniel and Phillip who were antiwar activists and who came to to be part of a Catholic movement know as liberation theologians. (There is much more the the Berrigan brothers’ story. If interested read “Disarmed and Dangerous:The Radical Life and Times of Daniel and Phillip Berrigan, Brothers in Religious Faith and Disobedience”) To say the least, Sister Agatha did not think I was being clever. She was outraged. The next day she approached me in the hallway. Menacingly wagging her finger in my face, she declared I was in deep danger of losing my faith. She followed up with a phone call to my mother reiterating her concern. I was straying from the path. I might be forever lost. My mother - actually to my surprise - rose to my defense and stood up for me. She told Sister Agatha that I was thinking, questioning and engaging. “Isn’t that what faith should be?” she pronounced. “If belief can’t survive a teenager asking questions, maybe the problem isn’t the teenager. WOW!!Thanks Mom. That moment has stuck with me my whole life — not because of the challenging repercussions but because I learned what it is like to hold both tradition and curiosity in the same hand. To cherish where you came from, even as you dispute some parts of it. And despite all my doubt, despite my distance from the Church, there is one Catholic habit I have never shaken: Praying to St. Anthony. You may have heard of him? St. Anthony. He is the patron saint of lost things. You lose your keys, your wallet, a ring, an earring - you pray to St. Anthony. “Tony, Tony, look around, something’s lost and must be found.” I have endless stories of how praying to St Anthony for lost objects has mysteriously recovered the misplaced. The most recent incident involves my husband who for three days could not find his passport. Searching everywhere, retracing his steps, Ross was stymied. He carries what I call a “murse” aka a man purse. Consumed with retrieving his passport, Ross called everywhere he could remember where he had been with his passport. Interspersed with that, he kept rechecking his murse - like about 4 times. At this point I intervened. Pray to St. Anthony I told him. And I insisted he promise to donate money to a charity of his choice. Failure to pay up results in St. Anthony striking you from his “list”. “ So I was thinking $25.00” Ross said. “No way,” I replied. “A passport is worth at least $200.” It was not long after this conversation that Ross took one last dive into his murse. He came to me with an Cheshire Cat on his face. The passport was found! I have no logical explanation for this phenomena. But I have story after story where I swore I had looked everywhere, given up hope - and then, sometimes minutes or even months after that whispered prayer, the lost object was found. A necklace under a rug. A set of keys in a pocket I’d checked five times. A photo wedged between pages. Coincidence? Maybe. But I keep praying. And things keep showing up. That’s faith, in a way I think. Or maybe it’s just hope expressed differently. Either way, I find it comforting. So no, I don’t go to Mass every week. I don’t memorize encyclicals or make religious retreats. (Although I can, to this day, recite almost all of the Baltimore catechism-including listing the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost). But I do believe in social justice. I believe in community. I believe in standing up when someone tries to shut you down. I believe in mystery, and ritual, and that strange feeling when something lost is found again. And I still reach out to St. Anthony when I’ve misplaced my car keys. Some things, it seems, you never really lose.