I never knew my mom’s mother, she only exists in my mind based on the stories my mother told about her. Her name was Elizabeth Marie and she died when my mom was a young mother, forever placing in near perfection status. She had grey blue eyes, like mine, I was told. She had a cool analytical look that could be intimidating, like I did. I was told.

She worked in the library in Saskatoon in the thirties and carried a rolled up magazine under her arm for protection when she returned from work in the evening. Sometimes she lay down in the afternoon with migraines. There was a smudge on the wall behind the heater where she would stand to heat herself in the long cold prairie winters, much to her embarrassment. She and her sisters, Winnie and Millie, were early feminists, sometimes daring to wear trousers. They wrote poetry and talked about books. One sister became a commercial artist. These people came to life through my mom’s anecdotes but I didn’t know them.

I knew my Dad’s mother at the end of her life. My dad would head to the old age home down the road after dinner and he’d ask me if I wanted to come with him, and I always did. I was the only one who would accompany him, but I loved to spend time with my dad. We’d pop into the store on the way to buy some chocolate Rosebuds. When we got to her room she would light up to see her son. He would be cheerful and I remember him teasing her by putting a chocolate on her knee and then jokingly pointing out, what’s that? What’s that on your knee! She would laugh indulgently and pop it in her mouth.

I only had one grandmother that I remember that was a full bodied person who lived in society and that was my Grandma Margaret, my mom’s father’s second wife. They named me after her, as far as I can tell, though not much was made of that and my parents were strict in their use of Meg instead of Margaret.

My grandfather, ‘old JB’ as dad irreverently called him, an agricultural scientist, drove a dark Mercedes and was lively and fun with an unpredictable temper. His second wife, my grandmother, was proper; she wore pretty cardigans with a string of pearls. Her hair was in a short stylish bob and she had warm dark eyes. She seemed interested in me, tucking my hair behind my ears and gazing at me lovingly, which made me embarrassed.

Grandma Margaret brought nice presents and treats and one time she took me shopping when I was in Grade 8, offering to buy me whatever I wanted. I took her at her word and asked for corduroy overalls and a sporty sweatshirt. This was the look at the time, and I never had clothes that fit in so I wanted to try.

Though she must have wondered at the masculine style of clothes (having pictured buying me a nice dress or shoes) she didn’t say a word against my choice. She was the picture of grace, acceptance and generosity. I was very happy with my new items at the time, so my smiles must have made her pleased. Now I look back and admire her intelligent composure.

As I grew up I didn’t know anything about Grandma Margaret except that she gave us books and dolls from Japan. From what I know about her now I believe that she was watching me with concern. She may have worried about all the chaos in our house and how I might get lost in it, and she was not wrong.

I just recently discovered a trove of correspondence and texts related to my grandmother Margaret at my local university, where she received her B.Sc. in Home Economics in 1932. How did I not know that she was a graduate of Mount Allison? And how did I not know that she was born in Truro, Nova Scotia?

Since then I have been down a rabbit hole of research. I have retrieved and read her final thesis paper for her studies in nutrition in the Home Economics at Mount Allison University, and I had her Ph.D. dissertation from Cornell University sent to Mount Allison through interlibrary loan. I am researching the YWCA in Tokyo, Japan, where she worked from 1935- 1940, hoping to find a photo of her at work.

Since discovering that my grandmother’s career was dedicated to the application and teaching of Home Economics, I have become quite interested in the subject. I have academic articles about the subject sent to my inbox every day from Academia, and I have enjoyed quiet afternoons in the deserted summer calm of the university library, pulling books from the shelves that were last marked as borrowed in the 1980’s.

Now that I am discovering who my grandmother really was, it is putting her life and my life into relief. How I would like to talk to her now, so many years later.