It’s always heartwarming to watch communities rally together when they have a common health concern.  In the early days, the gay HIV community was a great example of how people were able to join forces in the face of a terrible stigma and even death to ensure strong networks were able to provide support.  It is a model that has been emulated in the breast cancer community, MS, liver and heart disease and many others. 

I was reminded of this recently at the Gathering for people living with HIV across the province, organized by Positive Living Society of BC.  People were relieved to be connected with others... they could chat informally without fearing stigma and there was clearly a sense of camaraderie and common purpose.

Recently, I was thinking of our family vacations to Eyam, Derbyshire where my grandmother used to live.  It’s a beautiful, historic village in the Pennine hills, full of old stone houses and even a hotel on the English haunted inns list, The Miner’s Arms.

Hundreds of years before my grandmother lived there, Eyam had faced terrible stigma and death too.   In August 1665, some cloth was delivered from London to a local tailor.  He hung the damp cloth to dry and it released fleas that were hidden in the material - they were carrying the bubonic plague.  Within one week, the tailor was dead and many in the little village were dying.

Unlike HIV, the bubonic plague was caused by a bacterium and was passed very rapidly by the bite of fleas.. The village decided to isolate itself from surrounding villages and from each other.  The church services were held in a field and a well above the village was used for money to be dropped in the water by the villagers and, in turn, the nearby villages delivered food.  The Riley Graves on another hill lay testament to a mother who buried her husband and six children within 8 days - a sad and horrific tragedy.

However, for some reason when the village finally opened its self-imposed quarantine, a quarter of the villagers had  survived and there is a belief that it was for the same reason that some people seem to have a gene which gives them immunity to HIV (the gene has been found in the descendents of Eyam’s survivors).

The community spirit of that tiny village and their determination to overcome the odds and their own personal fear reminds me very much of the great courage of people with HIV.  Many HIV+ people have not only had to combat the ignorance of others but also decide as a community what steps they will take to network together and fight the disease.

This all leads me to believe when we are sick with a mutual illness, we find a bond and a new reality emerges.  In death, humans reveal powers of endurance and their resilience is at its best.  Alliances are struck and there’s a real sense of connection.  At a time of mutual isolation, there is kinship, respect and love.

This photograph was taken when Jeremiah and Millicent Buckleyy were about to embark on the Montrose, to sail to Canada in 1926, destined for St. John, in New Brunswick. They bought a dairy farm at Okotoks, in Alberta but returned to England in 1945, and Jeremiah and Millicent are buried in St Helen's Churchyard, Grindleford

Letting go of the past, working hard on the present and hoping for a better future.  Often we try to achieve that in our personal lives but it’s really ingrained in us since the time of cavemen.  Nomads, moving from place to place, populating new lands, leaving the past behind, working and creating our future. 

Many of us have relatives who were immigrants, I come from three generations of immigrants to Canada, my grandmother, my mother and I all emigrated to Canada from England. My mother emigrated with her family in 1927, then returned to England with her new husband (my future father).  She returned to Canada when she was 58 and I emigrated when I was 20.  However, the story I will tell you is of my family coming to Canada in 1927, stepping off the boat and finding a new life.

My grandfather had served in the First World War and when he was discharged he could either take a payment or he could accept 40 acres of farmland to the south of Calgary - in a little known area called Okotoks.

Now, some people may be thinking:

“40 acres of land, just given to you on a plate, I wish I was that lucky!”

Well, imagine packing all your worldly possessions into trunks and taking your five children on a mighty steamship, to sail across the stormy seas of the Atlantic and to go to a strange uninhabited area in the west of Canada... in the middle of March!

The seven of them arrived in a freezing, damp Halifax harbour, then wearily waited while boatloads of people were processed through Canadian Immigration.  With papers stamped, they gathered on a platform to board a train which would carry them for days across Canada, to start their new lives in an even colder, snow-covered Calgary.

In an early letter back to England, my grandmother told of being impressed by the generosity of Canadians and of how, upon arrival, neighbours came to visit with milk, bread and cheese.  Of course, there were no fridges to keep things cold, they had to put items in a hole dug in ground - not the easiest of things to do when the ground is still frozen.

They were all hard workers. Life didn’t come easy and in those days, when you made your bed, you lay in it... there were no relatives to help you out.

My grandfather had spent his working life up to that point as a quarry labourer and had not farmed at all but on a whim and a prayer he started “Buckley’s Dairy”.  He and the children rose before sun-up to milk the cows.  Once the milk was squirted from the cows’ udders into waiting pails, it was poured straight into glass bottles and two strong horses then pulled the loaded wagon with my grandfather, my mother and her brother wrapped in thick coats and blankets, perched on the front bench.  Each house on the delivery run woke up to fresh milk placed on the doorstep.

My mother said at first it was an adventure but soon became extremely tiring and on top of that each of them had chores to do after school too but there was no time for complaints and there was no point either because the work had to get done.

The farm produced their own food and Grandma Buckley was constantly baking.  The warm, wafting aromas of freshly baked loaves, pies bursting with apples and jam-filled sponge cakes filled the nostrils of visitors who happened to drop by - and it seemed more and more people were “dropping by”.

My mother told me that on a gorgeous summer’s day, the wide, blue sky stretched for miles. Later, as the sun set and the night drew in, she would lie in bed, listening to coyotes howl in the distance.  Occasionally, she sat at the window and saw fireflies flitting like tiny miners’ lamps, being carried across the moonlit prairie fields of hay.

My grandparents lead a seemingly simple life but I view them as incredibly brave... putting down new roots, working hard to make a living and going to bed each night worn out but proud of what they achieved.  They knew they were part of a new frontier... Western Canada, next to the majestic Rocky Mountains, where the air was clear, free from crammed-in houses and the industrialized smog of northern England.

It was that way for millions of migrants all over the world.  They had drive and dedication.

They let go of the past, worked hard on the present and hoped they were building a better future.

Timeless.

I’ve been thinking a lot about family recently with the introduction of the new Family Day in British Columbia.  This is one special memory I have of Saturdays with my father in England, some forty years ago. 

Saturday mornings would see us walking down our road to catch the Number 17 bright red double-decker bus which carried us to Reading town centre.  We were on our way to the Farmers’ Market to pick up small plants that we would take home to grow in our garden. 

The cattle auction was also held that day at the market and I loved to stand on the bars of the cattle pens and stretch out my arm as far as I could to stroke the course, curly cows and calf hides as the bovines stood together in the damp morning air.  Nearby, sheep were bleating and chickens were pecking the hay - and each other - as they strutted around the smaller closed-in pens.  All of them were waiting for the auctioneer to come by with his pad of paper, dutifully followed by farmers who were going to bid on the animals waiting to be auctioned off.  I stood and looked up at the men in caps as the auctioneer took bids and wondered what on earth he was saying - his patter sounded like a completely different language. 

After about an hour, we would put our new plants into a steel-handled, green striped shopping bag which my father brought along and we would head to the area known as “Smelly Alley” (below right).  It was a single back alley lined with tall red brick walls and local shop owners with white aprons, already covered with blood and guts, proudly displayed steaks, eggs and freshly-caught fish which had been bought very early that morning from the London docks, forty miles away.  In the front of their shops (probably against inspection standards now) the fish were laid out with price tags in them and as we passed a shop the fish monger would cry out “Hey, Mister! Come on! treat your lit-ul’ girl to some cod!  a shilling for some be-u-i-ful fresh fish!”.  My father would point out some cod or plaice, have it wrapped in newspaper, place it in the shopping bag and then we followed the aroma of fresh baked bread to the corner bakery where we would purchase some crusty white loaves from the racks of bread, before walking out the door to the high street. 

Once we had visited a few other stores on Broad Street, we would walk to the nearby George Hotel and the Georgian Restaurant.  The George Hotel was very old.  It once had a coach and horses arrive in the paddock... travellers from London would disembark and stay the night in the hotel.  The coach was still in the paddock and lines on the cobblestones told the tale of coach wheels arriving, turning and grinding.  My father and I would sit looking at the shoppers scurrying by and I would be treated to toasted tea cakes, smeared with butter and a nice cuppa tea! 

Finally, before heading home, we would walk to Jackson’s Corner to look in the pet shop.  On the old concrete steps, by the narrow doorway, were wooden crates with chicken wire sides, stacked one on top of the other.  Inside each crate were tortoises, pigeons and guinea pigs for sale.  The store was a wonderful, wild world of fantail goldfish, hamsters, gerbils and tropical fish.  We had two goldfish ponds in our backyard and I was always on the hunt for another beautiful addition to the collection and I would name each one. 

Then it was a short walk to the bus stop and, sitting on the front bench seat on the top deck, we were homeward bound. 

Many years later, when I visited England from Canada, my father, now walking with a cane, and I boarded the Number 17 bus and went to the market again.  The livestock were gone and the market was full of garage sale items.  My father and I shopped for antiques and he bought me an old boot scraper to put by my front door. 

Dad passed away some years ago and when I see the scraper, it reminds me of our Saturdays.  It’s hard not to feel sad but time never stand still and I know that sharing memories and stories will bind us together with future generations. 

Have a very happy Family Day everyone... and treasure the moments which will become part of your future memories!

When I was told I was terminally ill in 1994, the doctor put his arm around my shoulders as I left his office and said:  “I know it’s hard but try to think positive, it helps”.

I thought he had lost his mind.  I had just received devastating news and he was telling me to think positive - it felt like an impossible task.  I felt like I had just been thrown overboard, lost at sea, treading water, and all I could do was just try to breathe air!

It was hard to think positive when I heard people mocking those with HIV.  I listened to the radio one day and there was a joke about Magic Johnson “dribbling” a ball down the court and people clearing the way.  Those kinds of comments made me feel angry and sick.

After two years, I had enough and was keenly aware that I had to be part of a change.  I knew that if I wanted people to understand what it was like living with HIV, I had to get over my fear and tell people. As Ghandi said “Be the change you want to see in the world”.

From that time on, I always felt confident that people would understand.  I stopped caring what people thought.  I knew I would tell them the facts and if they chose to be willfully ignorant after that, then it was not my problem, I wouldn’t take it on.

However, without knowing it, I was now thinking positive. I believe there is a difference between wanting something to happen and being sure it will.  Confidence is the key.  Being in the NOW, as Eckhart Tolle would say, is different than wishing for a change in the future.  And I have a great recent example.

I was told I would be one of the lucky recipients   of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee Medal. I say “lucky” because I think there were many, many people who were far more worthy than me but I was very fortunate to be nominated. That aside, I knew I couldn’t afford to go to the Canadian AIDS Society World AIDS Day Gala but I had every bit of confidence that I would be going and I had no idea how or why, I just KNEW I would go.

I was so sure I would go that I started to find out who would send me and began looking for a sponsor, I had no doubt I would find one.  Without the confidence, I would not have taken the action steps.  After a few enquiries didn’t pan out, I thought about a lady I had recently become reacquainted with - Fiona Macfarlane, the Managing Partner of the Vancouver accounting firm of Ernst & Young International. I knew she had contacts and could recommend whom I could approach.  I emailed her and she replied to leave it with her and she would give it some thought. The next day, to my huge surprise, she said she and her Ernst & Young partner, Elise Rees, would use their Aeroplan points to send me - I was stunned.  I had not expected that outcome at all!

I knew then that positive thinking and confidence worked, when you believed in yourself enough to use actionable steps then mountains move.  I am a strong believer that if you don’t put your knowledge into practice, then you will never succeed.

I strongly believe in being thankful for good people and knowing that you are very fortunate, recognizing it and being grateful for it.  I believe with all my heart that CONFIDENCE is the key that unlocks positive thinking and is the key to the positive action door.

This year has been full of festivities marking the 60th year of the Queen’s succession to the throne. One of the ways that the Government of Canada decided to honour the Queen for her years of service was to mint 60,000 Diamond Jubilee Medals that honoured significant contributions and achievements by Canadians. I was honoured and extremely surprised to be named a recipient. 

When you live in England, the value of the monarchy is instilled in you at an early age. I remember sitting on a stool up at the kitchen “counter” or island as it is now called; my father was trying to get me to eat some last spoonfuls of porridge and I had my mouth firmly clamped shut... enough was enough! He was trying tricks like “open the tunnel, here comes a train”, with no reward... but then he said the magic words, “one more for the Queen!” Immediately, I knew it was my “duty” to open my mouth, how could one refuse the Queen? 

You see, that is what the Queen means to many English children and to the public at large. The only way I can describe it is that she is like a well-respected grandmother. Each Christmas, we would gather around the television in the morning to hear the Queen’s message. My parents looked grave and listened intently but to be honest, I rarely paid attention to what she said - we just knew we were “expected” to sit and listen - no questions just quiet reflection... and then my father would say: “is that turkey in the oven?” 

This is the world I was brought up in. 

My father wrote to me once when I had moved away from my home town to say he had managed to “nab” a job as pass inspector to the Royal Enclosure at the Ascot horse racing course. We were all incredibly excited. He, a mere mortal, would be checking seating tickets of the elite! We loved his stories of who he had seen and how they had behaved. Obviously, no need to check “you know who!” 

Then, when I emigrated to Canada, my father wrote by air mail and told me he had been invited to a Garden Party at Buckingham Palace. He was a member of the Executive of the National Union of eachers and had received an invitation in the mail. We were elated and he sent me a copy of the invitation. 

You can see... we were totally smitten with the Queen... I have to say that we looked up to her more than the Prime Minister. We felt that she was the representative of England. 

With that prequel, when I heard that I would receive the Diamond Jubilee Medal, I was very emotional... for three reasons. 

First, to somehow be tied to the Queen’s sixty years of service and awarded a medal celebrating it, is an incredible honour for any English person because we know she has carried out her duties in such a emarkable way. 

Secondly, when I came to Canada, I was so grateful to be allowed in this country, to be able to live in such a beautiful place, with a diverse and accepting population, where someone’s lower economic status or race would not be mocked ruthlessly, as was still the case in England. To receive a medal from my caring and loving “foster” country meant the world to me. 

Lastly, in 1996 I had been infected with HIV for seven years. I was finally diagnosed in 1994 and had been hiding my illness, listening to people around me insanely talking about those with HIV without them knowing the truth or the facts. I had to decide whether to carry on my life in secrecy, with just a few people knowing, or whether I cared enough that people learn the truth and what their empty-headed words meant to me, a person who was infected with the virus and whose family was living every day with their comments.

Now, I know, it hasn’t exactly worked out as planned!.. but there have been some amazing changes and more people do care... and, in fact, incredibly, there is often too much apathy and some even think the pandemic is over! 

But in the last week, we had terrible news from the Supreme Court that got the ranters raving and standing on their soap boxes again: 

“Those people out there trying to infect us... let’s segregate them... I hope they all die, they deserve it!”

I have to say I’m tired... tired of saying time and time again: 

“How about thinking before you start typing or opening your mouth? How about considering the  terrible challenges people already face living with this disease? How about finding out the facts, the science, the truth?”

But then, there is the Medal, and it makes me feel that facing these type of people may not change their ignorance but it does say something about who I AM. It says: I will not lie down while you talk rubbish; I will not stand idly by while you treat people with an illness in a miserable way; and I will not stop educating people because maybe someone, just one person, will “get it”. And if that happens then it may be worthwhile. If I get a Medal then my conscience can reaffirm that I’m doing the right thing.