A Tribute to Lorene ‘Grandma’ Laughton (1919-2006)

I can’t help to smile when I remember her cheerful face lighting up. Her hand would begin to bounce off her lap as she joined in “Yam, ba, da, ya-dee, bum-ba....”. For the joy of life had stuck a chord and she was not going to be left out. Oh, to experience the beauty of her spirit once again. I can only pray that these memories remain engraved in my mind as a score to a song well sung.

She grew up and lived in Vancouver her whole life. I can remember the visits to the old house on Flemming St. (the one where my mom and her two sister were born into). As I drove her home after family dinners she'd tell stories her youth. From meeting grandpa to singing on the CBC the drive home never allowed enough time.

Like a true musician she taught piano well into her 70s and it was only a couple of months ago, at the age of 86, when her legs and breathing restricted her from singing in the Bonsor community choir. Such a voice and talent the local choir masters would fight over her involvement as she was forced to withdraw her body unable to keep pace with her spirit. (I guess God want to fill out his alto section)

She leaves behind a legacy in her family. A home built on the rock of Jesus and close to 55 years of happy marriage with grandpa before he passed away. A friendship built with love and respect. It set the standard for the generations to come. As a family we play, work, laugh and cry together. Seldom far form the action grandma would be there taking it all in and when it was time to celebrate she was the first to pull out the credit card to pay for dinner.

An encouraging heart she never failed to take interest in what interested me. Taking the time to ask me about school, work and girlfriends then offer her concerns, support and advise. During the Olympics I got a chance to spend a Friday evenning with her, a night well spent. Laughing at beavers, talking about hearing aids and celebrating victories there is something about her presence that was just to be enjoyed.

Thank you Grandma we'll do our best to pick up the melody where you left off.



PS. Kudos to God for keeping her out on loan for an extra 6 years.

Fresh Tracks

I can’t quite explain it but there is something freeing and surreal about driving a snowy freeway while listening to Jack Johnson sing about recycling. I had just been cleverly surprised to hear Donald Miller speak and was subsequently wading through the swamp in my mind. Yes, the frozen ponds of my mind were being to thaw yet I was witnessing the inversion on the other side of my window.

Like the cars on the road my mind began to wander. As per my usual observation, SUVs seemed almost a disadvantage contrasting their commercialized appeal. The only sporty fresh tracks these urban wagons are making lead to the ditches. Nothing proves inertia like 1.5 tons of reinforced steel.

Approaching home, it became apparent no one had dared to venture the testoster-hills. With unwavering trust in my aged-econo-import I spun my way up the streets. Though I can’t completely compare it to the sensation of skiing the lure of fresh tracks had sent out an invitation and with little hesitation I replied. Forgetting about home, I searched for virgin snow in the dead ends and cult-de-sacs of the Metrotown hills.

A stride of speed lends its hand to a silent merry-go-round spinning the winterscape past the smeared crystals which glaze my windshield. Each street lead me thought a breathtaking dance upon the frozen glass. However, as sweet dream stunted by your alarm clock, the reality of sleep and a waning tank of gas brought about the end of the ball. Like an enchanted young boy after a goodnight kiss, I meandered the streets leaving a lacey signet of inverted turns through the corridors of cars to my home. As if to dismiss any wonder of blame for the creases on the white dress, the only tracks will lead their curiosity to my front door.