Condolences
My love to all as we celebrate my beautiful Auntie Olly. From our family dinners filled with endless good food to her “dressy” striped gown of jewel colours (with matching slippers, of course). Her beautiful smile and her twinkling eyes finished the outfit perfectly. Sending much love to all!
Aunty Olly, I will miss your beautiful smile and watching you crochet/knit while we chat. I love how happy you made Uncle Henry One funny story that will stay with me forever is when you stayed at my house and we had Dakota (English Bull Terrier) he must gave been 1 year old, you were knitting on the couch, me beside you, Uncle Henry in chair, Dakota came in with Dave after his walk (to poop him out) BUT he was so excited to see company that he completely flew like a rocket up on the couch and around your neck and back down but without even touching you, we laughed and laughed and you never missed a stich.
RIP beautiful lady! Until we meet again. XoX
Julie, Dave, Jake & Brooke Johnson
To Uncle Henry and the rest of the family.
So sorry to hear of Olly's passing. Hugs and love to all of you. I will remember Olly's smile and her love of her family.
With our condolences:
Kelly, Mike, Scott and Jason.
Dear Henry and family members,
I am so sorry to learn of Olly's death.
Let your happy memories of your life together bring you strength and peace at this time.
Unfortunately, I'll not be able to get to Calgary to attend the funeral. I will keep you in my thoughts and prayers.
Thinking of you,
In Sympathy,
Odette and Bill
8JAhY
“Dinner Table Memory 1”
As a child, I once sat across from our mother at our dinner table, nervously preparing to test the air with a thrilling new phrase I had brought home from school. During a pause in the conversation, I quietly spoke the phrase: “son of a gun.” Our mother was a gentle and pleasant woman by disposition. But not right then. She rose from her chair, and pointed a finger at me. There was flint in her eyes. “We’ll have no language of that sort in this house!” she said. In the years that followed, I never once heard her break the rule. I, on the other hand, was a hopeless offender.
“Dinner Table Memory 2”
As a teenager, I once sat across from our mother at our dinner table, nervously preparing to test the air with a thrilling decision I had just made about my future. During a pause in the conversation, I quietly gave her the news: “I want to be writer.” Without missing a beat, she said: “You can do that when you retire.” So I decided to retire. And she, with a mixture of worry and pride, never failed to encourage me. In the last weeks of her life, when she was well down the road of dementia, I would sometimes see her sitting with my writing in her lap, leafing back and forth through the pages, laying her hand on the front cover, carefully repeating the book’s title, and the name of its nearby author.
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