"Well, that's the limit."

When my Mother said that, you knew you were in big trouble.  The other giveaway was when she slowly uttered, "Oh. My. God," in a slow, low voice, a timber she never raised.

For some reason, my algorithm delivers delightful tales of old life in Appalachia and Ireland to my facebook feed.  Although my adoptive family were decidedly Canadian English (I am genetically 100 percent Irish and it shows) from the Ottawa Valley, they used many expressions from these societies, all of which I relate to.  Another favourite was, "If you don't stop whining, I'll give you something to really cry about."  She would not abide whining.

I also relate to the lifestyle of my Grandmother, Mother and Aunts, who cooked like it was the Depression-era thirties.  They canned everything -- even at our cottage in sweltering July, when the woodstove would be cranked up to make raspberry preserves, raspberries my Grandmother had sent us to pick in neighbouring famers' fields.  Never mind half of them never made it back to the cottage, because we'd eat them, there was always enough for a few jars of her delicious nectar.

We also ate a lot of root vegetables in winter.  Salad in February?  Forge that.  And for dessert, always canned unless in season.  I can remember dandelion salad and apple crisp, the latter of which I make every Fall.  

Sundays were always devoted to visiting to pay respects to my Grandfather and Great grandparents.  Rain or shine, we went after Church.  When I lived in Ottawa as an adult, I used to pack a picnic -- including cocktails -- and the whole family would gather on our plot.  Afterall, we were landlords in Beechwood Cemetery, so why not?! 

Typical of a visit with my Grandmother.  She always dressed up to pay respects to her departed family.

Grandma sewed many of our clothes and knitted some of the most beautiful sweaters I've ever owned.  Yes, my family hails from strong stock.  I am very lucky they adopted me.