A memorial was held for Sylvia on Monday, April 8th, 2024. Below are some of the heartfelt eulogies and poems offered during the service and at the interment by friends and family members.

The Gift
Craig Koshyk

I can’t remember when, how, or why, but somewhere along the line, I stumbled upon an idea. Today, on this sad occasion, I’d like to share it with you.

The idea came to me when I was heartbroken, wrestling with the black dog of sorrow. Somehow, I realized that the best way to win the match, to kick a hole in the darkness to let the light come through, was to reflect on the things for which I was genuinely grateful.

So I made a list of all the things, big and small, for which I was thankful. Sure enough, after a while, light started creeping in. At first, nothing but tiny sparks, like dancing fireflies. But soon, slivers of light, then shimmering sunbeams. Eventually, the darkness gave way to the brilliant light of a new day. 

So here we are today, on the saddest of sad days. And everyone in this room is wrestling with the black dog of sorrow, trying to find a way to let the light back in.

So, let’s accept the sorrow and acknowledge the pain. They are with us for a reason, and we must respect their strength and purpose. But let’s use them to open the door to gratitude, to the heartfelt thankfulness we all share for having Sylvia in our lives. 

To my sisters and me, Sylvia gave the greatest gift of all: life itself. And for that, we are eternally grateful. To my father, she gave undying love and a deep devotion to the family they created. To her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, she offered wisdom and understanding, wonderful books, and fresh-baked cookies. To her sons-in-law and daughter-in-law, she extended open arms and the warm embrace of family. She gave her siblings and their families the gift of laughter, limitless support, and, on special occasions, slices of vinarterta.  To the members of her extended clan, her friends and coworkers, and the wonderful caregivers who helped her walk her final miles, Sylvia gave smiles that could light up a room and an elegant presence none will forget. 

My mother was always a rather petite woman but physically, she was ‘farm-girl’ strong. Intellectually, she was a force to be reckoned with. Her wit was razor-sharp. Her curiosity knew no bounds.

Then came illness.

She weakened physically and mentally, but her spirit never wavered. Even as she struggled to speak, she could still make us laugh with a simple gesture or melt our hearts with a smile. And then, near the end, her words disappeared—except for two.

We’d give her a sip of water. She’d swallow, nod, and say: “Thank You.” 

We’d hold her hand. She’d squeeze ours and say: “Thank You.” 

We’d say, “Bye for now, Mom; we’ll see you tomorrow.” She’d look up, smile, and say: “Thank You.” 

Despite a weakening body and fading memory, her gratitude remained. My mother knew she had lived a blessed life and was grateful for every minute. With loving family and friends around her, she was thankful for every single one of us who shared the journey with her.

And I know if Sylvia could say just one last thing to us all here today, it would be “Thank you.”

Belle-maman
Lisa Trottier

Si je fais mon éloge funèbre en français aujourd’hui, c’est parce que ma belle-mère était francophile.

Dès la première rencontre, j’ai senti à quel point elle était aimante, accueillante et généreuse. Nous avions des atomes crochus, elle et moi : son sens de l’humour, son amour de la lecture, des histoires de reines. Je me trouvais réconfortée d’avoir une belle-maman si favorable à l’égard des francophones, comme ma propre mère l’était envers les anglophones.

Sylvia jardinait merveilleusement bien. On ne pouvait être qu’en admiration devant ses belles fleurs. Mais elle ne cultivait pas que des plantes, elle veillait aussi au bonheur et au bien-être de ceux et celles qui l’entouraient.

C’était une sœur, une épouse, une mère, une grand-mère, une arrière-grand-mère attentionnée, même pour nous qui sommes venus nous greffer à cette belle famille et avons été accueillis si chaleureusement.

J’ai été choyée d’avoir une telle belle-maman. C’est un joli mot en français : « belle » et « maman », qui enjolive et résume si bien une belle relation.

Je t’aime, Sylvia. Repose en paix.

What Sylvia Taught Me
Marjorie Anderson

On her 80th birthday, I wrote a tribute to Sylvia and presented it at her birthday party. I told her she had taught me well about what a sister is and can be. Today, I refer to some of what I said then—with additions, for in the last six years I have had more, and more, reasons to appreciate the loving, supportive role she had in my life.

A sister is a source of boundless acceptance and accommodation. When you are a teenager and land in from the farm to stay with her in her brand new house in the city and, by mistake, place the ice cream in the cupboard instead of the fridge, she defends you as she mops up the melting mess. She explains to her startled husband, “Ah well, we have to understand that they don’t have a fridge on the farm.” Later, when you’re a grown woman with teaching duties you love and paper-organizing responsibilities you falter at, a sister comes to your office and sorts through the chaos, fills and labels file folders, and leaves a clean wash of order in her wake.

A sister is someone you can count on whenever you need support. When you have children, she is the first one you leave your baby with and the one you call immediately with your new-mother concerns. She goes with you to scary medical appointments and is immediately there by your side when a family member is hospitalized. She speaks to the doctors and nurses in their medical terms and is the first voice to explain and assure.

A sister is endlessly welcoming and hospitable. She embraces all new members of your immediate family and hosts engagement parties, baby showers, and family gatherings. She always sees first what’s right with newcomers and never focuses on foibles. Gatherings in her home and around her dining room table are joyous occasions, full of laughter as she and her family display their characteristic witty story-telling talents.

A sister is someone who provides you with the marvels of nieces and a nephew. She promotes their relationships with you and fosters the loving bond you continue to have with them. She teaches her firstborn, Jamie, at 20 months, to say “Auntie Margie”—a first for you. She manages to give birth to her son, Craig, on your 18 th birthday, and to top it off she names her third child, Katrina Marjorie.

A sister also slides in easily to being a protective, care-giving aunt to your children. She looks after your grandchildren when you need a grandma backup and is always interested in, and caring about, your family.

At the time of my presenting a tribute to Sylvia on her 80th birthday, I ended with this…”Above all, a sister is a trusted confessor who listens to your fears, disappointments, and doubts and never discloses or judges what she’s hearing. In short, a sister is someone you can’t possibly do without.”

Yet now… I find myself without the physical presence of my sister Sylvia—and my sister Louise—which is, of course, heartbreaking. Where I find comfort is in focusing on the blessing of having had close to 80 years of sisterhood and the legacy of that bond—having a role model for how to be in the world, how to love and support, how to embrace and welcome—and, now, an example of how to live out my days with grace and, always, with care for others. Sylvia demonstrated that right up to her final days.

About two weeks before her death, I had this conversation with Sylvia while she was still able to respond. I was holding her hand and she was resting with her eyes closed. I said, “Well Syl, we’ve had close to 80 years of being sisters and have always gotten along, haven’t we?” “Yes,” she said softly. “Even though,” I continued, “you must have been annoyed with me at times.” She shot her eyes open wide and said with verve, “I have not!”

There she was, still focusing on what’s right about a person, still giving me comfort, still showing me what a sister is and should be. I will hold that in my heart, forever.

Aunt Sylvia Welcomed Us All
Graham MacLennan

 I’m Graham MacLennan, one of Sylvia’s many nephews, and I have a few words to share about Aunt Sylvia and her sister Louise, who was my mother. The first words are my mother’s. Before her death she told her story to my Aunt Nina, who transcribed it.

 “Whatever I was doing, Sylvia was doing. We were joined at the hip. I was always her example. She wanted to do what I was doing.  It gave me a feeling that I had a lot to live up to because she depended on me for so much. 

 We did everything together as kids. We were always together. That was hard when we both left home. I worried about her after I left home.  When I was no longer anywhere near what she was doing, it was a real separation.

 It’s good to remember lying back in bed and listening to Dad talking to people. We’d have to be quiet. Dad would be talking to Helgi, say, and one time we got the giggles so bad we couldn’t keep quiet. We would count how many times Helgi would say “you know”. And the time he said, “You know, you know, you never know, you know”, we couldn’t help laughing out loud.

We were always looking for Dennis. He would just take off. Once Sylvia and I left him when we saw a bear. We ran ahead and left him stranded by a wall and he couldn’t get over it. Mum made me go back and get him. I made Sylvia come with me.  I wasn’t going to go into bear country by myself just to rescue a kid.

I never walked by myself. I was too much of a coward. I wasn’t the brave one alone in the bush, but Sylvia and I would walk together.”

Louise came to Winnipeg in January last year, January 2023, and she had an absolutely wonderful visit with Sylvia by that time, both my mum Louise and my Aunt Sylvia were suffering serious effects of cognitive decline. But they were together again. Sylvia was at home, Louise spent the afternoon with her, and the two looked through old photos. Sylvia’s children took wonderful pictures of the sisters together, and Kat made a video collage of their day together and the joy on their faces just put the dementia away for that afternoon

They were together, they relived their time together, their lives together (and apart) and they sat on the couch for a picture with the most wonderful smiles. Together. 

Cousin Craig took a “sisters” photo of all three sisters, Louise, Sylvia and Margie, and it’s one of my favourites of all time. So Aunt Sylvia and my mum were together as kids, together as old ladies. 

But I will remember Aunt Sylvia and my mum best when they were in their prime when they lived in Thunder Bay and Winnipeg and still took the time and made the effort to get together with their families.

I can’t describe just how at home I’ve been at 26 Meadowlark Place over quite a few decades now, how Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Peter always whisked all of us right inside and looked after us.

I think of Aunt Sylvia’s marvelous storytelling, of her fantastic and hilarious exaggerations, and how nobody else in my life called me, from childhood well into my middle age, Gray, Gray Play in the Hay

I think of reports from Jamie that as our visit dates drew nearer, Aunt Sylvia would storm around her house cleaning, having a Lysol Attack, spray-cans of Lysol in holsters on her hips. 

Aunt Sylvia was a homebody. More than anyone I’ve ever known, Aunt Sylvia loved home, and she worked to make it home for so many people: for her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren; for nieces and nephews and friends, and all this glorious extended family

Aunt Sylvia welcomed and loved us all. And that’s why, sad as it is to be here today, I’m happy to be here—happy to be here with all of you, remembering Sylvia. Because in different ways, Aunt Sylvia provided a home for all of us. 

Instructions
A poem by Arnold Crompton
Read by Sean Sagert (Celebrant)

When I have moved beyond you in the adventure of life,
gather in some pleasant place and there remember me
with spoken words, old and new.
Let a tear if you will, but let a smile come quickly
for I have loved the laughter of life.
Do not linger too long with your solemnities.
Go eat and talk, and when you can;
follow a woodland trail, climb a high mountain,
walk along the wild seashore,
chew the thoughts of some book
which challenges your soul.
Use your hands some bright day
to make a thing of beauty
or to lift someone’s heavy load.
Though you mention not my name,
though no thought of me crosses your mind,
I shall be with you,
for these have been the realities of my life for me.
And when you face some crisis with anguish.
When you walk alone with courage,
When you choose your path of right,
I shall be very close to you.
I have followed the valleys, I have climbed the heights of life. 

Starlings in Winter
By Mary Oliver
Read by Katrina Anderson

Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly

they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,

dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,

then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine

how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,

this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.

Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;

I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

Adrift
By Mark Nepo
Read by Jamie Koshyk

Everything is beautiful and I am so sad,
this is how the heart makes a duet
of wonder and grief.  

The light spraying through the lace of the fern
is as delicate as the fibers of memory
forming their web around the knot in my throat.  

The breeze makes the birds move from branch to branch
as this ache makes me look for those I’ve lost
in the next room, in the next song,
in the laugh of the next stranger.

 In the very center, under it all,
what we have that no one can take away
and all that we’ve lost, face each other.

 It is there that I’m adrift, feeling punctures
By a holiness that exist inside everything.

 I am so sad and everything is beautiful.

 From Undying: A Love Story
By Michael Faber
Read by Craig Koshyk on behalf of Peter Koshyk

All I can do, in what remains of my brief time
is to mention, to whoever cares to listen,
that a woman once existed, who was kind
and beautiful and brave, and I will not forget
how the world was altered, beyond recognition
when we met.