Elly Porsild

I was invited to write a short biography of my mother, Elly Porsild. I was pleased to be asked. And confident that I would be able to produce an accept-able piece, short, but not too short, pithy, full of anecdotes, and succinct illustrations of a life well and truly lived.

As it turns out, my confidence was short-lived.

As I sat at my computer and typed "Elly Porsild" at the top of the page, I .vwondered, Where do I start? What should I leave out and what, absolutely, must be included? How does one encapsulate a life that spanned more than a hundred years and, in the living, made a difference to so many others? And finally, where do I, daughter or no, get the arrogance and unmitigated gall to believe that I could take that life and round it up into an "acceptable piece?”

Not that it would have mattered to Ma. "Oh, that was great, Ellen," she would have said. “How in the world did you remember all that, I can hardly remember it myself," she'd marvel. Ma always thought that I could have written the Great Canadian novel, if only I'd had the time. I had trouble convincing her that I was not even a real journalist, just a hobby writer who could be clever sometimes but mostly wasn’t.

And that's too bad because if I was a REAL journalist I could have written wonderful things about this unique little person who was my mother. I could have told of her childhood in Denmark. That she was born, in 1903, to Julie and Adolphe Rothe-Hansen, a farmer turned manufacturer, who had made a fortune during the first world war building fishing crates and lost it soon after through a combination of high living and bad investments. And how Elly spent most of her young life shepherding her younger brothers and sister, and later went to live with a variety of families, working for her room and board as a companion or nanny.

I could have dwelt on a “trick of fate” that brought a teenaged Bob Porsild from his home in Greenland to Denmark for schooling and, further, ensured that he and Elly's brother, Svend, would become best friends. And then elaborate on the happy coincidence of a feckless fiancée discarded short moments before Bob's vacation, from the legendary reindeer drive through Northern Canada between 1930 and 1935, landed him on the Roth-Hansen doorstep, intent on reviving old acquaintances. And how, three weeks later, when Bob returned to the Mackenzie Delta, it was with the understanding that within a year, Elly, who had never traveled more than a hundred miles in any given direction in her life, would cross the Atlantic and most of Canada to Edmonton, then take the old "Muskeg Special" up to Waterways where a river steamer would carry her down the mighty Mackenzie to her ultimate destination, Aklavik, and the arms of her brother’s old school chum, now her intended bridegroom.

If, in addition to being a wonderful journalist, I were a bit of an artist, I could have painted you a picture of these two people: my father and my mother, on their wedding day. He, tall and broad shouldered, with thick red hair, a long blade of a nose, eyes surrounded by laugh wrinkles, and the high, flat cheekbones of his Viking forebears; she, shorter by nearly 10 inches, with a cloud of dark hair, a smooth tan face, a thin mobile mouth, and pale blue eyes that smiled easily but could grow cold as shadows in the snow upon provocation. I would have painted them dancing, for that would be my favorite memory of them, twirling light as feathers, to the strains of a Strauss waltz gazing into each other’s eyes, lost in the music and each other.

And if I had been that wonderful and amazing journalist, I would then have taken you to the Mackenzie Delta and told you of their four years there. About their first year, when their dog team plunged through the river ice and how Elly watched as Donald, their young Eskimo driver, and all the dogs were pulled below the roiling grey-green water and gone, even as she struggled to pull herself onto a solid surface. How they survived that first winter with no dogs for traveling, and how their small home burned to the ground the following spring, just two weeks before Elly delivered her first child, Anna Elizabeth (Betty) in 1931. I would tell you how lonely it was for a young woman with a new baby and no other woman to turn to for help or advice, especially when her second child was born without an esophagus, two years later, and died within four days, the medical services small hospital in Aklavik unable to cope with such an emergency. I could tell you all of that, and more, if I were that journalist.

There was the leaving of the Delta and the year spent on the waterfront in Vancouver where Bob leased the Denman Wharf, spending his days yarning with the men on the docks while Elly made friends with their neighbors and learned again the art of living in a city. A good newspaperman would describe this happy interlude as a soft breath of civilization before they plunged, once again, into raw adventure, this time in the gold fields.

In 1935, Aksel Melvin was born in the Whitehorse Hospital while Dad and his partners were busy building a riverboat. When Aksel was two weeks old, they packed up bags and baggage, dogs and kids and set off down river. Ho! Off to the Klondike. Well, the Sixtymile, anyway.

A good newspaperman would recount, in great detail, the seven years spent mining and trapping on the Sixtymile River. In a nice bit of circumspection, he would add that, what with those long winter nights and with entertainment being somewhat limited, that during the next five years, they added two more little Porsild, daughters: Ellen Margrethe, born in 1937 in the St Mary's hospital, and Joanne (Jo) Julie, born in 1940, joined their family. Betty died in 2004; Jo, in 2008.

And a good newspaperman would go on to talk about the subsequent move to Dawson and to Whitehorse and, eventually, Johnson’s Crossing, where Bob and Elly would build and run a tourist lodge for seventeen years before retiring and returning to live in Whitehorse.

And with broad, slashing strokes of his pen, he would make it all sound, dangerous and thrilling and wonderfully exciting and you would have been flushed with vicarious fear and pleasure and admiration for these two people who carved out a niche for themselves and for their family in Canada's Yukon.

If I had been that REAL journalist, I would have written these things. But I am merely a dabbler in words and the daughter of this exceptional lady and so I can only write what I feel.

My earliest memories are from the Sixtymile, feeling warm and safe in my bedroll as I lay and listened to the deep rumble of my father's voice and the soft laughter of my mother's reply. I remember the smell of Jergen's hand lotion as Ma read to us each night, as soon as she'd finished the dishes. Later, when we lived in Whitehorse, she would encourage us to accompany her to the public library and choose our own books. As we sometimes stumbled over the unfamiliar words of a book that was too old for us, we'd call out to her "Ma, what does 't-a-r-d-y' mean?" "Well, what do YOU think it means?" "I dunno." "Well, then, kigge lidt I den leksikon.” Or, simply translated, "Look it up in the dictionary." No one ever thought that, given her somewhat imperfect grasp of the English language, she might not have known the meaning herself, and we all groused and grumbled at always having to enlist the aid of Mr. Webster to get our derailed story back on the track but enlist we did and enlist we do to this day. It was one of life's little lessons that Ma taught so well.

Our home was filled with music. Ma played the piano, Dad the guitar and mouth organ and we all sang. We had an old gramophone with a crank on the side and had a wonderful oily smell. I thought of it as an Italian smell as we listened to Enrico Caruso sing “O Sole Mio” and “Sextette” from Donizetti's "Lucia di Lammermoor." By over-winding the crank, we could make the great tenor sound like a soprano. When we tired of this sacrilege, or more likely, when our parents did, we would gather at the piano and sing the popular ballads of the day as well as old American folk songs and even a few Danish ditties, for we were all fluent in Danish as well as English in those days. Sometimes, we would add a little folk dancing to our repertoire, in two’s and three’s and in later years, at Johnson's Crossing, after the supper dishes were done, Ma would smooth on the Jergens lotion, hang up her apron and play the piano until it was time for bed. Our guests would come down and join us, either in song or dance, sometimes just to sit and listen. It was one of those little things that made Johnson's Crossing Lodge special. That and Ma's nightly jaunt down the hall, pausing to tap at each door and enquire as to the comfort of her customers. "Are you warm enough? Would you like another blanket?” I don’t know if she ever went in and tucked the covers more snugly over chilly shoulders or kissed sleepy brows, as she did ours, but I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear that she had.

Ma and Dad were the consummate host and hostess. Outgoing, and quick with an invitation to dine or sit for a wee toddy, they welcomed the world and were never happier than when they had an audience for Dad's stories and an appetite for Ma's good grits. In their retirement years, they traveled over much of the Yukon and did some botanical collections for the Natural Museum in Ottawa. In my mind's eye, I can see them clambering over rock and stream seeking new plants and grasses to catalogue, Dad in his overalls and blue chambray shirt, Ma in her "berry pants," an-old pair of men's trousers with the legs turned up, and one of Dad's blue shirts. Arguing and bickering as they go, Dad will cease and desist occasionally to help Ma over an especially rough spot and kiss her as she lands safely. She, in turn, will fuss a bit over a small scrape on the back of his hand. "Bubi, let me put a bandaid on, you never know...."

They were ambassadors of goodwill, as they journeyed about in their little red Ford truck with the Alaskan camper on the back, and collected new friends as well as floral specimens wherever they went. Back home in Whitehorse, they stayed busy entertaining friends and family. Bob and Elly were early and active members involved with all aspects of the newly-established Trinity Lutheran Church and were founding and hands-on members of the Golden Age Society.

Elly, at 89 years, was still a very active hostess and participant of the Drop-in Centre. She served on the executive of the Golden Age Society and on the Board of Directors for The Council on Aging.

Dad died just shortly after his seventy-ninth birthday, quietly and without a fuss. Ma mourned the loss of her best friend and partner, her playmate and her lover, and then, with the practicality we had come to expect, she gathered up the raveled edges of her life and soldiered on. For more than twenty years, she journeyed on alone, fiercely independent, her enthusiasm for the new and unknown, undiminished; her devotion to her family and community boundless.

Elly was an active bowler, in spite of her poor eyesight. She was an inspiration for the other members of the Senior's Bowling League. She served as enumerator and scrutineer in countless elections and worked tirelessly as a Progressive Conservative booster. She maintained an active interest in politics and world affairs

Elly received a letter that Dick and Andre North sent along with an application to have Ma included in the Canada 125 national list of volunteers. She received the recognition and a medal at the Commissioner's New Year do, I think in 1992; she was VERY pleased and proud.

Prevented, by failing eyesight, from knitting the beautiful sweaters and baby clothes that gave such pleasure to friends and family, she kept busy knitting simple unpatterned squares which were stitched together into afghans and either raffled to raise funds or donated to the needy. She bought the yarn or "put the arm" on acquaintances to donate it and knitted literally, thousands of squares.

She moved into Macaulay Lodge in 1997, accepting, finally, with grace— and a certain impatience—the indignities and suffering imposed upon her by age and circumstance. Her mind remained clear, her tongue sharp, and her intuitive grasp of a situation as keen as ever. When she heard that Macaulay residents might be moving to the Thomson Center, she reacted decisively. "I will not go to Thomson." Pragmatically, she knew that she would indeed go wherever she must. But she didn’t have to like it. “Sa fa fanden!” I heard out of the corner of my ear. I looked at her, a trifle taken aback at her tone. "What? What was it you said?" She stared back blandly, then her pale blue eyes softened and took on their more habitual twinkle. "Kigge lidt I den leksikon." Calm, loving and forthright, ever the teacher by word and example, she was the touchstone in our lives.

She was fond of telling everyone that the sun ALWAYS shone on Saturday, don't you know? And one time, when I rather archly reminded her that I was not as dumb as I looked, she quietly responded, almost under her breath, "Good thing." She had an amazing sense of humor. Or, in that particular instance, a delightfully under-stated way of telling it like it was! My daughter Jo reminds me that her answer to any decorating problem was to "put a doo-dad on it." Her cozy home had 'doo­ dads' everywhere.

As it turned out, Ma never had to contend with a move. On June 30, 2004, she fell and broke her left femur. After treatment at the hospital, she should have gone to Copper Ridge Place for the intensive and continuing care that facility provides, but the wonderful staff at Macaulay Lodge said "No. This is Elly's home and we will care for her here." She passed away peacefully in that home in September, surrounded by friends and family.

Elly's greatest contribution was her unfailing and loving support for her family and for her community. She was a role model for us all.