Auntie Joyce passed away peacefully, without much hoopla, on November 19, with good friends, a loving nephew, and Elvis at her side. She might have preferred even less hoopla, as she was congenitally averse to shameless self-promotion and aggrandizement. We can’t remember a single time she sought approval, sympathy, or attention from anyone.
Don’t get us wrong. She was an enthusiastically social human being, and revelled in the company of her many friends. It’s just that she would rather be an excuse for a party, than the center of some superficial ritual.
It follows that she would probably object to us making a big fuss about her death, or go to the trouble of remarking reverently on her life. On these points, we will have to disappoint her. Sorry, Joyce. You meant a lot to us. You lived a remarkable life. And we are so very sad that you are gone. In equal measure, we are glad your pain and suffering has ended.
Nothing we write here could do that life justice. But we will try.
Joyce Marie Smith was the younger of two daughters born to Margaret and John, a sturdy, hard-working prairie couple in small-town Manitoba. It was the depths of the Great Depression. Even though their family was largely spared the worst effects of this difficult period, it surely shaped the mindset and character of everyone who went through it. More likely to be grateful for any measure of good fortune; less likely to be paralyzed and petulant in the face of adversity. The children of the depression, particularly prairie folk, spread out across the country, and it was their determination and independence that drove much of Canada’s growth and success in the decades that followed.
They were further tested by the heartbreaking losses, demands and challenges of the Second World War. This was a battle-hardened generation, and we often forget how tough and how strong they had to be.
Oakburn was a close, tight-knit community, driven closer together by the hardships of the era. Everyone knew everyone. The kids all went to school together, from grade 1 to grade 12. Every holiday, event, tragedy and celebration was a communal experience, shared by an extended family of hundreds. How comforting that must have been, in times of both joy and sorrow. The community had deep Ukrainian roots, so they were also very well fed. There are few problems in this world that can’t be solved by properly prepared petahe and a bucket of sour cream.
On an instructional note, Ukrainian ancestors attached spiritual significance to petahe, or perogies, and used them as part of pagan and sacrificial rituals. They took their dumplings very seriously, and still do. We can’t guarantee that tossing a few into your garden will ensure a bountiful harvest, but it can’t hurt.
This was the environment that nurtured Joyce’s childhood, and a heritage she proudly carried throughout her life. Ukrainians were broadly derided in Canadian culture, and especially by Roy (more on him later), but Joyce couldn’t have cared less. In a world where so much else was transient and fleeting, this was something that would never be taken away from her.
So Joyce’s early life was, by and large, a positive and affirming affair, bolstered by a sense of belonging and community. From there, it was perhaps natural she would set out on a lifelong journey filled with joy, optimism, and welcoming new people to her constantly-expanding extended family with open arms.
One of her greatest joys, from the very beginning of her journey, was teaching.
She began teaching immediately after high school. Manitoba allowed graduates to teach for a year or two without any formal training or certification. This seems like a formula for disaster, but at least it would have weeded out the weaklings.
Joyce was sent out to a tiny schoolhouse, and placed in charge of a horde of children, each of whom needed to be taught at their appropriate grade level. At maybe 18 years of age, she might very well have been teaching students older than herself. We’ll bet their penmanship was immaculate.
If this were the practice today, we doubt there would be more than half a dozen teachers in the entire country. It would be chaos. They would be lucky to survive.
Apparently, Joyce survived, and even thrived, in this educational trial-by-fire. She went on to earn her teaching certificate, and taught for years in the relative metropolis of Brandon.
During these years, she endured a marriage to a miserable excuse for a man named Antonation, and the less said about that, the better. It explains her last name, but does nothing to explain the amazing woman she was. She refused to let the marriage, and the name, define her. In an act of independence rare for the age, she abandoned the misogynistic troll, packed up her life, moved across the country, and left him in her dust. Things did not go well for him after that, and justice, in its way, was served.
Joyce joined her sister Grace, who had settled with her young family in Prince George, in 1964. She took some courses required to qualify for her BC teaching certificate, and began a new chapter in her career that would span three decades. Generations of students passed through her classroom. She frequently spoke of individual students, and their parents, by name. They left an impression on her, as we’re sure she left an impression on them. We doubt you could swing a cat in Prince George without hitting someone, or the family of someone, that she taught.
By the way, Joyce would not approve of cat-swinging. She adored every animal, and her dogs were beloved members of the family, from Spook and Heidi, to Peanut and Boomer and Bugger-Lugs (so named because he was a bugger who lugged around, and often ate, anything that wasn’t nailed down).
She took to Prince George, and Prince George took to her. She made many lifelong friends (shout out to Theresa and Diane!). A favourite hangout was Nechako Lanes. She could bowl the lights out, and loved the troublemakers at the bowling alley. Her team was a regional champion, and travelled to tournaments throughout Western Canada.
On an otherwise routine train ride in the late 60’s, she met Roy Neilsen, and nothing she did would ever be routine again. They were kindred spirits, if not a typical “match made in heaven”, in that neither of them appeared to give a single, solitary hoot what anyone thought, even each other. They were companions and partners in a series of fearless adventures and pursuits that would last nearly 50 years.
Roy (“Mr. Antonation” to Joyce’s students) was either the love of her life, or the bane of her existence, depending on the day.
It was an unconventional relationship, which seemed to suit Joyce just fine. She had given the conventional route a go, and it clearly was not her cup of tea. Neither of them had any interest in getting remarried, and they never had any children of their own. Roy had children from a previous marriage; Joyce had more kids in her life than anyone would realistically need.
Joyce and Roy travelled extensively. Early on, they were frequent visitors to Las Vegas while it was still home to colourful (and questionable) characters, and you might just run into the Rat Pack or a mob boss at any random roulette table. They definitely enjoyed themselves some gamblin’. Even back in Prince George, their home was essentially a running card game, and they were regulars at bingo games and crib tournaments, and anywhere else they could dance with chance.
Later, they would cruise the Caribbean, the Panama Canal, and Alaska. Joyce made her pilgrimage to Graceland. They visited Hawaii. They took a long trip to New Zealand, just to see what the other end of the world was like, we suppose. If you were a lucky friend or family member, you were invited along for one of these adventures.
Roy was a phenomenal travel guide, and arranged every detail. It’s possible that Joyce chose to be with him for this reason alone.
Her nephews came to know her as their cool, adventurous aunt. Whenever Joyce and Roy came to visit, there would be irreverence, and laughter, and a packed agenda. There was always somewhere to go and something to do, and the boys knew they would be traveling in comfort and style, because Joyce and Roy always drove enormous, well-appointed vehicles. They never owned a big boat, but they sure owned their share of land yachts.
It must be mentioned they also built an impressive Amway empire, a venture to which Roy was particularly suited, and it eventually became his full-time gig. It is a testament to their gregarious and good-hearted nature that this only enlarged their circle of friends. Let’s face it. Multi-level marketing has killed many a friendship. But those two made it work, socially and financially.
Time and tide catches up to us all, usually in the most unexpected ways. Joyce was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis at an impossible age. It took over a year, and a private-service MRI in Alberta, to convince her doctor that MS was responsible for her strange symptoms – numbness, tingling, pain and weakness that came and went without rhyme or reason. She was far too old to develop MS, and far too young-at-heart to be struck with a debilitating, incurable, unpredictable disease.
Such are the vagaries of this life, and Joyce accepted this news with her typical strength and aplomb. For many years, she continued travelling, carried on with her day-to-day affairs, and kept her busy social schedule. Even as the disease mercilessly attacked her body.
Eventually, it tried to take away her mobility. It failed miserably. When Joyce’s legs would no longer carry her, she motorized. Her maximum speed immediately tripled. When the going gets tough, the tough increase their horsepower. She seemed to get more active, if that’s possible. She even started visiting inmates at the Youth Detention Centre, and teaching them crib. She absolutely loved this return to teaching, and spoke admiringly of the kids she met, who treated her with respect and gratitude.
She smashed through every obstacle in her way, frequently by ramming into it with her scooter. She remained strong, independent, and lively as hell. Even after Roy passed away, she got up every damn morning, and filled the day with activity and purpose.
But MS is a determined foe, and continued its assault. The most challenging episode of her battle coincided with the onset of the Covid pandemic, which sucked in the most tragic ways. She was confined to her home for 18 months, deprived of her independence, and subjected to the uncertainties of a public health emergency. Cracks in the system were magnified, and she fell through almost all of them, as did many other seniors. It took many extra months to get her second vaccine dose, and she managed to squeeze in a couple lunches before the passport was instituted. She was once again confined, while the system took weeks to iron out problems with her vaccination record.
Her caregivers and friends provided all the comfort and companionship they could, but they could not fill a life as big as Joyce’s.
As a result, there was more pain and loneliness and frustration than anyone should have to bear. Joyce remained stoic and good-humoured through it all. She didn’t want us to worry. She always viewed worry as wasted energy that could be channelled into something fun and productive. But there is no doubt she felt more pain than those of us who watched the blazing and kindly light in her eyes slowly fade. And we were in agony.
If any of this sounds like a complaint, please note it comes from us. Joyce would not stand for it. We are venting exclusively for our own benefit, and in the hope that the system perhaps take some note, and make an effort to perform a little better in the future.
Her disease, and complications from it, finally did become unbearable, and Joyce accepted it with characteristic resolve and grace. She was at peace with her fate, and wanted nothing more than a painless and dignified passing. For a while, this seemed impossible. But, as they always do, the Rotary Hospice House stepped up, providing a loving environment and exceptional care in her final days. She was happier than we had seen her in many months. She was able to say goodbye to the ones she loved. Joyce left this world on her own terms, pain-free, with the dignity she deserved. We will always love the Hospice care team for that.
As we will always love you, Joyce. Your relentless zest for life, your courage and resilience, your joy and optimism, inspired us. May your adventure continue forever. Roy, we imagine, has the itinerary arranged and scheduled.
Joyce is survived by her sister, Grace; adoring nephews Shawn, Jack (Brenda), and Doug (Linda); beloved grand-niece Talia (Chad) and great-grandnephew Jo Jo; and her extended family of cousins, friends, colleagues, former students, fellow travellers, irredeemable gamblers, and the fabulous Red Hat ladies.
This history has been cobbled together from the imperfect memories of many fallible human beings. Please overlook any omissions or errors. If Joyce were still with us, she would be the perfect fact checker and proof reader. Alas, she is not, and all we can do is hope that she would give us a gold star. Under the circumstances, we’re sure she would cut us some slack and give us a higher grade than we deserve.
We will make Joyce an excuse for a party at a future date, with a minimum of hoopla, when travelling to Prince George is less perilous, and our Covid restrictions are more predictable. We would like to make it possible for any of her friends and family members to be here, if they wish. If you cannot be here, or you just can’t wait, we invite you to share your memories, and the company of those who loved her, at legacy.com or dignitymemorial.com.
If you wish to make a donation in Joyce’s memory, please consider the BC SPCA, the MS Society of Canada, or the Prince George Hospice Palliative Care Society. Or just hug a teacher.
On a closing note, we suppose it’s finally safe to reveal that Joyce’s one true love was Elvis, and her favourite song, fittingly, was “My Way”. If Joyce were going to take this trip to heaven as an opportunity to dump Roy and finally hook up with Elvis, she’s done it by now.
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