Never grey

Dora Holdaway appreciated the absurd, the odd, the out-of-place. It made her happy. And she shared her joy with all she encountered. She needed to tell you the latest bit of strangeness she had come across that day.

I first met her in 2004. Dora and Len were living in a large apartment on Main Street, above what is now the Prince Edward Dental Centre. She had invited me over to talk about a new project involving a turtle and the Queen. The conversation was scattered and fragmented. Several times I had to interrupt, to ask why I was there. Artwork leaned three and four panels deep along the walls. The table was littered with bits of paper in no discernible pattern or order. Then suddenly in mid-conversation, she stopped and insisted I join her in the common hallway in the back of her building.

“Look,” she insisted, pointing to the porch roof next door. “Look at that. Isn’t that fantastic?”

Past the buildings and through the late November trees one could just make out Lake Ontario and the sand dunes in the distance. But that isn’t what Dora wanted me to see. On the decaying tin roof lay a discarded Elmo doll, lying forlornly on his back. With wide, unblinking eyes, Elmo lay there, staring up at the sky. This is what she needed me to see.

On another occasion, while out walking in the village, Dora came across a black squirrel with a brilliant red tail—a quirk of genetics popping up in this bushy-tailed rodent. But for Dora, this was the most amazing beast.

For through this squirrel, she could imagine a treasure trove of adventure and mishaps. In a series of stories proudly published in The Times, Dora’s squirrel endured scorn from certain monochromatic nut-chasers, but admiration and friendship from the imperfect among her tree inhabitants.

Dora with Wednesday and her letter from the Queen’s lady-in-waiting.

They were simple, familiar tales. But Dora wasn’t interested in fixing the world or in altering social perceptions. Rather, the moral dilemmas faced by Tailor the Squirrel in each episode, merely provided a familiar and recognizable vehicle for her to showcase the unusual, the different, the opposite of ordinary to the child in everyone. She revelled in the peculiar. That was Dora. She lived her life in vivid colour.

Dora was an artist by training and impulse. She had studied with Canada’s best-known painters and produced a great many impressive works. One particularly fine example is a study of snow-covered fields in Haliburton, a multi-hued woodlot in the midst of transformation, fades into the distance. Timeless and deeply evocative, yet simple. Quiet.

For many, however, Dora will likely be best remembered for her story Wednesday’s Wonderful Journey. The tale begins with the real-life visit by Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip to Main Duck Island in 1984— choosing the tiny island as a private spot for a picnic. From this starting point, Dora weaves an intricate tale of adventure and struggle through the eyes of a young turtle the Royals encounter on their brief visit to the island off Long Point.

Wednesday’s Wonderful Journey is a wonderfully illustrated and charming tale that remains a favourite for many families in this community. But for Dora, Wednesday offered an ideal way for her to re-connect with children. She understood them better than adults. They understood and related to her.

Dora was frequently asked to read Wednesday’s Wonderful Journey in the classroom or at the library. There she could immerse herself again in the wide-eyed wonder of youth. It is where she felt most comfortable.

Wednesday also helped Dora connect with the Queen. Before the book was published, Dora wrote to Her Majesty seeking approval. She explained that all proceeds from the sale would go to Garratt’s Island—a summer camp for kids with life threatening illnesses.

“I like to keep her up on things here,” said Dora.

Though the Queen didn’t respond directly, her lady-in- waiting Richenda Elton wrote from Buckingham Palace, conveying the Queen’s support and encouragement for Dora’s project. Dora could not have been more proud.

Dora lost her husband and best friend nine years ago. Len had been her rock, her safe harbour. His grace, compassion, and broad shoulders had allowed Dora the freedom to explore fanciful and imaginative worlds.

The sparkle in Dora’s eyes dimmed with Len’s passing. Never to shine as brightly again. Last week she passed away peacefully.

In her rich and colourful imagination, I expect Len and Dora were never really apart.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca