She taught me and challenged me
Win Lawrie knew something about everything — from cooking to calligraphy to pots
She wasn’t my mother, but much of what I know today she taught me, and wherever I looked in our home I saw reminders of her — the wok in my kitchen cupboard, the white porcelain tisanière on the shelf, the acorn-shaped pot hanging by the window and, of course, my five dictionaries.
In 1962, living in Winnipeg and hosting CBC’s regional afternoon television show, I had a constant need for offbeat interview material. The station’s genial weatherman had a friend who, he thought, might make a great standby guest — “Her name is Win Lawrie, her husband, Jim, was assistant grain commissioner for Canada. They have travelled the world, and she can talk about anything.”
I went to check her out, and was instantly captivated.
Neither then, nor ever, was Win a conformist. I had expected her to greet me in the uniform of the day — pleated Burberry skirt, twin sweaters and pearls, and a “done” coiffure. But no. Win greeted me at the door in a St. Ives fisherman’s jacket over cotton slacks, her hair knotted neatly on top of her head, no makeup, a pair of square horn-rims emphasizing her quizzical grey eyes.
In the living room I tried not to gawk but I couldn’t help but notice the A.Y. Jackson and J.E.H. MacDonald originals, the ship’s captain chests, the harpsichord, and the unusual side chairs. I hesitated between the Shaker original and the sturdy gunstock — then sat on a third. (“That’s an Eames,” Win said. Oh?)
She served tea from an elegant tisanière (that later sat in my own kitchen), along with tiny Welsh scones thickly studded with currants. (“Oh, heavens, they’re so easy, I’ll give you the recipe.”)
Then, at her suggestion, I bent to inspect the collection of wooden objects on a low table — a handcarved bowl, a cup, a ladle, spoons with delicate patterns chiselled into their handles, doll-sized rolling pins for marking cookies, a small picture frame bordered with wooden roses, a spurtle. She had collections of many things, she told me, but this “treen” was one of her favourites.
(Treen? I had never heard the word before. And a spurtle? My ignorance was obvious. Quickly she informed me that treen is the name given to tableware and household utensils made, usually by hand, of wood. And a spurtle is a special stick traditionally used by Scots to stir porridge. I had just been enrolled in a 20-year Win-win education.)
On our television show the following week, she did a show-andtell about treen, and on later appearances shared some of her widespread interests with our viewers.
Calligraphy? Her on-camera demo fascinated even the grips. Bread? She relayed secrets given to her by Elizabeth David, whose publications were included among Win’s collection of 300 cookbooks. Ethnic cooking? She had watched peasant women in China preparing entire meals in steamer baskets atop one small firepit, and she knew enough about East Indian cooking to start a restaurant. Writers? Her favourites were Sylvia Plath and Eudora Welty.
(With three teenagers at home, I could still quote Dr. Spock and A.A. Milne chapter and verse, but “Eudora Welty? How do you spell that?” It must have tried her patience.)
Pots, though, were Win’s prime passion. She had taken a course in potting, knew glazes, appreciated shapes, was a devotee of Sir Bernard Leach, had met him and owned a number of his signed pieces.
(When I confessed to knowing very little about potting in general, nothing about Sir Bernard in particular, she sighed and took me in hand. Today, thanks to her, I have several really good pots, including the acorn-shaped plant holder she gave me, which is my pride and joy.)
From the first day we met, Win was my teacher. She fell into the role easily — she taught school until she married Jim. I was a willing pupil, as eager to know as she was to teach. I learned to smell fruits in the market, not to squeeze them to test their ripeness, and to use lovage for garnish. I acquired chopsticks and pot de crème pots and a garlic press as well as her recipe for clam chowder. I invested heavily in dictionaries after her stern admonition: “Ribald? It’s rib as in Adam, not rye as in bottle.”
And if, while writing to deadline, I was stuck for the right word, I’d phone and she’d have it at the tip of her tongue. From first to last (she died in April 1988) she challenged, cajoled and goaded me, willing me to adopt her questing spirit, force-feeding me with her hunger to know all things except the trite and obvious, bringing me up.
Win wasn’t given to praise or softsoap, never applauded my small triumphs, nor used endearments (although once, in a moment of weakness, she wrote on a gift card “To my friend of friends.”) So, I never felt as important to her as she was to me until one day, just a week before she died, she surprised me.
Then in her nineties, she was living in a care home, and suffering from Alzheimer’s. It was almost impossible to communicate with her.
On my regular visits I would look at her, a tiny skeleton huddled under a blanket, listen as she mumbled phrases totally unintelligible, and ache to hear the old Win say something, anything, I could hug to my heart.
That particular day, she did. I was holding her hand when suddenly, clearly and distinctly, she said: “I always loved you, dear, right from the start.” That was all, but it was enough. Win Lawrie, wherever you are, I miss you, but thanks for the memories.
Kay Alsop was a longtime reporter at The Province until her retirement in 1985. She lives in West Vancouver.