My Granny — the OG Zesty.
My Granny — the woman who taught me how to live Zesty before I even knew the word for it. She showed me that life is meant to be lived with curiosity, courage, and a sense of humour. Granny embodied everything I write about: living fully, laughing often, and never letting the spark fade.
Not everyone gets a grandmother like ours. She wasn’t the cookie-baking, passive kind of Granny. Ours came in a fashionably hot pink blouse and scarf, wielding sarcasm like a sword and laughter like medicine—with a plant identification handbook and Bay card in her purse. She was Granny—one of a kind, full of fire, quick as a whip, and somehow still soft in all the places that mattered.
It’s hard to capture a woman like my Granny in words — you really had to experience her. She was vibrant. Curious. Enchanting. Opinionated. Tender. Outspoken. Sensitive. Stylish. Hilarious. Sharp. Soft. A bit outrageous. And absolutely one of a kind.
She loved nature with a kind of reverence. She was a Naturalist. She wanted to know everything. About plants, trees, forests, flowers, birds. She’d grab your arm and say “let’s go!” And walk through the forest wide-eyed, enchanted, always ready to identify a leaf, encourage you to remember the scientific name for a particular moss, or tell you which berries were edible. She wasn’t just a nature lover—she was in a lifelong relationship with the forest. And she taught us how to love it too.
Forests weren’t just scenery to Granny—they were companions. Teachers. Living, breathing sources of awe and wonder. Always changing. Always interesting. And in a way, that’s what she was to all of us: a little bit magic, a little bit mysterious, and completely unforgettable.
Granny was an adventurer. She started as a nurse in her early 20s (which she would never let us forget), often reminding us by demanding, “Let me check your pulse!” as she aggressively grabbed your wrist. At 22, she wanted to see the country, so she applied to be a stewardess with Trans-Canada Airlines. She began flying from Montreal to Toronto, and later to Winnipeg. But naturally, Granny was thirsty for MORE, so she asked for a transfer to Vancouver to experience the West Coast.
After transferring to Vancouver, she met Peter, her first husband, and raised two daughters, Cindy and my mom Beth. Granny made motherhood a whirlwind of adventure—exploring the outdoors, singing on walks to school, enthusiastically attending Beth’s horse shows, and teaching Cindy to weave and paint watercolours.
Granny didn’t just love learning about the natural world—she wanted to experience it. In the 1970s, she decided to volunteer at the Vancouver Aquarium because, of course, she thought, “I want to know what it’s like to feed a beluga!” There she was, in her bright red rain gear, holding up a herring as the whales nosed her hand and splashed her—they truly adored her. Granny wanted to try everything—if life offered something new, she’d pull on her slicker and dive in.
Granny loved singing too—but she didn’t just sing songs, she invented them. She’d make up the most ridiculous, catchy tunes about whatever (or whoever) was in front of her. There was always a silly melody in the air—half opera, half limerick, all Granny.
Later in life, she worked at the cancer institute, explored botany, and hiked up and down the West Coast. On a flight to Hawaii in 1979, she met Dave, her partner in a joyful new chapter filled with hikes, theatre, and weekends at their timeshare at Mount Baker—often with me and my brother Gord.
Granny loved people. Children. Animals. Art. Theatre. Ideas. But most of all, she loved knowing things. Granny was a question-asker. She wanted to understand things, and understand you—your interests, your opinions, your contradictions. She could be deeply opinionated, but somehow also completely accepting.
If you had the nerve to banter with her? Even better. That is my favourite memory of Granny…Ooohh the banter! I think it was her love language. Gord and I learned early how to fire them back. We used to pester her just to watch her pretend she was annoyed. But we knew—she loved it. That was our game. Our language.
Granny was a sensitive soul—nothing got past her. Not a ticking clock. If one dared to tick within earshot, she’d have the batteries out before the next tick. Granny heard every sound—every whisper, every annoying swish of fabric, and every mispronounced word. If you so much as shuffled a piece of paper while on the phone with her, you’d get hit with: “What is that racket?!”
I guess Granny truly does live on in me — how I lose my mind over a tiny undetectable noise in my house, or the annoying light on an electronic I have to tape over…. I just smile and think of her.
Granny was also a celiac—but you probably already knew that. Every meal, every snack, every restaurant, you’d hear her trademark phrase: “Does it have gluten in it?” When we were little, we thought she needed our help reading food labels because she’d hand them to us so earnestly. As adults, we realized she definitely already knew what was in it. It was pure Granny—equal parts charm and performance.
She was the best grandma—not because she was always sweet or gentle, but because she was real. She was fun. Witty. Curious. Fiercely present. And she showed up. When our family moved from Vancouver to Kelowna, she and Dave followed soon after. She told us she didn’t want to be a “bus granny.” She wanted to be close…annoyingly close. And I’m so, SO grateful for that.
Granny was a vibrant, spirited energy that was ever-present in our lives, shaping our childhoods with Mt. Baker trips, blueberry picking, pancake mornings, picnics, hikes, art projects, cheeky jokes, and warm hugs. She was always there ready to play along, join in, and have fun, whether it was making ridiculous Halloween costumes, showing up early to whatever we invited her to, or trekking to Squamish at 94 years old to walk through the woods with me and toss bickies to her granddog.
Granny taught me that zest isn’t something you stumble upon — it’s something you embody, moment by moment. To stay curious. To laugh when it rains. To love fiercely. To keep your spirit playful even as life changes shape.
She demonstrated presence — how to notice the little absurdities in people and situations, the beauty hiding in plain sight, the way moss creeps up a tree trunk, or how people say one thing and mean another. Her wit came from that deep awareness; she was present enough to catch life’s ironies, bold enough to name it, and light enough to laugh at them. She found meaning, awe, and mischief everywhere she looked.
Granny reminds us that wonder isn’t reserved for youth; it’s a muscle you keep using, an attitude you keep choosing. She never stopped learning, observing, or laughing — and that’s what I carry forward. That’s what it means to live Zesty.
Granny, I miss you more than I know how to say.
I will miss our banter and witty one-liners.
I will miss our walks in the woods together.
I will miss our cartoon giggles.
I will miss all of your million Grannyisms.
I will remember you forever…
In the trees. In the flowers. In the breeze.
Every fern.
Every trail.
Every way you live in me…
In loving memory of Granny (Joan), July 12 1930–October 30th 2025.
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