My Memory of June Callwood

Husband gets lots of magazines at work so I get to read them all.

This month, lots of them have tributes to journalist, author and social activist June Callwood, who died recently of cancer.

I met Callwood once. She was getting an honourary doctorate during my university commencement. Many of my journalism classmates wanted to shake her hand, and we did. I don't know about them, but the woman made me feel like I was the only person in the room. She looked at me so intently that it seared. And I glowed.

And as I was shaking her hand, the one thing that struck me hardest, the singular three-dimensional impression left behind, were June Callwood's hands. These hands which wrote gargantuan phrases, cleverly strung together like pearls and as beautiful as a lei, these hands which helped to build herculean organizations like Casey House, PEN Canada and the Canadian Civil Liberties Association, these hands were boney, liver-spotted, and frail. These were old lady hands.

I can still remember the feel of June Callwood's grip.