Books

Together, Kerre and Lionel achieved something they probably never consciously set out to create. Their intention was simply to build a life and raise a family. Yet in pursuing those goals they also created a place that became woven into the identity of everyone who spent time there. Little Prairie gradually transformed from a property into a shared point of reference.

Looking back now, I suspect the secret money and the community work were really expressions of the same underlying belief. Both were about creating options. Both were about ensuring that problems could be managed when they arose rather than becoming overwhelming burdens.

The hidden envelopes gave her confidence that financial setbacks could be handled. The friendships, volunteer work and community involvement gave her confidence that life’s other challenges could also be managed. Together they created a level of security that no bank balance alone could ever provide.

Of course, the story did not stop there. One of the quiet truths of family life is that every generation eventually becomes the foundation for the next. Children grow up, build lives of their own and, before anyone quite notices how it happened, they become parents themselves.

Perhaps that is the real story of raising sons. You begin with a little boy who believes the world exists for adventure and possibility. You spend years trying to keep him alive long enough to gain some wisdom, all the while worrying about the decisions he is making and the direction he is heading. Then one day you find yourself standing back and looking at the life he has built, wondering when exactly the change occurred.

For Kerre, the revelation was never about claiming an identity that did not belong to her. It was about understanding an identity that had always been there. The pieces that appeared so surprising to others simply completed a picture she had been glimpsing out of the corner of her eye since she was a young girl standing behind a screen door, watching three unfamiliar men arrive and wondering why their visit seemed to make everyone so uncomfortable.

The responsibility simply arrived and waited to see what she would do. Her response was the same response that would define much of her life. She got on with it because somebody needed to. She stepped forward because stepping back was never really an option she considered.

That answer sounds simple when written down. In reality, it rarely is. Getting on with it means carrying burdens that other people never see. It means worrying privately while appearing calm publicly. It means making decisions without knowing whether they are correct and hoping that effort and good intentions compensate for inevitable mistakes.

Large families inevitably contain strong personalities, differing opinions and occasional disagreements. They also contain varying levels of success, different life experiences and diverse perspectives. Humour provides a mechanism for navigating those differences without allowing them to become divisions. Laughter reminds people that relationships matter more than individual disagreements.

Kerre understood that instinctively, even if she never expressed it in those terms. She recognised the value of creating spaces where people could gather, relax and enjoy one another’s company. Little Prairie became one of those spaces. Through no deliberate ambition of her own, she helped create an environment where family traditions could flourish.

The three sisters remained with her through the night. Eventually Kerre convinced Carolyn to go home and have a shower while she stayed at the bedside. During Carolyn’s absence, Mert quietly took her final breath. Kerre was there. The passing was peaceful. The moment was gentle. Yet even years later she admitted carrying guilt about the decision they had made.

I suspect Kerre never viewed those responsibilities as burdens. Throughout our conversations she described helping family members in the same matter-of-fact way she described cooking dinner or feeding animals. To her, looking after people was simply another part of life.

That perspective probably explains why she remained willing to answer the phone whenever it rang. Some calls brought good news, while others delivered difficult news and some involved nothing more than a worried relative needing someone to listen. Regardless of the reason, Kerre usually answered.

The lesson hidden within the story is surprisingly simple. Kindness leaves footprints, even when the person creating them never notices. Kerre spent decades planting seeds without ever expecting a harvest.

Looking back now, the significance of Lub-da-Bus becomes easier to understand. The vehicle arrived during a period when many people began reducing their worlds. They stop travelling. They stop exploring. They begin organising life around limitations rather than opportunities. Kerre did the exact opposite. The bus allowed her world to become larger rather than smaller.

The modern world constantly encourages people to want more. Every advertisement, every sales pitch and every algorithm seems designed to convince individuals that happiness sits just beyond the next purchase. The message is relentless because it is profitable. If people ever become satisfied, somebody stops making money.

Kerre had become increasingly resistant to that message. Perhaps it was because she grew up with very little and understood the difference between needs and wants. Perhaps it was because decades of hard work had shown her that accumulation alone rarely delivers fulfilment. Perhaps it was because she had attended enough funerals to recognise what people ultimately value when life reaches its conclusion.