Martha Perkins

Editor

Lois Meyers-Carter has had two passions in life. The first she was born with - a love of learning. The second she was destined to wait half her life for - "my darling Ross."

And when she and Ross Carter married, the two passions merged with such natural ease that they became one. Ross and Lois filled their house on Bowen Island with books, spending endless hours discussing their contents, eager to share information and new discoveries. She quickly shared his love of the island where he'd spent his summers, immersing herself in a wide array of activities, chief among them preserving and protecting the island's rich history.

A year after his passing, she still talks about him in the present tense. He's so much a part of her that while she keenly feels his absence, his spirit has infused her very being. Right now, she's going through their extensive book collection to catalogue it and decide its future. Each shelf reunites her with old friends or introduces her to one of Ross's.

"I'm finding all sorts of treasures," she says, citing a "fascinating" book on the age of moguls that she didn't know they had. "I like the fact of finding things that are a surprise to me."

Each book is a connection to Ross, a connection that's vital to her and helps keep him very much in the present.

"I've left Ross's voice on the answering machine," she says. "It's nice to know he's there."

She first met Ross when they were both students at the University of Washington library school. Ross had been at the University of British Columbia but it didn't have a library sciences department so he finished his education in her home state. She'd grown up complaining that her local library limited her to only four books a week. This was a piddling number of books for a girl who would read on the walk home.

There were two reasons why the romance didn't take root: first, "I was happily married with son number two" and second, Ross had red hair. "My mother had brought me up to detest red hair," she laughs.

Ross's hair was still red and she was still married, as was he, when they met again at a librarians' conference in 1976. But the happy stages of their marriages had faded and by the end of the conference, Ross admitted to her that he was "smitten."

It was a conundrum. Lois's parents had divorced when she was a teenager and she'd vowed that her marriage vows would never be broken. "That's when I learned to keep my mouth shut," she says with one of her gentle smiles.

She was at a fork along her life's path. If she stayed married, it would be to a man who had never seen her passion for books and libraries as anything more than a "cute pasttime."

If she chose Ross, it would be her liberation, a chance to become the person she really wanted to be.

"It took us from early 1977 to 1980 to solve the whole dilemma," she says.

Marrying Ross also meant that she was wedded to Bowen. The Carters owned 10 acres of land on the island and Ross bought two of them, on which they built their house in 1986. When they moved here, she quickly became immersed in island life, serving for a while as the island librarian and soaking up everything she could learn with the Bowen Island Historians. To share what she learned, and to contribute to the island's sense of modern-day self, she also started writing the Island Neighbours column for the Undercurrent.

Volunteering with the Bowen Island Historians gives Meyers-Carter a long view of the island. She's come across countless plans for new developments or businesses that have never come to fruition. She sees photos and descriptions of events that feature the same people, over and over again, until those people get older and their energy starts to fade. Eventually, with no new blood to keep an event going, it becomes history.

"We're at an odd stage in our community's life," she says. "There are a lot of newcomers, commuters, and they really don't have time to volunteer. They're already very busy. Meanwhile, a whole group of people who have been volunteering for 20 years are 20 years older."

She recognizes that 20 years ago, the island population was so small that those volunteer groups also provided the foundation of people's social life. There weren't any pubs or places to gather so community events could easily draw a crowd.

But there are many advantages to the influx of new residents. Instead of finding volunteers who will do baking for a fundraiser, groups now need to find the volunteer who's good at writing grant applications. Commuters have access to resources and services beyond the island's shores; these resources can be tapped into with the Bowen connection acting as a bridge.

"Everything is team work," she says. "You build enthusiasm over time. When you have a leader like [like some of the people who have brought several new initiatives to the island], things that couldn't happen do happen."

She believes that the energy and money to keep Bowen a vibrant, happening place are still here - they just have to be found. And once found, they need to be accessed.

Meyers-Carter found herself woven into the very fabric of island life because she recognized there was a need to get involved and she responded. The island has a history of welcoming newcomers who, by joining the many activities and groups, quickly get a sense of community.

To newcomers she offers some advice. "Do your research first," she says. Life is governed by the ferry schedule, which is a limitation that just isn't going away. Water taxis offer more freedom, but they're not going to run late simply because you are.

Secondly, if you plan to start a business or service, "see if the need you think exists really does."

She also cautions against being what she calls a "purist." She remembers being part of the protest to save the Orchard cottages in Snug Cove - laying wreaths in front of the cabins that were slated for demolition - but she also knows when to bend.

"The danger of being a purist is you’re not willing to compromise and life is full of compromises. You can have wonderful intentions but you don’t always have a lot of people following.”

She learned from Ross how to get both sides to work together until they reached the middle. It wasn't that he was conciliatory; he just knew that butting heads was not going to work. When he was on council, he could work with people whose opinions were diametrically opposed to his. "There are people you don't agree with but you respect ."

In her first year of widowhood, she's realizing what a long-range planner Ross was. Their house has five stories; fine when you're young, not so easy to manage when you get older. He figured out a way to create a main floor which limited the need for going up and down stairs. She's now getting someone to help with the beautiful gardens that Ross created. "It's something I can do for Ross," she says.

As a historian, her job is to collect memories. As the keeper of Ross's legacy she wants to keep those memories alive so that everyone can appreciate what true love - love of each other, of community, of place - can accomplish.