Archives When Poetry Speaks What I Cannot Say                                               by Henry Regehr “And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill, But O for the touch of the vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still”. Alfred Lord Tennyson said it well. He understood the emptiness, the loneliness, the longing for Lillian’s voice and the touch that is gone. The cooking smells from the kitchen are missing, the bed feels

Archives Last Visit                                                                                    by Henry Regehr On Monday, just two days after the memorial service, our family arrived at “Whitepines of Northumberland Tree Farm”, the farm Lillian and I had owned for three decades. We had taken care of the land, nurtured the gardens, rebuilt the home, planted trees and groomed the trails.  We had welcomed family and friends for happy and intimate times together. Now we were warmly welcomed by the lovely new owners.

Archives Portraits of Lillian                                                                                                                      April 14, 2022 As photographer, I remember events and relationships in images of the mind. These stories, these reflections, are the still photos describing a long-lasting and loving romance. I now share this album of images with you, the reader. Henry Regehr February 1946 On starlit prairie evenings, riding Madge, thirteen-year-old Lillian lets the pony choose its way in the farm field. She lies back on the horse and gazes at

Archives The wise, wizened old Teacher sat in the shade of the towering jacaranda tree. His attentive, eager students sat on the fresh green grass and wanted to hear answers to questions over which they, and generations of questioners before them, had puzzled. The Teacher, instead of reciting lectures from his notes, turned the tables and asked his young acolytes to think through the issues with dialogue, argument, and debate. “What is the purpose of

Archives We were walking in thick Vancouver fog with our little daughter, age two-and-a-half. She was testing her wings in the park where we had gone for some family time. She ran ahead of us into the dense white cloud only to find that we had disappeared from her sight. There was an exuberant shriek, and she ran back into our view and our welcoming arms. It quickly became a game. Off she would run,