There was, however, one woman sitting to my left, who had been very quiet throughout all the discussion. Whenever I looked at her, she looked away. At one point I thought I saw her eyes well up with tears and then I looked away. I was desperately wondering how I was going to survive the mess I was in, when the tears got the better of her, and she openly started to cry. Her name was Shirley.

After an uncomfortable silence, Shirley began to tell the story of her husband of thirty-eight years who had always depended on her because he couldn't read the newspaper or fill out a deposit slip. The women in the group were dumbfounded. They had known this man for years and never imagined or guessed that he wasn't able to read or write. Shirley continued to cry and her friends crowded around her, offering her their concern and their support, openly, freely, as I imagined they had done for each other many times before.

I had a sudden urge to slip out the side door; I was an outsider. I took a deep breath and decided that no, this situation was too incredible to walk away from.

I asked everyone to sit down again. As the ladies gathered themselves together, I noticed an odd noise and realized that the water was dripping from the ceiling into old pots strategically placed at the corners of the basement where the ceiling leaked. It had started to rain. I wondered (especially being in a church) if it was God's way of providing some much needed comic relief!

We started to talk of illiteracy and how and why it happens. Shirley spoke of her husband's dismal few years at school: living far from the school, having to help on the farm, and never being able to catch up. Many of the ladies remembered now, that indeed, he hadn't gone much past grade five. I described some of the students in my program and how unique, special, capable, and creative they each are. When discussion opened up again, the women decided together, that if a person feels handicapped or limited because their education (be it grade five or grade twelve) isn't serving them adequately, then perhaps they could be considered "functionally illiterate." My previous definition, they decided, was too general and unfair, I sat back, exhausted, and agreed.

It was 10:00 p.m. The rain had stopped and as I drove home, I watched the harvest moon slink through the clouds, and the grain elevators loom up in front of me one and two at a time, and I cried. I cried most of the way home. I realized I had learned more in one night than I had learned in a whole year as a Program Coordinator.

I thought about how universal the problem of illiteracy is, but also how personal it is. I thought how next time I'm asked to speak, I'll be a lot more careful with my definitions, prepared speeches and pat answers. I started to feel better as I neared home, safer and again secure. Just as I turned into my driveway and felt the warmth of the porch light greet me, I remembered the eighty-year-old woman saying, "I was born here, I went to school here, and raised my family here. I've lived a good life." It seemed so simple and uncomplicated and I really believed that she was happy.

Before I went inside, I leaned against the porch door, and wondered out loud "Yes, but if you'd had the opportunity to further your education, would you have done things differently? Would you have traveled? Would your life have been the same? Could it have been happier? I felt a sadness at knowing I'd never know the answers to those questions, and neither would she.

I pushed open the door, took a last look at the moon, and quietly turned off the light.

Deborah Martin has been the coordinator of the Camrose Adult Read and Write Program since its inception two years ago. Camrose is a community of about 13,000 people 100 km south-east of Edmonton. There are 48 students in the program and as many volunteer tutors. Martin is also Chairperson of the Literacy Coordinators of Alberta (LCA), an organization that provides support, networking and professional development 50 literacy coordinators throughout the province, all but 3 of whom are women.