Something I love about traveling is meandering around in a new environment. Going home to the family farm in Saskatchewan is no different. No, it’s not new, but it’s new to my soul in a way that says, “C’mere kid-in-the-city … breathe this, relax a minute and for goodness sakes, touch home base already.”
Because I live in the Eastern Time zone, my bio-clock is hours ahead of the prairies which, by the way, don’t change their clocks for anyone. There’s no particular reason that I know of, just didn’t see the need to I suppose.
But, because of that, I found myself up hours earlier than Mom. Fine with me; I’d start the coffee and quietly slip outside into that sweet morning air.
What a gentle and lovely way to wake.
Mom’s flowers
I’d walk around and listen for the songs of the songbirds, embrace the wind and the sounds of my shoes crunching on the gravel below. And then I’d stop and hear not a thing more. Ahh.
Old & new and bright red, too!
I’d stop by the old barn and make a few new friends.
too scared… not coming closer
this one was braver than most.
2 – count ’em – 2 babies to feed
I’d meander on over to Dad’s workshop and stand for a moment, feeling like he could walk in humming a tune at any time now.
… right where he left things
I’d marvel at the original family homestead and wonder about how cold those Saskatchewan winters must have been in this house.
imagine wintering in this?
Later, after supper was done and I had Mom tucked into her favorite chair, sometimes, sometimes I’d slip out once more and find myself in the golden hour. (And yes, I thought of you, Dianna ),
.. we used to pretend-drive in this
and play “Cops & Indians” out here .. on horseback ..
and then, then I’d make my way back to the farmyard, winding East, and notice how a golden sun happened to bathe a golden horse.
.. heavenly
Quickly, the sky would change and a shiver would sneak up my arms. I’d take one last peek West and say “so long” to the sun.
one of God’s many paintings
And the next day, I’d get up and do it all over again.
“Then I discovered the prairie, and a slow healing began.” – Stephen R. Jones, The Last Prairie
