It seems every time the forecast calls for moisture, we are thwarted. The rain keeps moving elusively out of reach and our fields and pastures have become thirsty, desolate wastelands. That might be a touch melodramatic, but it鈥檚 close to the truth. However, the prairies are always beautiful and always have a story to tell.
Yesterday, my step-daughter Shelley popped over for a walk and we trudged out across the farm with a spring in our steps and a crunch of dry grass beneath our shoes. Chili, our dog, loped ahead, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth as she cooled herself between gopher hole inspections.
We passed a few cattle. They are the last to calve, and so are kept close to home. Two tiny newborns eyed us warily from their nest in the scattered pile of a greenfeed bale.
Onward we went. Daughter Aliyah paused to peer into the high nest of a wood duck. Slowly, she leveled her phone (Aliyah not the duck) into the cavity of the old hollow tree, and snapped a picture. In this way we all had a chance to see the small, brown bird sitting quietly on her eggs within.
A hawk wheeled overhead, his piercing cry causing us to shield our eyes against the sun as we gazed up to follow him through the clear blue sky. We began to climb up onto the highest hills that flank Dead Horse Creek below, on our right. These hills have never been broken by a plow. They are the same now as they have been since the beginning of time, and will remain so, as long as they be in our care. They are purple with crocuses in spring, and alive with the pale green tangle of prairie wool grass in summer. As we crossed them I told my companions a story my dad had shared with me.
鈥淚n about 1902, three years before my grandfather would settle this piece of land we Rows now call home, a young man built a small shack further west of where we stand today. One night, as the moon rode high in the sky and summer breezes blew warm, the man heard loud thumping noises such as he had never heard before. First he thought it was only ruffled grouse beating their wings in the poplars near his home, but, the sound was slower and more rhythmic than that.
鈥淗e stepped outside his door, following the sounds with his eyes, and beheld not far away, on the crest of the highest hill, the flames of a huge fire leaping heavenward. Shadows created by the forms of many people were cast in sharp relief against the tall peaks of teepees arranged about the flames.
鈥淭he sounds were created by the drums of the First Nations people, and the man listened to the haunting music they made. For a long while he watched them, feeling awed at such a wonderful sight, and then he stole back into his little house and left the first people of this land beneath the canopy of twinkling stars, singing and dancing to songs they had sung for hundreds of years.鈥�
As we stood on the very same spot almost 120 years later, we slipped back in time to envision that evocative scene, and sighed. I鈥檓 grateful to know this small piece of Canadian history and have the story to tell.
To order books or reach Helen go to myprairiewool.com or PO Box 55 Marshall, Sask. S0M1R0
