It has been 22 years since I saw him sitting against my wall, in my unfurnsihed apartment.
We were good friends, but the then of my life, was not so friendly. Heck, the when of my life wasn’t so friendly either.
If you know him, tell him the one who gave him the scar and fell out of his car says hello. Tell him to”‘look at me, Jimmy C’ and tell him to drop a line here at garyrambles.
Sometimes the old saying of you can never go home is true , but we still fight our way, trying.
- Robbers stab Saskatoon man (cbc.ca)
- Sadies singer slips in Saskatoon (cbc.ca)
- Home Sweet Home ! – Saskatoon, Canada (travelpod.com)
- Woman stabbed, sawed-off shotgun pulled in pair of incidents Saskatoon police believe are connected (calgaryherald.com)
I was watching Nhabhutu play by herself this morning. With no concept of time, in her world, and in my other childrens’ world, Saturdays are endless. I envy that. I remember as a child that days spread themselves across endless summer fields, trips to Beaver Creek or Cranberry Flats in Saskatchewan. As we age, time sneaks up a little closer and then one day you ask where it went.
I refuse to let time get the better of me. Every day in every way, must count, must be remembered. Here in the West, we take so much for granted, but in little Nhabhutu’s world, she came from nothing, so she expects nothing. Her days go on as they have, with ore turbulence than most people need to have, but she hides it away. She is six and remains unfettered by any type of cares.
Now, I am not saying it is alright for her not to be really healed from her experiences, but I do admire the way she can wake up and be six. She can wake up and face the day, not hide from it and play. She tells me a story of a villager that ran from rats that came into his hut. She says he ran from them but did not stop to chase them away. I think in her own way she is telling me that she is fighting those rats on her own and refuses to run away. I admire that. The world is full of too many people that bemoan and blame their situations on others. She is standing to fight. (Keep her in prayer!)
Her story’s of the village are riotous. I find a lot of them hard to believe and find it hard to believe that anyone could survive that environment for long. She tells of a fat man named George who passes gas in front of the town’s donkey. She pantomimes his actions and I can’t stop laughing. George, she says, does this because he says it keeps the flies away from his corn meal.
Saturdays should be endless. Life is meant to be enjoyed, to be shared. Anything else makes it pointless and a waste. Wake up and share it today with someone.
Memories that I do not want to die, to forget. Memories of Watrous on Main Street. Walking past the IGA, my uncle Brian finding me, telling me my dad was in the hospital. I was five and left alone. The night was not scary. Seeing dad in a hospital bed with a cast was worse. Being told after in a car outside of Dr.Heseltine’s clinic that I was moving to Saskatoon was even worse than that.
We lived in a basement suite, it was my world of make believe with a closet/pantry so long and dark, only the scariest of monsters lived there.
The Stampeders on the radio, singing about a sweet sweet city woman, but the woman I knew was right here, in Watrous, my Grandmother. My aunt. My world exploded, it shattered. The farm, my home, my aunts, my uncles. All would be lost. Even though Saskatoon was 72 miles away, little did I know that it would become true. I would lose almost everything in the later years with a price tag that was far too high
I don’t expect to tell you dear reader all what transpired in those lifetimes I lived. My confidants have learned. They are secrets for them, and for my God. They were my lifesavers. Each and everyone of them wove a chain that helped me be pulled to safety. They know who they are. Some remain nameless and some will be named from time to time, but none will be forgotten. I can’t allow it.
This was Saskatchewan. The robins that nested in grandad’s evergreen year after year. Grandad would lift me up each spring to see the eggs, then the babies. Even in my teen years, I would tip toe up to the tree and see them there in that same nest, year after year. Golden. Sun setting on the Prairie landscape. The inescapable sense of belonging, of oneness with the Earth.
Scarier dreams there have been, but almost none as so pleasant.
Forty years later, nestled in the mountains, I think back on the halcyon days. I remember the faces of my fathers and am proud. I am proud of the land that bore us and the spirit that drove us. The Prairie spirit drives us still further, into new worlds and lands. The Prairies siren call, but for now, I am home. I remember and smile as the sun sets in the west, towards the ocean, towards lands of bigger dreams.