At age 8, I awaken and wiggle my head free from quilts and blankets. As the covers settle, I feel a blast of frosty air across my face. I grab my clothes from the foot of the bed, hauling them beneath the covers. This causes more eddies of air to whirl over me, sending a chill right down to my feet. I try to lie still, but the chill air has brought on spasms of shivering. I’ll wait until the trembling stops and my clothes warm up before getting dressed.
I peek from my nest, exposing only my eyes to the room. An oil lamp stands on the washstand. Its yellow light pushes back the early-morning darkness. My brother must have got up and lit it. I dangle my arm over the side of the bed, locate the chamber pot and pull it out. I’ll need it when I get up. I mutter to myself, “Town kids have toilets inside. And warm rooms. And they don’t get up early. Why do I live on a farm in the middle of nowhere where nothing ever happens?”
Then I look at the window and suck in my breath. My heart skips a beat and then speeds up. The glow of the oil lamp has washed over the window revealing the overnight work of Jack Frost. Thick icy strokes of his brush have painted a marvellous scene on the window. I can see a pond, trees and mountains. Is that a house beside the pond? Do I see a horse leaping over the mountain like one of Santa’s reindeer? The longer I look the more I see. “Ray, get down here,” Mother’s voice breaks that marvellous moment.
I move quickly. Clothes on. Use the chamber pot. Can’t wash; water frozen in basin. Down stairs. Smell breakfast cooking.
I eat my oatmeal and dress for outdoors. My brother stands at the front window watching for the horse-drawn school van.
He’ll see only the wink of a flashlight as it comes down the coulee hill a half mile away. Then we’ll walk the quarter mile to the farm gate. “Lot’s of coyote action last night,” Mother says. “They came right into the yard. Carry the lantern.”
My brother sees the van’s signal and out we go. He hands me the lantern, picks up a broken fence post and takes a practice swing. I hear the howl of a coyote and walk in the near blackness close to big brother. We cross coyote tracks three times before reaching the waiting van.
Twelve hours later, we return home in the dark. Good day: the van didn’t roll over in a snow bank; neither did the horses run away. Mother has a great meal ready and soon I crawl into bed.
It seems only minutes later when Mom shakes me awake, asking me to dress quickly because we need to go outside. Within minutes I stand staring at the northern sky. Lights in various colours flicker and glow from the horizon to a point far above my head. In the silence of the prairie night, I hear a faint musical sound. I’m sure I can hear the northern lights singing to me.
Like I said, how come I live on a remote prairie farm where nothing happens?