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When I was in grade five, my class buried a time capsule in the “backyard” of the school grounds. I don’t know if it was ever dug up by anyone, but wouldn’t that be grand if it was?
It was one of those awful, bright, beautiful, bitterly cold days where every exhaled breath seemed to hang in the air on the verge of turning into a block of ice before it finally decided to dissipate and drift off into the frigid atmosphere.
It was early in the afternoon at the tail end of calving season when my dad mercifully showed up at school to pull me out of my grade 11 history class. I remember thinking what a gorgeous day it was. An unseasonably warm stretch had melted most of the snow, the grass was starting to green up and, though I wasn’t sure, I thought I may have caught a snatch of meadowlark song.
The time thief has struck again! We areknocking on the door of a quarter of a new century. I wish I could find culprit who keeps giving steroids to that chubby little baby New Year and keeps needling the old man New Year to hobble faster and faster.
In winter, I have often stood in the icicle air and gazed up at the starlit sky. The pinpricks of light shimmer and flicker in the velvet blackness, while their reflections, like millions of candles, dance across the frozen snow. The whole world sleeps under the warmth of an icy blanket. My soul is filled with indescribable peace as I marvel at the grandeur of it all.
The late-afternoon shadows of early fall cast by the sinking sun in the west were growing longer as I at last urged the final stragglers of the 50 or so cows out of the bottom of the draw.
In a sense, America is suffering from amnesia. We have forgotten our roots and what has made us great. We do not remember the origins of our holidays. We only remember the date and the weekend of entertainment they provide.
