PRAIRIE SOUNDS OF OLD

Our present day symphony of sound has us almost in overload with news and traffic that make it hard to sort everything out. The daily grind of commerce with 18 wheelers keeping the highways busy as bikers blend with vacationers. Cell phones in public provide only half the message and texting gives just ring tones. How about turning back in time to the sounds of the prairies, let's make it 80 years ago and I am six years old.

It's a Sunday in July and birdsong fills the air. A family, the parents and six children have just left for a one mile walk to church that meets in the one room prairie school, 10 miles south of Orion, Alberta. The United Church of Canada has provided a student minister for his summer practicum. The meadowlarks and blackbirds are providing travel music. The children have bare feet and enjoy making dusty grooves and tracks on the road. Why bother with the horses, it's their day off. The bridge over the Ketchum Creek has been repaired after nearly washing out in the spring runoff. We all head for a desk with a bench that can seat up to three children. Mrs. Freed begins playing the Doxology on the old organ. Her brother Frank Weeks has a great bass voice and we all sing hymns heartily. Some of the lyrics reflected very happy hearts, for no hailstorms had wiped out our crops that year. Recalling those words "When chariots of wrath their deep thunderclouds form, Dark is its path on the wings of the storm." Children are then sent to their classes. My sister Helen and I go to ours which is held near the entrance behind the pot bellied stove. Ida Weeks (Frank's wife) is our teacher. It would be great to have a tape of her words but it really isn't necessary because she has written it all out upon the face of time that still resonates in the hearts and minds of all who heard and watched her life, and all she said and did. I'll dedicate this little poem to her.

A quiet teacher - always there, Her actions showed the way,
Stitching on the face of time, The Golden Rule each day.
In memory she travels on, Through cyber space and time,
Her tapestry of caring love, That shines with love's design.

And always she could find more threads, To touch each needy heart,
Embossed upon her tapestry, These jewels were her art.
Framed in gold, each action shone, Words not needed then,
Kind actions on the face of time, Her insight daily kenned.
Shining on through space and time, This legacy of love,
Plays a part in many hearts, As symbols of Peace Dove.