It's the last day of July, a bright, perfect day for harvesting a crop. The flat, sometimes rolling land in southern Manitoba, chosen in 1880 by an underage, hopeful settler from Ontario, later home for almost the first six years of my life, refuses to be forgotten. Only now, seven decades later, is the focus real, the debt accepted, my heart acknowledging it to be immeasurable. Time lines are blurring, exact details no longer important, just the urgent longing to say across the years, "I would not change a day of the journey! God be with you, 'til we meet again!"

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