A Postcard Story

As she ran her fingers over the worn and weathered logs, she knew she had found the homestead — her grandmother’s birthplace. Sarah could feel the presence of her ancestors here. The roof log of the tool shed had collapsed, but the four walls stood proud among the trees and long grass. She admired the dovetail construction — such perfection, such strength.

To the west of the tool shed were remnants of the ice house. She imagined her grandmother running barefoot through the grass, sent to retrieve milk or butter from the cool building on a hot summer’s day.

Sarah wandered through the overgrown yard site. Large leaves and a tinge of red in bright green grass beckoned her back towards the road. Rhubarb! Was the garden once here? The house couldn’t have been far away.

She continued her search and found the stone foundation where the house once stood. It had been gone for so long, a victim to fire. A gust of wind, a long curtain and a coal-oil lamp. Destruction was swift, the effect devastating and life on this piece of land never the same. Tears welled up as she imagined the horror of that day.

For now, she needed to get to the task at hand. She had promised to take pictures. She had promised to bring back a stone from the foundation. She had promised she wouldn’t cry. But tears overtook her. She sat down, head in her hands and wept.

I’ve been going through old stories trying to re-ignite my creative writing. This one was inspired by a visit to my great-grandparent’s homestead near Willowbrook, Saskatchewan in August 2010.