In the Scrapbooks of Memory
Food. Home-cooked and prepared with love. Always a part of the scene when the Strongeagle women get together. Raven loves the smoked turkey that her sister prepares. It reminds her of the dry meat Kohkum used to make.
“I stopped using a barbeque ages ago,” Wren explains while spooning some saskatoon berry pie onto a clay plate.
“Why don’t you barbeque anymore? Seems odd. It’s the closest thing to cooking over a fire, like our food when we were girls.”
“Honestly, I am scared of propane. I had a dream one night about an explosion. Haven’t used one since.” Wren retrieves a bowl of sweetened cream from the fridge. The twins have always enjoyed their saskatoon berries this way, regardless of whether they were baked, served from frozen, or served fresh.
“You and your dreams,” Raven giggles, taking the cloth napkin from her lap and attaching it like a bib, getting ready for dessert. “So, what’s the difference with a smoker? It runs on propane, too, doesn’t it?”
“Some do,” Wren says, “but ours is electric. Just makes me feel so much safer. Besides, it’s so easy. Turn it on, put in the meat and leave it. A few hours later, dinner is served.” She places the bowl of whipped cream in front of her sister who immediately scoops on several large spoonfuls, her pie starting to look like a baked Alaska.
“So, what’s up now, my lovely sis?” asks Raven.
“We put on our runners and hike up to the top of the hill so we can watch the sunset,” Wren replies. “I’ve done it hundreds of times since you moved, but it’s never the same without hearing your bad jokes.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll bring my Nikon.”
“Last one is a rotten egg,” Wren says, as the sisters lace up their runners and head out the door toward the prairie.
As they walk, Raven notices new invasive species of weeds lining the familiar pathway that snakes its way up the bluff to the top of a hill. She recognizes the common tansy, a brilliant yellow flower that looks pretty, but even cows avoid eating it, instinctually knowing it causes abortions during calving season. She notices an abundance of yellow star thistle, which is toxic to horses if eaten, and thick stands of purple loosestrife, which can overtake a natural habitat, choking out food and nesting areas for birds. Kind of like people do, Raven thinks. After sitting through talks with her clients this past week, Raven can’t help but think that the most dangerous of any invasive species is likely people. She’s still not relaxed from weeks of hearing tragic stories, but this visit is the exact medicine she needs.
“You know, Wren?” Raven begins. “The only thing that would make this moment even better would be if Kohkum was still with us. Bless her soul.”
The sisters talk about their grandmother’s guidance and how it has led them to where they are in life.
“She’d be proud for sure,” Wren agrees, and then laughs out loud at a childhood memory. “Remember when we were little, and Kohkum first taught us how to use the stove?”
“I remember like it was yesterday,” says Raven. “And even though we burned our first bannock, Kohkum ate it anyway, slathering it with jam and saying that the more we practise, the better we’ll become as bannock bakers.”
Giggling ensues as the girls remember wanting to be tv stars hosting their own cooking show with a focus on preparing picnic food from the tailgate of a truck. They would dress up in aprons and straw hats and pretend to talk into a camera, all the while preparing peanut butter and jam sandwiches with a side of homemade dill pickles. Their kohkum took a photo of them doing this one time. Wren makes a mental note to go through a box of old photos in her studio to see if she can find that picture.
The women reach their destination atop the hill, with a clear view of the lake and the land, just in time for sunset. During summer, the sunset is poetic, and the slow changing of light brings calm to both women. Raven announces there may be other changes coming in her life as well.
“I’m thinking that I might relocate back to Saskatchewan,” she says.
“Oh my god, that is such great news!” Wren squeals with delight.
Wren has missed Raven’s company and the quiet moments they’ve always shared, like watching the sunset together. Raven goes on to explain that the firm where she works has been talking about expansion. Setting up a new office in Regina is part of the plan.
“When will you know?” Wren asks, excited at the idea of having her sister close by again.
“Everything is just in the planning stages right now,” Raven says, “and while I do like Calgary, honestly, it’s just too big. Everything moves too fast. There’s no room to just sit and feel at peace like we are doing now. Like we have always done together, right here on this spot.”
Wren holds her sister, stroking her arm and marvelling at the skyline that has turned from pink to purple to a breathtaking indigo.
“We need to capture this moment,” Raven instructs. She sets her Nikon to the self-timer mode and adjusts the camera on a rock. Moments later, an image is collected in time. Two beautiful women, smiling and happy, the way they always are when they’re together.
The Still of the Night
Wren is happy and content, especially tonight, knowing that Raven is sleeping just down the hallway. She feels further blessed waking up in the middle of the night and seeing Lord beside her. He is snoring again, as he always does after eating too big a meal. That smoked turkey brought back so many cherished memories, but through these thoughts of joy, Wren feels abject discomfort and pain in her abdomen. She figures it’s because she ate too much earlier. There isn’t even enough turkey leftover for sandwiches. Every bite of the smoked, oversized breast was gobbled up.
She feels a sharp pain in the lower area of her body and figures she might have gas. She gets up from where she’s been sleeping and puts on the striped, black and white silk robe Lord brought back for her the last time he was on a business trip. As she ties a knot in the sash, she asks herself, Why did I eat two whole jalapeño peppers the same way anyone might eat an apple? What’s up with that?
Wren had always made jokes about women who experience odd pregnancy cravings and earlier tonight, she was one of them. After dinner and two pieces of saskatoon berry pie, she had a craving for spice that wouldn’t go away. Jalapeños were the only things she could find in the fridge so she ate them, even if it was midnight. As she heads to the bathroom, she thinks about the disturbing dream that shook her from sleep. She’s had the dream many times recently. Now awake, she sees the vision again and it bothers her. It is macabre. She cradles her tummy one more time.
Wren is walking through the meadow along the coulee outside her home. There’s a pathway that follows the shallow creek and leads toward the shore. That meadow is quiet and fragrant, filled with wild baby’s breath, wolf willow and the deep purple of delicate asters. Purple, she thinks, is a colour that represents the calming stability of blue, along with the fierce energy of red. Wren’s kohkum used to tell her that purple is a colour that combines mystery and magic. But something is off. Wren spots a weathered scarecrow that looks to have horse hair covering its head in place of a cap. The hair flies in the wind. There’s no reasonable explanation why a scarecrow would be placed there—there’s no vegetable garden nearby, only a playground for squirrels and whatever other wildlife happens to wander along. As Wren moves closer, she notices the scarecrow is clad in a dress made of red and white gingham, like the tablecloth she and Lord often use for picnics.
She feels another discomfort. Chills and a cold sweat. She figures there’s no point in