Notes from a messy desk…
One summer, desiring to see more of Canada than a T.V. screen offered, I flew to Toronto accompanied by my young nephew. There were adventures to be had, hospitable friends to visit, fascinating sights to see: the CN tower, Lake Ontario, Yonge Street, Eaton Centre, and… drum roll… the Bata Shoe Museum! Which, despite a lukewarm nephew review, this fan of footwear and history enthusiastically recommends.
And more: markets displaying wares from around the globe; high rise hotel rooms with television channels til heck wouldn’t have ‘em; quaint bed-and-breakfast digs providing Belgian waffles and French press coffee for the individual (okay, me) who rarely bothers with breakfast at home, but turns into Suzy Ravenous on travel mornings.
With subway trains to catch, harbour boats to ride, music and dancing in Dundas Square, and eateries to investigate, we mingled among crowds of people clad in a world of colourful fashions, through which my nephew navigated his way like Moses parting the Red Sea, a skill I credit to his training in the hallways of P.A.’s Carlton High School.
Above all of this, providing background, were the skyscrapers. Everywhere.
When you’re a prairie gopher transported to bustling Bloor Street, your head reflexively scans for the sun like a human satellite dish seeking a signal. “There’s a piece of sky—look!” I exclaim with arm outstretched, as though I’ve discovered a planet beyond Pluto, and stop mid-sidewalk to snap a photo for perspective as passers-by do a brisk sidestep with great disinterest.
In strange surroundings where you can’t find the sky, something just feels “off”. That feeling isn’t limited to metropolises (metropoleis?) I recall chatting once with a farmer from southern Saskatchewan after his first trip to Waskesiu. I’ll call him James, mainly because I’ve forgotten his actual name.
If you’ve ever driven into P.A. National Park via Scenic Route 263, especially before it was widened, you can appreciate the forest scenery lining both sides. Well, James didn’t appreciate it one bit. Accustomed to flat prairie on all horizons, the northern drive made him feel claustrophobic, hemmed in by seemingly endless boreal woods. With more bush straight ahead every time he rounded a bend, he couldn’t wait to get through “that tunnel of trees” and out the other side. James was on foreign turf, no different than me in Toronto. Each of us felt the absence of our familiar span of sky.
Still, when immersed in novel vacation experiences, you adapt quickly enough. It wasn’t until the plane ride home from Ontario, when we were literally in the actual sky, that I realized I’d forgotten to miss its blueness for a few days. We landed in Saskatoon, settled into the car for the highway drive home, and that’s when it hit me: Saskatchewan is like a giant park.
Think of it. A huge rectangular chunk of nature, dotted with farms and settlements, connected by ribbons of road, anchored by earth, water and vegetation, alive with all manner of wildlife. Including humans, the wildest of all. (But that’s another story. More likely a whole book.)
I hope to make it back to Toronto one day. It’s a great place to visit. Right now, though, I’m thrilled to spend summer under our ever changing, sunshine scorched, periodically cloudy, occasionally rainfall-and-hail-dispensing, potentially tornado spawning, star filled sky above. And with luck, catch a live performance of northern lights dancing. All on the biggest, widest panoramic screen imaginable, twenty-four seven, for no monthly fee.
Grab your lawn chair. I’ll bring the popcorn.
Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops.
