A luggage shop upon retirement? What prompted that after years of ranching asked Beatrice.
Twas a summer evening on Sonsie Farm, high on a hillside to rest we sat. It evolved said I, with the passing of my stepmother, Mrs Gibberflat….Her final request fell to me , to toss her ashes to the breeze,where she was born, out in B.C., from grassy cliffs above the sea. It was mid winter, no snow, lawns green. We drove about with her urn on my lap, delighted in the Island, Garnet and I had never been.
In joy and curiosity we walked in the park,where Godfrey long ago sat at his table neath the shade tree. We visited with Ginger Alphonse and her Lonewolf, saw her toilets had a fine chat over coffee. We almost forgot Mrs Gibberflat..she never threw anything out Garnet mused, she so feared being alone. So we sprinkled a bit of her in the outgoing foam, and the rest of her stayed in the urn, above the mantle in what was to be our new home.
Pulled from the landscape of our beloved prairie, we left our land in perpetuity to trust.For the Swift Fox the Coyote, the Burrowing Owl evermore,we have a two room flat above a busy street and our dusty old luggage store. And Godfrey wrote often of his adventures, back roads, ice-cream, his dislike of beets, beached whales. We made new city friends and enjoyed sporadic luggage sales.
Pulled from the prairie landscape my turquoise chair, rode high on the trailer with the few things we could not leave behind. I missed the soft breathe of horses. Missed the silence of mid-winter. Missed the cooling thunder storms every summer afternoon.I had to reassure Godfrey, he would not be arrested or labeled a nuisance if he ever came to visit back here. He said in reply thank you, Worzel my dear, do treat Ginger to a Bengal Spice Tea, and expect me soon some year. So I put his old suitcase,his red and black plaid suitcase, the one that saved him from the Quicksand, on display in the window of Godfrey”s Luggage, on a tier for all who passed to see. We were pulled from the landscape of the prairie…