One hot July morning, in the late fifties, the boy wandered outside after savouring a breakfast of orange juice, milk, and toast drenched in syrup. The prairie sun had begun to warm the trees, and as the dew evaporated from the leaves, a bitter green fragrance filled the air. The boy closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and smiled.
It wasn’t long before his lengthening legs had taken him down the main street of the small town and right to the door of his friend’s house. The boy enjoyed this friend’s ideas and his home had great things to explore. In the basement there was a working miniature train set, a pool table, and a fridge for soda pop and snacks. In the backyard, they were allowed to throw darts or shoot arrows into stacked, rectangular bales of hay.
It was one of those mornings in the fifties, in small town Saskatchewan, when the snow was almost gone and the gumbo clay roads smelled of dampness. The air was crisp and cool, yet the early morning sun felt warm on the cheeks. The little boy left his house with a full stomach of cereal and orange juice and began the walk to his friend’s home. The sun occasionally bounced off a puddle of water right into the little boy’s eyes, making him squint and contort his smooth little face until he resembled the adventurer he perceived himself to be.