Last night I dreamt I was travelling by horse and buggy from Winnipeg to the Klassen homestead in southern Manitoba even though the Red River was flooding the valley plain. I was able to keep to the road even under water, thanks to Dancer, my sure footed brown quarter-horse mare with a black mane and tail.
I was bringing Lynn to meet some of my relatives. I had some misgivings about our reception (which I kept to myself), since my relatives were conservative Mennonites, and this was my third marriage. I was counting on Lynn to charm them with her Australian accent.
We arrived in time for Sunday vaspa as planned. The relatives greeted us suspiciously as I had not written to tell them we were coming, and my wife was not the one they knew from the wedding they had attended two decades earlier.
I showed Lynn where my grandparents were buried, though the headstones were hard to find, the plot uncared for. My father joined us, happy we had come to visit my mother’s relatives. He helped them with paperwork and organized the burials for their suicides.
It was a long way back, and I wanted to be sure to in Winnipeg by dark. My father was disappointed we were leaving so early, concerned our departure, so soon after we had eaten, would be considered rude.
Gerhard helped me harness Dancer. She had been grazing in the paddock. He and I set off, arguing about which roads to take to avoid the flood as much as possible. The route I chose put us in the middle of a flooded farmhouse, horse and buggy and all. I slapped the reins on Dancer’s flanks as she dragged the buggy over a hope chest and out the barn door. The sun was shining, the road dry.
V