Running of the Buffalo by Ron Petrie:
On the kitchen wall is a large pattern of brown splatters. In the centre is our triplets' school calendar of helpful daily kindergarten reminders, which I saunter over to read every morning with my first sips of coffee. Some days are library days, in which case I rustle up the books Spencer, Stuart and Hayley must return to school; sometimes the higher grades have popcorn sales, for which I make sure every child has 25 cents, and sometimes --
-- sometimes the stain on the wall is enhanced by yet another 534-p.s.i. spray of coffee from my startled face. Sometimes, moments before the bus arrives, the calendar says the day's big kindergarten event is the monthly show-and-tell. Every child is to have an object beginning with the specific letter of the alphabet -- and there I am, with not one, but three students, and not foresight, but only three minutes left on the scavenger hunt clock.
My Zayde and Other Memories of Growing Up Jewish by Ricki Segal:
Every time my mother offered you something to eat, it was as if she was getting a commission from the sale. If it was apple cake, she’d say, “Have a piece of apple cake. It’s only fruit.” She’d also say, “Oh, you know you like it,” even if I had never seen the dish before.
The Inquiring Reporter by Clay Stacey:
I worked two more weeks in Killarney. I finished work at The Guide on Friday afternoon and quickly loaded an old suitcase with my meagre belongings for my trip west the following morning. It would not have been possible without a $100 loan from my nursing sister.
Before leaving, I was asked by editor Tom what I would ultimately like to accomplish in the newspaper business.
“I want to be a full-time reporter – and break an exclusive story that will be printed in newspapers all over the world,” I said, serious as all get-out.
“Good grief. You certainly have your sights set high. Good luck to you.”
Moving Forward: The Journey of Paralympian Colette Bourgonje by Mary Harelkin Bishop:
She had big plans and things she wanted to do with her life. Those plans didn't include an accident that left her paralyzed from the chest down. After all, she was an incredibly talented athlete. She was only 18 years old and she was on the threshold of her adult life.
Stunned and shocked, Colette couldn't quite get her head around the fact that she would never walk again, let alone never run. Within a short time, though, her tears and fears dried up on the outside and she quietly begain considering how she could move forward from the tragic event.
Egg Money: A Tribute to Saskatchewan Pioneer Women; Edited by Deana Driver:
In the late 1920s, Saskatchewan farm women sold eggs for about three cents a dozen to buy essentials or, in some cases, extras for their families. One Saskatchewan woman recalls as a child being sent into town by her mother to sell a dozen eggs for three cents and purchasing a one-cent stamp to mail a letter to family in Ontario. Anyone purchasing eggs from a store in those days paid about 36 cents a dozen.
At the unveiling of the Egg Money statue in Saskatoon on the afternoon of September 20, 2009, Ellen Remai commented on her own family’s heritage. “I feel extremely lucky to have been given the opportunity to sponsor this meaningful and loving tribute to the pioneer women who gave so much and asked for so little in return. When I first heard of the Egg Money sculpture, I thought, ‘What a great idea. What a wonderful way to honour and celebrate the pioneer women of Saskatchewan!’ I knew instantly that I wanted to be part of this project."
Seeds of Hope: A Prairie Story by Mary Harelkin Bishop:
Mama bent and kissed his cheek. “Prairie farmers, especially the Camerons, are survivors, Danny. That’s how we’re made; tough and strong and stubborn. It’ll take a lot to chase us away.” She turned out the light and closed the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
“Then why is Papa thinking of selling out?” Danny whispered after her in the darkness.
Lying flat on his back, Danny stared up at the ceiling. Faint light seeped into the window from the yardlight across the way. A gentle breeze blew through the branches of the cottonwood tree, rustling the leaves. Patterns of light danced across his ceiling. He felt as if he carried a huge burden of worry on his shoulders. He felt 100 years old, stooped and bent.