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| Sunny Side Up! Oct. 24, 2001 �2001, by Kathleen Gibson God still uses burning bushes We were eastbound on Highway 16, still a few miles west of Battleford when we noticed the smoke. Burning stubble, we thought. But it wasn�t stubble�it was a bushy hillside leading up to a small subdivision, and the highway wound straight past it. As we moved through the heated air at the base of the hill, I craned my neck to see what was under all that black cloud. �Pull over,� I told my friend. �I want to watch this for a minute.� Across the shoulder separating the highway from rolling farmland, behind a barbed wire fence, someone else watched. He was draped over a standing spade, his right hand atop its handle, which was firmly tucked under his left armpit. His body was spare and he leaned like a young man. I picked my way through the brittle grass toward him. He started talking before I got there. �Awful shame, isn�t it?� His gravelly voice surprised me. �Just got started. Somebody playin� with fire, not bein� responsible. That�s the trouble with the world today. Not many wanna be responsible for anything. I�m keepin� an eye out in case it jumps the road.� That explained the shovel. I moved to the nearest fencepost and leaned too. We watched the flames consume another clump of bush. He�d have to be pretty good with a shovel, I thought, but didn�t say. He bought his land in 1958 to raise cattle on. �The grass down by the river�s up to my knees, and there�s far more of it than you can see. Never used any pesticides, no spray at all. You should see the wildflowers down there. Should be a park! �.Had as many as seventy head running here once. People thought I was crazy.� He pushed back his wide cowboy hat, and his eyes behind large squarish spectacles were piercing and intelligent. ��Had to put my last horse down a few years back. Flash was thirty-two. Promised him I�d keep him till the end, an� I did. Hated to see him go though. Best horse I ever had.� He cleared his throat, adjusted his hat again. �Poachers love it here. They take those big deer, with the huge racks�they get thousands of bucks for those racks down south. Some just leave the bodies right where they shoot �em. Awful shame that too. I�m pretty hard on �em�people say too hard, but someone�s gotta be responsible.� Twenty minutes later the fire was under control, and my companion�s tight grip on his shovel had relaxed. He stuck out his hand. �Dick Roberts,� he said, his leathered face splitting into a grin. �Thanks for stopping to talk.� No, I thought, making my way back to the car. Thank you, Dick Roberts. For standing guard. For the love you have, and the care you take of God�s earth. You reminded me that as a Christian, care of nature is my responsibility too. But for the burning bushes, I�d have missed you altogether! You can respond to this column at kgibson@ sk.sympatico.ca |
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