This work was inspired when I was asked one day, "What makes you tick?" My imagination took me home, a farm in rural Northern Alberta to a time when as a young girl I experienced my father standing in his wheat field. You see, he experienced his father standing in that same wheat field. His father, immigrated from Ukraine 100 years ago. Through my memory, symbolically, that image represented life as they knew abundance, joy, peace and love. That image shouted out "All is good!" That image shouted "We are Home!" That's what makes me tick. My grandfather's, my father's and my life's journey have taken each of us from farm roots to our own personal legacies - fulfilling a purpose that gives and receives joy, peace and love. I dedicate this work to my father, Paul Pysyk, 1928-1996. I honor all Immigrants who helped shape this incredible province. Thank you.
He Grows Good Grain
Even the crisp air couldn't keep him from the field
September's first call of fowl V patterning south was nothing to him at all except nature's voice, her call to step a few feet in to the golden waves of crop spreading to the horizon, an ocean waving to the sky, the birds goodbye.
His chapped, weathered lips mumbling a silent prayer. His hands, wide and strong darkened by hours of sun and wind and work.
He embraces their heads as if delicate blossoms then he rubs a few to loosen the prize.
His breath, I see it from here works at separating chaff from seed. He smells his fist, a scent almost sweet. He tastes a morsel sent from the Gods. He pockets the rest to share with Mother. Together they decide when to thrash. I tremble as he turns to retrace the worn path from swaying field to house, our home.
Is this the year? Oh how I wish for the velvet dress. I know he wants to give Mother a coat, a trip away.
He's smiling I see his wide-open heart, he knows he grows good grain.
This is just in my memory, I confess I tell my husband, as it drizzles beyond a day like today, September again, my memory of 20 years gone. I take him to the edge, the field remains.
Now I show how to rub the grain, I blow the chaff as I remember well and smell and taste as if I could tell what my father knew.
I share a speck and wait holding my breath as my husband inhales and nearly chokes to death. He coughs and coughs, a sort of hack hack as chaff sticks like honey to the back of his throat.
Aghh, aghh, he turns from me. You think this funny, he gasps at me. I feel his pain. This is not my father's field. This is not his work. He grows good grain.
