We sit in the sanctuary of the beautiful old St. Andrews church (originally built in 1912, rebuilt in the early 1960s after a devastating fire) where my parents were married 75 years ago. We’re here for a sold out spring performance by the Moose Jaw Community Choir. I imagine my parents standing at the front of the sanctuary saying their vows and can’t quite picture it. The grandeur doesn’t match the ordinary people I called Mom and Dad.
The performance is perfect. We love a choir. Afterward, I try to entice Gerry to join, but he’s having none of it. I’ve got this nagging throat thing so I don’t think it would work for me either. We’ll just continue to enjoy the choir’s offerings when we can. Not a bad thing at all.
The sun is low on the horizon when we leave—I love the long prairie evenings—so we detour on the way home. I step out of the car and do battle with mosquitoes to capture a few images with my phone. Gerry waits, safe and unbitten, in the car. I stand in the middle of the road shooting all around me, then put my phone down and just stand there soaking it all in. Refuelling. Being bitten. Worth every drop of blood lost for the opportunity.
It’s a perfect way to spend an evening.
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