Leaves are turning yellows and reds. There's mist on Mission Lake. The sun has a huge cloud holding it up. I leave my ceramic coffee mug dangling on a low branch in the last trees before the valley floor opens. I'll pick it up on my way home, I think.
I see four canvas teepees across the treaty four grounds. I take the short cut across the hay field. I've been trying to think about those three words on page nine of Treaty Essential Learnings, but I forget them as soon as I read them,and I'm not sure how to pronounce them even when I have them in front of me. I want to know the words, hear them. They are treaty words. Words to build on. As I walk I try to at least remember what they mean: something about getting along, living on the land together, and making a living. I cross the bridge, pass the hospital, turn down seventh, cross the tracks, climb over the highway, and through the school grounds.
Arwen's been home, sick for two days. Her throat's soar. I need to get her to the doctor, but I forget to phone the clinic until noon. Shoot. I can't get her in until 4:40. If I'm going to get her to the clinic, I'll need to leave by 3:40 so that I can get home in time to clean up before driving Arwen back to the doctor.
It's hot, hot, hot on the way home. There's no wind. I don't take pictures. There are five teepees now. It's all uphill the last half home. Getting along, living together on this land, making a living.
Later in the evening I remember that my mug is still hanging in the trees.
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