We fly by night, a full round orange moon lighting the cotton batting layer of gray cloud below. The plane is quiet, with most passengers asleep. I close my eyes, and when I open them, a blot of brilliant light bathes the dark head of a sleeping passenger in the row ahead. As the sun clears the horizon, other splotches of light evade closed blinds to dance through the cabin.
This bright flash is a shaft of sunlight on the upturned wingtip. The plane banks, jet engines shimmering below the shaded wing.
Full daylight now. The green sunlit morning illuminates slender trees that cast long shadows over lush meadows. Unlike the foursquare prairie spreads, fields along the St. Lawrence are long and thin.
This shape reflects their history. Not so very long ago, this river provided access to the outside world, with each long narrow farm fronting the river and stretching far to the back. So much land is cultivated now, but this was not always so. With backbreaking labour, the early settlers transformed forested wilderness into farms only a handful of generations ago.
History also casts long shadows. The way we are is so much a reflection of how we used to be. Consciously or unconsciously, we can all say with the Quebecois, Je me souviens.
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