Our evening walks, perfumed with OFF-- were punctuated by the cries of Nighthawks, and the "sonic boom"  that accompanied their sudden descent. We watched them lovingly. After all, their sub-title of Mosquito Hawks was well earned.

Immediately after my arrival, Frank proudly showed me the small patch of lawn he had created out of construction dirt chaos. Others, latecomers, had just gotten theirs planted and were anxiously watching for green shoots, when a flock of Lapland Longspurs, no doubt taken aback by the interruption to their flight path, arrived en route to nesting places in the Tundra. They were delighted to see the new meals provided, and systematically dug up every seed. Everyone tried to distract them with other food sources --but to no avail. All new lawns were cleaned out before their departure.

Frustrated homeowners replanted late in August, just in time to catch the birds' journey back south. An augmented flock, word had got around in Longspur circles, greeted the new efforts with enthusiasm. Another clean sweep!

We decided our Pine Point houses, in their pastel colours, had been designed by a California architect. Front doors opened directly to the living room and froze up in winter. Picture windows froze, then thawed, releasing streams of water. Back doors did provide a small entry, but hardly enough for children to strip off parkas and mukluks without knocking each other into the basement. Nevertheless, we loved the winters. The short hours of daylight were always sunny.

On Labour Day the government decided that one teacher for eight grades was not enough, and I was hired. Soon this former High School teacher found herself in charge of sixteen charmers from grades one-three, half the school's population. Learning took place in a converted cookhouse, nearly a mile through the woods, at the original town site. The senior teacher was a wonderfully experienced person, and a delight to work with. What fun we had! No principal hovered; we followed our own rules. In good weather, everyone went home for lunch. In cold weather, the accepted uniform was a turtleneck, slacks and mukluks, for teachers and pupils alike.

Small, cranky oil heaters in each of the two rooms simply gave up below a certain temperature. (I remember, on many mornings, finding a "puddle of ice" around my stove.) The dark morning walk through woods inspired my eighth grade son to rise early to accompany his little sister and me in time for morning preparation. A noble sacrifice for a teenager!

In summer, wildflowers were spread thickly through the woods and huge wild strawberries were a gourmet treat. Summers meant endless sunsets, hovering around midnight; closely followed by equally lovely dawns. The birds kept singing - I wondered how they managed to escape nervous breakdowns, as they never seemed to sleep! I recall traveling home from holidays through the ever-changing hues of those endless sunsets.

Fall colours were never more joyous. Each leaf on every small deciduous tree turned a different shade. We picked bouquets of those, like flowers.

Then came winter; short but lovely days of low sun meant delicate blue-purple shadows on the glittering snow, at mid-day. We had wondered whether our Rossland-raised six year old would balk at thirty below temperatures, but we need not have worried. She and her friends played endlessly in the powdery snow and all-day twilight and came inside charmingly rosy.

The magic of the North!

It all rushed back to me in that Nighthawk's short, hoarse cry.

2007-08 Dodi Morrison