A Home on the Range

The man patted the child on the head. Next to them the campfire burned softly, and small bits of ash danced about amongst the flames. Save for the occasional sound of the crackling wood, the tumbleweeds blown across the fields and the gentle whispers of the zephyr, the two lay on the ground, staring up at a sky adorned with bright, diamond sand.

“What do you think of it, sonnie? Bet the stars ain’t ever been so bright back on the range, has it?”

“It sure is, Dad! The view is so beautiful out here.”

And amongst the few tufts of grass and the tumbleweeds, the father talked about a multitude of things. And there, the son learnt about the world – the stars, the land, and its people. He listened on in marvel and awe; marvel at a universe wider than he ever imagined and awe at a father who knew so much about the world.

“Dad, when I grow up, I wanna be like you. Get on a horse and ride across the West. Ya think I’m up for it, Dad?”

“Sure, son, but you havta take care of Mom, you know that?”

“That’s no fair! You can take care of Mom by yourself, why do I need to do it?” the father chuckled lightly amidst the child’s words. “I wanna know what it feels like, Dad! To be free! To roam the land! Why do you get to do it by yourself?”

The father laughed again. “Well, sonnie, when you grow up, I’m sure you’ll get why.”

Close to twilight, the two made their way back to their home, the one single house in sight with the lights still on. The son ran enthusiastically towards the door and opened it, jovially running towards his mother and hugging her, then making his way up to his room.

“Sorry to keep you up so late, hon.”

“It’s all right, darling.” And she kissed him lightly on the lips before passing him his share of dinner, already cold from the hours of not being eaten immediately.

The father took one spoonful of stew and stuffed it in his mouth. Though it was already cold, the rich taste of golden potatoes and the flavour of lovely, homemade stew warmed his heart, and that was sufficient. It was perfect as it was, just the way it should have been. His wife came over and faithfully took the plates back into the kitchen to clean, then he stepped out of the house and stared out towards the range. The range was completely silent, save for the rustling of grass and the breeze that came. The stars in the sky glimmered as brightly as ever; the crescent moon hung high in the sky amongst the specks of diamond sand. Everywhere the eye could see was still, as if resting for the night. In his heart he knew that the scenery was just as beautiful, if not more.

When he headed back into the house and went upstairs, he heard a faint sound of a child rolling over in his sleep, not of one sleeping peacefully but of one trying hard to sleep but unable to, and he went into the son’s room.

“Dad, can you sing a lullaby for me?”

And he sang a song until the child fell asleep. A song about the bright heavens, the playful antelopes, the pure air and the wildflowers, yet most importantly it was a song about a home.

When dawn came, the father stepped out of the house again. And out on the range he saw the antelopes and deers graze, the wildflowers and the mountains in the distance, the eternal blue sky widespread across like a huge canvas; he breathed in the pure air and smelled the faint aroma of breakfast from the kitchen; he heard the grass rustling and the buffalo’s calls; and he felt the feel of the wind against his skin, a soft touch.

Wherever he went, the father thought, it didn’t matter in the least bit. Wherever he went there would be something that was more important than anything else. Wherever he went, whether it was the town to the west or the plains far north, he would return to the same place. This place on the range right over here.

He sang the song again. It was a song about the bright heavens, the playful antelopes, the pure air and the wildflowers.

But more important than that all, it was a song about a home. A home where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day.