Prairie Summer

Emma had expected to be bored. Instead, she found something she didn't know she was looking for. Her parents had decided she needed "a break from screens" and sent her to spend July with her uncle on his farm in rural Saskatchewan. Emma, fifteen and convinced she knew everything, had protested vigorously. What was there to do on a farm? Where was the WiFi? How would she survive? The first week was exactly as awful as she'd anticipated. She woke at sunrise to the sound of roosters (roosters!). The WiFi barely worked. Her phone had no signal. The nearest mall was three hours away. She helped with chores—feeding chickens, collecting eggs, weeding the garden—and counted down the days until freedom. But somewhere in the second week, something shifted. She began noticing things. The way the wheat fields moved in the wind like an ocean of gold. The incredible number of stars visible at night, so many they looked like someone had spilled glitter across black velvet. The taste of vegetables picked fresh from the garden—nothing like the waxy produce from grocery stores back home. Uncle Pete didn't talk much, but when he did, his words carried weight. One morning, as they sat on the porch watching the sunrise, he said, "City folks are always rushing to the next thing. Out here, you learn that everything has its own time. Can't make wheat grow faster. Can't make a calf be born before it's ready. You learn patience. You learn to notice." Emma had rolled her eyes. But later, kneeling in the garden, she found herself really looking at the tomato plant she was tending. The tiny hairs on the stem. The intricate veins in the leaves. The small green tomatoes slowly ripening. She'd eaten thousands of tomatoes but had never actually seen one growing. That afternoon, Uncle Pete took her to help move the cattle to a new pasture. As they rode across the prairie on horseback, Emma felt something opening inside her—a quietness, a connection to the land stretching endlessly in all directions. "My great-grandfather homesteaded this land," Uncle Pete said. "1907. Came from Scotland with nothing but hope and determination. This soil has fed four generations of our family." Emma tried to imagine it: the vast emptiness, the brutal winters, the backbreaking work. "Why did he stay? It must have been so hard." "Oh, it was hard," Uncle Pete agreed. "But there's something about working with the land. You put in the effort, you respect the seasons, and the earth provides. There's an honesty to it. A satisfaction you can't get from anything else." By the third week, Emma stopped counting days. She woke early naturally, eager to start the day. She learned to drive the tractor, to fix fences, to recognize different bird calls. She baked bread with Aunt Margaret, the yeast and flour transforming under her hands into something nourishing and real. One evening, a massive thunderstorm rolled across the prairie. Emma stood on the porch, watching lightning crack the sky, feeling the power of nature in her bones. No movie, no video game, no social media post had ever made her feel so alive, so small and large at the same time. "It's beautiful," she breathed. "And necessary," Uncle Pete added. "The wheat needs the rain. Everything is connected out here. You learn to appreciate even the storms." On her last day, Emma woke before sunrise and walked out into the wheat field. The grain was nearly ready for harvest, the stalks heavy with seeds that would become flour, bread, sustenance. She thought about all the hands that would eventually be fed by this field—people in cities, people who would never know or think about where their food came from. But she knew now. She had planted, watered, tended, and watched. She had participated in something ancient and essential. Uncle Pete found her there as the sun broke over the horizon, painting the prairie gold and pink. "Thank you," Emma said simply. He nodded, understanding she meant more than just the hospitality. On the drive back to the city, Emma's mother asked how her summer had been. "Educational," Emma said, smiling at the inadequacy of the word. Her phone buzzed constantly as they entered cellular range—messages, notifications, updates. Emma glanced at it, then turned it off and watched the landscape through the window instead. She had learned something on that farm, something important: there was a different kind of richness in simplicity. A different kind of connection in slowing down. A different kind of wisdom in working with your hands and living close to the land. The city hadn't changed. But she had. And on her dresser, next to her computer, she placed a small jar. Inside: a handful of wheat seeds from Uncle Pete's field, a reminder that she was connected to something larger than screens and status updates. Connected to the earth, to the seasons, to the generations who had worked the land before her and would work it after. She would return to her busy life, her school, her friends. But she would carry the prairie with her—its patience, its honesty, its quiet wisdom. Sometimes, she realized, you need to disconnect to truly connect. You need to slow down to really move forward. You need to get lost to find yourself.