As I was helping prepare lunch, a friend arrived at the house with the news that there was smoke rising from the next place over.
Nothing else needed to be said. With one accord, everyone who was able to help pointed their vehicles in the direction of the smoke.
When I arrived a few minutes after the first responders there was already one fire truck on the scene, as well as a water truck. People were stamping out small "hot spots" and hosing down larger ones. Just when you thought you had an area tamped down and soaked thoroughly, a curl of smoke would rise almost mockingly from the base of a tree or an orange spark would wink derisively. Just a typical grass fire.
Except this grass fire was right across the road from the house and yard.
As the wind continued to thrash the trees around and whip the grass into a frenzy, one of the neighbours who happened to be driving a grain truck by the scene stopped and positioned the truck so that it would put a wind block in front of the house and yard's driveway. "Just in case," he said.
Two more fire trucks arrived and stretched out along the lane. Neighbours shoveled and stomped and helped direct the heavy hoses. It reminded me of how the community came together to rescue us last year, and I resumed my stamping and peering in the ditch and up on the slope for any intimation of smoke.
After what seemed like half a day, not half an hour, they got here - mother and daughter, who have been through so much in the past 12 months. So many losses. So much sadness.
And now this.
One of the most tricky things about living out in the country can be how everybody knows everybody. This day, it was one of the best things: my friend Leslie and her mom, Joyce, could go from person to person and each one there could respond with a hug, a word of encouragement, an insider's comment designed to elicit a small chuckle.
Slowly, patiently, under the direction of our Fire Chief Jim, everyone worked until there was no more sign of danger.
I had lost track of Leslie and Joyce; suddenly they appeared near me again. They had gone to the house, "just in case."
They had each retrieved one thing.
"There weren't many pictures taken of my Dad," Joyce said softly. "All the other stuff we could have replaced if need be. What really matters?"
Fire Chief Jim did one last walk-through, examining every inch of the affected area before giving the all-clear. One fire truck left, and that was the signal for us all to start dispersing slowly.
Final hugs, final words and the two ladies were off - destination Red Deer to buy groceries for the Byemoor Hotel's week, which would start bright and early the next day.
As I headed slowly off, I was profoundly moved by the clarity, the priorities, of those two valiant women. They knew without hesitation what really mattered to them.
Once again I was left to marvel at the community pulling together to help its own. "Could be us next time," one of the guys said gruffly with a rasp in his throat as he awkwardly patted Joyce's arm.
It's this rallying together - in times of both joy and difficulty - and showing people that they are important, that they matter, that makes this place split my heart wide open.
And we know that this kind of thing happens up and down the 855, all through Alberta and across our country.
At the end of the day, for the most part, we don't need to be legislated into loving our neighbour as ourselves.
At the end of the day, we all know what really matters.
