Saskatoon Quotes

One woman, Margaret Gwyer, a young newlywed from Saskatoon, Canada, was sucked into one of the ship’s 24-foot-wide funnels. Moments later an eruption of steam from below shot her back out, alive but covered in black soot.

There are two kinds of courage: the courage that holds things together and the courage that throws them away. The first is more common; it is the cement of civilization; it is Lucy's. The second is the courage of drunks and suicides and mystics.

Her mind whirled, fragments of pictures of him flashing in and out so fast she could barely settle on any one: the day he’d brought her from the railway station and stopped so she could see the view…the horseback ride beside the river when he’d said her eyes were the most beautiful blue he’d ever seen…teaching her to shoot…saving her from the grizzly bear…eating the saskatoon pie she’d baked…coaxing Lizzy to drink her lemonade…the magical night at the pool…his long-lashed green eyes glowing with love for her…

don’t want to pick saskatoons ever again,” she said in a small, fearful voice. “Now, honey, don’t you worry none,” Nick told her in an exaggerated drawl. “You’ve been picking berries here for years and never saw any ole bears until today.” He winked at her. “Besides, I don’t think that grizzly was after Miss Elizabeth. I think it was more interested in her basket of berries.” “Then why’d you kill it?” Sara asked, looking a little less fearful. “I saw that there grizzly, and I thought to myself, bear steaks! I sure do love bear steaks. And since your pa don’t let me keep any bears in the barn, I rarely get to eat any.” Sara laughed, and color returned to her cheeks. “Silly Nick. You can’t keep bears in the barn!” “Well, maybe not. But I couldn’t let an ole bear frighten a pretty little lady like Miss Elizabeth, now could I?” Elizabeth’s heart lightened at the compliment, but she pretended not to hear. As Nick reassured the child, she could feel the strain inside her ease. “We’ll get that bear’s head stuffed and mounted,” Nick continued. “Then Miss Elizabeth can hang it in her bedroom.” “Don’t you dare,” Elizabeth exclaimed in mock horror. “I’d never be able to sleep!

Your breakfast is ready,” Toby said to Call, leaning through the open office door. “I made waffles--your favorite. And I’ve got some of that Saskatoon syrup you like.” “Someday, you’ll make someone a great wife, Toby,” Call grumbled, forcing himself to his feet though he wasn’t really hungry. Toby just grinned.

Your breakfast is ready,” Toby said to Call, leaning through the open office door. “I made waffles--your favorite. And I’ve got some of that Saskatoon syrup you like.” “Someday, you’ll make someone a great wife, Toby,” Call grumbled, forcing himself to his feet though he wasn’t really hungry. Toby just grinned. Call walked past him into the kitchen and sat down at the breakfast table. Toby was babying him again. For nearly a week he’d been foul-tempered and edgy, and he hadn’t been sleeping well. Apparently Toby had noticed the shadows under his eyes and his surly disposition. Call raked a hand through his hair as the boy set a steaming plate of crisp golden waffles in front of him, then sat down in the chair across the table. “So…what’s going on with our gorgeous next-door neighbor?” Call nearly choked on the bite of bacon he’d just taken. “Nothing’s going on. She lives there. I live here. That’s all there is to it.” And Call was determined to keep it that way. To ensure that it did, he hadn’t seen Charity since last week, hadn’t even picked up the binoculars to see what she was up to. Since then, he had been able to block thoughts of her for, oh, maybe an hour or two at a time. Christ, the woman drove him crazy and she wasn’t even near. “Man, she is really something,” Toby went on between bites of waffle. “I wonder how old she is.” Call glanced up, caught the interest in Toby’s eyes. “Too old for you, so forget it.” “Hey--I like older women. And that one is definitely hot.” Too damned hot, Call thought, trying not to remember what it felt like to kiss her. “If you’re really not interested, maybe I could--” “I told you to forget it,” Call snapped, then looked over just in time to see Toby grin. “That’s what I thought.” Call just grunted.

You simply can't trust the British. With Americans (or Canadians, for that matter) what you see is what you get. But settle into your seat on a 749 flying out of Heathrow next to an ostensibly boring old Englishman with wobbly chins, the acquired stammer, obviously something in the City, intent on his Times crossword puzzle, and don't you dare patronize him. Mr. Milquetoast, actually a judo black belt, was probably parachuted into the Dordogne in 1943, blew up a train or two, and survived the Gestapo cells by concentrating on what would become the definitive translation of Gilgamesh from the Sin-Leqi-Inninni; and now -- his garment bag stuffed with his wife's most alluring cocktail dresses and lingerie -- he is no doubt bound for the annual convention of cross-dressers in Saskatoon.

The Trail-Makers NORTH and west along the coast among the misty islands, Sullen in the grip of night and smiling in the day: Nunivak and Akutan, with Nome against the highlands, On we drove with plated prow agleam with frozen spray. Loud we sang adventuring and lustily we jested; Quarreled, fought, and then forgot the taunt, the blow, the jeers; Named a friend and clasped a hand—a compact sealed, attested; Shared tobacco, yarns, and drink, and planned surpassing years. Then—the snow that locked the trail where famine's shadow followed Out across the blinding white and through the stabbing cold, Past tents along the tundra over faces blotched and hollowed; Toothless mouths that babbled foolish songs of hidden gold. Wisdom, lacking sinews for the toil, gave over trying; Fools, with thews of iron, blundered on and won the fight; Weaklings drifted homeward; else they tarried—worse than dying— With the painted lips and wastrels on the edges of the night. Berries of the saskatoon were ripening and falling; Flowers decked the barren with its timber scant and low; All along the river-trail were many voices calling, And e'en the whimpering Malemutes they heard—and whined to go. Eyelids seared with fire and ice and frosted parka-edges; Firelight like a spray of blood on faces lean and brown; Shifting shadows of the pines across our loaded sledges, And far behind the fading trail, the lights and lures of town. So we played the bitter game nor asked for praise or pity: Wind and wolf they found the bones that blazed out lonely trails.... Where a dozen shacks were set, to-day there blooms a city; Now where once was empty blue, there pass a thousand sails. Scarce a peak that does not mark the grave of those who perished Nameless, lost to lips of men who followed, gleaning fame From the soundless triumph of adventurers who cherished Naught above the glory of a chance to play the game. Half the toil—and we had won to wealth in other station; Rusted out as useless ere our worth was tried and known. But the Hand that made us caught us up and hewed a nation From the frozen fastness that so long was His alone. . . . . . . Loud we sang adventuring and lustily we jested; Quarreled, fought, and then forgot the taunt, the blow, the jeers; Sinned and slaved and vanished—we, the giant-men who wrested Truth from out a dream wherein we planned surpassing years.

If talent doesn't work hard, hard work beats talent.

Mrs. Mayfield’s bakery still filled the streets with the smell of fresh bread, the barbershop still seemed empty, and the Dundurn Gazette building still looked dilapidated and about to crumble. Maybe this is what I need, Gen thought. She craved stability right now. Recently she had felt lost and overwhelmed, hating life at university and struggling with her course, but desperate to please her mother. Every Isherwood woman attended the University of Toronto; Gen couldn’t be the exception. There was only one major road entering and leaving Dundurn, and it quickly took them away from the bustle. Soon they could see the arch boldly displaying the farm’s name etched into the metal: The Triple 7 Ranch. Nothing about the ranch seemed to have changed: the barn behind the house, the farmland beyond it, or the wheat fields arranged in neat lines stretching into the distance. Gen waited to hear Whisky, their German shepherd, as they pulled in. She always came out of wherever she was and barked loudly when cars arrived. “Where’s Whisky?” she asked after a couple of seconds. “Oh, Whisky passed on last year, honey,” her mum said. “No! What happened?” “Some hooligans from Saskatoon ran her over, honey.” “Sheriff Liam says we have to be extra careful now that some new businesses have settled out there.” “Who would do such a thing?” It seemed some things changed after all. ><>< Gen turned the knob of the bedroom door, which creaked as it swung open. Peering into her old bedroom, memories flooded her senses; she travelled to a time when the world made sense. She heard giggling and the patter of running feet as she recalled a time when all that mattered was finding the best place to hide while playing with her grandfather. She had been an only child but had never felt the loneliness others in her position described. Her grandfather had been her friend, confidante,

I am Métis, but I don't know how to jig or fiddle. I have never made bannock, or moccasins, or picked saskatoons. I don't know the history of our people.

Saskatoon sang quietly in a soothing voice. “Hey, old timer, With the cloudy eye, Put your troubles behind you, It’s a good day to die.

I spend a lot of time in the penalty box and I get yelled at a lot by angry hockey fans. I expected Saskatoon fans to hate me.

My mom can’t seem to get used to the fact that Estevan is a much safer city than Saskatoon. She’s way too protective of both Courtney and me. She won’t let me have my own cell phone or computer or get a part-time job. And I can only go on MSN for one hour a day. That really sucks.

A rookie centre from Saskatoon, “Endo” was as laidback as they come, kind of the team’s Spicoli.

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Let’s follow the carbon in that Saskatoon. The leaves of the tree drew carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, which they made into sugar via the brilliant mechanism of photosynthesis. The gift of the atmosphere now resides in the berry. When the Cedar Waxwing gobbles it up, some of that carbon becomes the feathers that paint a yellow band on its tail, which flashes in the afternoon light. When that feather falls to the ground it becomes food for beetles, who become food for a Vole whose death feeds the soil who feeds the Serviceberry seedling just germinating at the edge of the woods. Materials move through ecosystems in a circular economy and are constantly transformed. Abundance is created by recycling, by reciprocity. This recycling proceeds at different paces. Sometimes it is as quick as minutes, like a molecule of phosphorus dancing between water and a spinning cell of virid green alga. That alga takes up the phosphorus into its body, which is eaten by zooplankton a few minutes later, and they excrete the mineral back into the water, where another alga is happy to have it. Other cycles proceed more slowly. Sometimes the minerals get squirreled away in long-term storage, like nitrogen immobilized in a tree trunk for three hundred years, but it always comes back into circulation. The juice that bursts from these berries was rain just last week and is already on its way back to the clouds. These processes are the models for principles of a circular economy, in which there is no such thing as waste, only starting materials. Abundance is fueled by constantly circulating materials, not wasting them.

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