Frost crunched under his feet as Richard Simpson stepped onto the station platform.  He scattered sand from a bucket and glanced down the steel rails that glistened in the moonlight.  A horn’s wail drifted in from the east, the train from Edmonton was rounding the bend at Glen Valley. Right on time.  At the far end of the platform a man tugged at the flaps of his tweed cap and craned his neck.  He rocked slowly inside a long overcoat. Clusters of people stamped their feet. Mr Simpson rolled the cart out from the baggage room, its wheels screeched like angry blackbirds. The oil can could wait until tomorrow. Christmas Day, 1919. A wreath made from cedar, salal and red ribbon hung on the waiting room door.  Inside, Mary Simpson sat behind the ticket counter studying her seed catalogue and dreaming of spring. It couldn’t come soon enough. This was [...]