later exerpt from Amélie's story ...
. . . A most unpredictable moment: warbling, chirping, mewing, barking and wind, all disappear. The colour of the sky is one that Amélie has never set eyes on before. Ronald rises from his chair.
“You see dat?”
Is he talking to me? “Yes,” she dares.
“Geezheebasun.” The Ojibwe unexpectedly slides off his tongue. “ La Tornade.”
Amélie is mesmerized by the magic show before her eyes. “Vraiment? Is that really une tornade, papa?”
Papa…I haven’t heard that since… Ronald slowly looks over at his daughter, her beautiful dark eyes – her papa’s eyes – beaming with fervent curiosity. With some difficulty he swallows, and turns his head back to the south-western sky. “You ever hear of a place called Manajiwin?”
“You’d like it there I think. It’s for…it’s a…it’s a camp…for people…well, for métis, eh? I think you’d like it there, Amélie.”
Amélie looks up at her père’s proud profile. Turning her head back to the skies she smiles, uncertain of what just took place but wishing this moment could last forever, as the two continue to watch the funnel cloud dance around in the distant prairie sky.
. . .