They were the oldest of six girls and two boys. Their brother called them bosom pals because they spent most of their time together. They lived with their family in a two-room log cabin home with ten. Because the girls were the oldest, their parents, Robert McLean and Christie (Mercredi) McLean, tasked them with much of the chorus.

The chilly morning air greeted him as he stepped out of his family's warm cabin. He didn't expect it to be so cold, and even though he was used to it, he was surprised. Winter had arrived. With his rifle slung over his back, he bent over to pick up the buckets for water and set off for the two-mile walk to the river's edge.

He sat quietly for a moment, ensuring his heart and intentions were pure. He is mindful and centred, allowing himself to let go of what doesn't serve him. He took a deep breath in, letting it out as he struck his wooden match across the edge of the rock, setting the sage to a flame.

She woke up and started her morning like every other morning by turning on the radio and making a pot of coffee. Julia Auger sat down at her kitchen table and, without realizing it, started to hum Rubby Dollie, an old tune she used to play on her guitar. For some reason, she began to reminisce about days gone by. 

The coal oil lantern in Herb Anderson's cabin is lit just before 5:00 am. He is accustomed to these dark and early winter mornings and puts on several layers of flannel, wool pants, and boots before heading out for the workday. It was his first day on the job as a logger, and at 15 years old, he was the youngest logger to start work for the Gift Lake, Alberta, sawmill camp.

The wooden door to her parents' General store squeaked open, closing with a bang, letting her know another customer had walked in. It was a busy morning, and Beatrice wrote a customer's order in the ledger. Marked at the top was the date, April 20, 1939. On the left-hand side, she added to the running tab of purchases: tea, flour, four-gun shells, butter, baking powder, and syrup for $5.10.

Morning came early as he stepped out of the local shelter, which he called home that night. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and paused for a moment, allowing the sunshine to warm his face. He stretched his weary body and realized he could sleep for days and still feel tired. He’s not homeless, as most think he is. He has a place he used to call home, a cabin that sits on his family’s trap line an hour away in Philomena

 Johnny was sitting in his easy chair, finishing his afternoon coffee while listening to Hank Williams Jr. sing, 'How a Country Boy Can Survive.' The early afternoon sun was stretching its rays to the corner of the living room, drawing his attention to the shine. He noticed his old Violin peeking out of the corner and picked it up, wiping the dust off.

There was a loud knock on the door, and everyone looked at each other, dreading this moment. The government and the church deemed the First Nations and Metis as savages, showing up at their homes to take away their children to be converted by the church and integrated into a civilized Canadian society. The families had no choice but to let them go.

Mary sat down at her table and could hear the infectious laughter of her granddaughter enter the kitchen before she walked in.   Her sweet little face looked up at her with a toothless grin as she sat down for a snack of warm bannock and blueberry jam.