So it was a little more than a year ago. Regina, and indeed all of Saskatchewan, from her southern badlands to her northern forests, was in the grips of yet again another arse-numbing winter. Oh sure, you've all heard stories, but let's lay it down right here as the honest-to-God, no lying, no fibbing, truth-- winter in Saskatchewan is cold, a bitter cold that sucks the air from your lungs and nips at any exposed flesh like a hungry animal.

There we were in the grips of yet another winter. No big deal really if you're all bundled up and walking quickly to where you need to go. As long as your car is plugged in and your house is well insolated then you ain't got nothing to fear. You have no worries, my friend.

It was about a year ago, as I may have mentioned recently. It was winter, and as usual the back roads, side roads, major thoroughfares and even the sidewalks were covered in a thick crust of snow. Notice I didn't say blanket. That's because it ain't a blanket. This isn't fresh snow. This is a winter's worth of snow and ice and dirt that has accumulated on any piece of pavement. You see, we get a lot of snow out here in these parts. And what's the point of plowing the roads if it's just going to snow again. Exactly.

So, it's that time of year again. And the roads are level with the sidewalks with this aforementioned accumulated crust of snow and ice. It makes for a hell of a walk or even a hell of a drive. But the great thing is, out here in these parts, everyone knows how to drive. Drive at a leisurely pace, speed up when the light turns yellow, don't signal, drive in the bike lane, and while you're at it, if you have any empty beer bottles in your car, toss them out the window in the evening hours as your drive through the city streets. See if you can hit the street signs. There's a good fella.

It's winter and I'm strolling home from work, skidding and slipping with my ass cheeks and upper thighs aching from quick reflexes that saved me on numerous occasions from wiping out. I'm a young guy. Just about 25 years of age. A tall fellow with good dexterity and bones that can withstand a couple tosses onto the ground. In short, I'm not an elderly lady, frail and slightly hunched over, a shuffling thing in an oversized brown coat with a plastic bag full of groceries. That's not what I am.

But that's what she was, attempting to walk across 13th Avenue on one of those crisp afternoons in the Saskatchewan winter. It was a bright day, a clear day, one of those days when the sky is sharp and the clouds are but wisps. It was one of those days when you walk through your own frozen breath because there is not a draught of wind to carry it away. It was a day just like that.

She was just about halfway across the street when I turned the corner and came upon the scene. She was the reason why there were a dozen cars lined up on the north side of the road. Over on the south side, my side, the cars and trucks were whipping past. The woman was moving so slowly the vehicles could certainly zip on past without worry if the drivers only applied a little extra pressure to the gas pedal.

She was just about to the middle of the road when the horn started blaring. Some chucklehead, fuckhead that he was and still is, starts laying on the horn. I was almost parallel with the shuffling figure at this time. I was watching her progress, looking at the line of cars, when the horn let loose. Her body shuddered and her legs quivered. The road was a mess, rutted with packed snow and ice.

The horn blared and blared and blared and the more it did the less the elderly lady moved.

Soon she was standing still, more hunched then ever, standing with thin legs slightly apart. Her head was down. Her body was shaking slightly. With delicate maneuvers, she turned and in time made it back to the sidewalk. All the while the horn was sounding its impatience.

Cars and trucks and vans rolled past.

It's a short story. It has no ending. But, I think, it is quite telling.

Chad Boudreau is one creative Canadian.