Inside his sleeping bag he says he doesn't feel the cold too much. On all but the coldest nights he sleeps in the cabin, where a little space heater and the heat from his nightly fires keeps him toasty warm. Ever since his heart attack, Gary says he can't sleep indoors. He has practically lived at the fire pit at the end of his garden, where he has built a "man cave" out of old pieces of wood and plywood. Gary wore his First Nations jacket and a cowboy hat. The passion in the voices of the singers made me want to weep, made my heart leap, filled me with both joy and excitement. The fire was warm and toasty, and my son and I sat together on the bench while Riley whittled a stick with a beautiful bone pen knife that Gary had given him last summer, and watched the fire making pictures for us while we listened to the song of the drums, the voices of the native singers touching a chord deep inside, that spoke of ancient traditions and a deep reverence for the land. I had asked Gary if we could come and join him for Earth hour, as I wanted to drum for the worldwide drum circle I had signed up for on Facebook, and I knew Gary would understand. There in the backyard, at the end of the garden, his fire pit was glowing and crackling with a roaring fire, while the steady sound of drums could be heard from his CD player. We grabbed our hand drums and tambourines off the wall and headed over to next door neighbour Gary's house. EST, we turned off all the lights in the house, even going so far as to unplug the TV.
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