A Delay of Sorts and Frozen Pines

Stranded in the frigid expanse of the Winnipeg train station, the Dennison family faces an unexpected, hours-long delay. Humour and old family tensions simmer as they navigate the chaotic wait for their Christmas journey home.

"Dozens of hours, Bernard. Did you hear that?" Muriel's voice, usually a well-modulated alto, scraped like a rusty skate blade across ice. Her spectacles, perched precariously on her nose, gleamed with indignant fire. She gestured vaguely towards the departure board, where the red 'Delayed' flashed beside their train number, mocking them with its casual certainty.

Bernard, ever the unflappable oak, merely shifted his weight on the hard plastic bench. "Heard it, Muriel. Not much for arguing with the weather, is there?" He pulled a meticulously folded handkerchief from his coat pocket, a habit from his youth, and dabbed at a stray snowflake that had somehow navigated its way from the blustery platform to his meticulously trimmed moustache. He wasn't bothered by the delay, not really. Life had taught him that some things just *were*.

Sylvie, their daughter, wrung her hands, a nervous energy thrumming beneath her sensible parka. "But, Papa, Maman, what about Christmas dinner? Aunt Claudette is expecting us. The turkey defrosted two days ago, she said. It'll be a rock!" Her husband, Robert, stood beside her, his face a canvas of escalating panic. He clutched his small overnight bag as if it contained the secrets of the universe, rather than just a spare pair of socks and his 'emergency' digestive tablets.

"Aunt Claudette will simply have to refreeze it, Sylvie, or roast it herself," Muriel replied, her gaze sweeping the chaotic main hall. "Honestly, the fuss. We've survived worse. Remember the '78 blizzard? Your father had to shovel out the entire driveway with a kitchen spoon." Bernard grunted, a sound that could mean either 'exaggeration' or 'fond memory'. With Muriel, it was often both.

The station was a kaleidoscope of humanity: crying babies, frustrated teenagers glued to their phones, a group of hockey players in matching team jackets sprawled across three seats, snoring. Every available surface groaned under the weight of luggage and humanity. The air conditioning, if it existed, was fighting a losing battle against the sheer number of bodies and the damp winter coats.

"We need a plan," Sylvie declared, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "We can't just… sit here for two days." Robert nodded vigorously, his eyes darting around, searching for a non-existent escape route. His usual neat hair was already showing signs of disarray.

"A plan, dear girl, involves variables we do not control," Muriel countered, eyeing a vacant corner near a pillar. "But we can control our immediate comfort. Bernard, your turn to hunt for sustenance. See if you can find something resembling coffee. Not the sludge, if you please." She handed him a twenty-dollar note, crisp and authoritative.

Bernard, without a word, pushed himself up from the bench. His movements were slow but deliberate, the kind of quiet efficiency Muriel had relied on for fifty years. He navigated the human labyrinth with the calm precision of a seasoned sailor, his tall frame cutting through the crowd like a ship through troubled waters. Sylvie watched him go, then turned to her mother.

"Maman, seriously. A hotel? Or maybe call Aunt Louise?" Sylvie was already pulling out her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen. The idea of two days in the station's antechamber of purgatory was too much for her organized soul.

"A hotel? My dear, have you seen the prices for a broom cupboard these days? And Aunt Louise's house is full of cats, Muriel said dismissively, fanning herself lightly with a folded newspaper she'd salvaged from an abandoned seat. "Besides, Bernard won't leave the station. He's convinced the train will suddenly depart early, just to spite him."

Robert finally spoke, his voice thin. "My tablet's at five percent. And I forgot my charger. My audiobooks…" He trailed off, the tragedy evident in his tone. "How will I pass the time?" Muriel just raised an eyebrow, a silent commentary on his modern-day dependency.

---

Bernard returned after a remarkably short time, holding three steaming Styrofoam cups and a bag that smelled faintly of cinnamon. "They're calling this 'coffee'," he announced, handing one to Muriel. "Tastes more like burnt shoe leather." But the warmth was a welcome comfort against the pervasive chill.

Muriel took a careful sip, her lips pursing. "Well, it's better than nothing, I suppose. What's in the bag?" Bernard produced two oversized, slightly squashed cinnamon buns. Robert's eyes lit up, a glimmer of hope in the general gloom. Sylvie, however, looked dubious. "Do you know how much sugar is in those, Papa?" she started.

"It's Christmas, Sylvie," Muriel interjected, taking a generous bite of her bun, crumbs scattering down her coat. "A little sugar never hurt anyone. Builds character." She winked at Bernard, who offered a rare, almost imperceptible smile. This was their rhythm, a dance of well-worn arguments and unspoken affections.

Just as they were settling into a fragile truce of lukewarm coffee and overly sweet buns, a new voice cut through the general din, a clarion call of affronted dignity. "Muriel! Is that you? I knew it! Only you would find yourself trapped in this… this arctic purgatory!"

Amelia, Muriel's older sister, a woman who treated every inconvenience as a personal slight from the universe, swept towards them. She was a whirlwind of mink imitation fur, bright red lipstick, and an air of dramatic despair. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were wide with theatrical horror. She had a small wheeled suitcase, battered but defiant, clutched in one gloved hand.

"Amelia," Muriel said, her tone flat. Bernard merely raised an eyebrow. Sylvie offered a strained smile, while Robert visibly shrank, attempting to meld into the pillar behind him.

"Don't 'Amelia' me, sister! I've been wandering this frozen tundra for an hour, looking for a civilised cup of Earl Grey! They only have this… industrial sludge!" She pointed dramatically at Bernard's remaining coffee cup. "And then I heard the announcement. Dozens of hours! Can you imagine? I had my hair done, Muriel. My *hair*! It won't last two days in this humidity!"

Amelia then spotted the half-eaten cinnamon bun in Muriel's hand. "Are you actually eating that? You'll spoil your appetite for Claudette's feast! If we ever even *reach* Claudette, that is. I swear, they're doing this on purpose, you know. To ruin Christmas. The government, probably. Or the train company. Always the train company."

Sylvie cleared her throat. "Aunt Amelia, it's a massive blizzard. It's not really anyone's fault." Amelia merely fixed her with a look of withering pity. "Oh, Sylvie, darling, always so naive. There's *always* someone to blame. And if not, then it's a conspiracy. Mark my words." She patted Sylvie's arm condescendingly.

Muriel sighed, a long, weary sound that contained decades of sibling exasperation. "Sit down, Amelia. You're drawing a crowd. There's a sliver of space next to Bernard." Amelia eyed the plastic bench with disdain, then reluctantly perched on the edge, her fur coat rustling like an angry badger.

"The heating in this place is atrocious, too," Amelia declared, despite the fact that sweat was beading on Robert's brow. "My circulation, you know. It's not what it used to be. I might get chilblains!" She thrust out a perfectly manicured hand, as if expecting Muriel to inspect it for signs of frostbite.

"You'll be fine, Amelia," Bernard said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He pulled a spare scarf from his own bag. "Here, wrap this around your neck. It's pure wool. Should keep you warm." Amelia looked at the utilitarian wool with a mixture of suspicion and grudging gratitude.

"Well, alright, Bernard. If you insist." She draped it around her neck, making a show of shivering for emphasis. "But it clashes terribly with my coat. And this whole situation is just so… inconvenient. I had a whole schedule! My facial, my nails, my hot stone massage on Christmas Eve! All gone, just like that, poof!"

Muriel closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the massage Amelia had so dramatically described. Perhaps the delay wasn't entirely bad. A small, wicked thought, but a thought nonetheless. She opened her eyes to see Bernard looking at her, a knowing glint in his own. He always knew.

"So, Maman," Sylvie interjected, trying to steer the conversation away from Amelia's beauty regime, "what *do* we do? We can't stay here. There must be some other way." She looked desperately at her mother, who was now carefully unwrapping a fresh cinnamon bun for Amelia.

"There are options, dear," Muriel said, her voice regaining its usual steel. "We can't rely on the trains. Not in this weather. There's always the bus, but that would be an even longer, more cramped affair. And forget flying; the airport is probably shut down tighter than a drum."

Robert, emboldened by the prospect of a new plan, piped up. "I saw a rental car office just outside. Maybe we could…"

Muriel held up a hand. "And drive through this? No, Robert. That's a fool's errand. The roads will be treacherous. We'll end up in a ditch, or worse, stuck in a roadside motel with no cable television. No, we need something… more reliable. More Dennison."

Amelia, now fortified by her cinnamon bun, chimed in. "More Dennison means something utterly impossible, no doubt. Like a sleigh pulled by reindeer!"

Muriel gave her a sharp look. "Don't be ridiculous, Amelia. But you're not far off. We need a proper vehicle. Something sturdy. Something that can handle a bit of snow. And a driver who knows how to handle *us*."

She stood up, pulling her phone from her bag. "I know just the man." Her lips curved into a small, determined smile. "An old friend of your Papa's. He owes us a favour, or two. And he has a proper, four-wheel-drive beast of a truck. This isn't over yet. Not by a long shot."

Bernard, seeing the familiar glint in Muriel's eye, slowly rose. He knew that look. It meant the journey, far from being cancelled, was about to take a decidedly Muriel-esque detour. He took a final sip of his burnt shoe-leather coffee. "You're thinking of that old logger, aren't you? The one with the perpetually cheerful disposition and the even more perpetually leaky radiator?"

Muriel just beamed. "Precisely. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a Christmas miracle to arrange. And it involves a very large truck, a very long drive, and a very strong cup of tea when we get there."

Sylvie and Robert exchanged worried glances, a fresh wave of panic washing over them. Amelia, however, looked intrigued, a glint of genuine excitement replacing her earlier distress. A new adventure, after all, was far more interesting than just sitting and complaining.

---

Muriel began dialing, her face a mask of determined concentration. The bustling noise of the station faded for a moment, replaced by the crackle of a distant connection. This was it. The train was out. The Dennison family was now relying on a favour and a possibly questionable vehicle. Bernard sighed, a slow, deep breath, and began to gather their bags. The journey home had just begun, in earnest, and it was going to be anything but ordinary. They had a new road to find, and a new set of challenges to conquer before they could even think about Aunt Claudette's turkey.

Muriel, phone pressed to her ear, gave a brisk nod. "Yes, Horace. It's Muriel Dennison. Remember that time Bernard helped you with your prize-winning zucchini at the county fair? Well, I have a small favour to ask, regarding a rather pressing Christmas engagement... and a very large blizzard."

The call connected, and a new, more adventurous chapter of their family's Christmas saga seemed to unfurl right there, amidst the chaos and cold of the Winnipeg station. Their quest for Christmas dinner, though delayed, was far from abandoned; it had merely shifted from the predictable tracks of a railway to the unpredictable, snowy roads of the prairie.

A fresh set of eyes would be needed to navigate this one, and Muriel, ever the navigator, was already charting the course, one firm, persuasive word at a time.