When the snow has pretty well cleared the pathways, and the sleet is reduced to mini showers of cold rain and the sun peeks over the horizon by 8:00 AM, my wife and I venture out most mornings for a stroll in the local park.
This patch of verdant greenery is an oasis of small pond crossed by quaint stone bridges, maturing ash and willow trees and paths that meander, almost on their own whim through the welcoming landscape. The area was once a gigantic land-fill, but wise minds created a haven for walkers after the waste of several decades had finally accumulated to a logical limit.
Walkers and the occasional roller-blader and cyclist are respectful of each other’s space and safety and many a pleasant, “Hello, nice day,” is passed. Read More
The street we lived on was an assembly of quickly built homes for the veterans who had come home from World War II. It was 1946. My father had returned pale and tired.
The houses were all the same, a growing new suburb established in the north end of Winnipeg. They were called war time houses, and we lived on a street called Airlies. It was the first time I had a room of my own; I no longer had to sleep on the sofa in the living room.
The excitement of having my own room was overwhelming, and I lay on my bed for hours looking at the ceiling in a delirium of happiness. My room had a bed and a dresser. I thought it was furnished like a palace and I felt like a princess. Read More
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