A ragged bird is swallowed by dark trees and stirring water, grey as packs of rats, runs widdershins, below the heavy cloud.
Once upon a time, a benevolent prime minister looked upon the land and decreed that we would no longer be diminished by books written in the UK and America only, that Canadian writers would stand tall and be recognized for their talents. He opened a war chest to fund fledgling publishers and to assist writers who couldn’t make a living solely by their trade.
we were to say the least a – motley crew of women – middle-aged recruitments – from the local temp employment – meeting every morning out
behind the plant down in the – parking lot where Joe who – had seen better days waited – in his rusted eighties Ford
Maddy lives in two worlds. Here Maddy has stepped through a portal to the past into an attic where she peers through a grate to the kitchen below.
I am sitting reading in the giant shadow of Mt. Washington here on its northern side, hundreds of miles away in lockdown, devoted for the moment to the life and thoughts of other people’s characters.
In our innocence of what was to take place on March 5 of this year, my husband, Harry Helfenstein and I decided to make use of the final free day of our holiday in Nova Scotia to hunt down Edgehill Private Girls School, which my mother attended in 1917.