Along time ago, and far, far away.
I believe that many of the things I have done over the years now helps me with my writing, including my first journey west. I do not remember the day or the month I first went to the west. But I do remember the year, 1965. The snow was still on the ground, but that doesn’t mean much now-days, because back then, winter lasted longer than it does now.
I boarded the Ontario Northland bus in the little town of Englehart, headed for North Bay and points west, mainly Vancouver, that glorious city beside the sea. The city, shadowed by towering snow-capped peaks. The city of lights, people, and of so much more.
I didn’t have a book to bring with me, but I had a scribbler, and a fountain pen, and on that journey south, I began to record events in verse. That was a long time before I discovered that I could write prose. I decided that I would write a poem about interesting places I traveled through. Fortunately for you, I ended up losing the scribbler, otherwise I would be boring you with terrible poetry, instead of with this article.