Islomania

 By Maryanna Gabriel 

"There are people who find islands somehow irresistible.
The mere knowledge they are on an island,
a little world surrounded by the sea,
fills them with an indescribable intoxication."
- Lawrence Durrell

And one that has frequent power failures at that. Islomania is defined as being partial to islands. The rumours about me are all true. Bells on my fingers, and bells on my toes. Jingle, jingle. I am making a list then checking it twice. Finally I will be home. All the new nooks and crannies to discover and explore - it will be a whole new adventure. And then with sitting in my armchair by the fire with a cup of tea, once again, it will be travels in a different sort of way.

Doing all of this and more, I will be back in 2025. May you be shielded from the storms, stay warm, and to all a good night. Take care.

What Keeps My Heart Awake

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


When the world feels kind of crazy, there is always poetry. Below is a photo taken from a garden on my one of my favourite walks. 

The Mountain

If the mountain seems too big today
Then climb a hill instead.
If morning brings you sadness
It’s okay to stay in bed…

…A day is not a lifetime
A rest is not defeat
Don’t think of it as failure
Just a quiet kind retreat

It's okay to take a moment
From an anxious fractured mind
The world will not stop turning
While  you get realigned.

The mountain will still be there
When you want to try again.
You can climb it on your own time
Just love yourself 'til then.

          ~ Laura Ding-Edwards

The Happiness of Pumpkins

 A wonderful poem.... 


Joy Comes Back
               by Donna Ashworth

When you finally realize that joy is less fireworks
More firefly 
Less orchestra, More birdsong
She will come back much more often

For joy will not fight
With the fast pace of this life

She is not in the shiny or the new
She breathes in the basic,
Simmers in the simple
And dances in the daily to and fro
Joy has been beckoning you for many a year my friend
You were just too busy doing to see

The very next time joy wraps her quiet arms around you
As the garden embraces your weary body in its wildness
Tip her a nod

She doesn't stay long
But if you are a gracious host
Joy comes back 

When The Earth Rumbles

 By Maryanna Gabriel


For no reason last night, I found myself awake and listening. To the silence. Then a rumble. Like a train coming down the tracks. The rumble got louder. The next thing I knew the entire house shook. And then it was over. Or was it? The wait and see. More? Not. After a few minutes I researched the magnitude. It was a 4.0. That's getting there.

Eclipse, comet, sun flares, hurricanes, unprecedented flooding, war. You would think one could rest in bed to absorb it all. Apparently not. 

Besides inner work, the times call for what, exactly? How best to deal? My antidote is this. Self care. Give oneself a gift every day. Right now it is a fabulous herbal tea made with lavender and honey which I am sipping with pleasure. The other is to extend kindness when called for. It is a means through. When the earth rumbles, compassion is a means through.

Writer's Retreat

 by Maryanna Gabriel

I have total privacy and am happily ensconced with my writing and comfortable chair and straightening

out a chapter. When all else fails, create. 

Between the rain and a problematic plot point where the salient rising actions refuse to cooperate, 

Mocha With Petals

it seemed important to get to a cafe then go for a walk. And look at the photo of the coffee I was given! How could the sun not shine with a such a cuppa?

On the good side, a short piece I have written, a book review, has just been published in Geist, a literary magazine. "Hangman: The True Story of Canada's First Executioner, by Julie Burtinshaw, reviewed by Maryanna Gabriel."

When all else flails, it helps to experience some progress in the writing world. 

 

Most Auspicious

 By Maryanna Gabriel

"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow.

And evening full of linnet's wings."

                                                                                    - W.B. Yeats

Soon I will be reunited with my possessions and be able to play house once again. I so miss having plants and a garden. A home. How wondrous. 

There is no sense of the ordinary around this change. One morning, I arrived early for an appointment on the property. I was privy to an exceptional sight. A shy white deer grazed quietly next to the garden. A friend sent me the following:

"In many cultures, encountering a white deer is believed to bring luck, purity, and spiritual growth. It may signify that you are on the right path or that positive changes are on the horizon. Some interpret it as a sign of protection or divine intervention, urging you to trust in higher powers."

A most auspicious sign. 

A Saint With Mojo

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


Whoever said a geographic move is not a cure did not understand the importance of vibration. It is all about energy. Some people, natural surroundings, or rooms, are uplifting. Or draining. No question. 

The first thing I did after the last debacle was head for a rather splendid beach. Absent-mindedly, I watched a woman move a metal detector back and forth, scanning for treasure. I leaned against
a log and smelled the sea air,  experiencing the warmth of the September sun. Strange and weird energy that was not mine slowly drained away.

A gleam caught my eye. The treasure seeker missed one. My fingers stretched for what I thought was a silver coin. It turned out to be a medallion, and I dug deeper into the sand. The medallion was connected to a chain of pearls. Upon further examination, I could see it depicted a saint encircled by letters from a language I did not recognize.

Once home, I researched. Oh. Serbian. My heart skipped a beat as I read further. The medallion is for breaking curses, dark spells, black energy, negative family trauma and is used in exorcisms. The pearls promptly went around my neck and the saint now rests close to my heart. 

By not accepting what was unacceptable, I have relocated to a place of great beauty. Perched high on a bluff with a supernal view where clouds roll onward over a sparkling sea, I might as well be on Mount Olympus.

Yesterday, my kind hosts brought me tomatoes. Without saying a word and understanding that I am a writer, today they brought a COMFORTABLE WRITER'S CHAIR. And a bouquet of roses. The scent is heavenly. Clearly, I have whoo-doo, voo-doo, lady luck, and a saint as advertised - adorning my heaving bosom. Thank you, and to partially quote Long John Baldry, no laying any bad-assed-boogie-woogie on this queen of rock' n roll. Back off. I have a saint with mojo. 

Changing The Channel

 By Maryanna Gabriel

"Pain is inevitable but suffering is optional."

-Haruki Murakami

One good thing about getting long in the tooth is the realization there are choices. One does not have to put up with less than. So I am changing the channel. Might as well shift into the sunlight and smell the buttercups fluttering in the meadow breezes. I am checking out of this hotel. 

Get the place near the beach with the pool, Maryanna. Focus on the good. When you are dead, the cost won't matter. What matters is doing one's best with each day. If I do not like what I am experiencing then I can do something about it. So there you have it.

Grass Is Greener

 By Maryanna Gabriel

One never knows when it is the last swim, but I think I just had it. Sadly. The weather has turned, heralding the end of a spectacular summer.

My vagrant gypsy life is not over but there is light at the end of the tunnel and please, if you will, stay tuned for that. Happy as I was, dictated by circumstance, I moved to new accommodation. I was open to the idea - grass is greener and all that. The smell of adventure in the air. New places to explore. Hair blowing in the wind. Call me Rambling Rose and see you later. What a wild and exciting woman. 

Oh boy. A closer look at my reservation indicated a few issues (like no way I could write, for example, with the desk and chair). Fine. Not a problem. I spent the winter writing in cafes. I'm a trooper. I'll adapt. 

In the predawn light, however, I knew I was in trouble when a vehicle stealthily crunched across the gravel and stopped two feet from my open kitchen window. A rather delectable cinnamon number from a bakery I admire was on the hob. The back of the van opened wide revealing its contents. Boxes labeled "Meat" were steadily being unloaded. Suddenly, the whole eating of the bun shifted as I registered what was happening. A number of comments swirled, and the penny dropped. What I was eating suddenly tasted like something else. 

Black gates that open with the right code...the vast expansive lawns without a weed in sight and no chairs to enjoy the grass on...the lake-sized pond with a Palais de Versailles fountain...constant irrigation...the long low buildings beyond. In this vast grass-is-greener setting, the meat was steadily transferred to an adjacent warehouse. 

Rats.

You read that right. 

The product was rats. The bun rolled around in my mouth as I contemplated the ramifications. This was an Auschwitz for rats. Now don't get me wrong. Rats are not my faves by a long shot and I guess somebody has to provide the pythons and what-not in zoos. But geez. Call me sensitive - I spat my bun out. 

Further research provided enlightenment. "Not too fat and not too thin" rhapsodized a Google reviewer. So, just right then. A friend called. Apparently a much sought after delicacy in certain cultures, she tells me. No need to run to Stephen King. Have it all here... 

Homage To August

 by Maryanna Gabriel 

Homage To August

August.

Cool swims. Picnics on mossy swards.

Ripening corn and blackberries. When does one crack a walnut?

Stocking the jelly cupboard. 

Beach chats where bleached driftwood meets pebbled strands, seals flop, and eagles call. The waves. Always the waves. 

Translucent jellyfish.
Purple and pregnant?

The turn of soft pages as plots thicken.
The sun is fire. 

Exquisite days. These precious exquisite days. 

Beaver Guff

Not in the mood for any beaver guff. 

 by Maryanna Gabriel 

Meanwhile, back at the refrigerator fridge filled with cheesecake, I find it fortunate they are closed due to holidays. One cannot always count on self control given I pass by every morning. The mornings are chillier with swimming at the lake and I love to go early before most are up. Well, the beaver was up. 

None of this splashing about like many. I glide as quiet as can be. Glide and watch. This morning a palm frond went sailing across the water forever like a freshwater fin. I realized the beaver had just raided someone's Hosta garden planted close to the water's edge.

Then I heard a crashing. The noise was too near the lake to be deer.

I was right. With a splash, slippery dark forms slid into the lake and noticing me, glided close. Otters? No, wait a minute. Tiny rat-like heads. Were they mink? They circled underwater. I could see the bubbles rise and then I stopped looking across the surface and down to my toes and began to tread watchfully. Suddenly, I was concerned. Do mink bite? They were right under me. I held steady. They passed and emerged on the far shore next to the Hostas only to make made high-pitched squealing noises. It was a mother with her young. She was really hissing and carrying on and they were definitely mink.

The next thing I knew, a head made its way straight towards me. A bigger head. It was the beaver, and he was in full-blown huffing and puffing mode and not in the mood for any trouble. I realized he had just chased off the mink (his lodge is nearby). He was full of adrenalin and up for a fight. Just in case, I was going to give him any beaver guff, I received three loud tail slaps. Then off he charged. Clearly, I was not being invited back to the lodge for tea and open-faced Hosta sandwiches. Look, I can take a hint. 

Thus ends the tail. Er, tale. 

A Review With Juice

 by Maryanna Gabriel


One day, not too long ago and while worrying about bears gnawing upon my window, in an awkward moment I splashed orange juice hither and yon. My gosh.

I had a houseguest, so I tried to appear nonchalant and quickly mopped up. One of my literary magazines was soaked, and without hesitation I lobbed it into recycling.

Not the end of the story. 

Recently, I did a random search, and to my astonishment, I discovered I had a book review. Imagine. It slowly dawned the review was in the tossed magazine. Wow. And here I was in transit from the Kootenays. How nail-biting. Was the review a good one?

How is an author to sleep? 

I finally picked up the reordered copy at my new post box. The review was by New York teacher and writer Stacey Engels. I guess if you call being compared to Emily Carr, "almost verbatim Carr", a good review, then it sure was (Emily was a writer as well as an artist).

 And probably a better manager with her juice. Then gain, now that I think about it, perhaps not. 

The Malahat Review (University of Victoria) Issue 223 

Walking The Camino: On Earth As It Is - Finalist Book Contest

 By Maryanna Gabriel 

FINALIST
Wahoo!!!! Finalist (of four) Nonfiction Category
Sunshine Coast Writer's and Editors Society (SCWES)
Book Contest BC Authors
Walking The Camino: On Earth As It Is from Pottersfield Press 

Today was not a good day to not have internet so I made my way to the library. Pretty stoked. 

Writing Workshop With Kevin Chong

Dawn on Denman Island. 

By Maryanna Gabriel 


Imagine. Daisies. Hammock. Hot tub. Roses dropping petals from overhead as though I were a bride. Rose petals strewn across the patio and tracked across the carpet. An orange cat visits for an affectionate pat. All on peaceful Denman Island. Oyster capital. And yes, I had those too. 

It was my birthday present to myself.

This time of year, Denman is a writers mecca with workshops, presentations, speakers, and readings as they hold their annual literary festival. Some teachers just hit the mark at the right time and Kevin Chong is that kind of teacher for me. He has published a few books and is even a Giller Prize Finalist which is prestigious. This is all to say he knows his stuff and I have been needing encouragement. This is the reason for attending. Synergy. Love being with writers and talking shop. Next best thing to reading. 

Early morning writing at the local cafe next to a renouned writer doing same  -  the Earth Club Factory, Denman Island.

  

Sturmfrei

 By Maryanna Gabriel

Every morning at first light, I swim with a beaver. A new routine. He slaps his tail and circles away while I paddle along and marvel at being on an island where bears are not an issue. 

Thank goodness for

Sheer heaven. Cheesecake Fridge

that.

On the difficult side, in order to do this, I have to walk by a fridge on the road that is filled with cheesecake. Sound rather like a version of heaven, doesn't it? But I'm no fibber. 

Sturmfrei is a splendid German word, which means doing what one wants. As I say it, I think of the song, Born Free and think of twirling. Twirling is a word that means what it sounds (onomatopoeia, wow, that's two big words in one paragraph). It feels wonderful to be by the ocean again, and I am doing what I want as I visit old haunts. 

Murder in Midway

Lovely Midway.

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


Charles L. Thornet was shot here. 

The valley I am travelling through in the boundary area of southern British Columbia is lovely. The way the sun sets the golds and greens of the pastoral landscape alight, framed by undulating mountains, and where pine trees veer away from the Kettle River is post card perfect.

One sometimes bashes through places, clicking along as the kilometers whizz by unaware of the history but here I pause and walk. Today, about three hundred people live in Midway, so called, it is thought, because the town is midway between the Rockies and the Pacific. Midway seems a sleepy and serene place but it was not always. A deathbed confession adds further mystery to the unsolved murder of Charles L. Thornet.

In the 1890s cattle were being rustled across the line. Midway is close to the American boundary and unsavoury types were up to no good raiding the surrounding ranches. Charles Thornet was a tall, striking man - a crack-shot, and a good tracker, with the perfect resume. He was hired as the lawmen and he did a good job of it and as a consequence put a few people in jail.

Charles L. Thornet - a striking man. 

For some reason, there was a war in Midway. It had to do with two railroads. The owners were rivals and sworn enemies and right of way was contested. It led to a confrontation between hundreds of men armed with pickaxes and shovels who proceeded to bloody one another. The Midway War of 1905 made headlines across Canada and in the European papers. Thornet's job was to put a stop to it.

He did. A notable feat. Miraculously, no lives were lost, but a lot of men were put in lock up. 

Thornet went on to leave the job (gee, I wonder why) and bought the Midway Hotel. He was a good businessman, and the hotel thrived. In 1908, one hot August night at 7:00 pm, two men wearing masks entered the bar. They leveled their guns at Thornet. Thornet picked up his rifle from behind, fired off several rounds and wounded one of his assasins. Thornet, however, was mortally shot. The gun men jumped on their horses and galloped up the dirt street.

A few doors away, two men named Lou Salter and Bing The Chinese Cowboy were playing poker on the verandah of the Spokane Hotel. Someone yelled. 

"They've shot Thornet!" 

Lou reached behind for his twelve gauge and with a clear view took aim. As the gunmen approached, listing in the saddle, the masks fell away. Salter hesitated, lowered his gun, then raised it once more. He came to a decision and lowered his rifle one last time The men galloped away in a cloud of dust and rode over the line never to be heard or seen again.

In 1969, when Lou Salter was long gone, Bing The Chinese Cowboy lay dying in the Nelson Hospital. He told the tale of Salter's opprtunity and what he did. If Bing The Chinese Cowboy knew the identity of the galloping escapees it went with him to the grave. We can only speculate. Thomet's murderers remain a mystery to this day. 

Except for a small government sign, no trace of this exciting history remains. And that said she is that. 

And now I drive like the wind. 

Source: Bill Barlee (historian) "Gold Trails and Ghost Tales - Midway".

Grand Forks and a Woman Who Weeps

Later to become a superb restaurant which has since closed. 

By Maryanna Gabriel


Am passing the night in Grand Forks in Southern British Columbia. The pleasant tree lined streets reveal a history evidenced by turn of the century architecture. Here two rivers conjoin, the Kettle and the Granby, hence the town name. With the surrounding grassy pleateaus, the area is perfect for running cattle. 

Like other towns in lower British Columbia, ranching gave way to a new influx of settlers when rich ore and mineral deposits were discovered. A story caught my eye.

A dentist came to Grand Forks, Dr. C.W. Averill, to set up practice. He serviced the plethora of miners in the surrounding areas. They say he used to melt gold coins and use them in his dentistry. However, he had a problem. His wife did not want to live in Grand Forks. To compensate, he had a fine mansion built, high on a hill with sweeping views of the rivers as enticement. The Averill mansion had a turrett, stained glass windows, and a fine verandah. 

His wife may have been prescient. Hardship visited them. A son was lost and Dr. Averill became seriously ill. In the years that followed, a woman may be heard weeping from a bedroom on the top floor. They say the house is haunted. More than one person has verified this account. In conversation with a local today, many have also seen her. 

Averill Mansion built in 1895.

*Source: Bill Barlee (historian) "Gold Trails and Ghost Tales - Grand Forks".

Officer Report and Not a Bad Somewhere Else

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


By now I'm loading the car. As quickly as my compromised back will allow. 

The conversation with the conservation officer was not exactly reassuring. He could trap the bear "but there are so many cubs in the area" he might trap the wrong one and then the mother would tear the trap apart. Oh, and the 4-year-old should not be playing outside alone.

Then there was the final kick. Bears tore apart three cars last year in Nelson. Completely ruined them. I should empty mine. 

My precious car with nice smelly stuff? Like hand cream. Did I put the walnuts in? By the way, are those scratch marks on the drivers seat door handle from my keys? Or....

Upshot? Immediate plan change. Rearrangement of itinerary. Insomnia. Maybe forget stargazing.

I pack faster and madly cogitate, whilst fearfully looking over my shoulder. I jump at any movement and slight noise. Then I phone the man who is in charge of my domicile. He lives nearby. 

"The key is under the pansy pot," I say. I describe the cub. 

"I met that bear. He came into my house," he says. "Just walked right in. Ten in the morning. He was interested in the cat food dish. Fortunately, when I yelled he left." 

So, no window-gnawing then. We decided he went from my place to his within hours. Not sure why we all say "he" but we do. 

I spoke again to the mother of the four-year-old girl. They have lived in Nelson for ten years. The bears only started coming down from the mountains two or three years ago when it was so dry. Not before. It is a new bear movement. The cry around town is to preserve the bears and the conservation officers have new protocols to abide by. She tells me her backyard is almost fenced and smiles reassuringly, as though her daughter will be fine. I did not want to mention that bears climb fences. 

Whatever happens next on the bear front, I've now checked out. See you later. I'm all for preserving body and soul, thank you very much. And my car. 

Last night I slept like a lamb. Not a bad somewhere else. A pair of ospreys are circling the shore. 

Not a bad somewhere else. 

Bear and I

 By Maryanna Gabriel 


   Am madly packing. Close encounter. Oh, a wee cub… I’ll snap a picture, I say to myself and move slightly closer. So cute. Where's his mother, by the way?

 He charged. A beeline right for me.

"Where's my hotdog..."

   Human. Food. Like he was starving, and I'm going to hand him a free lunch. Maybe a hot dog in a nice bun. Startled, I duck behind the shrubberies and back up. I have a ground floor unit and I make it to the door and close it firmly behind me. He follows me and stands on his hind legs as I watch him through the window.

    I was worried about the four-year-old girl, a tiny thing who plays next door and after some time, when I thought when he had moved on, I brave the driveway, and leave a warning note on their door.



   Last night, he banged alongside my bedroom window. No more, Ms. Nice, it's my wall. Bug off. I decide it's time I scare him off. I flash the outdoor light and bang the front door as loudly as I can, a sure-fire technique. But no. Not so much. In his mind? Hotdogs. Maybe I look like one. I should check the mirror. 

   As before, he raced right to me, stood on his legs, and clawed at the front door while I quickly move inside. I peer at him through the side window. He sidles to same window and looks in as his little paw claws are poised against the glass. Gosh the claws are long. 

We were a foot apart...

That’s when he bares his little cub teeth and gnaws on the glass. Gnaws on the glass? I jerk myself out of his, now not-so- cute, line of vision.

   I’ve been thinking. He runs faster than I do.

   Conservation officer. First thing Monday morning.  

On Leaving Nelson

 By Maryanna Gabriel

Ferry to Harrop and Procter.

Church in Procter.

 
















  The ferry to Procter, a little community accessible by boat and only a few miles northward, is impressive. It makes the 180 meter crossing 24/7. Procter is a pretty place that used to be the epicenter for the paddlewheelers. Many of the buildings are turn of the century. 

   I’m happy to report that I am over halfway through my first draft. When it comes to writing, any distraction will do, and so I write in two-hour blocks, dominated by Nelson’s tooney-gobbling parking meters. The ticketing officers are most enthusiastic. Speaking of which, bylaw enforcement was on the street immediately the drug laws in British Columbia changed a short while ago. Now those that wish drugs wait on a lawn by the clinic below where I live and where heroin and meth are dispensed.

   It's just a little strange I can get a free hit of heroin should I choose, but if I want a doctor appointment I have to wait in the street outside a different clinic, enter one person at a time, Saturdays only, between the hours of 10 and 2, no advance appointments taken. If I don’t like this arrangement I am to contact my governing representative. There is a four-year waiting list in Nelson for a doctor.

   Medical system aside, as I leave this beautiful geography, there is much I will miss. The friendliness of the people; everyone says hi - even when they pass from behind. And they say there are more restaurants per capita of anywhere with the exception of San Francisco. The lovely Victorian architecture of the businesses is impressively maintained. The same may be said of the gracious homes with streets lined by enormous maple trees as I gawk at balustrades and porches of yesteryear and negotiate the undulating hillsides. My thanks goes to this special place and part of my heart will always remain. JK Rowling may have had Edinburgh for Harry Potter, but I had Nelson.

   I am forgetting how busy things are in the summer. I must have gotten the last room between here and Vancouver, but I did I luck out. Tally ho, and see you in the next chapter. 

SS Moyie In Kaslo

Shallow drafts made it easy to come close to shore. 

 By Maryanna Gabriel 

Given it is summer, the SS Moyie, a paddlewheerler that is located in Kaslo, BC,  is open. As a frequent flyer, BC-Ferry-person, it's fun to see how it all was in the year 1898. My friend and I went aboard. 

SS Moyie in Kaslo, BC commissioned by CPR Railway 1898.

Definitely more elegant than modern conveyances. What we loved the most was the Ladies Salon, a lacey wonder with touches of violet. Why? Not only was it a more gracious era, the times were affluent given Nelson and Kaslo had struck gold and it was the highway system for the towns, along this deep and beautiful waterway flanked by snow-capped mountains. It would chug along with two men feeding a huge boiler with masses of coal.
If one wanted to rent a sleeper cabin it was three dollars a night which included meals. There is even a smoking room with spittoons -  an acceptable practice. 

Pretty salon. A lacy violet wonder. Ladies only.

Smoking room with spittons. A nice feature.
The display case features antique rubbish that
passengers shoved down the window sills. 

Private birth for three dollars a night. 

At the very top of the ship was the wheelhouse. The ship's whistle has a nice breathy sound. There is a story about the whistle. The SS Moyie made her final voyage in 1957.  When it was docked in Proctor, it was vandalized. The whistle was stolen. Then in the 1960s the whistle was donated to the Nelson Museum and Archives. There is a story the whistle was "found" in the Nelson shipyards. Winston Barclay, a machinist for the CPR was instrumental in its restoration. 

The ships whistle. For a small donation one can make it sound. 

The wheelhouse. The wheel turns. 

Archival photo of the wheelhouse. 

After a good wander around Kaslo, my friend has departed. Soon so must I.
There is much I will miss about this area... it has been wonderful to explore. 

Toodling Along On Car 23

 By Maryanna Gabriel

Not a good day. Source: Nelson Archives

Recently, a friend and I got to toodling about town. Quite literally, we tooted our way along the lake side of Nelson on Car 23.

Nelson was the smallest city in Canada, to have the smallest tram system "in the British Empire", from 1899 to 1939. Trolley car 23 was built in Cleveland, Ohio. When times changed the tram became alternately: a gift shop, a tool shed, and a dog kennel.

In 1982 it was donated to Selkirk College where The Nelson Electric Tramway Society and the college restored it with fresh paint, metal sheeting, the replaced floor beams and roof. 

It really is the cutest thing, and Nelsonites are rightly proud of it. Why are trains so much fun?

Source: Nelson Archives

One Day The Nelson Streetcar...

 By Maryanna Gabriel


I have lived long enough to tell this exciting tale. I like to walk by the lake in Nelson.

There are ducks with goslings, and grassy parks where tournaments are held. No hotdogs, though. One feature of the lake is a revived Nelson streetcar that folks can ride.

One day, I stopped beside the track as the tram approached, hoping to get a picture. The streetcar slowed.

A pick-up truck was parked, a big old thing, and was extended so far past the curb the conductor was worried he would hit it.  

He brought the streetcar to a halt. I cleared my throat and hollered. "You have clearance."

The conductor looked at me doubtfully and disembarked. 

He had been madly ringing his bell in the hopes of attracting the owner of the truck but to no avail. He and his running mate eyeballed the clearance.

They decided they would try. Together they inched the streetcar past the truck. They were sucessful and the passengers cheered. And we all went on our merry way and lived happily ever after.