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Feb. 6, 2010 - for M.H.
It was different there- sort of a world apart. The people that lived there, as with the native residents of anywhere, wouldn’t feel that as much, wouldn’t fully grasp the difference, nor was the difference overly pronounced. It was to the north, as often quirky places are. A few kilometres before it, the busier world seemed to peter out like a dull and dirty flame, a candle that couldn’t hold its breadth against the vastness of the rural sky, against the coming winds from across ancient fields and ponds. There were two long roads that went down and down to the beginnings of the town, and if you didn’t know you were embarking on a new trip before, you did after travelling those roads. Gone were much of the boulevards and curbs taken for granted by regular urban sprawl and the modern all too secular and secretly decadent strip plazas and box stores. That place, that ruralish place, could be seen from the last parking lot before it, across a marsh land,- and sometimes a man in a car, or a man in a truck, would park there, standing outside, surveying the land- the long land that sprawled upwards. There were some big rocks at the beginning, and if one waited a while, there would usually be a pair of hawks hovering around, hunting, and gliding too against what always seemed to be an overcast sky. There was a small hut or makeshift shack in the distance,- and like many fields, like in many places, if you took a few steps into the land it was either too rocky, too wet, or somehow altogether unwelcoming- unlike how it looked- which was innocent and calm if a bit foreboding. It was a good foil there, by the truck cab, or the car, near a shipping and receiving dock, - the last stop of the industrialized world staring out at the first small town- not yet fighting or even quarrelling with one another- but these two places- looking upon one another- well moreso the asphalt place looking on at the stillness of the marshes. There were a lot of crows there for some reason- and the man that stopped there looked curiously at them- saying in his mind sometimes- Go away crow- fly away crow- I have no quarrel with you- no quarrel with you crow. At the same time, down in the streets that meandered further there were a series of smaller streets. There was a frozen pond, and around the pond in certain places was where the woman’s father would sometimes plant trees, trees he hoped would come to fruition under the sun and rain and good air. Her parents were a good representation of the place- kind, conscious, even artistic. There was skating on the pond, but it had gotten closed off by a fence. Her father had skated there for years, and so he, with as much care as he could, disassembled part of the fence, part of its latching system- so that skating access could be gained. It wasn’t an act of defiance, and certainly not an act of destruction or with any negative connotations, - it was just the just thing to do- what had to be done. Out there the woman skated- with rosy cheeks and enjoying the fresh air. She had returned home from schooling and lived in a room above the garage. There she had her notebooks and the things that interested her which were many and varied. There were clothes, scarves, pastel and brightly coloured sweaters that had tight sleeves and good oversized buttons. The town was a world unto itself, by itself, and her room above the garage was a world the same way. Often she ventured out, - for work, to go to the cities, - and to travel- sometimes even to other countries. And other times she looked out from her window at the greyest of days- the most overcast of days, often seeing the hawks hunting or the crows busy with their adventure.
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