Last week inexorably skidded into Thanksgiving... as it usually does this time of year. Bus travel north meant sharing space with those students who are homesick enough to take advantage of the first long weekend of the school year. They're an ok bunch (except maybe the cartoonishly disgruntled young man with the exceedingly mis-angled baseball hat... Campbellton doesn't have a ghetto, really... it mostly just IS one) and perhaps due to my long-practiced sphere of neutral/negativity (keep you headphones on and your nose in a book) I only had to make a tiny smidgen of small talk.
Campbellton and Matapedia (where my folks live now) insidiously makes me feel nostalgic, what with the pretty leaves and the miniaturization of society within the macro nature of the ...er ...nature. It simply feels like pressure is constantly being released from the geography up into the atmosphere.
The turkey was a chicken this year. No complaints. And I got to wax a floor... something I seldom happen upon in my day to day here.
Back at Backstreet the boxes and crates were waiting.
They are my constant companions.
Thanks for listening.
Your are not at all like the wind, which is cold and damp.
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