I'm 59 years old and live in New Brunswick, Canada. Writing has always been a passion of mine, if a somewhat unfulfilled one. My postings are excerpts from a collection of memories I am currently writing just for the heck of it.

Though I now live in New Brunswick I am A Nova Scotian, specifically a Haligonion, born and bred. I have traveled across this country twice by train and been in every major city except Regina.

Though far from perfect, I believe this to be the very best country in the world in which to live, and for quality of life, the Maritimes is the best of the best. As to the maritimes I believe Halifax to be the best place of all.

This is all relative and in no way reduces in stature cities like Vancouver or Toronto or Fredericton or any other. It's simply reflects my preference.

The writing gene looms in my family as my older brother has been an accomplished journalist all of his life as is his wife. Two of my daughters are excellent writers one of prose one of poetry. All of the above are much more adept at the vocation than I. But i love it anyway.

My passion is ...

at the moment , writing

I know too much about ...

insignificant things and not enough about what is truly important

My parents always told me ...

Take responsibility for my actions.

My childhood ambition ...

to remain so

My favorite memory ...

Listening to my dad tell stories/the birth of my childern

Why I write ...

to express my sense of wonder

What I am reading/watching/listening to ...

reading "The elegant Universe" by Brian Greene, watching "Law & order", Listening to classic Rock

My first job ...

Delivering beer for a bottle exchange and trucking company

My best moment ...

Listen to my reading of one of my poems on CBC radio, -my 100 seconds of fame.

My inspiration ...

My Children

Creative Writing > Essays Essays: Childhood

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"The Sword of Towgo"

My heart was pounding as I ran up my drive way. I was only 10 years old and somewhat short which meant I wasn't the fastest runner on the block. But today my little legs were a blur as I raced up the back steps and burst into the Kitchen, "Fire!" I hollered. "The woods are on Fire!"

In the kitchen my mother was in throes of baking bread. It seemed to me, mum was always either growing things or cooking things, and occasion building things mostly out of the endless granite rocks found almost anywhere around our property. My father had built our house just after ...

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