The heart of Nanaimo
A delightful seaside park downtown Nanaimo is the focal point of this city. It was the first place my late husband brought me to in 2007 after we met. Just a few blocks from his condo, we hung out there all the time, walking along the seawall, listening to buskers, eating raspberry cheesecake ice cream, and attending all kinds of outdoor concerts. We always ran into people we knew.
Memories of park people
Now, fourteen years later, although still a favourite place, a hollow feeling lurks. Sid is gone, as are most of the people we knew at the park. I was surprised to see one lady recently, who has been there all along. She used to sit on a bench, the focus of attention in a circle of men. Once Sid told me she brought egg sandwiches to share, and it was the best egg sandwich he’d ever eaten. Now she can only drive there and enjoy the view from her car. She’s had cancer for over a year, and can’t walk any more.
I remember another lady who passed away several years ago. She used to float through the park in long summery floral gowns, her flowing brunette hair streaming behind. Always happy, sharing cheerful snatches of conversation. As her Alzheimer’s worsened, one evening we found her sitting on a bench holding hands with a man who wasn’t her husband. He told us he’d just got out of prison. He was sitting in the park feeling dejected, when along came this angel. Squeezing his hand, she said, “Wait till you meet my husband! He’s the real angel!” That was the last time we saw her.
A cacophony of music
Weird and wonderful buskers used to sing and play at posts every few feet apart. Wailing Willy is still around, but I haven’t seen him down there lately, thrumming on a guitar and bellowing out songs in his straw hat. He’s famous in Canada and has often travelled around with his wife putting on concerts. Now that the COVID-19 restrictions are easing, I hope the keyboard player, and the trumpet player and his dad, who play oldies return. Once I was sitting on a bench enjoying the keyboard, when the musician remarked to me, “I’m just glad that blasted bagpipe player isn’t up there on the bluff competing with me this evening.” I chuckled inside, but didn’t tell him the bagpipe player was a dear old friend of mine from our teens in Vancouver. I kind of like the bagpipes.
I still walk my dog in this delightful seaside park full of memories. The cool ocean breeze refreshes my spirit. I hope to run into someone I know, or even exchange a few words with someone new. It’s the best!
Now, this is my kind of a book.
The year is 1937; Tansy is an intrepid Appalachian book woman. She has a government-sponsored job delivering books to remote homes by horseback. We readers get to ride along with her, envisioning the people, their homes, and the scenic, if treacherous, journeys. Treacherous in more ways than one. 