Saturday 20 October 2012
op/ed-amanda todd,teachers privacy,texas cheerleaders and some other casually related issues.
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Thursday 18 October 2012
memoir writers homework-summer
Unlike many people,summer is not my favorite time of year.I much oerfered the cooler weather of spring and fall to the heat of mid-summer,though I always did like getting the break from school.
We spent summers at a cottage on the Northumberland Strait in Nova Scotia.Actually,just before we left,my mother would make strawberry jam from berries we picked,and that was a wonderful time.Summer really was a sucession of berries.First strawberries,then later raspberries from a thorn patch just a short walk from our cottage,then,in mid August,blueberries,from the fields around Springhill.Blueberry pie,with a cold,nearly frozen glass of milk might well have been my favorite thing about summer.
Summer really began with a trip to the town of Pugwash for Canada Day,where they had a gathering of the clans.There were dancers and bagpipes,which my father would never miss.I perfered to sneak away and go down to the harbour and watch the freighters being loaded with logs,or salt from the nearby mine.
Summer always ended with a corn boil,usually on the week end before Labour Day.Sometimes someone would bring a fiddle,and we would listen to the music and eat,marshmallows,hot dogs and,of course,corn on the cob.
In between the beginning of summer and the end,there were endless hours of swimming,and we usually endured at least one hurricane during which everyone huddled inside and we would light the wood stove and make lot of popcorn.
In mid August,there were meteor showers and usually I would lay down on the front seat of the car and watch as the skies were filled with luminous streaks.I would tune into radio stations from far away places too.Stations we could never get during the day.I loved this time and usually drifted off to sleep thinking big thoughts about the universe.By dawn I was usually awakened by the sounds of raccoons or porcupines forageing in our yard.I think those were,and still are my favorite days of summer.
By the time September came I was ready for school,and,regardless of what I told anyone at the time,I was looking forward to going back,and to the turning of the leaves and the coming of cooler,frosty mornings.
We spent summers at a cottage on the Northumberland Strait in Nova Scotia.Actually,just before we left,my mother would make strawberry jam from berries we picked,and that was a wonderful time.Summer really was a sucession of berries.First strawberries,then later raspberries from a thorn patch just a short walk from our cottage,then,in mid August,blueberries,from the fields around Springhill.Blueberry pie,with a cold,nearly frozen glass of milk might well have been my favorite thing about summer.
Summer really began with a trip to the town of Pugwash for Canada Day,where they had a gathering of the clans.There were dancers and bagpipes,which my father would never miss.I perfered to sneak away and go down to the harbour and watch the freighters being loaded with logs,or salt from the nearby mine.
Summer always ended with a corn boil,usually on the week end before Labour Day.Sometimes someone would bring a fiddle,and we would listen to the music and eat,marshmallows,hot dogs and,of course,corn on the cob.
In between the beginning of summer and the end,there were endless hours of swimming,and we usually endured at least one hurricane during which everyone huddled inside and we would light the wood stove and make lot of popcorn.
In mid August,there were meteor showers and usually I would lay down on the front seat of the car and watch as the skies were filled with luminous streaks.I would tune into radio stations from far away places too.Stations we could never get during the day.I loved this time and usually drifted off to sleep thinking big thoughts about the universe.By dawn I was usually awakened by the sounds of raccoons or porcupines forageing in our yard.I think those were,and still are my favorite days of summer.
By the time September came I was ready for school,and,regardless of what I told anyone at the time,I was looking forward to going back,and to the turning of the leaves and the coming of cooler,frosty mornings.
Wednesday 17 October 2012
memoir chapter II-continued.
Just before dinner time,all of the machines would come to a rest.The hammers and saws would stop.All of the men,the "monkeys"would gather up their lunch boxes and monkey hats,and walk or drive away,leaving our neighbourhood very quiet.All of the men had black lunch pails,and I always wondered what could possibly be in them,as we ate our own lunch inside.At that age,I really wanted to eat out of a lunch pail like the monkeys.
There were not so many people living in our neighbourhood as there are today,so when construction stopped for the day it was an almost silent place.Lots of the houses were still unfinished,without famlies living in them,so there did not seem to be many children around.And because all the streets were under construction,hardly anyone used the neighbourhood as a short cut,like they would later.It was summer time,and sometimes,in the evening,my father would take us out walking.On those occasions,we would walk up and down the new streets,past unfinished houses and open excavations,and we would walk right up to some of the equipment that was left parked on the road.There were lots of bull dozers and graders and even the big shovel used to dig trenches for the sewers and curbs.They were completely different sorts of things when they sat still.They were not really safe to play around,but we could get right up close and look at them,and one or two times my father would boost me up onto the seat of one of the bull dozers.He told us never to climb on the equipment when he wasn't there,and for the most part I complied.
But then there was the tar truck.It got parked at night too,but we never went near it.Nobody wanted to go near that thing ever,so it seemed.No one but me so it seemed.When went out walking,my father would steer well clear of it.It really was dirty,smeared with oil and big gobs of tar,then coated in dust and mud from driving around on the unfinished roads all day.And,of course it absolutely stunk.My parents wondered why someone couldn't just take it home at night,but I suppose that no one really wanted it parked in their driveway either.And there wasn't much danger of anyone stealing it either.It was an old looking truck,a very unique looking contraption even in those days.It never moved very fast,and I think it was because it couldn't.Not much point in stealing it if you cant drive away quickly and I suppose theives didn't like the way it reeked any more than anyone else did.But,because I could never get near it,of course,I wanted to really badly.
After the tar truck had passed,usually much later,we could walk up to the street and see what it was the truck had done.When it went by,it oozed wet,hot and very sticky tar from a pipe that ran across the back of the truck.You could see it,and you could certainly smell it.I could tell that it was very hot because stem would rise from the road for a few minutes each time it passed.And so I knew it was dangerous and that I shouldn't go near it.
But eventually I got my chance to get closer to the tar truck.I remember it as a wonderful,kind of storybook experiance,a delightful taste of forbidden fruit.My mother and father both worked at the time,so some of my mothers family had come down from Canterbury.My grandmother was there for some time,and so was Aunt Ruby,my mothers sister.My father of course still worked up north.On this particular day,both were away working at noon.I recall my grandmother standing at the back door that day telling me to wave to my mother as she left for work.We would stand at the door and wait for her to return too,and it seemed to me there were a lot of days when we did this,though really there could not have been so many.
Sometimes if it rained,the equipment would shut down early,and thats what happened on the day I found the tar.It had been a very warm day and both my sister and I were outside in the back yard.Sometime about mid way through the afternoon,the truck crept up Crandall Street,leaving tar behind it.And,right after it had passed it began to rain.Not hard,just a gentle summer shower.I don't even think we came inside.But by the time the shower had passed none of the machinery was still running and none of the monkeys were still around.But that tar truck was very nearby.So I slipped through our neighbours yard to the edge of Crandall Street.It was all tar and water,and because of the cool rain,it was a bit foggy right over the street.And there was water standing in the little potholes.My sister was right at my side and I just couldn't resist the tar.At first I just stuck one foot down off the edge of the road.Really the road had no edge.The grass just ended and the dirt began.If I just put one foot out,I reasoned,it wouldn't really be like playing on the road.And so I did.The tar was wet and warm,but,at the same time the rain water was cool and there was no danger of burning myself.It really was a wonderful sensation on my feet,except of course that it smelled awful.I didn't mind the stickiness.It was a sensation,a texture that I wasn't reall familiar with.And I couldn't really understand what the fog was either or why it disappeared when we walked in it.There was just something magical about the road that day.And so I stepped out into the road,urging my little sister to follow.She did,but only reluctantly.Before I knew it I was out in the middle of the road,started for where the old tar truck was parked.And just a moment after that,I saw Aunt Ruby,coming through the back yard on the run,and we were quickly herded back toward the house.She washed the sticky black mess off our feet with the garden hose and I'm surprised we didn't get a spanking for our misadventure.We may have,but thats not the way I recall it at all.To me it seemed like one of the most wonderful adventures of my whole childhood.
My mother,and sometimes my father,or even other adults would sometimes read to us when we were very small.Especially at bedtime.One of the stories I recall was about a fox that kept trying to catch a rabbit,without sucess.So he made something called a tarbaby,that he put out in the road,and along came the rabbit,who touched the tarbaby and thus got stuck.I don't recall the whole of the story,but from what I do recall,it turned out well in the end.So.for a while,I thought of myself as a tarbaby,whatever a tarbaby actually was.
There were not so many people living in our neighbourhood as there are today,so when construction stopped for the day it was an almost silent place.Lots of the houses were still unfinished,without famlies living in them,so there did not seem to be many children around.And because all the streets were under construction,hardly anyone used the neighbourhood as a short cut,like they would later.It was summer time,and sometimes,in the evening,my father would take us out walking.On those occasions,we would walk up and down the new streets,past unfinished houses and open excavations,and we would walk right up to some of the equipment that was left parked on the road.There were lots of bull dozers and graders and even the big shovel used to dig trenches for the sewers and curbs.They were completely different sorts of things when they sat still.They were not really safe to play around,but we could get right up close and look at them,and one or two times my father would boost me up onto the seat of one of the bull dozers.He told us never to climb on the equipment when he wasn't there,and for the most part I complied.
But then there was the tar truck.It got parked at night too,but we never went near it.Nobody wanted to go near that thing ever,so it seemed.No one but me so it seemed.When went out walking,my father would steer well clear of it.It really was dirty,smeared with oil and big gobs of tar,then coated in dust and mud from driving around on the unfinished roads all day.And,of course it absolutely stunk.My parents wondered why someone couldn't just take it home at night,but I suppose that no one really wanted it parked in their driveway either.And there wasn't much danger of anyone stealing it either.It was an old looking truck,a very unique looking contraption even in those days.It never moved very fast,and I think it was because it couldn't.Not much point in stealing it if you cant drive away quickly and I suppose theives didn't like the way it reeked any more than anyone else did.But,because I could never get near it,of course,I wanted to really badly.
After the tar truck had passed,usually much later,we could walk up to the street and see what it was the truck had done.When it went by,it oozed wet,hot and very sticky tar from a pipe that ran across the back of the truck.You could see it,and you could certainly smell it.I could tell that it was very hot because stem would rise from the road for a few minutes each time it passed.And so I knew it was dangerous and that I shouldn't go near it.
But eventually I got my chance to get closer to the tar truck.I remember it as a wonderful,kind of storybook experiance,a delightful taste of forbidden fruit.My mother and father both worked at the time,so some of my mothers family had come down from Canterbury.My grandmother was there for some time,and so was Aunt Ruby,my mothers sister.My father of course still worked up north.On this particular day,both were away working at noon.I recall my grandmother standing at the back door that day telling me to wave to my mother as she left for work.We would stand at the door and wait for her to return too,and it seemed to me there were a lot of days when we did this,though really there could not have been so many.
Sometimes if it rained,the equipment would shut down early,and thats what happened on the day I found the tar.It had been a very warm day and both my sister and I were outside in the back yard.Sometime about mid way through the afternoon,the truck crept up Crandall Street,leaving tar behind it.And,right after it had passed it began to rain.Not hard,just a gentle summer shower.I don't even think we came inside.But by the time the shower had passed none of the machinery was still running and none of the monkeys were still around.But that tar truck was very nearby.So I slipped through our neighbours yard to the edge of Crandall Street.It was all tar and water,and because of the cool rain,it was a bit foggy right over the street.And there was water standing in the little potholes.My sister was right at my side and I just couldn't resist the tar.At first I just stuck one foot down off the edge of the road.Really the road had no edge.The grass just ended and the dirt began.If I just put one foot out,I reasoned,it wouldn't really be like playing on the road.And so I did.The tar was wet and warm,but,at the same time the rain water was cool and there was no danger of burning myself.It really was a wonderful sensation on my feet,except of course that it smelled awful.I didn't mind the stickiness.It was a sensation,a texture that I wasn't reall familiar with.And I couldn't really understand what the fog was either or why it disappeared when we walked in it.There was just something magical about the road that day.And so I stepped out into the road,urging my little sister to follow.She did,but only reluctantly.Before I knew it I was out in the middle of the road,started for where the old tar truck was parked.And just a moment after that,I saw Aunt Ruby,coming through the back yard on the run,and we were quickly herded back toward the house.She washed the sticky black mess off our feet with the garden hose and I'm surprised we didn't get a spanking for our misadventure.We may have,but thats not the way I recall it at all.To me it seemed like one of the most wonderful adventures of my whole childhood.
My mother,and sometimes my father,or even other adults would sometimes read to us when we were very small.Especially at bedtime.One of the stories I recall was about a fox that kept trying to catch a rabbit,without sucess.So he made something called a tarbaby,that he put out in the road,and along came the rabbit,who touched the tarbaby and thus got stuck.I don't recall the whole of the story,but from what I do recall,it turned out well in the end.So.for a while,I thought of myself as a tarbaby,whatever a tarbaby actually was.
Sunday 14 October 2012
memoir chapter II -continued
Moncton,then as now had some busy streets.Main Street,of course,which ran through town just up from the Pedicodiac River and crossed the whole city from east to west,more or less.St.George Street which did the same.Downtown,such as it was then was located along Main Street between King and Highfield Streets.It was a vibrant downtown,though small enough to walk from end to end in just a few minutes.Back then,it was not nearly as impressive as it is today.there were no real high rises.The highest buildings were the churches near Church and Queen Streets.The busiest stores were Eatons,on one side of the subway,and Woolworths on the other side.The busiest restaurant then would likely have been The Palace Grill.
St.George Street had a busy section too,between Highfield and High Streets.It ran from east to west,more or less parallel to Main Street.Out in the west end it was very wide and passed through an industrial area.
Mountain Road was the other main thoroughfare,maybe the busiest street in all of town.But again,there was not nearly as much in the way of development along this busy street.Of course,we could not go anywhere near Mountain Road,much less across it.Our street,and for all intents and purposes,our world ended where Mountain Road crossed just three blocks down.They might well have put up a sign saying"beyond here there be dragons."The Kmart was not even there then so across the street was really nothing but wilderness.Mountain Road started out on the east side of town,but had bent around to the north by the time it passed our street,on it's way,eventually where it turned into Route 126,just past Magnetic Hill.Anyplace we went that took us beyond Mountain Road involved a trip in he car.We didn't even walk to church in those days.
The part of Moncton we moved to was very much a work in progress in 1964.It was not even close to being a finished neighborhood.All the houses that are there now were on our street then,plus one or two that are gone now,down by the corner of Mountain Road.But the rest of our area was really like one giant construction area,and construction areas back then were never fenced in.Most of the streets branching off Crandall Street had dozens of houses still under construction.Birchmount Street and Ayre Avenue did not even exist at that point,nor did many of the streets that were beyond Lorne Street.Between there and Killiam Drive was woods for the most part,though there were walking paths through in a few places.And,to the best of my memory,our street was the only one that was paved.All of the others were still dirt,filled with pot holes,and usually wet enough to be at least somewhat muddy.We would have been very much on the edge of town in those days and there was still a bit of a country feel to our new home.
Because Moncton,or at least our part of it was still being built,it was an endless source of fascination to small children.My earliest memories are filled with images of the men and machines that came and went all day long.Graders,paving machines,cranes,dump trucks,trucks carrying big panes of glass,cement mixers,and many other kinds of working vehicles. Sometimes fire trucks or police cars would come up our street too.The fire alarms in those days were located in a red box mounted to utility poles.There was one at the corner of Crandall and Snow,and at times,someone would reach up and pull the handle,and three or four fire trucks would come racing up the street with lights flashing and sirens blasting.Nearly every time it would be a false alarm.
Nearly as interesting as all he trucks were the men that drove them,and the others that worked all day with shovels,rakes and picks.As I recall we called those men"monkeys",probably because we saw some of them climbing poles.But,really,when we said "monkeys"we were referring to any of the workingmen,so long as they were wearing hard hats.Those men were monkeys,men without hats were not.I'm not at all certain how we got the idea of calling them monkeys,as I can't recall actually knowing what a monkey looked like when I was three years old.In my mind I think the monkey idea came from my sister,but maybe it was my mother or father that said something to the effect of "they are climbing up that tree just like a monkey."Nevertheless,we called them monkeys and,at some point we expanded on that idea and started calling our hometown Monkeytown.So,whenever went to Canterbury,where my mothers family came from,or Springhill,my fathers hometown,and someone asked us where we were from we would reply with enthusiasm"Monkeytown."The only ones who didn't seem to fall over laughing when we said that were our parents.Everyone else got a big kick out the idea,thinking that we were small and didn't know how to say"Moncton",though that was far easier to pronounce than "Monkeytown."But people never laughed when you just said "Moncton"
Just beyond our backyard an endless parade of construction equipment worked day after day for what seemed like forever.Each morning that it wasn't raining would find me out on the back step,as early as I could manage to get there.I was always distracted at breakfast as I ate cereal and grapefruit,bacon and eggs,as I could often hear the dump trucks arriving.I didn't want to miss a second of it.All of the equipment was bright in color,as were the workers.If I woke early enough,there were lanterns burning at the side of the road,where the workers set them out to mark the trenches they had dug for laying in the curbs.They were ghostly looking at night and in the early morning,and when the first workers arrived,they would spend a while extinguishing them.
They must have used the big shovel to dig trenches for the curbs.For a long time it was parked at the end of Sumner Street,just a short distance from our back step.In the morning I simply had to be on our step before the worker started that machine.I was entranced by the way smoke puffed from it's stack when it was first started.It told me that it would not be long before the other trucks would arrive.All day long they came and they went,bright orange and yellow and emitting sound,not quite a cacophony,not quite a symphony;growls and grinding and roaring.Cement scraping the inside of the drums of the mixers.Gravel sliding from the upraised dump bodies of the trucks.Men shouting,and,I suppose, swearing.Shovels in earth,hammers on metal or on wood.The machines seemed to grow out of the ground,there were so many.A forest of earth movers and a whole gang of monkeys who lived in that forest..And gradually our community came together.
Crandall Street,like all of the other streets was dirt like a country road.It seemed full of holes,each of which would hold a small puddle most of he time.Very few cars would come up Crandall Street.Most of the traffic was construction traffic. Sometimes it would grow dry and get very dusty.Clouds of dust would foul the air and get all over everything.The city had a solution for that though.A dirt,ancient looking old truck,that at one time had been yellow but was covered from end to end in a thick oily film.On the back was a tank filled with tar.This frail looking truck would spend the days driving up and down the dirt roadways.It smelled bad,but it cut down the dust.
St.George Street had a busy section too,between Highfield and High Streets.It ran from east to west,more or less parallel to Main Street.Out in the west end it was very wide and passed through an industrial area.
Mountain Road was the other main thoroughfare,maybe the busiest street in all of town.But again,there was not nearly as much in the way of development along this busy street.Of course,we could not go anywhere near Mountain Road,much less across it.Our street,and for all intents and purposes,our world ended where Mountain Road crossed just three blocks down.They might well have put up a sign saying"beyond here there be dragons."The Kmart was not even there then so across the street was really nothing but wilderness.Mountain Road started out on the east side of town,but had bent around to the north by the time it passed our street,on it's way,eventually where it turned into Route 126,just past Magnetic Hill.Anyplace we went that took us beyond Mountain Road involved a trip in he car.We didn't even walk to church in those days.
The part of Moncton we moved to was very much a work in progress in 1964.It was not even close to being a finished neighborhood.All the houses that are there now were on our street then,plus one or two that are gone now,down by the corner of Mountain Road.But the rest of our area was really like one giant construction area,and construction areas back then were never fenced in.Most of the streets branching off Crandall Street had dozens of houses still under construction.Birchmount Street and Ayre Avenue did not even exist at that point,nor did many of the streets that were beyond Lorne Street.Between there and Killiam Drive was woods for the most part,though there were walking paths through in a few places.And,to the best of my memory,our street was the only one that was paved.All of the others were still dirt,filled with pot holes,and usually wet enough to be at least somewhat muddy.We would have been very much on the edge of town in those days and there was still a bit of a country feel to our new home.
Because Moncton,or at least our part of it was still being built,it was an endless source of fascination to small children.My earliest memories are filled with images of the men and machines that came and went all day long.Graders,paving machines,cranes,dump trucks,trucks carrying big panes of glass,cement mixers,and many other kinds of working vehicles. Sometimes fire trucks or police cars would come up our street too.The fire alarms in those days were located in a red box mounted to utility poles.There was one at the corner of Crandall and Snow,and at times,someone would reach up and pull the handle,and three or four fire trucks would come racing up the street with lights flashing and sirens blasting.Nearly every time it would be a false alarm.
Nearly as interesting as all he trucks were the men that drove them,and the others that worked all day with shovels,rakes and picks.As I recall we called those men"monkeys",probably because we saw some of them climbing poles.But,really,when we said "monkeys"we were referring to any of the workingmen,so long as they were wearing hard hats.Those men were monkeys,men without hats were not.I'm not at all certain how we got the idea of calling them monkeys,as I can't recall actually knowing what a monkey looked like when I was three years old.In my mind I think the monkey idea came from my sister,but maybe it was my mother or father that said something to the effect of "they are climbing up that tree just like a monkey."Nevertheless,we called them monkeys and,at some point we expanded on that idea and started calling our hometown Monkeytown.So,whenever went to Canterbury,where my mothers family came from,or Springhill,my fathers hometown,and someone asked us where we were from we would reply with enthusiasm"Monkeytown."The only ones who didn't seem to fall over laughing when we said that were our parents.Everyone else got a big kick out the idea,thinking that we were small and didn't know how to say"Moncton",though that was far easier to pronounce than "Monkeytown."But people never laughed when you just said "Moncton"
Just beyond our backyard an endless parade of construction equipment worked day after day for what seemed like forever.Each morning that it wasn't raining would find me out on the back step,as early as I could manage to get there.I was always distracted at breakfast as I ate cereal and grapefruit,bacon and eggs,as I could often hear the dump trucks arriving.I didn't want to miss a second of it.All of the equipment was bright in color,as were the workers.If I woke early enough,there were lanterns burning at the side of the road,where the workers set them out to mark the trenches they had dug for laying in the curbs.They were ghostly looking at night and in the early morning,and when the first workers arrived,they would spend a while extinguishing them.
They must have used the big shovel to dig trenches for the curbs.For a long time it was parked at the end of Sumner Street,just a short distance from our back step.In the morning I simply had to be on our step before the worker started that machine.I was entranced by the way smoke puffed from it's stack when it was first started.It told me that it would not be long before the other trucks would arrive.All day long they came and they went,bright orange and yellow and emitting sound,not quite a cacophony,not quite a symphony;growls and grinding and roaring.Cement scraping the inside of the drums of the mixers.Gravel sliding from the upraised dump bodies of the trucks.Men shouting,and,I suppose, swearing.Shovels in earth,hammers on metal or on wood.The machines seemed to grow out of the ground,there were so many.A forest of earth movers and a whole gang of monkeys who lived in that forest..And gradually our community came together.
Crandall Street,like all of the other streets was dirt like a country road.It seemed full of holes,each of which would hold a small puddle most of he time.Very few cars would come up Crandall Street.Most of the traffic was construction traffic. Sometimes it would grow dry and get very dusty.Clouds of dust would foul the air and get all over everything.The city had a solution for that though.A dirt,ancient looking old truck,that at one time had been yellow but was covered from end to end in a thick oily film.On the back was a tank filled with tar.This frail looking truck would spend the days driving up and down the dirt roadways.It smelled bad,but it cut down the dust.
Saturday 13 October 2012
the old house
It is surprising to me just how many pictures of this old house I have.The house is located in Calgary's Victoria Park,just north of the Stampede Grounds.Somehow,it just keeps insisting that it's picture be taken.Partly.I suppose because the area around it is rather bleak and very good for taking early morning photos.And partly,too,because it stands off all alone in a district that has very few houses left.
Of all the many pictures I've taken since returning to Calgary several months ago,this is without doubt my favorite.In many ways it is typical of the reality of Calgary.Victoria Park,as well as The East Village used to be a picture of urban squalor.Now,in a very affluent city,most of the houses are gone,torn down to make way for high end condos.I don't recall if this was the house that caught fire one July first,eight or nine years ago,when someone decided to celebrate our national holiday by setting off fireworks-INSIDE.It may have been the house beside it,no longer standing.
The highrise in the background is said to be the tallest in the downtown core,and it is just the first of many planned for the area,which is also scheduled to see an expansion of the Stampede Grounds.In the meantime,affordable housing for Calgary's poor becomes harder and harder to find,in a market that is driven from the top end.
Of all the many pictures I've taken since returning to Calgary several months ago,this is without doubt my favorite.In many ways it is typical of the reality of Calgary.Victoria Park,as well as The East Village used to be a picture of urban squalor.Now,in a very affluent city,most of the houses are gone,torn down to make way for high end condos.I don't recall if this was the house that caught fire one July first,eight or nine years ago,when someone decided to celebrate our national holiday by setting off fireworks-INSIDE.It may have been the house beside it,no longer standing.
The highrise in the background is said to be the tallest in the downtown core,and it is just the first of many planned for the area,which is also scheduled to see an expansion of the Stampede Grounds.In the meantime,affordable housing for Calgary's poor becomes harder and harder to find,in a market that is driven from the top end.
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