Community Chronicles

by Angela Sanford Dear Santa,    It’s been a while since I last wrote—about forty years, give or take—but considering the state of things these days, I figured it might be time to check back in. My wishlist is short this year, though admittedly extremely ambitious. I mean, I’ve been a relatively good person… mostly, so I’m hopeful you can come through on at least one item.    First, I’d love the gift of memory —not the kind that reminds me where I left my keys, but the kind t

by Angela Sanford    As the holiday season kicks into gear, it hit me this year that Christmas isn’t just one experience—there are endless versions of it, far beyond the Hallmark cliches that somehow have taken over every many channels.   Take music, for example. While tuning into the Jimmy Fallon Holiday Seasoning channel on the free version of SiriusXM, I stumbled across The 12 Things I Hate About Christmas. By the second verse, the complaints were escalating faster than fr

by Mary MacDougall At this time of year, nostalgia has a way of settling in—drawing us back to familiar places, old traditions, and the people who shaped our sense of home. A perfect reflection of that feeling is a cherished poem shared by Debbie Weatherhead, written by Mary MacDougall, a long-time resident of West Gore. Though the exact date is unknown, Mary penned it while living in Boston—sometime before 1962—making it a heartfelt glimpse into the longing and love captured

by Anita Benedict   I had written something else for this week, but then a sad tale involving a fly and a deranged orange cat happened. I have been combining cleaning, clearing, organizing and decorating for Christmas.    At least once a year I like to have my house looking like a Hallmark Christmas movie setting. I have nutcrackers everywhere, gnomes and elves greet you as you come in.    I use bureau scarves and other fancy items to make magic and to hide furniture scars

by Angela Sanford Ever watch The Big Bang Theory  and wonder how it is that nary a season actually shows a slice of magnificent cheesecake  - not in any scene, yet the gang eats there regularly? Yes, Leonard is lactose intolerant but no one has ever been shown to eat a single slice.        Flashback to the 80s when four friends, The Golden Girls namely, shared a house together and they were found regularly sharing a slab of cheesecake - so much so that cheesecake is pr

by Angela Sanford As a teacher, coach, and community member, I’m often asked to provide character references — for jobs, awards, scholarships, or volunteer opportunities. It’s a request that can feel both flattering and weighty. After all, a reference is more than just a letter; it’s a reflection of trust, integrity, and perspective.    When I agree to write a reference, I base it on my own direct experience with that person. I speak to what I’ve personally observed — t

by Hattie Dyck From: Riley Marshall and his daughter Colleen Pinkney, Truro, January 2009-01-15     Riley Marshall was one of thousands of teen aged boys who went overseas to serve their country in World War 11. He considers himself one of the lucky ones because, unlike thousands of others, he came home physically unharmed. But, although he doesn’t like to talk about the horrors he witnessed, he does say they left lasting impressions on him and the others who participated.   

by Angela Sanford    It’s fall in Nova Scotia, and there’s a definite change in the air. The leaves have begun to gather at the base of their trees, only a few clinging to the branches — reluctant to let go of the long days of summer, just like myself. As of November 1st, my poppy is pinned to my coat, finally secure with a centre that keeps it from slipping, a small symbol of compassion and gratitude for those who fought for the freedoms we experience.    In schools, the sug

by Raegan Densmore Photo by Raegan Densmore A professor of mine assigned us the task of going to the Art Gallery of Ontario to find certain paintings and to just look at them. Not to snap a quick picture and leave, but to stand there and stare, even if it's for 20 minutes. To let the paintings consume us, and figure out how to make sense of it. What do we see? How does it make us feel? What meaning can we create from it? Coincidentally, I went to the art gallery that sam

by Hattie Dyck copyrighted May 26, 2006 Canada, O Canada, a peacekeeping nation. A country where we honor all creation. A nation under God where we’ve always tried To help our brothers to stem the tide of poverty and illness, to maintain our pride in human rights and promotion of peace world wide. It’s very important to tell our government To maintain our role as a peacekeeping country. To guard against those who would have us kill and injure others against their will. To hav

By Minou Morley Wm. & Felix Morley WWII I come from away. Aside from a four-month placement my son had in Halifax, none of my family has ever lived in Nova Scotia. I am privileged to be the first. I am so very grateful to call this beautiful place home.    Remembrance Day has always evoked a lot of big emotions in me. As someone who generally emotes little, I struggle with how to channel that. So here I unload.    My Dad, William Felix Edmund Morley (b. 1920), served as d

Submitted by Zura Borden This poem was written by Ruel J. Walters, Upper Kennetcook, of the 26th Canadian Battalion, 1916. He sent it to the Hants Journal from the hospital in England and it was shared by the Truro Weekly News.  It was cut from the paper and maintained in a collection  by Mrs. Eveline McLearn. I'm only a Canadian Soldier bearing a Private's name but somehow, out in Flanders I have kept it free from shame. I left my home and friends so dear. I left my broth

This wonderful little poem was written by the late Wilhelmina H.J. Juurlink of Milford Station, Hants County, Nova Scotia. It was first printed in the 1998 June edition of the Upshore - Downshore  magazine which was loaned to me by Hadley Burns, Truro. I then had it published in one of my books. D – Day Remembered By: the late Wilhelmina H. J. Juurlink, Milford Station On June the sixth, nineteen hundred forty – four It was the beginning of the end of the Second World W

by Angela Sanford  I’ve never liked to admit it, but the dark and I have never really gotten along. It’s not the kind of fear that keeps me up at night or makes me need a night-light — it’s the kind that waits quietly, ready to pounce when I least expect it. Much like my friends and family, who seemed to enjoy causing that fear in the first place.    I still remember one fall evening, walking down our driveway on my way to a friend’s house just down the road. On either side

by Raegan Densmore Image By Joshua Dean: https://alternativemovieposters.com/amp/the-silence-of-the-lambs-by-joshua-dean/ Note: Despite this being a horror story, I do not discuss anything horrific or describe any graphic details.  In the spirit of the Halloween season, I was compelled to read and watch Thomas Harris’ The Silence of the Lambs. I was inspired to write this by my nonstop blabbering of how I felt about the movie, which I watched almost immediately after finish

by Myra Matthews    The final straw with Roscoe, my dad, was when Judy Hines Beach and I had the brain wave to set the time back on his precious 80-year-old clock which sat on a shelf high above the kitchen table. You see, the number one rule for us kids was to NEVER touch that old clock.      All summer long, Judy and I, who were 12 and 13 at the time, had blasted through every curfew we were given and we had to listen to Roscoe reading us the riot act until he'd had enough

by Angela Sanford There are places from my past that hold fond memories, memories so dear that my thoughts can easily play back the still frames and short movies that were once live action. I know that one day these special places may exist only within me as the landscape changes and this particular place is on the endangered list. It is not a house or even a building, not a road nor a bank along my favourite beach. It is a tree – a prominent weeping willow.    When I firs

by Hattie Dyck Continued From: Barbara Simms, Crowe’s Mills    Many years earlier, In the fall of 1973 Barb and Ed rented the main floor apartment of an old house in Debert. This house is said to have been an Inn during World War 11 when Debert was a booming little village. They had a puppy named Boots who would act really strange sometimes. She would start to run into the living room, then stop dead in her tracks, staring up high at the air in the middle of the room. She wou

by Angela Sanford    I’m a decent swimmer. I love the water—the feel of waves rolling onto a beach, the sand between my toes, the salt on...

by Hattie Dyck An excerpt from Potpourri of Folk Lore , published in 2009. From: Barbara Simms, Crowe’s Mills    John Ward loved...