Why am I thinking of Ottawa in the seventies?


Why am I thinking of Ottawa in the seventies?

The French Quarter: a night club, ringing with jazz that future generations would find only on vinyl; a second-story balcony from where I gazed through the lace of elder trees onto a sidewalk show of possibilities; the face of a young man with dark, mischievous eyes.

Canada was wild in the early seventies. I had just hitchhiked from Victoria, a five day trek that included a Cadillac, a Volkswagen bus and a hop on a freight train between bum-fuck, Ontario to the slag-land of Sudbury. We made it to Ottawa at midnight. It was endless summer; the scent of cleome and roses floated on a breeze of silk.

I can smell them now, the flowers of before; I can feel that satin breeze on my aged Portland skin. A vignette from time.



About Mollie Hunt

I am the crazy cat lady, animal shelter volunteer, Trekkie, and mystery writer. I live in the rainy Pacific Northwest and will watch any TV show or movie filmed here. Even though I am of a goodly age (sixty-something) I go to Star Trek conventions in costume and am not afraid to be by myself. I enjoy my life in the cat lane. Words to live by: Spay and neuter; Live long and prosper; Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.
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