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by underswansea

rce_6709shaft of light

Dropped down to Ray’s today. He told me some stories. He told me about he and my father cutting trail in Kootenay National Park when they were young men, before the Second World War.

He laughed when he recalled having to cut deadfall in the rain, and later being chased down the trail by a cow moose.

My father told me the same stories.

Ray is ninety-eight. They took his drivers licence away a few years ago. Now he drives a scooter.

At minus 20° it has to be plugged in. Ray told me he tries to get to the mail and his groceries when the sun is shining.

We talked for good while. He remembers dates and years. He asked if I remembered old Mr. Fisher. I told him it was before my time, though I wish it wasn’t.

Progress isn’t bad. That’s what Ray says. He has an email address and a flip top cell phone, that he traded in when he couldn’t make heads or tails of the iPhone.

Ray was born in 1918. He has seen a few cold spells, and knows they never last.

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