I would start a chapter and know exactly what Wol and Weeps - the titular owls - would be getting up to. I remember what was left of the prairies if I rode my bike in the other direction, passing cattle and a little slough on some nameless ranch.Īnd as I nostalgically reread Farley Mowat's Owls in the Family, I found myself remembering the entire story as though I had only read it last week.
I remember riding my bike up the hill, deeper into our community, to get my Mom smokes (back when Canadian neighbourhoods embedded their little strip malls rather than top loading them at the entrance to their communities). I remember a flashlight and my crocheted blanket - the one that sent out sparks in the dark if I rubbed it against my hair - as I read past my bedtime. I remember the orange-gold shag carpet of my bedroom where I sat and read in the evening.
Dalgliesh, like the famous Liverpool footballer and manager, but we always thought of her as Dogleash). Around 34 or 35 years ago, I went into my elementary school library and talked to Mrs. I don't know how true these memories are, but they are my memories, so they are true enough for this.
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