On a cold wet morning in May our ship landed at Halifax. It had been a long and slow passage across the Atlantic. Halifax was a small gray city strung out along the shores of a great harbour. There were rusty clusters of buildings around the dock yards and landing piers full of activity.
I wasn’t looking forward to the long wait for the train to Alberta. I wondered if the West was very far. We would have to spend days here before we left. I could smell the oil from the shipyards and the tang of wet wool from the coats of the other passengers. They were unfamiliar aromas- foreign.
I stood on the rail and then jumped off and weaved my way between the legs of other passengers trying to get a better look. Father picked me up and put me on his shoulders. So this was Canada. People crowded around Father and me as we walked down the gang plank. Some of them were very strangely dressed. I know they weren’t from Poland like us. Father stumbled on the wet passage but recovered his footing before we fell. I could hear fog horns in the distance and seamen directing us towards the processing room.
“Have your documents ready!” We couldn’t speak English but another passenger translated for us. I’d have given anything to be home.
This was one of my favorites, Liz and thoroughly enjoyed revisiting it. Thanks for all you added to my experience during this course. Pat
ReplyDeleteLiz, there is no doubt about it. You can be writing your first historical novel right now. Your writing is natural and fluent and, with your knowledge of history and your fine instincts, the results will be wonderful. I hope you make the time to write.
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