David Boyd – No footprints in the snow

I write this from my son’s living room, high in the east-end hills of St. John’s, overlooking the bustling streets of Newfoundland’s capital city, and I think — yesterday I spent my day repairing Father’s old fishing premises, now mine, in a small fishing village in Notre Dame Bay — a world far removed from the consciousness of the decision-makers in the upper chambers of the Confederation Building, visible now through the early morning mist. And I think, I think as I watch my grandkids absorbed in their devices, of my own childhood in that small fishing village — a place I will not name because it could be any of hundreds of outport communities — of the freedoms we enjoyed and the idyllic childhood we shared with our parents in the fishing boats and stages of our youth. >click to read< 13:30