valley.Perhaps he wasn't even all that old,but to us he seemed a wild Methuselah 4 figure,shambling among the underbrush and the tall couchgrass,muttering indecipherable curses or blessings,a prophet who had forgotten his prophesies. Everyone in town knew him,but no one knew him.He lived among us as though only occasionally and momentarily visible.The kids called him Andy Gump,and feared him.Some sought to prove their bravery by tormenting him.They were the medieval bear baiters,and he the lumbering bewildered bear,half blind,only rarely turning to snarl.Everything is to be found in a town like mine.Belson 3,writ small but with the same ink. 10 All of us cast stones in one shape or another.In grade school,among the vulnerable and violet girls we were,the feared and despised were those few older girls from what was charmingly termed "the wrong side of the tracks."Though in talk and tougher in muscle,they were said to be whores already.And may have been,that being about the only profession readily available to them. 11 The dead lived in that place,too.Not only the grandparents who had,in local parlance,"passed on"and who gloomed,bearded or bonneted,from the sepia photographs in old albums,but also the uncles,forever eighteen or nineteen,whose names were carved on the granite family stones in the cemetery,but whose bones lay in France.My own young mother lay in that graveyard,beside other dead of our kin, and when I was ten,my father,too,only forty,left the living town for the dead dwelling on the hill. 12 When I was eighteen,I couldn't wait to get out of that town,away from the prairies.I did not know then that I would carry the land and town all my life within my skull,that they would form the mainspring and source of the writing I was to do, wherever and however far away I might live. 13 This was my territory in the time of my youth,and in a sense my life since then has been an attempt to look at it,to come to terms with it.Stultifying to the mind it certainly could be,and sometimes was,but not to the imagination.It was many things, but it was never dull. 14 The same,I now see,could be said for Canada in general.Why on earth did generations of Canadians pretend to believe this country dull?We knew perfectly well it wasn't.Yet for so long we did not proclaim what we knew.If our upsurge of so-called nationalism seems odd or irrelevant to outsiders,and even to some of our own people (What's all the fuss about?),they might try to understand that for many years we valued ourselves insufficiently,living as we did under the huge shadows of those two dominating figures,Uncle Sam and Britannia.We have only just begun to value ourselves,our land,our abilities.We have only just begun to recognize our legends and to give shape to our myths. 15 There are,God knows,enough aspects to deplore about this country.When I see the killing of our lakes and rivers with industrial wastes,I feel rage and despair.When I see our industries and natural resources increasingly taken over by America,I feel an overwhelming discouragement,especially as I cannot simply say "damn Yankees."It should never be forgotten that it is we ourselves who have sold such a large amount of our birthright for a mess of plastic Progress 6.When I saw the War Measures Act 7valley. Perhaps he wasn’t even all that old, but to us he seemed a wild Methuselah 4 figure, shambling among the underbrush and the tall couchgrass, muttering indecipherable curses or blessings, a prophet who had forgotten his prophesies. Everyone in town knew him, but no one knew him. He lived among us as though only occasionally and momentarily visible. The kids called him Andy Gump, and feared him. Some sought to prove their bravery by tormenting him. They were the medieval bear baiters, and he the lumbering bewildered bear, half blind, only rarely turning to snarl. Everything is to be found in a town like mine. Belson 5 , writ small but with the same ink. 10 All of us cast stones in one shape or another. In grade school, among the vulnerable and violet girls we were, the feared and despised were those few older girls from what was charmingly termed “the wrong side of the tracks.” Though in talk and tougher in muscle, they were said to be whores already. And may have been, that being about the only profession readily available to them. 11 The dead lived in that place, too. Not only the grandparents who had, in local parlance, “passed on” and who gloomed, bearded or bonneted, from the sepia photographs in old albums, but also the uncles, forever eighteen or nineteen, whose names were carved on the granite family stones in the cemetery, but whose bones lay in France. My own young mother lay in that graveyard, beside other dead of our kin, and when I was ten, my father, too, only forty, left the living town for the dead dwelling on the hill. 12 When I was eighteen, I couldn’t wait to get out of that town, away from the prairies. I did not know then that I would carry the land and town all my life within my skull, that they would form the mainspring and source of the writing I was to do, wherever and however far away I might live. 13 This was my territory in the time of my youth, and in a sense my life since then has been an attempt to look at it, to come to terms with it. Stultifying to the mind it certainly could be, and sometimes was, but not to the imagination. It was many things, but it was never dull. 14 The same, I now see, could be said for Canada in general. Why on earth did generations of Canadians pretend to believe this country dull? We knew perfectly well it wasn’t. Yet for so long we did not proclaim what we knew. If our upsurge of so-called nationalism seems odd or irrelevant to outsiders, and even to some of our own people (What’s all the fuss about?), they might try to understand that for many years we valued ourselves insufficiently, living as we did under the huge shadows of those two dominating figures, Uncle Sam and Britannia. We have only just begun to value ourselves, our land, our abilities. We have only just begun to recognize our legends and to give shape to our myths. 15 There are, God knows, enough aspects to deplore about this country. When I see the killing of our lakes and rivers with industrial wastes, I feel rage and despair. When I see our industries and natural resources increasingly taken over by America, I feel an overwhelming discouragement, especially as I cannot simply say “damn Yankees.” It should never be forgotten that it is we ourselves who have sold such a large amount of our birthright for a mess of plastic Progress 6 . When I saw the War Measures Act 7