Greetings! As we approach the cold (sometimes brutally cold) winter months I am excited to begin an inside journey (wood stove heat, the best) doing something I love: writing.
After some serious negotiations with the Ashcroft Journal editor (I asked and she said yes), I will be submitting random writings about nothing in particular. The flavour of the day, or not. My goal is to inform, entertain, even amuse, and elicit a conversation; just have some fun.
On that note, you are welcome to comment or even suggest a topic for me to weigh in on. We may have a back-and-forth, or a one-time shot: it matters not!
During my previous Journal journey I managed to elicit a conversation or two, some of them extended. All I ask is that we keep it civil. We can agree to disagree, but we will respect each other’s thoughts.
So let us begin the second chapter of my journey with the Journal with the story from my first chapter, which began in the early 1990s. It all started with my “loose cannon” dad!
Dad’s submission about the new landfill, located just outside Cache Creek, invoked an angry but valid point of view. In a nutshell, Dad’s point was this: “If you are going to dump garbage in our area keep it out of sight and most certainly off the highway.”
The frequent high winds that swept through the area carried the refuse up to and onto the Trans-Canada. My dad, who often submitted to the Journal, wrote a scathing piece condemning the lack of maintenance. A loyal Ashcroft Journal reader responded with an equally scathing rebuttal of my dad’s position.
And therein began the battle. Dad had unknowingly handed off his writing pen . . . and I had unknowingly accepted it. The epic back-and-forth between Mr. Fowler and myself remains one of my most enjoyable writing adventures.
We never met, but we knew and respected each other. Stormin’ Norman and I differed on the issue, but we shared one thing: passion.
That began a back-and-forth in the Journal for a long while. We rotated weeks. I’d write, Norm responded, and vice versa. It seemed like it went on forever. It was all about one issue: “the dump,” as many called it back in the day. (It is more correctly called a landfill.)
So welcome to your dream come true, or your nightmare, or (most likely) your somewhere in between. Cheers!
Steven Rice is a longtime Spences Bridge resident who owns the Packing House Restaurant and operates the Secret Gardens farm on Highway 8.
