#fairview slopes

[rickchung]

Smoke 2 Snack x Fairview Slopes.

Kitsilano’s snack shop has opened a premium adults-only location also focused on imported treats on West Broadway in the Cambie Village area. Their selection of specialty foods, chips, cookies, chocolates, candy, and sodas offers some wild flavours aiming to satisfy some pretty specific cravings or munchies.

[pasttensevancouver]

Burnt houses, 1000 block West 7th Avenue, Wednesday 14 July 1971

The Fairview Slopes area used to be filled with old wooden houses like this. At the time, a lot of them were being bought up and replaced with low-rise apartment buildings. A number of mysterious fires helped clear the way.

Source: Photo by Ernie H Reksten, City of Vancouver Archives #2010-006.194

[annapolisrose]

Fairview slopes, Vancouver

[handeaux]

Sixteen Curious Facts About Cincinnati’s Lost Inclines

Most Cincinnatians know our hilly city once boasted five inclines: Price Hill, Fairview, Bellevue, Mount Auburn and Mount Adams. Here are some lesser-known facts:

Cincinnati Stole The Idea From Pittsburgh

Our upstream neighbor installed its first inclined railway in 1864. Although that first incline carried nothing but coal for several years, it was soon adapted to passenger service. Pittsburgh had three functional inclines before Cincinnati’s first went into operation. Pittsburgh still has two functioning inclines. The Monongahela Incline is 150 years old this year.

The Cincinnati Incline Era Lasted Nearly 76 Years

From 12 May 1872, when the Mount Auburn Incline first went into service, until the last bus debarked from the Mount Adams Incline on 16 April 1948, more than three-quarters of a century had passed. By the time the inclines ceased running, years of deferred maintenance had rendered them unsafe and in need of expensive renovation. Entranced by the automobile, Cincinnati demurred, to our historic loss.

Early Incline Trucks Had Names

The platforms that carried passengers, streetcars and wagons up and down the inclined planes were known as “trucks.” On the Mount Adams and Price Hill inclines, at least, the trucks had names. The Mount Adams trucks were named for financier Nicholas Longworth and Martin Baum, an early Cincinnati mayor. The Price Hill trucks were named after owner William Price’s daughters, “Highland Mary” and “Lily of the Valley.”

Cincinnati’s Inclines Suffered Only One Fatal Accident

They called it the Mt. Auburn Horror, the day when the passenger car of the city's first incline rocketed downhill and shattered into flinders at the top of Main Street, ending six lives. It was noon on 15 Oct 1889, and the busy incline had just carried nine passengers to the top of the hill. The steam-powered lift engine squealed as the car neared the summit and the operator panicked as the brakes failed. He pulled on the lever with all his might but the car slammed into the structure at the top of the hill. The cables snapped and the car shot downhill in free fall. At bottom, the car crashed through a pair of wrought iron gates with such violence that the roof was sent sailing down the street and bodies bounced in every direction. Of the nine passengers, six died of horrible injuries. The incline never recovered. Although it resumed service five months later, passengers sought alternative routes and the Mount Auburn incline closed in 1898.

Manure Saved A man’s Life In One Incline Wreck

The Price Hill Incline was really two separate funiculars – one for passengers and one for freight. On 2 October 1906, Green Township farm boy Joe Strassel and his two-horse wagon got on at State Street, followed by a Price Hill coal merchant, Edward Brisker, with a two-horse wagon filled with sand. The cable snapped when the incline truck was six feet from the summit. The car plummeted earthward. Strassel somersaulted into his load of manure, while Brisker dove into his pile of sand. Miraculously, both survived the 800 foot fall. Unfortunately, the four horses had to be shot.

The Inclines Were Loud, Really Loud

The Bellevue Incline was located about 150 feet west of the old University of Cincinnati building on McMicken Street. Even at that distance, the incline trucks were so loud that professors had to pause their lectures every ten minutes or so while noisy cars rattled up and down the slope.

UC’s Medical Students Got Revenge On The Noisy Incline

When UC’s medical college occupied the old building next to the Bellevue Incline students would occasionally toss fingers and toes from cadavers they were dissecting onto the passing incline cars.

There’s A Detailed Scale Model Of The Mount Adams Incline

Just before the Mount Adams Incline was demolished, the late Charles H. Lambert took exacting measurements and built a fully functional scale model in his basement. Lambert’s model has been displayed at the John Hauck House, Loveland Historical Museum and other venues.

Cincinnati’s Inclines Led To Hilltop Resorts

Only the unsung Fairview Incline lacked a resort at its upper terminus. The Bellevue Incline ran up to Bellevue House, the Mount Auburn Incline to the Lookout House, the Mount Adams Incline to the Highland House and the Price Hill Incline to the Price Hill House.

One Hilltop Resort Refused To Serve Alcohol

To build his incline, William Price borrowed money from his father, Rees Price (for whom Price Hill is named). Father Price was a teetotaler and a vegetarian – except for apples, because God forbade Adam and Eve to eat them. To keep Dad happy, Price the younger maintained a dry house, leading a saloon at the bottom of the incline to rename itself as the Last Chance Saloon. Price Hill earned the nickname “Buttermilk Mountain.”

The Incline Resorts Used All Sorts Of Gimmicks To Attract Customers

Cincinnati’s hilltop resorts were huge, each able to entertain thousands of customers at a time. Some went high-class, with symphonic concerts. Others relied on fireworks and manned balloon launches. In 1877, the Lookout House imported a beluga whale from Labrador. The poor beast brought out the crowds, but did not survive long.

Incline fares were expensive

Around 1920, fares for the inclines ran between 20 cents and 30 cents. That doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s equivalent to $2.50 to $4.00 today. Some inclines could not accommodate trolley cars, so passengers had to pay a fare to the incline, pay the incline fare, then pay a fare when they got off the incline.

The Inclines’ First Competition Came From Cable Cars

It’s true. Cincinnati once had San Francisco-style cable cars. The local street car company, in an effort to avoid paying incline fares, brought a San Francisco engineer to Cincinnati. He helped design and build cable traction systems to pull cars up Gilbert Avenue and the Sycamore Street Hill.

Cincinnati Inclines Were Steam-Powered

In the 1920s, half a century into its lifespan, the Price Hill Incline converted to electrical power. No other incline made the switch. The incline steam engines were immense, and each incline burned through more than a ton of coal every day.

Some Of The Inclines Were Replaced By Steps

Falling into disrepair these days, two stairways maintain the original route of two of Cincinnati’s inclines. Although its top has been lopped off, the Fairview Steps ascending from McMicken Avenue to the Scenic Drive in Fairview Park cover most of the old Fairview Incline. The Main Street Steps, built by WPA labor during the Great Depression, preserve the route of the Mount Auburn Incline.

Inclines Had Stowaways

Among the most famous images of Cincinnati’s lost inclines is a 1905 large-format glass negative on file at the Library of Congress. An astute observer can see, on the uphill truck, a young boy sitting amid the framework.

[wittypenguin]

‪Fairly boring, but nothing wrong with that. I’ve often been through the area before so few surprises were encountered. https://redd.it/i3o78j #randonauts #randonaut_reports #steadily #splat #buns ‬ (at Fairview Slopes) https://www.instagram.com/p/CDegg81BwX0/?igshid=1s4p8921ku5z8

[reylo-solo]

No new update this week, but you can read from the beginning and share with your friends!

We’re only seven chapters in and we’ve only just begun.

A dark slow burning modern AU featuring biker!Kylo, rogue rebel Rey, and a whole boatload of repressed emotions.

Excerpt from Chapter 1:

The stars that night twinkled like so many eyes, watching each and every movement within and around the woodsy town of Fairview. They blinked at the man lying in the long grass along the upper slope of the riverbank, and he blinked right back, his long, strong-featured face momentarily obscured by the lazy, grey-blue tendrils of smoke which curled from the end of his cigarette. It was almost like the stars shied away from him, dimming ever so slightly, disturbed by the wake of a passing satellite. The moon was half-full in the sky behind him, watching from a safe distance, much like the northern side of town; wary of his every breath. But this was an untrustworthy town full of scared people, and Kylo Ren was not widely considered to be a trustworthy man.

Chapters:

bottom of the river 🗡 dangerous liaisons 🗡 a deal for a devil 🗡 knife & needle 🗡 traitor 🗡 don’t drown 🗡 into my bloodstream 🗡

[vlkphoto]

Rockin': Fairview Peak .. [7 / 7]

The pine'd slopes of Fairview Peak. The plane was going at ≈500 mph, but the sun was bright, and the shutter speed was 1/800 s, so the blurring was just about the width of the trees. The image is sharp enough that you can see the cabin on the slope of Green Mountain at the end of Forest Service Road 766 1B. Near Pitkin, CO.

Normally as you fly over the Rockies, you look out the window through the breaks in the cloud cover and gaze wonderingly at the magnificent vista that climbs up towards you, with the peaks seemingly as ephemeral as the clouds that drift around them. But mountains are immutable (mostly), and despite the perspective foreshortenings, with a little bit of effort, cross-comparing across photo sequences and topo maps, searching around approximate GPS records, we can actually identify which part of it we were flying over. This post hoc identification is much of a delight as the scenery, the challenge met as satisfying as a successful frame. This is why it is not enough to just look at satellite photos on google maps.

[awdawdawfaef]

Hammer’s apprentice was a wiry red-haired youth called Nail

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[rickchung]

Smoke 2 Snack x Fairview Slopes.

Kitsilano’s snack shop has opened a second premium adults-only location also focused on imported treats on West Broadway in the Cambie Village area. Their selection of specialty foods, chips, cookies, chocolates, candy, and sodas offers some wild flavours aiming to satisfy some pretty specific cravings or munchies.

[vancouvertrueborns]

Inning after inning, at dusty ball parks across Canada, Yukio ‘Bill” Uyesugi (front row, third from left) played the game that he loved. As a teenager, he contracted the mumps, which limited his diet to porridge and earned him the nickname: Mush. Growing up on the Fairview slopes, from his parents’ apartment in the Japanese workers’ tenement building at 1017 West 7th, he heard the crack of the bat at Athletic Park and the roar of the crowd, which intrigued him, then propelled him around the bases of the neighbourhood sandlot diamond, where kids mimicked the action unfolding on the other side of the stadium wall.

Uyesugi joined the Fairview Bluebirds at age 15. His position was short stop. He graduated from Van Tech High School where he played baseball and basketball.

When Japan attacked Pearl Harbour, the Canadian government stripped the Japanese Canadians of their property and possessions. They were forcibly relocated to camps located at least 100 miles inland from the west coast.

Uyesugi and his brother were separated from their parents and sent to Ontario. The family later reunited in Alberta. Despite being interned; working on the sugar beet farms in Taber; and travelling to White River, Ontario to work in the logging camps; Mush still found time to play ball. His sport helped him survive the horrific upheaval that was forced upon him.

He met his wife, Shigeko in Taber. She sat in the stands with friends and watched the Nisei play ball. Uyesugi suited up in Wild Rose Country for the Taber Firemen, the Coleman Cubs, the Picture Butte Bluebirds and the Southern Alberta Japanese All-Stars.

When his family returned to Vancouver in 1952, Japantown had been gutted by the War Measures Act, but that didn’t stop the Uyesugis from moving back into the East End. They lived at 447 East Georgia Street across from MacLean Park.

Uyesugi worked at Koby’s General store, 371 East Hastings, which was owned by the Yada family and then sold to Roy Kobayashi. The store sold Japanese imported kitchenware and edibles such as seafood and fresh manju – a Japanese confection.

The shop was 360 feet from the Powell Street Grounds’ (Oppenheimer Park’s) home plate. That was the same distance that Uyesugi sprinted when he was legging out a cheeky, inside-the-park homerun. Uyesugi raced through deliveries for Kobayashi so that he could hurriedly don his uniform in the stockroom, burst out the back door and make it to the park in time for the warm-up.

He was captain of the Vancouver Japanese Canadian Citizens’ Association Nisei team, a gritty squad that picked up where Japantown’s legendary Asahi team had left off. The new squad continued the Japanese-Canadian tradition of out-smarting larger opponents with a brainier brand of ball that involved aggressive base running, strategic bunting and precision relays from the outfield. They duked it out in the Industrial League with such blue-collar titans as the Vancouver Firefighters, the Boilermakers and the Longshoremen. They drew crowds as large as 2,000 people to the Powell Street Grounds, directly across the street from homes and businesses that had been snatched from their owners in 1942 because of the colour of their skin.

The Vancouver Nisei was more than just a ball team. It was a very public announcement that Uyesugi and his community had returned to Vancouver and were claiming their newly acquired rights of citizenship.

In 1953 and 1955, they won the league championship.

Uyesugi moved to East 45th Avenue with his family. He became part owner of S. Nishizawa and Co., Ltd. at 755 Powell Street, an importer and distributor of Japanese food products (it is now known as Toyo Importing Co.). In 1968 to the mid 70’s, he co-owned Busy Bee Dry Cleaners at 801 Columbia Street in New Westminster.

After having eight kids, he custom built a new home on Reid Street. Shigeko would later joke, “Dad wanted 10 kids so he could have his own baseball team.”

In the late 80’s, he threw the opening pitch to kick off the Vancouver Canadians’ season.

Although 1956 was the last year that he played for and managed the Nisei, Uyesugi continued to watch his beloved game until he passed in 2005.

[hkrammrealtor]

Reposting @evvancouver #EngelExclusive | This elegant home provides quintessential urban living in the quiet confines of Fairview Slopes, offering intimate views of False Creek, the city and the North Shore Mountains.⁠ ~⁠ 📸: 1103 W 7th Avenue | Listed by my colleague @jamie.macdougall . . #socialrealtor #wp #vancouverrealestate #yaletown #realtor #exclusivelisting #listingagent #yvrre #vancouver #realestate (at Harry Kramm - Real Estate Advisor, Vancouver, Canada) https://www.instagram.com/p/B7ofv3PhpRh/?igshid=1tj4qn26sn3sw

[artofsteacy-blog]

Moments between moments | Fairview Lake #staysee (at Park Slope Historic District) https://www.instagram.com/p/B0OT3VKnqvt/?igshid=1j24bflxv37nm

[kootenaygoon]

So,

When I first sent off my application for the Nelson Star in April 2014, I was living in a Victoria basement suite with my partner Paisley and our latest pet, a nine-pound Maltese named Muppet that we’d acquired from a small farm on one of the Gulf Islands. My year-long book publishing internship had taught me a lot about the industry, but mostly it had convinced me I wanted to pivot back into journalism as quickly as possible. I felt this insistent desperation to be a reporter again, to be out in the world taking pictures and asking questions, handing out my business card to strangers.

After scrolling through the listings on Jeff Gaulin I sent out a flurry of resumes to papers all over the province and ultimately received multiple offers. When I asked Paisley where she would prefer to live, she instantly chose the Kootenays over our other options — she’d always dreamed of living there, having grown up in Calgary. I knew a little bit about Nelson from working nearby at the Trail Rossland News during the summer of 2010, and I’d even helped the current reporter Cass Barkley land her gig by putting in a good word with the editor, who had since moved on. Cass and I had previously worked together at The Martlet, UVic’s student newspaper, and now that she was leaving her position she worked to return the favour by putting in a good word for me with the new editor, Calvin Miller.

During the weeks I was deliberating, I reflected on where I was at in life. Nearly 30 years old, I’d spent the previous decade perma-bouncing from one location to the next, never staying anywhere for longer than eight months at a time. Though I’d been offered a generous scholarship to complete my Master’s in Journalism at Ryerson, I worried that I was needlessly pushing back adulthood by cowering safe within the confines of academia. Initially our plan was to take the Star position for the summer before heading off to Toronto in September, but immediately upon receiving the job offer I asked myself the following question: why am I going to school for journalism if I can just get a journalism job and do it? 

I believed the old maxim that journalism is like a hangover — you can learn about it and talk about it all you want, but you can’t really understand what it’s like until you experience it for yourself.

Around this time things were a little drastic at home. I’d recently started taking antidepressants under the supervision of a mental health counsellor, Paisley was going through some debilitating health struggles, repeatedly ending up in the hospital, and both of us were vibrating on uncomfortably high frequencies. I felt like we were victims of our stagnant lifestyle and the Star opportunity seemed like the exact thing I needed to jump-start my career and vault into a better, more fulfilling future. I told my Dad before leaving that I knew I’d be working for some rinky dink paper way out in the bottom right-hand corner of B.C., but I was going to pretend like it was The New York Times — and conduct myself accordingly. Paisley and I decided to make it our goal to live there for three years straight, giving us a chance to actually belong somewhere and become part of the community. 

We’d been rootless too long.

It was early May when I loaded my newly acquired RAV with all my possessions. I was expected to start within a few days of receiving the offer, so I left Paisley behind on the island while I drove across the province with Muppet in my passenger seat. I was under-slept and stressed after days of arguing, but I was also convinced this move would be a turning point — it wouldn’t be the first time I’d tried to solve a spiritual problem with a geographic solution. Muppet was antsy, exploring through our piled belongings in the back and yelping when she got stuck, so I stopped along the side of the highway multiple times to let her get her bearings. I’ve always enjoyed taking care of things that are smaller than me, and I tried my best to bring her stress level down, but she was trembling and nervous — kind of like me. 

Cold wind pulled at my clothes. Together we stood at the crest of the hill overlooking Christina Lake, wondering what kind of story was waiting for us at the end of this trip.

That evening we arrived at Cass’ house around dinnertime. She lived on a gentle slope facing Elephant Mountain with her husband Elliot. When I knocked at the front door we heard frantic barking, and when it swung open we were faced with Cass’ yapping puppy Winston. He whined and leaped, basically losing his shit, jumping for attention. Halfway through the entrance he flew up into my face, clawing happily, while Muppet panicked and shrieked. She shredded at my shins until I pulled her up to my chest, squirming, and accepted directions into the closest bedroom. Feeling awkward that I hadn’t properly said hello, I stroked Muppet and held her to my chest until she calmed down a bit — but as soon as I left she threw up and peed on the bed. My poor girl.

As it turned out, Cass had a friend who worked for the local SPCA and lived only a few blocks away. She made a phone call and within half an hour a friendly dude named Rob Andrew sauntered up to the house with a calming lavender spray and a tight “thunder coat” that was supposed to help with anxiety. He spoke to Muppet in a kind, reassuring voice and gave me instructions on how to help her cope. I was stupid grateful, and he didn’t even ask for money. When he left again I told Cass I couldn’t believe that he’d been able to just magically appear like that, and she told me there’s a spirit of helping in the Kootenays that’s unlike anything she’d ever experienced in the big city.

“My car has broken down twice,” she told me. “Both times all I had to do was get out and stand there for a minute or two, and eventually someone stopped to help.”

When Cass left her position at the Nelson Star she was one of the paper’s longest-serving employees, having spent half a decade there. She was a natural journalist, one of the best I’ve ever known, and her mind had become a swirling whirlpool of information. She was a tiny woman with a loud voice, and couldn’t stand bullshitters. She had worked successfully under the former editor Rob Wall but found the latest one, Calvin, to be insufferable — he was a right-wing hockey fan who liked to micro-manage his reporters’ time while she was a strident left-wing feminist who didn’t like being bossed around. Before I even met Calvin I’d already heard lengthy tirades about what a nightmare he was, incompetent and annoying, but she was convinced he would be gone in a matter of months. She said if I could last long enough Calvin would have some sort of breakdown and leave town. According to her, he wasn’t handling the stress well.

“You know how lazy he is?” she asked me. “We had a bank robbery two weeks ago and he couldn’t even be bothered to leave the office to go take a picture or ask a few questions, even though the bank is two blocks away from the office.”

“Like a real, legit bank robbery? In this town?”

“Yeah. It was this couple from Salmo who apparently have a bunch of children. They’ve been leaving the kids with baby-sitters and going out to rob pharmacies, banks, places all over the Kootenays. They hit the currency exchange in town here a while back and the dude actually fired his shotgun, like into the door of the vault.”

“Who caught them?”

“Well, the husband? He was the one doing all the heavy lifting. He took off on a bicycle at first, but then he got into a getaway car and led the police on this high speed pursuit out towards the highway to Castlegar. They had him cornered on this bridge and he jumped off, trying to get away from them.”

“What, into the river?”

“No, there was nothing but rocks beneath him. Apparently he broke both his legs.”

“Crazy.”

“Yeah, they say he threw the bag of money into a tree and it burst open raining bills down everywhere.”

“Holy shit. Were they unemployed or what?”

“Drugs,” she said. “Addiction’s a big thing around here. I think it was meth, or maybe oxy, something like that. They needed to score.”

As Cass drove me all around Nelson, pointing out landmarks and monologuing about stories she’d written over the years, I noticed she had a slightly frenzied vibe, like she was struggling to keep everything ordered in her head. She rattled off names of people I would need to know — John Dooley, the mayor, Tom Thomson, the chamber boss, Michelle Mungall, the MLA — and went on at great length about the many small-town feuds I would need to keep track of. She drove me through the different neighbourhoods (Rosemont, Fairview, Uphill), and filled me in on construction projects and community controversies. We looked at the mural of Roxanne, a Steve Martin movie from the 80s, then swung by the historic fire hall where a bunch of it was filmed. Down by the mall there was a miniature pirate schooner called Obsidian anchored off-shore, and Cass told me when it sunk to the bottom of Kootenay Lake the community raised funds to resurrect it with a crane. There was one large-scale development project called Stores to Shores that ran right through the middle of downtown, there was a municipal election coming up, and she figured I’d end up writing about an ongoing court case around a recently shuttered and then reopened bar called The Royal.

Another thing: I had to keep in mind that there were two polices forces in town, the Nelson Police and the Nelson RCMP, and that they were actually quite different.

“Nobody will tell you this, but there isn’t any budget for traffic enforcement within the city limits,” Cass told me. “The RCMP deal with the highways and the Nelson Police are too busy with everything else to deal with giving out tickets and that sort of thing.”

“What’s the police chief like?” I asked.

“Oh, his name’s Wayne Holland. He came up from Vancouver and he’s real chummy with Dooley. You’ll hear him talk a bunch about mental health, because the cops are spending all their time dealing with street vagrants. That’s what the whole dog bylaw was about.”

I’d heard about the dog bylaw — at one point it made national news. Decades previous the council had banned dogs from downtown in a move designed to rid the sidewalks of buskers and panhandlers. Nelson had caught a lot of flak for it, but it was still on the books, which meant I wasn’t allowed to walk Muppet downtown. Cass had written several stories about it.

“That’s pretty much the biggest controversy in town,”she said. “The conflict between the businesses who want to clean up downtown and all the social justice types who want to help the marginalized and bring in more services, all that.”

Eventually Cass started talking about Paul Hinrichs, a local music promoter who had worked at the Royal before it became entangled in legal disputes. She spoke about him with a saint-like reverence. Now operating out of the Hume Hotel, he was responsible for booking the vast majority of the musical acts coming to town, including big names like Sloan. She had relied on him for arts stories throughout her time at the Star, and considered him to be the most important contact in the arts community. Now that she’d left the paper, she’d picked up some work promoting shows for him.

“You know, I’m not actually that into live music,” I admitted.

“You will be. It’s just contagious. There are so many artists in town, so many musicians, that you can’t help but pick up on the vibe and get into it. And the arts scene is so busy in Nelson you can pretty much be busy every night of the week going to the museum, concerts, literary events — did you hear we just got our own movie theatre?"

“No, that’s amazing.”

“Yeah, it was a community project. It’s independent. That’s unheard of in a town this size. The guy that runs it, Jason Asbell, he gets a pretty good mix of indie films and the big blockbusters. It’s got this old-old-time feel and it’s all paid for by the community.”

“Right on.”

“And then there’s all the music festivals,” she said. “There’s like six or seven of them, but Shambhala is by far the biggest. You can get media passes, if you ask. I find they’re always good for photo spreads.”

I asked her about pot, because I’d heard Nelson was the weed capital of B.C. She wasn’t a smoker, had never been, but she knew plenty about the local industry. Paisley and I had started smoking regularly in Victoria but it was still pre-legalization, which meant we bought from a friendly dude named Papa Andrew rather than from a storefront dispensary. I was excited to experience Nelson’s signature export firsthand.

“It’s funny, it’s always the last person you would guess who run the grow-ops. It’s not the hippie stoners you see in the street, it’s the well-dressed rich people who seem like they would never touch it. And that’s their whole disguise, since they don’t seem like weed people,” she said.

“You’ll find people talk about it differently here. You’re supposed to call it cannabis. Most people talk about it as a medicine, and it doesn’t have the same stigma as on the coast. But then it’s also created this intense class division between the growers and everyone else, this hatred. The big thing is they don’t pay taxes.”

“Right.”

She told me I should be prepared to feel pseudo-famous, working for the Star, because the town was so small and there were only three reporters. She also told me to expect certain people to engage with the newspaper to a scary amount. It was a magnet for kooks.

“This is a town with lots of big personalities, which is another way of saying there’s shitloads of mental illness. You’ll find that the way people dress, the way people talk, the things people do — it’s all stuff you could never get away with anywhere else. But in Nelson there’s the underlying counter-culture, I mean it’s got a lot to do with the black-market weed industry, where people are more open and forgiving of things,” she said.

I knew Cass had struggled with her own mental health in the past, and she also knew about some of my depression and substance abuse issues. We’d pushed each other to extremes while working together at the Martlet, constantly competing with one another for jobs and assignments and attention. We were known for bickering viciously in the newsroom and had even dated for a brief time. But now she was married, and so was I basically, and our lives had quieted as we transitioned from our chaotic twenties into respectable grown-up reporters. I knew Paisley would be suspicious and intolerant of me spending too much time with Cass, but I felt a deep gratitude for how she’d finagled this job for me. She would be my first phone call when I needed to figure something out, my main back-up. As we drove the sunny tree-lined streets I felt a fearful optimism that this would be a turning point, the first page of an epic new chapter in my life.

The Kootenay Goon

[the-madwoman-in-the-kitchen]

one of the most surreal things about living in antipolo, aside from still trying to adjust to a mostly finished but not quite finished, drafty in the evening but excruciatingly sunny in the afternoon house, is how struck you are with the feeling that you are in the middle of shit-town, podunk, bumfuck nowhere. which makes grocery shopping almost impossible. we haven’t brought our large refrigerator over, so we can only buy food from a comparatively understocked grocery (compared to the two supermarkets in fairview), and everything runs out quickly; there have been several sibling fights over who finished the last carton of milk. the closest place to buy food is near the subdivision, but actually getting out of the subdivision is a small voyage in itself: over several slopes, past brush fire-prone hills, past several checkpoints. making it nearly impossible to just pick up something when it runs out. we ran out of ground pork today. so i steeled myself, then decided to grind my own in the blender. the results looked uncomfortably like what would happen if i accidentally jammed a finger inside, but the sausages turned out perfectly: smoky, herbed, reminiscent of mcdonalds’ breakfast sausages without the carcinogens. mostly. actually, i’m planning to make my own sausage mcmuffins once i buy pandesal and make my own egg rings out of tin foil or mason jar lids.  breakfast sausages

ground pork

sea salt

fennel (ground)

freshly-cracked black pepper

sage (i used an herb blend because again, no supermarket in the marikina-rizal area has a respectable spice aisle)

a dash of allspice

minced onions

minced garlic

blend everything together, let rest for 10-30 minutes to let the flavors meld. form into patties, fry. 

[portlandrooferss]

Commercial Roofing Contractor Portland

Contents

65 full-time employees. columbia

Achieve customer satisfaction

Cascade roofing portland. quality

Certified owens corning

England – portland

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