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Driving by a lake of silver, then up onto a verdant hill, you can look across and see sun shining on distant cliffs, brightening all the landscape with copper polish. The cliffs glow, the fields and forests look greener and in the distance, Mount Rose greets the onlooker, round and soft, an old mountain of bluish green whose forests are decorated with tree shelf mushrooms and toads on stumps. Below the Rose is a green land of fields and horses, brown, chestnut and bay, little foals and shaggy cows. They frolic by the lake shore named for otters, in paddocks rimmed with white as well as the humble barbed wire. Cows. Brown cows, black and white cows. You can't not notice the dairy farm as you drive by. In the open fields everything is green dotted with yellow and everything is protected by the mountains. The roads are windy, curving here and there, crossing and turning, going away. By the side of a pasture amongst tiny purple violets we buried Whiskey, in the shadow of the Rose, on her footstep. Lower, lower is the town, not a city like it claims to be, but a peaceful, calm, safe town with a city hall and a old red brick post office and old houses. The annual fair here is the best in the land, in all the land and sometimes on summer saturdays the whistle of a big black steam train can be heard as it thunders into town. There's even a train platform for it. The streets here are quiet, except when there is the fair and there are flowers everywhere and big trees too. In the centre of town, there's a wetland where muskrats live. The whole town used to be a wetland and it used to be a place for asparagus - this is Armstrong. Armstrong, British Columbia, Canada.

This is my home.



Picture taken by my Dad.