I am the son of James Stanley Stewart, of Admiral, Saskatchewan.   I am from Olalla, British Columbia.

Olalla is a shithole.  A beautiful shithole.

I owe so much to being from Olalla.

I owe craziness to it.   Laughter to it.  Eccentricity to it.  Self-aggrandisement to it.   A love of the mountains to it.   A love of heat to it.

Yes, shit hole Olalla. O lilly la lilly la la la.

Mobile homes and junk filled yards and weeds and rusting old cars.

It used to be like a park.  A blustering hot tranquil park where the wind blew gently through Ponderosa pines and hundred foot fir trees.

As a kid I always felt like Olalla royalty because we had a house.  Because dad had built the house.  And the house to the north.  And the house to east.   And Grampa’s house was just down the lane.

And my brother’s house was the next street over.

a house must trump a trailer.

a house to a trailer is as a castle to a house, therefore, in the absence of castles, a house is akin to a castle.  and the inhabitants and/or the creators of the house must be akin to royalty, surely.


Olalla had two creeks.

the namesake creek was near my house.

I love the crick.

to be continued…



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