I stepped out of my front door last night to see if I could find out where all the noise was coming from. As I looked across the crescent, I saw three bulldozers working on excavations for three new homes. I watched the heavy truck wheels and they spread mud and snow out onto the street. I watched the wind whip up the dust and dirt that surrounds the new excavations and spread it over the neighborhood. Maybe I lack the spirit of progress that one should have to live in a growing city, but I find this sort of thing depressing. My parents, who came to this country by wagon years ago, used to love this constant growth that is going on in most Western Canadian cities. The roar of a bulldozer, or the rip of a drill into the earth was music to their ears. Me? I'd give anything in the world to live someplace where all the building has been done. I think of many of the small towns in the older sections of eastern Canada or the southern United States, where the ancient trees lining the boulevards and spread their cooling branches over the roadways. I long for dignified old homes with flowers and shrubs that have withstood 50 or 60 winters to blossom fourth in a profusion of color each spring. Above all, I yearn for some beauty in my surroundings. I guess that is why I envy the farmer, for though he has to work in the dirt, he can lift up his eyes and see the beauty of the countryside about him. I lift my eyes only to see another bulldozer rooting out earth to make way for another home. I guess I have to face it. I have no pioneering spirit at the ripe old age of 40. But I admire the spirit. You can say that for me – I admire it, and sort of envy it!
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