Dear Editor,
I love Linden, too. However, I do not love it for the opportunity to satisfy my own aggrandizement; I love it because the forceps did not crack my skull and the hands of a caring nurse placed me, wrapped in a blanket, into the bosom of my mother, in a ward and under the roof of the Mackenzie Hospital. My love for Linden is predicated upon the fact that creeks that caressed and floated my body were not watery graves but memories of unforgettable childhood experiences.
I love Linden because Walcott Nursery filled my soul with colourful blocks, pictures and play dough. The sunshine and rain were equally enjoyed and the broken streets of love protected my tender feet. Wismar Hill Primary, built on a foundation of white sands, reflected the beautiful faces of unforgettable teachers and educators such as Coleen Seaforth, Donna Thomas, Miss Carr, Donna McAllister, Rita Barton, Hazel Glen, and others space will not permit me to mention.
The market places on the banks of Wismar and Mackenzie; the tailors, drugstores, food stalls and Miss Mavis’s salara; the boat drivers that refused to accept my fare and said, “No charge”; Colin Bully, Original, Terry Wildeyes, Bration with his old bus, and other drivers that ply their trade with love for the community.
I love Linden because it is home and where it all started. No dead stone of endearment promised can replace the tombs of the Linden Martyrs and the hate of sworn enemies. I cannot profess genuine love for a town that gave me to the world as a complete man and yet sell it out to the very enemies that stifled it for decades. Twenty pieces of silver means nothing to me. The memories of my town enrich me. I will trade it for nothing. No dead stone of endearment can take the place and space in my heart over that of the tombs of the Linden Martyrs.
Yours faithfully,
Norman K. Browne
