Twenty-three dead at Portapique, a tiny town whose name is a combination of French, English and mi’kmaq. Like so many places in Nova Scotia.
A denturist crank has made so many victims in 12 hours that the coronavirus in two months. Died under his balls, nurse who went to the hospital, a paper manufacturer in unemployment due to a virus, a mechanic, a musician, a survivor of cancer, retirees and other innocent people which we would not have suspected the existence without this murderous madness.
The village of Chester, where he lives to face the Atlantic, my old friend, Wayne Grigsby, with whom I wrote a lot for television (The gold and the paper, Mount Royal, Trudeau, etc), wrote to me, yesterday, that his neighbor, a retired RCMP, he was described by the menu, the appalling run of this assassin. Not content to screen his victims with bullets, he pushed the horror up to set fire to their houses.
Is it because the prime minister, Justin Trudeau was asked to ignore the killer and focuses instead on its victims, is it because the coronavirus takes up all the space, for a time, the media have given more importance to the victims and their executioner, and the tv has not shown his photo in a loop.
MY PROVINCE FAVORITE
I am well aware of Nova Scotia. I went there a dozen of times. It is the canadian province that I prefer. It is so peaceful that I can hardly believe that we have been able to commit the worst mass murder mass never occurred in the country. If I except Halifax, and three or four small towns that do not count 12 000 inhabitants, dozens of villages, almost all of them in the sea, seem to be frozen in time.
There has fifteen years, Maryse including evil my enthusiasm for Nova Scotia, I decided to make him share. On the eve of Labor day, we went for a Mustang convertible for the tour. We have had a time unexpected. Always by great sun, we have gone through at least half of the 7500 km coastline of the province, explored dozens of coves and creeks, walked for hours on deserted beaches.
QUILT STITCHED BY HAND
At noon, we cassions the crust of the feet in the sand or built on headlands where we saw the rocks swept by the waves and, in the distance, sailboats cutting on the blue of the horizon. In the evening, we slept in B&B trees, furnished as before the Confederation. In a coastal village which I forget the name, I bought a quilt quilted by hand as in the past.
Since the killing, when I get back on us the quilt that we cover every night, I reminds me of what I had been told of the Nova Scotia the old English who had been stung.
“Here, you know, if nothing ever happens, it is because of the sea. As we see it and it is heard everywhere, we are calm and we are calm. ”
This crazy shooter that I won’t name looked at so ever the sea ? Yet to Portapique where he lived, the Atlantic is within easy reach of the market. I know, because we had a picnic screwed, Maryse and me, on the “beach” of Portapique by a beautiful afternoon of September.