I live in Powell River, have for 15 years, but I was here a couple of times before, the first for just a year in 1970. At that time a friend had called me when I was in Orillia and said it’s so beautiful you have to get out here. So I did.
Then more Orillians came. Then more.
Two months after I showed up, there were 35 Orillians in Powell River, all living in various filthy little pig pens around town.
There was also a sort of den mother named Peggy, from Bracebridge, who was a few years older than us and who was mature and lovely and and I really liked it when she’d answer the door topless. I remember a party on a remote island up the coast where she walked around with a tray of hallucinogens that people picked off like hor d’oeuvres.
Kind of like our mom except for the hallucinogens and topless part.
Twenty years later I was standing on Sparks Street in Ottawa when a group of Hare Khrisna’s came rambling down, singing and chanting like they do, and there was Peggy. We chatted briefly, she said she was really happy, and off she went, singing and chanting.