It was Saturday. We were five days into April. British Columbia was one hundred years old. A lot of the province’s men had grown luxuriant beards to commemorate the event because beards were fashionable in 1858, and the lumberjacks of yore wore them. At the age of 9, I couldn’t have grown a beard if I’d wanted to, and more important by leaps and bounds than the provincial centenary was the fact that Capitol Hill School was closed on Saturday.
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