Heard any Good Books Lately?

I have recently discovered the joy of audiobooks. I still read a lot of paper books, but it can be hard to read them while on a walk or while cooking or working on a puzzle, and last week I dropped my copy of  To See Every Bird on Earth by Dan Koeppel in the bathtub while I was reading it. Audiobooks are hands free. All you need are listening ears, an attention span of sorts, and a subscription to Libby (free through your public library - amazing), or Audible, or Spotify, or any other platform you might find audiobooks on. A few clicks and you're off to the races.

My mother often read to my brother and me when we were little and sharing a room, and when I was in Elementary school teachers read books to the class. My grade five teacher read us The Borrowers by Mary Norton. Those hours became my favourite among the many I had to spend in school. As soon as my teacher began to read I was immersed in the world of those tiny house guests and their adventures. My imagination was captured and I was carried along by my teacher's voice, which was quite pleasant as I remember it now. Being read to is something I had forgotten as an adult, and I am enjoying it. As long as the voice on the audiobook is expressive (without being overly so) and pleasant, and the story or subject is interesting to me, I am happy to listen for as long as my attention or circumstances allow.

The most recent audiobook I listened to was The Third Gilmore Girl by Kelly Bishop. This wonderful autobiography, read by the author, hooked me from the first to the last page. Kelly Bishop played the matriarch of the Gilmore family on a comedy/drama show called Gilmore Girls, which is a series I have watched several times through, first, when it originally came out on the WB network in the early 2000's, and then years later with my girls when Netflix aired it. The show has gained a new and dedicated audience by being on Netflix, which produced a four episode reunion of sorts in 2016. The snappy and clever dialogue and quirky characters written by Amy Sherman-Palladino and her husband, Daniel Palladino, the detailed sets, pop-culture references and complex family dynamic tick fans' boxes for quality entertainment. I admire and respect how Kelly Bishop plays her complex character Emily Gilmore so convincingly as the sharp-tongued yet vulnerable mother desperate to have a better relationship with her daughter Lorelei without really knowing how to go about it. When I found out Kelly Bishop had written a book about her life and her role on one of my favourite shows, of course I wanted to read it. Or listen to it.

Kelly Bishop's autobiography is, to my mind, best heard in her deep, distinctive voice. I would have enjoyed reading a paper copy, but somehow, hearing her tell the story was like sitting down with a beloved aunt who has lived an amazing life and wants to share it with you. From her first days as a ballet dancer, to her Tony-award winning role as one of the original cast members of A Chorus Line on Broadway, to her memorable parts in movies and television, her story is fascinating and encouraging to anyone who has a similar dream. She shares the ups and downs, and through it all the reader/listener is impressed by her grit and determination, and also her lucky breaks, which occur often just when she needs them most. Now in her eighties, she is still working as an actress. The end of her book brought me to tears as I walked with my headphones on, listening in the cold sunshine. She is such a trouper. And she thanks her mom, who was also a trouper, for everything. I like when they thank their moms.

I tried out a new audiobook yesterday. I got about ten percent into the second chapter before I knew it wasn't for me. The reader's voice grated on my nerves. I also could not relate to the story. That's okay, there are plenty of other books to choose from. I went on the Libby app and requested another book I have been meaning to read, A Pocketful of Happiness by one of my favourite actors,  Richard E. Grant. I hope it's read by the author, too. The app said there was a six week wait for a copy to become available. Just like at the brick and mortar library, there are waits for popular books on the Libby app. I will have to find another book to listen to in the meantime. Any recommendations? 

'til next time, 

Rebecca

A Christmas to Remember...or Forget

Christmas 2025 was the first one my husband and I spent alone as a couple in all our 35 years together. We didn't plan it that way. The kids were going to come, but an atmospheric river caused a major washout which undercut a section of the highway between the Valley and the resort my husband manages. No one knew for sure when the road would open. The kid coming from the east of us decided to wait until his siblings from the west could join him at our mountain home. 

My husband was exhausted. He had driven to our home in the Valley the long way round, over the Coquihalla Highway, which added about two hours to the usual trip, to get the staff's Christmas mail, and bring me back with him on the 22nd. When we got to our cabin here at the resort, he lost another night's sleep trying to repair a generator that powered twelve guest cabins. The resort had been without power for ten days, since the road closure. I had a sinusitis flare-up to contend with - lots of Advil and sinus flushes, and naps after rough nights of headache. While we were glad to be together after a couple of weeks apart, we didn't have much energy for anything else, or anyone else. I spent much of the afternoon of Christmas Eve asleep in a recliner while my husband went skiing. 

This Christmas was also the first in ages that I did not cook Christmas dinner. My husband had hosted a gathering before I arrived, and there were plenty of leftovers in the fridge. Christmas Eve, we unceremoniously raided the fridge and plunked everything on the table. Pickles, cheeses, dips, crackers, fresh vegetables, chorizo salami, my Christmas cake and cookies, and some kind of winter ale to quench our thirst - my husband enjoying the lion's share since alcohol is not great for sinusitis. Family tradition dictates we watch Scrooged (which our eldest calls 'Dad's favourite redemption story'). We started the movie early and finished it earlier than any other year we have watched it. Then, we 'settled our brains for a long winter's nap'. On Christmas Day I was feeling a little better from all the rest I'd had the day before. We unwrapped our gifts from each other and enjoyed a good breakfast of bacon and eggs, delicious pannetone bread from the bakery I have worked at for several years, and oranges. After a walk and a light lunch we facetimed with our kids, determining which upcoming weekend would work best for the postponed gathering. After another nap, we donned our best sweaters and walked down to the resort's restaurant for turkey dinner. 

My husband and I said to each other more than once that although our Christmas had not gone to plan this year, it was exactly what we could manage considering the circumstances. I am reminded of the Christmas in the mid-2000's when we were all sick with stomach flu. I ended up cooking the turkey on the 27th, and it tasted just as good as it would have on the 25th. I have a turkey in the freezer now. I will take it out to thaw in the fridge tomorrow, and it will taste just as good this weekend when we cook it for our belated Christmas dinner with our kids. We're leaving the tree up, too. It's still green and healthy looking. 

As philosophical as I seem in my response to an upended family Christmas, I have been further challenged this New Year, making it a bit more difficult to remain positive and 'look on the bright side'. On December 20th, I had a CT Scan of my sinuses. Yesterday, my doctor called me with the results. While the scan indicated mild sinusitis throughout, it also indicated a blockage where my nose leads into my sphenoid sinuses - the little brute that's been giving me nearly three months of trouble so far. My doctor prescribed a course of treatment for up to three months. If the treatment doesn't work, I will be referred to the ENT (ear, nose and throat) specialist who may decide a procedure is necessary to remove the little brute. 

For the last several months, my eldest daughter and I have been planning a big trip to the UK for June. A trip that has been a dream of mine for forty years. A trip that would involve a long flight. I was quite sure the short flight I had done as a test in October of last year had triggered my current sinus issues. After the call with my doctor I decided to postpone our trip until my sinuses are totally clear. One should completely avoid flying with sinusitis. I'm living and painful proof of why that is. 

I was going to take only the winter off of work again this year, but I had to leave early December due to recurring flare-ups that rendered me miserable. My back would also become inflamed with each flare-up making it even more difficult to sleep. I spent one third of 2025 with inflamed sinuses. Fortunately, February through September were pretty wonderful. I felt healthier than I have since before 2020. I realized a couple of moderately big goals, too, and had many great times with family and friends. I can remember how it felt to be well. I will try and focus on that feeling as I strive to heal over the next few months.  

I know we all have our challenges, especially as we age.  I know postponing the UK trip is a First World problem. I know I am very fortunate in so many ways, like having someone who loves me to spend Christmas with, but please forgive me a few tears, too, as I let go of plans and dreams for a while until I feel better. 

Wishing all my lovely readers a happy, healthy, wonderful 2026.

'til next time, 

Rebecca

The Turkey that Kept on Giving

A couple of weeks before the last Christmas my husband and I ever spent living in the Kootenays, I went to the local butcher shop and ordered their smallest, locally raised organic turkey. When I asked how small they came, the woman at the counter said about nine pounds. We had two small boys at the time. Nine pounds would be plenty.

My mom had come a few weeks prior to look after the boys while my husband and I flew to the Comox Valley on Vancouver Island to look for a place to live. My husband was being transferred there by the non-profit educational organization he worked for to start an Island branch. Our little rental house in a cozy, beautiful mountain town in the East Kootenays had been perfect for us to live in as a small family, but it was pretty tiny. We looked forward to spreading out a bit more, especially in a larger kitchen. Moving day was to be a week from Christmas day. 

On a visit with my friend Sandy, I had mentioned the fact that I had never cooked a turkey. She gave me her copy of Martha Stewart's November, 1996 edition of her magazine because it had a 'turkey 101' guide in it. I was aware of Martha Stewart, of course I was. She was everywhere, but I considered her out of my league. I wasn't rich and her recipes were. I was, however, into good food and aspirational, so I read the recipe. It actually looked do-able and delicious, as did the recipe for stuffing, so I thanked Sandy for the magazine and tucked it in my diaper bag. 

On December 24th we drove down to the butcher shop to pick up our little turkey. When the woman brought out our turkey from the back I thought she had made a mistake. "We ordered a nine pound turkey" I faltered. "This is the smallest the farmer sent us" she said. "How much does it weigh?" I gasped, eyeing the Merry Christmas, Mr. Bean-sized girth of the bird on the counter. "Nine kilograms" she said. I'm pretty sure I said, "Oh my God". Well, there was nothing for it. We'd ordered it and it was Christmas Eve, so we had to buy it. 

I went about gathering all the ingredients for our now enormous Christmas feast. We had no family coming to dinner, no friends either, since the contents of our little house was mostly in moving boxes. It was just us and our 9 kilogram bird. I studied Martha's recipe and made calculations. I was not an entirely experienced cook so I was trusting Martha to lead me to victory. On Christmas Day, I melted a whole pound of butter with an entire bottle of white wine. I soaked a four-layer large square of cheesecloth in the liquid and draped it over the turkey. Once in the oven, I started preparing all the ingredients for the stuffing. My husband kept our little boys occupied with their new toys and cleaned up after me (our kitchen usually looks like a bomb went off when I've been cooking) while I chopped endless amounts of celery and onions. The stuffing recipe alone filled an entire large roasting pan. I don't remember where I got the pan for the turkey. 

Every half hour I wrestled with the roasting pan and basted the turkey with more of the white wine and melted butter. About three hours in I removed the cheesecloth as per Martha's instructions and continued to baste the bird on the half hour. Our entire little house filled with the delicious aroma, so much so that we opened a few windows in the middle of winter. 

That the turkey was a rousing success is not the main point in my story. The fact that we ate it for lunch and dinner for the next five days after Christmas is. Sadly, we were forced to throw the last bit out. I suppose, looking back, that cooking a week's worth of meals before moving is a smart idea, just maybe not the same meal every day, twice a day.

I still cook that same turkey recipe, thirty-odd years later. It's a winner. The turkeys themselves vary in size, depending on the amount of people sitting down to dinner. I halve the stuffing recipe and it still fills a large baking dish. 

My husband loves the share the story of our first Christmas turkey. He's an expressive guy so the story is always accompanied by large hand gestures and increasing vocal volume. This post is in his honour.

Until next time, 

Rebecca

Confessions of a Strata Council Vice President

They must have seen me coming a mile away. Fresh blood with that ‘I was once on student council’ look. I had not been an owner in the building for long before I was approached by Angela. Join the strata council, she said, it’s not that big a commitment. Ten meetings a year, a few emails, easy. Ha! I know better, I scoffed. I hadn’t been on the arts council for thirteen years – president for six – for nothing. I knew email was the silent killer, and that there was always more work to do than you planned for. I told her to give me a year before asking again. I was burnt out. I needed time to resettle with my family.

A year later, another council member knocked on my door. I liked Fred. He lived just down the hall from us. He talked me into it. Okay, fine, I said. Not many months after I joined, Fred had the audacity to move to the Okanagan. He had replaced himself with me. Jerk. Or maybe Fred was just smart. Succession planning in action.

We’ve owned our condo for eight years. I have been on the council for seven of those, more or less. I had to take time off to recover from a head injury in 2020. Other than that spell, I have volunteered my time to the cause. There are perks to being on the council. I like knowing what is going on with my building, maintenance-wise, even though I only own one sixty-second of it. The interesting thing about condo ownership is that you own your unit, but you also own a share of the common property and pay for its upkeep with a strata fee relative to the square footage of your unit. Common property in our building is the hallways, the elevator, the building’s mechanical and plumbing workings, the lobby, the exercise room, the parkade, the parking lot, the landscaping, the guest suite and adjacent washroom, the roof, the exterior, and the exterior infrastructure stuff like drainage. I appreciate having a say in how the common property is maintained and improved. Our building is twenty years old this year. In West Coast terms, twenty is considered an ‘older building’. Shocking, I know, but ongoing maintenance is necessary, especially in a damp climate. The provincial government has now required all strata councils to order a depreciation report and dedicate ten percent of all strata fees to a contingency fund. Too many condo owners in the province have been subject to crippling levies as a result of poor management. I personally know of a large complex where individual owners had to come up with eighty thousand dollars each to reconstruct the entire building’s envelope due to years of water damage from wind and rain. It is in my best interest to be involved. Of course, every owner receives strata council meeting minutes. They only have to read them to stay informed. They can also vote on new amendments and resolutions at annual general meetings. Another perk is being an integral part of one's community. I like to bring a lightheartedness to our meetings. Unless there is an element of fun to volunteering, I am likely to lose heart and interest. 

Are there downsides to joining a strata council? Sometimes. We recently had to hold a mediation meeting for two owners who were basically at war with each other. We had never done that before. We set strict parameters for the meeting, keeping in mind that any action we took would set a precedent for future similar situations. The meeting was not comfortable, but I believe it achieved what we set out to accomplish, which was satisfying. I have also had panicked calls from people when water is dripping from their light fixtures. Many new condo owners are inexperienced. They own their units, but they don’t quite understand that the strata council members are not landlords. We can advise (in this case I told the owner to run upstairs and knock on the door of the unit above. Sure enough, the person above had let their tub overflow), but the responsibility to call their insurance company and deal with damage is their own responsibility.  Additionally, as stated earlier in this post, much of our business between meetings is done by email. Unless you are good at keeping up with this brand of correspondence, then strata council is not for you. I had to set up a separate email account due to the sheer volume of emails I send and receive weekly for strata business.

While the building next door is self-managed, we in our larger building employ a property management company. They send a representative to our meetings, seek out quotes for maintenance work, take care of meeting minutes and archive them, keep track of contractors, look after our accounting, negotiate insurance, handle legal advice, and communicate with owners on our behalf, acting as a buffer in difficult situations. They can also be very helpful in emergencies. As far as we’re concerned employing a good management company is money well spent.

Our current strata council has seven members. Only two of us are under sixty, mainly due to the fact that retired and semi-retired people have time to volunteer. I need to start looking around at other owners for future members. Perhaps one day soon I will pull a Fred. I will find a fresh-faced youngish person and invite them to join council, and then ten months later, abandon them. Just kidding. Sort of.

‘til next time,

Rebecca

*Angela and Fred are fake names to protect the innocent

Blogger offered to insert links in this post. I allowed it in case anyone out there would like to learn more about this dull topic. Please don't get mad at me if the links are all AI slop.

 

 

ADDing it Up

If you frequent TikTok, Instagram or Facebook you can't help but notice that a lot of adults are talking about being recently diagnosed as having ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) or ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). Social media apps have been instrumental in helping people to recognize both common and uncommon traits of these neurodivergences. Medical doctors like brain expert Dr. Amen, celebrities such as Trevor Noah, Diary of a CEO's Steven Bartlett, and Mel Robbins, as well as regular folk are making videos to share on the subject, and a whole new wave of self-knowledge (and sometimes self-diagnosis) is sweeping the world. I have members of my own family who have been officially diagnosed, some quite a bit after such a diagnosis could have helped them in school. Other members of my family, including my sister, Clare*, are simply aware they possess some or many of the traits of someone with ADHD and have decided they have lived this long without medication or professional support, so they are simply carrying on being the successful people  they are - just with more self-awareness. When I listen to Mel Robbins talk about her own ADHD, it's like I'm listening to Clare talk about herself. 

A couple of months ago, I was having coffee with two girlfriends. One of them was telling us she was sure she had ADHD. She pointedly asked me if I noticed traits in myself. What came out of my mouth at that moment surprised me. I had only just realized it. I said I had difficulty concentrating unless I was really interested, and when I forced myself to concentrate for extended periods of time I became really tired. My brain wanted to fly off in disparate directions whenever I had to listen to something that wasn't grabbing my attention, and that it had always been that way since junior high school. My friend with ADHD said she thought I swung the opposite way to her. She tended to hyperactivity. I tended towards lethargy, especially after periods of intense concentration. I said I couldn't remember being hyper a day in my life, in fact, and that I envied people like her and my sister. "You women get shit done!" We laughed.

In elementary school, I developed good study habits and became used to good marks, so I expected these to continue as I entered my teens. Honestly, I was surprised when my grade six math award did not translate into a good grasp of algebra when Math no longer related to the physical. They lost me with abstract concepts. Try as I might, I spaced out in class and my math marks continued their descent. I still did well in school, especially in English, French, and the Humanities, but the Sciences apart from Biology eluded me. While many of my friends were methodical in their approach to school work, I was a binge student - procrastinating like crazy and then cramming for tests and spending an entire weekend writing a paper due Monday. I had to feel pressure in order for my brain to focus intently. I started to feel like something might be wrong with me. 

College was fantastic. I had only to take courses I was genuinely interested in. I genuinely loved the whole experience, but my habits had not changed. I was still a binge student when it came to tests and papers. Fortunately, I loved to read, so I was always prepared for class in that way. I carried on to university, but after my first year there, which I enjoyed, I began to find my classes tedious. I remember the last paper I wrote was for Classics. It was excruciating to force myself to complete my paper. I typed while the tears rained down my face. I called my mom. I didn't know what was happening to me. I had always loved being a student. I had loved everything from the smell of a new HB pencil to that first crack when I opened a brand new textbook, but that enthusiasm had completely left my body. My mom didn't know what to say except, "Come home for a week. We'll sort it out." We did not. 

I don't want to diagnose myself with anything. I would rather trust a professional if I ever choose to go down that road. I did take part of an ADHD test a doctor gave to my niece, but very little of it applied to me. If I do have some traits of neurodivergence, they are manageable now. What are they besides the above I have described? I am messy. I am really sensitive to the energies of others. I am either incredibly creative and productive or I am paralyzed into inactivity. I run and practice yoga, not to expel excess energy, but to create it in my mind and body and to increase my ability to focus. I have learned many coping mechanisms to deal with my shortcomings, like making lists and setting reminders on my phone, but I will be the first to admit my traits have been hard on my self-confidence over the years. I wish I had had someone to guide me through the difficulties I encountered in university. I felt so alone. Someone close to me once asked me how I felt about the fact that all my friends had successful careers and I did not. I know I was hurt when they asked it, and I have asked myself the same question many times. Now, however, I have decided to give myself a break. I have honestly done my best so far, and that's all I have. I have loved being a mom. I provide a good balance for my husband, whose frontal cortex is firing on all cylinders most of the time. I like my humble job(s). I like being helpful. I care about the world. People say I'm funny. I guess I'm okay even if my brain likes to take regular vacations. 

'til next time!

Rebecca

*My beautiful sister Clare wanted me to use her name.

 

 

You like to eat

    Other kids have fancier houses

    They go to Disneyland

    They go camping with their dads

You like to eat

    Your mother puts you in dance lessons that Grandma pays for

    You love that for a long while - the costumes, the music, the flowing grace of your arms and growing strength in your legs

    One day you are told you'd be a good teacher and that is repeated throughout your school days until you are in university and finally decide it's not for you

You like to eat and bake cakes and pies with your friends

    Your dad wants to take your good grades, your wit, and your love of reading and turn you into the Great Canadian novelist

You like to eat

    You have children and you cook and bake and cook and bake and cook and bake and cook and bake   

You teach them, too. They all like to eat, a couple of them cook almost better than you

You work in a restaurant. You work in a bakery. 

    The kids leave home

    When it is just you and your husband left you ask each other: 

What would you like to eat?

Demise of a Department Store

I walk into the store and the scent of exotic perfume hits my nostrils. A well dressed woman asks if I would like to try some Obsession by Calvin Klein. I hold out my wrist and she sprays a little of the heady perfume on it. I rub my wrists together and then rub behind my ears. I hold my wrist up to my nose and inhale. Teenage dream realized, I move into the cosmetics section. I gaze at the rainbow of pastel-coloured bottles of Clinique skincare, wishing I could afford some. The back-lit glass shelving is gleaming and row upon row of cosmetics I had only seen in magazines stares back at me. I carry on to the women's clothing. Stylish pieces of high quality clothing dress the mannequins on display. Several mannequins have been dressed and accessorized to represent a family at the beach. There's even sand on the platform they stand on, and a blown up beach ball is held by the little mannequin boy. I have saved up for months to shop for a few items. I won't be buying anything at this place. It's too fancy for the likes of me, but I am enjoying the fantasy afforded by looking and dreaming. I ascend the escalator and head to the housewares for some more window shopping. I stroke the fluffy towels and silky sheets. China and glassware gleam expensively. I recognize a dishware pattern from Architectural Digest, copies of which I have pored over at my friend Molly's house. Furniture is set up invitingly in bedroom, living room, and dining room sets. Everything in the store is carefully placed and is part of a story. The salespeople are friendly and helpful but not intrusive. They pay much more attention to the nicely dressed women who are shopping than to me, for obvious reasons. I am on a high school band trip, and the store is Hudson's Bay Company in downtown Vancouver. 

Fast forward thirty-five years. My husband and I drive to the mall in the nearby, larger city in our valley to shop for the brand of bras and underwear I like. The Bay is the only place I can buy my underwear without shopping online, which I try not to do. I try to support my local businesses as much as I can. I walk into the store. The scent of perfume still hits my nostrils but no one offers to spray my wrists. I don't really mind that, since I don't wear perfume anymore. The main floor of The Bay now has more of a warehouse vibe than a department store vibe. There don't seem to be any stories to the merchandise anymore. Even the areas focused on one brand like Levi's or Anne Klein seem to be less organized and cared for. We go upstairs on the one escalator that is not broken down. The walls of the store need painting, the paint on the trim is chipped and scuffed. Ten thousand dollar sofas are on offer, but they seem very out of place in this current store, incongruous with their fading surroundings. We both wonder aloud how long The Bay can survive without a major reinventing of itself, but instead of making a better store, they put a mini Zellers inside it, which somehow makes the whole place feel like a Zellers - an HBC-owned budget department store that suffered its own demise years before, but still represents some brand of Canadian nostalgia.

When the Bay went public with their financial troubles we were not surprised. Ownership had transferred to a US based private equity firm in 2008. At least one retail expert thought The Bay leaving Canadian ownership was a leading cause of their downfall. Another said if The Bay had become a seller of Canadian only brands, including Indigenous products (a nod towards Reconciliation), the company could have created something really special. Instead, the store carried on with its failing model, and its collapse was only a matter of time. The fact that HBC is shutting down most of their operations during this interesting time in Canada/US relations is not lost on me. 

The other day, after we heard the news that Hudson's Bay was going to be closing most of their stores in Canada, we decided to go back to our nearby store to see if we could get any more sheets for the impossibly deep mattress we had recently bought. We'd had success there before. Ironically, we were greeted this time by a friendly saleswoman in the cosmetics section, although she didn't offer to spray my wrists with perfume. The store was a mess. Stuff was just piled on tables all over the place. Other areas were completely empty. There were no sheets our size, but I did find my brand of undies fifteen percent off, so I bought a pack there for old times' sake. Luckily, our local Canadian-owned store Mark's carries my brand now. 

I wonder what the mall that has been home to The Bay since 1990 will do without their huge anchor store. Maybe like the mall in our city, they will get a Trevor Linden Club16 gym or a grocery chain to take over the space. It really is the end of an era for Canada. I get it, though. Times change and just because a store has been around for 355 years there is no guarantee it will live forever. Some Indigenous people are happy to see The Bay die out. The Bay represents a lot of negative memories of the British colonial determination to dominate their lands and use their people for economic gain. Higher end department stores also seem to be going the way of the dinosaur. They require too much real estate for their current model. Mega stores like Walmart and Superstore which include grocery sections seem to fare much better in Canada. Costco, which includes furniture and appliances in their extensive list of items for sale on the floor, is another winner here. 

I, for one, like a quality department store. I was a loyal patron of our local Sears store before they also ended their presence in Canada's cities. They had great sales and good products. My Kenmore vacuum is still going strong after twenty years. I have to shop around a lot more now. 

I am lucky to own an original, iconic HBC wool striped blanket, the kind created in 1690 for trade with Indigenous peoples for beaver pelts, but I picked it up years ago for three bucks at a thrift shop. The last remaining HBC locations will be six stores in Ontario and Quebec. Perhaps, if the company can be bought back by Canadian investors, it will have a chance to work on becoming the kind of store which modern Canadians will buy into once again.