Our Puppeteers
Annerose Schmidt
Riding on a B.C. Ferry this summer, I recognised a fellow passenger. She was small, with soft face, grey unruly hairdimples and a pair of large wire-framed glasses. Alone and a little slumped in a seat, she was munching on a sandwich. She was unmistakably Hazel. But I didn’t greet her. The Hazel I know...
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