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The City of Cambridge was incorporated in 1973, when the three municipalities of Galt, Preston and Hespeler and the settlement of Blair were amalgamated into a single legal entity under a new name. (A new name that was not very new as Preston was once known as Cambridge Mills.) Each of the communities possessed a long and proud history and there was considerable resistance among the local population to this "shotgun marriage" arranged by the Provincial government. A healthy sense of rivalry had always governed relations among our three communities. Even today, while our residents will tell the outside world that they call Cambridge home, they will often identify themselves to each other as citizens of Galt or Preston or Hespeler. While the original communities have come together well in the years since amalgamation, they began life apart and as a result Cambridge is blessed with not one but three historic core commercial areas to preserve for future generations. As Cambridge has developed the open spaces between the original municipalities have been filled in a fourth commercial core.

Today, Cambridge is a thriving emerging and modern city with a diverse population of more than 125,000. It is located within the Regional Municipality of Waterloo and is apart of one of Ontario's fastest growing and economically prosperous regions. With its perfect position being located along Highway 401, only 45 minutes from the provincial capital of Toronto, Cambridge is well poised to continue to grow and flourish into a prosperous metropolis and one of the best places to live in the Province of Ontario.   www.cambridge.ca

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The Shoebox

By Emily-Jane Hills Orford

I placed the shoebox on my desk, pleased that mine at least marginally resembled the shoeboxes that sat on the other desks and also pleased that I actually had a shoebox. We had just moved to London from Hamilton and any and all empty boxes had long been discarded. An empty shoebox was not a top priority in the keepsake department. My shoebox had held my Barbie doll clothes and thus had maintained some value to allow it to be packed and moved along with my dolls and other toys. I had fond memories of the shoes that had been purchased in the very same box: black, patent leather that glistened after a good polish, with hard soles that gave a good clatter on a hardwood floor. They were dress-up shoes, only to be worn with my good clothes, my Sunday best clothes, and only as long as they fit, which, sadly, they no longer did. Mrs. Smithers, my Grade 4 teacher, marched to the front of the class and instructed us all to take our seats. She handed out sheets of red construction paper, paper lace doilies, scissors and glue. “Draw your hearts with pencil before you start cutting them out,” she told us. “I’ll come around and cut out the hole in the top of your shoebox. Then we’ll seal them shut and cover the boxes with your Valentine decorations.” We were making our very own Valentine mailboxes. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the last part of the afternoon than doing crafts. And, making a mailbox just sounded like so much fun. It would be a real keepsake. I wondered if I would receive any Valentines. Mom had already put me to work making Valentine cards for all of my fellow classmates. “It’s only fair that you give one card to each person in the class,” she insisted when I grumbled about giving Valentines to the boys, especially the bullies. Would all of the other Moms insist that their children do the same? Mrs. Smithson made her way around the classroom, cutting holes carefully into the box tops. She stopped by my desk a little longer than the others. “Those are lovely hearts,” she complimented my handiwork. “Are we going to have a competition for the prettiest Valentine mailbox?” one of the other students attracted Mrs. Smithson’s attention. “Well, I don’t know,” she answered. “Please,” several of the girls echoed in unison. “But that really wouldn’t be fair,” Mrs. Smithson advised the class. “All of your boxes are starting to look very nice, very attractive. I couldn’t possibly choose which one was the prettiest.” Some of the girls muttered under their breaths that their boxes were by far the prettiest. I didn’t mind. I knew that for me, my box would always be the best and that was all that mattered.

We finished our Valentine mailboxes and tidied our desks just as the bell rang for dismissal. “Now don’t forget to bring your Valentines tomorrow,” Mrs. Smithson reminded us as we bundled up to venture out into the cold. Our Valentine mailboxes were left on our desks overnight. They remained on our desks all through the next day, Valentine’s Day. After lunch, the teacher allowed us to hand out our Valentines. It was so much fun walking around the classroom and placing a Valentine card in each and every mailbox. It was like being a mailman for real. Only it wasn’t. After we were seated again, the last recess bell rang and we were quickly ushered outside. Before following the others to the cloakroom at the back of the portable classroom, I had quickly peaked into the opening slot at the top of the box. There wasn’t much to see. Only two Valentines lay at the bottom of the box. I was heartbroken. I guess my Mom was the only one who believed in being fair to everyone else. The class bullies seemed to be aware of my sad state of affairs. All through recess, they teased me about my empty Valentine mailbox. I was so glad when the bell finally rang to let us back inside. We shed out coats and boots and resumed our seats. The teacher had set a Valentine cupcake on each of our desks. “You may look at your Valentines now,” she instructed us. All around me, my classmates were ripping open their boxes and dumping the contents on the desk to sort through. I took a bite of my cupcake and tried to pretend that I was more interested in the cupcake than my Valentine mailbox. “Aren’t you going to look inside?” the teacher asked, coming up beside me. “It does look rather full.” I didn’t believe her. I had seen the contents of my box before going to recess. “Go on and have a look,” she encouraged me. I pulled the box towards me and peaked inside. The teacher was right. It was full of Valentines. “Wow!” I gasped. I carefully unwrapped my box, not wanting to destroy my artwork and dumped the Valentines onto my desk. “How come you have more Valentines than I do?” Janice, the class favourite, asked. Emily Jane Hills Orford stories “Yeh!” one of the bullies peered over my shoulder. “Explain how that happened. I certainly didn’t give you a Valentine.” “Neither did I,” Janice said. I just shrugged my shoulders and opened the top Valentine on the pile. “It’s from Jane,” I announced. “Who?” several voices asked. “Jane,” I said. “She’s my best friend at my old school.” I started to smile as I sorted through the rest of the Valentines. They were all from my former classmates. They hadn’t forgotten me. I was still important to my former friends. That meant a lot to me. Once I was finished, I looked up at Mrs. Smithson. “Thank you,” I said, realizing that she and my mother must have worked together to make sure that I had lots of Valentines. Mom must have sent Mrs. Smithson the package of Valentines from my old school so that Mrs. Smithson could stuff them in my Valentine mailbox during the last recess. It was a good feeling to have friends, even if they were far away in another city and another school.

 

Emily-Jane Hills Orford is a country writer, living just outside the tiny community of North Gower, Ontario, near the Canada’s capital city: Ottawa. With degrees in art history, music and Canadian studies, the retired music teacher enjoys the quiet nature of her country home and the inspiration of working at her antique Jane Austen-style spinet desk, feeling quite complete as she writes and stares out the large picture window at the birds and the forest. She writes in several genres, including creative nonfiction, memoir, fantasy, and historical fiction. http://emilyjanebooks.ca