*I try not to live in the past...but...sometimes the past lives in me —Jamie Ford*

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The next morning I'm eating breakfast when Marnie phones me. "Hey Blake, I've got some interviews lined up for the Palace Pier article. I managed to find a dozen people willing to be interviewed. I thought I'd be easiest to divide the list into two groups and I'd text you the contact information for each person." "Sounds great!" I enthused, "So you interview six people and I do the same and then we compare notes?" "It seems the most practical way to do this and if you agree we can get started immediately." "Sure, Marn, send me the list and I'll set up the interviews for my set of people. Hopefully, we can complete this iin two days and then discuss what we've learned."

As I was ending the call, I got the text notification on my laptop, so I spent the next hour arranging times and places to meet each interviewee. I lined up three sessions for the afternoon allowing two hours for each one. I would meet with two of them in their homes, the third one was a librarian who worked at the Central library downtown so I agreed to a lunch meeting with her at the local Tim Hortons . The librarian's name was Lise Phillips and I scheduled her first so she could simply extend her lunch period—the other two were retired and in their 70's, so they might have had some direct contact with the dance hall itself before it burned down in 1963. But honestly, I wasn't optimistic. I hammy doubts I'd learn much from any of these people. I was resigned to writing a fluff nostalgia piece about the way Pier was in the late Thirties and its heyday in the Forties, I figured too much time had passed to expect anything more.

I met Lise at the Tim Hortons at noon and was taken aback. I don't know what I was expecting but it certainly wasn't an attractive women in her mid-thirties. My interest was piqued. She read my body language and obvious surprise at seeing such a young person. "My grandparents used to tell me stories about the dance hall,' she laughed, "but my experience wasn't just second-hand from them—I'd visit the site from time to time even though it was reduced to a pillar with a memorial plaque by then." I nodded, "That's all I saw when I visited myself a few days ago." "But that's not *all* that I experienced, "she replied, shivering at the memory, "I was transported into another dimension in time. I actually experienced the magic my grandparents talked about." Now, my interest was really piqued.

“What exactly happened?” I asked. “It was weird. Sometimes when I’d visit the site, I’d hear Thirties music dimly playing in the background. I thought at first the city piped in some Big Band recordings but when I inquired about it at the municipal offices, I was surprised to learn that wasn’t the case.” “Could you have heard music someone nearby was playing on a portable electronic device?” She shook her head. “Absolutely not—the beach was deserted and no one in sight for miles in either direction. But one summer night I just didn’t hear music, I actually saw the Palace Pier rise up from the beach like a ghostly apparition and saw vintage cars parked on the circular driveway.”

I was skeptical. “How long did this vision persist?” “That’s just it—it wasn’t a momentary glimpse, so I could dismiss it as overactive imagination—it continued for several minutes until I got scared, because the longer I stayed, the more concrete and definite the scene became.” “Were you afraid of being transported into the past?” She looked at me, eyes huge with fear as she was picturing it in her mind. “Blake, I could see people—flesh and blood people—as real as you and me and everybody in this restaurant. I knew if I stayed, I might never get back. I was being drawn into that world and I was enthralled. I wanted to stay.”

I stared out at the street and passing cars, trying to make sense of what she was telling me. I had to know. “Did it ever happen again?” She shook her head. “I’ve never been back, but the experience opened a kind of portal for me. I keep having dreams about it—not sure if I’d call them nightmares, because I’m drawn to that time. I know it sounds crazy, but I think I’ve lived in that era and I miss it.” “I don’t think you’re crazy, Lise—just give it some time and maybe things will start to become clearer to you.”

”Thank you,” she whispered, wiping away tears. “You’re the first person I’ve confided in who seems to understand. Any other advice?” “There’s a group that meets at Victoria College every Wednesday at 8 pm—the Mandela Society. You’ll find sympathetic people there who will be able to help you. I’ll be back in touch with you in a few days.” Her eyes were shining. “All I want is some hope that this means something and I’m not going down a rabbit hole.” “I know the feeling,” I smiled. In encouraging her I felt I was reassuring myself that this journey was ultimately going to make sense.

To be continued…
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