This story, highly fabricated though is, is written around my childhood understanding of a significant, singular incident in the life of my paternal grandfather.
Because of my grandfather’s life in London, on the Canadian prairies and in Toronto, I am here and writing this story about an unsung hero, a most ordinary man. I dedicate this book to him, Harry Westley, a mudlark of sorts who loved meadowlarks… and to the memory of his son, my father, Frank.
FICTION / Sagas
FICTION / Biographical
Book translation status:
The book is available for translation into any language.
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