Favourably reviewing Harry Bruce’s Down Home: Notes of a Native Son more than 30 years ago, a critic in The Globe and Mail reported that it was from this book he’d learned that Nova Scotians often judged people or things on an ascending scale of merit that went like this: “good, some good, right some good, or right some Jesus good.” Down Home, he decided, was “right some good.”

Other critics have been less reticent. Bruce’s writing has inspired them to call him no less than “a consummate storyteller”; to marvel over his “magnetic style and marvelous command of the language”; to declare his prose “highly entertaining and gloriously informative”; and to insist that “only the spiritually dead or terminally obtuse could fail to come away from it richer for the experience.” About one collection of his works a reviewer decided, “We are obviously in the hands of a master.” Surely a master is right some Jesus good.

And now, The Perfect Day and Other Stories offers the best of Bruce’s best essays. From the sweet pain of first love and leaving home to the horrors of killer wasps, bloodthirsty flies, and marauding mice, from the relief experienced in every outhouse in the pines to the joy resounding from neighbourhood curling on a Scottish laird’s frozen pond, from the magic mist that sneaks into a ghost village on an abandoned island off Lunenburg to the sheer glory that parades of tall ships grant to great ports around the world, from fogs, bats, cats, and coyotes to the whales, thrones, stags, and steeples that make Atlantic Canada unique…they’re all here, and more, in Harry’s latest collection.

In 1971, Harry Bruce, recognized as one of Canada’s top non-fiction writers, lost his mind—according to his peers—when he left bustling, lucrative Toronto and moved his family to the tough little seaport of Halifax.

Harry was already acquainted with Halifax; at eighteen, he lived at HMCS Stadacona as an officer-cadet in the Royal Canadian Navy. He joined the navy chiefly to lose his virginity. “For what finer way could there be to serve queen and country?” Though he did not achieve his goal, that summer gave him his first whiffs of the port whose magnetism he would one day find irresistible.

He settled in Halifax—and he moved away. Several times, in fact, even going as far as Vancouver. Yet he kept returning to Halifax. Each time he found it had changed for the better and was a little less like the “racist, boring, City of the Living Dead” that comedian Cathy Jones called it forty years ago, and a little more like the lively, welcoming, cosmopolitan town he hoped it would be.

For the past fifty years, Harry Bruce has been working as what The Concise Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature calls “an impassioned advocate for the Maritimes and an essayist of great charm and perception.” Here, writing more charmingly and perceptively than ever, he celebrates the blossoming of Halifax as “A City to Dance In.”