Ninety three years ago today, my city blew up.

Literally.

In 1917, two ships collided in the Halifax Harbour, one carrying munitions bound for the war (WWI) in Europe.

The ensuing explosion killed 2000 people and hurt another 9000.

On that day, my grandmother – now 106 years old – was in a one-room schoolhouse in Chezzetcook, a rural community about 30 miles away from the explosion.

She recalls the door of the wood stove blowing open with the arrival of the huge pressure wave of the massive explosion. Things fell off surfaces, windows cracked, everything shook. The children and their teacher thought it was the end of the world.

My grandfather, now deceased, told me he was blown off his feet as he ran to school – late. The explosion happened at 9:05 am. Grandad was about 10 miles away from the explosion. At least he had an excuse when he finally arrived at school

It was the biggest man-made explosion before Hiroshima.

Each year Halifax delivers a massive Christmas tree to Boston because the Americans were the first to arrive with emergency relief.

Our city has never forgotten the terrible explosion.  I hope it never does.