Remember Norman Rockwell? You have seen his work. He was a revered and iconic American painter of the last century. He produced a mountain of somewhat kitschy yet warm and fuzzy images of Americana. One of those paintings was called ‘The Stay At Homes.’ A bent and gnarled geriatric sea captain stands above a village and looks out onto a broad bay. His left hand rests on the shoulder of a young boy in a sailor’s costume. Beside the child stands a small spotted dog. Upon the bay there goes a top’sl schooner sailing on a broad reach before a stiff breeze. In the air above, gulls soar as the pair gaze out to sea. There is an air of the sea’s mystery and a sense of wisdom imparted.
I have held that image in my mind since I first saw it. For a long time I was that young sea-lusting lad. Lately I realize I am fast becoming the old salt. It hurts. The aches and pains of an arthritic winter are upon me. Somehow I have to get my carcass south for a while and then there is this wonderful place to come home to. The cost of everything, it seems, is prohibitive and then there is this bloody BC Ferry fare. I guess it is part of the price of island life but it does leave folks with a sense of entrapment. Just to get my truck and trailer over to mainland Canada costs approximately two hundred dollars, one way. Imagine the ticket for a commercial truck load of lettuce! And then there is the fuel and the tax on that. So, as usual, low finances stand in the way. Or, is that just a lame excuse?
Allie is a six year old girl rescued from China. Now she needs a new home, Her eyes melted my heart but I already have two wonderful rescued dogs.Aqua fungus. Now go get them.Finally. After decades of looking I get a quick photo of a tree frog. These tiny guys have a booming call but are masters of staying hidden. My dog Libby sniffed this one out where it sat three feet beside the path. It is about two inches long.Frog HoundA dog in disguise.
There is no point in lamenting things you can’t, or won’t, change. Just let it be and find something good to focus on. It is why I continue to take photos and write blogs. There is beauty in everything, but first you have to want to find it. By focusing on those tiny joys all around us life remains bearable, sometimes even worthwhile. That quest is life inspiring. Sadly, last night, I was awakened just before 03:00 by the sound of an airplane flying low and slow. It sounded as if full flaps were employed and the engine was labouring. It was a rotten night out with blasts of rain and intermittent fog. As a pilot, I knew something was wrong but then dismissed the noise as some unusual vehicle down on the highway. In the morning I learned the single-engine aircraft I had heard crashed only a minute later. The pilot was dead.
Low and slow is always a recipe for disaster especially in the middle of a nasty night. I will not speculate but can easily imagine the terror and panic as things went wrong. Those would have been long seconds before the merciful oblivion of the crash. I was taught long ago that altitude is money in the bank and airspeed is money in the pocket. Spend your assets wisely. The sense I cannot shake is of being alone in that cockpit that night. Rest in peace mate whomever you were.
Blueberry fields in recent weeksAutumn Pond Salmon lurk beneath, exotic waterfowl stop to rest on their way south.Flying south over the pond. Actually, it’s landing at Nanaimo Airport.
Today is “Light Up Day” in Ladysmith. After local volunteers have strung up millions of Christmas lights over the pavement and buildings of main street, crowds will gather in the cold rain and “OooAh” as the grand blaze is switched on. Tomorrow is Black Friday as the orgy of Christmas credit spending goes into full launch mode. The general excesses of the season will sustain many retailers for the year ahead. Meanwhile the food banks can’t meet demand.
An old friend reappears. She was once a marina neighbour. ‘Beluga Spray’ is about 44′ by 14′ She’s a beast. I recall that below she was finished in varnished oak and reminded me of a Baptist church. After thirty plus years I hope the dream is still alive. Maybe someday she’ll get a set of spars and sails and truly go to sea.A dipper bird. This amazing creature can walk underwater along the bottom of rushing stream beds feeding on what they find. Right now there is a feast of salmon eggs. Always moving, they are hard to photograph especially in the dull light of autumn.
Here, old Mr. Bumhug hisself will turn his back on the bizarre and abstract frenetics to warily watch the season .pass from afar. I have repaired the neighbour’s snow blowers and will sit huddled next to my electric fireplace watching the wee birds at their feeder outside my window. Winter approaches. I’m ready. Good cheer, and warm wishes to all.
Two eagles watch my wee dogs pass. They are enjoying a bountiful salmon spawn.Ready for spring. Artechoke seeds and starter pots in the garden shed.Now is the season of trying to keep the bird feeders full. The little bandits can empty them quickly.Munchings in the nightSomehow it does not look edible.Me either!Fairy WorldSo delicate……yet so determined and strongThey keep comingA timeless miracleWild Thing
Those who wish to sing Always find a song. Old Swedish proverb.
Ruffling its neck plummage and clacking its beak with steaming breath, this Raven cut an impressive image. That all began when I pointed my camera at it. “Nevermore.” Sitting on a limb above our path I think the bird was trying to hurry us along.
I went for my annual Covid and flu shots four weeks ago last Tuesday. Within two days I had fallen into the clutches of what seemed to be terminal snyphlis. It may have been a coincidence. “When you’re with your honey and your nose is runny, don’t think it’s funny, ’cause it’s snot.” It has been almost a month. I am now slowly recovering but still feeling like what fell out of a high-flying goose. I spend most of my time in bed decomposing.
Against the wind. Poor Ayre! The leaves blasting past were bigger than her.Between rain showers, the wind blew away evaporating moisture.A bleak alley in downtown Duncan. To me it looked like an abandonded movie set.Anny. A new friend we met on the trail. She is fourteen years old and has just been adopted.Dog business.
While I was trying sleep last night I had an attack of the farts. It was a weary barrage of short sharp reports. (FLAK Fart Like a King) When I finally drifted into a troubled sleep I dreamed that my body had become covered with open, suppurating lesions that all farted unstoppably. I sounded like a spring pond full of toads. The doctor called it a terminal case of “Deterioritis.” Doesn’t life get better when you can hang a name on something? I survived my dream although there is a bad odour in this room. Ah yes, the writer alone in his garret. There’s a reason!
I call it the Tiger Moth Cafe because of the models. It’s a lovely step back in time, complete with original dirt from the sixties. But, the food is very good, the service is excellent, the servers are friendly, and the vibes are excellent. Downtown Duncan.On another wall in that cafe this map from 1939 hangs.
Today, deep in the wretched state of this damnable flu, my cell phone pinged with a text message. “Are you in the store today?” Clearly a wrong number but I sardonically replied, “Yes, but we’re out of edible panties.” I sniggered at my cryptic wit and drifted back into my snotty coma. A while later came a response. “Is this Dr. Mary?” “No.” Now I’m looking for Dr. Mary’s porn shop. Yep, that’s me, a right old bull in a sex shop. Then another text came. “Do I have a wrong number?” I didn’t reply.
The crow hole on November 11th.Dawn Patrol. Over the crow hole a Remembrance Day flypast at 10:55 am. The lead aircraft is a Yak 3, Russian designed, Chinese built. It has an amazing thunderous sound. The other two are homebuilts.Lunch time by the front window. Little birds need love too.Another sign of the season.Rain- wet mushrooms. Or is it a cluster of umbrellas at a bus stop?
Still the calls are coming from people who promise to be my literary saviour. It’s an atmospheric river of false hope. Yeah right! I wonder at this avalanche of scammers all singing a similar song. How did they appear all at once? It must be a new idea they picked up at a scammers convention.
And so I stumble on into mid-November. On the first day of the month I stared through my reflection on the window into a jet black sunrise at 07:30. There are swirls of fog but nothing else. We turned back the time that night, the dark season is upon us. I’m still staring out.
So what the hell am I writing about? Everyone knows what time it is, everyone has their own box of tick-tocks slowly emptying itself. The sound of that gets louder and louder. I’m fighting the old man blues, desperate to do something meaningful. I can’t seem to get beyond repairing the neighbour’s snow blowers. One friend is in Mexico on his motorcycle and sending me videos of it all. My little antique Honda Trail bike is still in the workshop waiting for parts. There is a whole damned black winter ahead.
Luna NovemberTwo nights later, full moon.
It was full moon last week. Folks still seem edgy. The evening is bracketed by the usual November gales. I turned in to the local grocery store just after darkness fell. Two young boys careening through the parking lot on a grocery cart barely missed the front of my truck. If I had not braked it could have been a sad story. They were having a grand old time. Two people were standing nearby. I asked politely if the two kids were theirs. Mentioning that they were very hard to see I suggested many drivers would not have seen the two. The response was angry and aggressive. Who am I to care about anyone’s child? “Just stay calm and carry on and… mind yer bizniz!” When I told my wife this little story she had her own from the same parking lot. She pointed out to a man in his car that he had one headlight burned out. He flew into a rage and began to curse her. Say wot? November grinds on.
Monday morning practice. The boat is worth about $250 k, the volunteers are free. They perform an invaluable service.An old marina neighbour from thirty years ago. The wheelhouse and the junk have been added since. ‘Beluga Spray’ is a beast. 44 feet long, 14 foot beam. She’s huge! The interior is finished in varnished oak, like a Baptist church. Sadly she still has no mast or sprit. Hopefully there is still a dream of voyaging ahead.Smokey Cove, across the bay. A little autumn cleanup.
I recently heard a lyric from a cowboy song that says “I’m not anti-social, I just don’t like people.” Uhuh! It is now past already Remembrance Day. I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. With all the suffering of innocent people at the hands of military actions there’s not much point in remembering anything if nobody is prepared to learn a damned thing. Eleventh hour, eleventh day, eleventh month, think of Gaza, Ukraine, Somalia, Sudan to name a few.
Yeah, remember!
Spawn til you die.
“Often people are the least lovable when they need love the most.” anon
Against the wind. Autumn is still able to catch me by surprise
October fourteenth. Thanksgiving day now past. I sit watching the sun rise in a clear sky. As it rises, a skim of frost forms on my neighbour’s roof. It is always coldest right at dawn. There is an explanation but I’ve never quite bought it. Perhaps it is an atmospheric compression factor but I think I prefer the simple mystery of not knowing. Why does everything need to be dissected and put in boxes?
Dark dawnIn the middle of the night sky.And there I sit clicking away. It must be scary looking in.
Lately there has been a storm of people contacting me in an effort to scam me about one of my books. They all have an eloquently-worded AI preamble which praises my literary skills and promises to lead me into the light of commercial success. There are now dozens who have promised fulfillment for this jaded old given-up writer. They carefully do not mention upfront what their fees are and I carefully do not mention the laughable state of my finances. I went bust long ago trying to market my work. It is very cruel that folks would prey on other people’s faltering dignity and false hope; especially faded geezers like me. Cold and heartless knacker crackers! The lot of them.
“Once you’ve got the lawn mowed, drop in for a spot of breakfast.”What a place to live!Really? It’s hard to look ahead if you’re texting.Road’s end at low tide.
It is a terrible thing to watch a friend waste away. I’ve gone to see him twice in the last week, he has been asleep. He is fading and I recognize him first by his mechanic’s hands. How many times we have worked side by side, handing over wrenches, prying on a stubborn part, covered in black muck. Now they lay at his sides, clean and still. We are both mechanics, ( he a splendid one) sailors and rough-necked men who see and share a love of the natural world. It is hard not being able to do a damned thing for him. I know some of his family regard me as an interloper although this man and his wife have treated me as family for a long time. All I can do is be there, standing by for any need I can fill. My wife and I went to the hospital today and looked in on this now breathing cadaver who has for a very long time been full of life, humour and much wisdom. I feel so very weary and guilty. Yet while he still lives I miss already him horribly.
A luthier’s shop in Chemainus.How’s this for a front window?The proprietress could charge admission.A nocturne.I understand.Woofer and Tweeter.
When we arrived home this afternoon it was still light enough to do what I call my scat patrol. It was between fierce cold blasts of precipitation. Already in a splendid mood I bent down and scooped up the rain-hammered dog turds wondering those eternal questions about life’s meaning. Now I sit at my desk, staring back blankly at my reflection in the black window. Long will be the night.
Trick or treat.
Meet me there, where the sea meets the sky,
Lost but finally free.”
Inscription on memorial bench, M-y-grib Point, England.
What’s warmer and fuzzier than a child playing with a dog, especially when it’s a dog who usually doesn’t like children. This moment made my day.
Nearly everybody loves a parade. Especially if it is their own. Yesterday while driving home from Nanaimo the highway was clogged. Our sleepy little island has become what I call “Surrey West.” There is every style of driving at play and how our roads are not heaped with bodies daily is indeed a miracle. The passing lane was backed up yesterday although everyone was hurtling along well above the speed limit. There was no room for error.
At the head of that zooming parade was a pickup truck with Washington license plates pulling a very large Grady White powerboat on a trailer. It had two 300hp outboards hanging on the transom. A thirty foot boat with 600 horsepower is insanity! Nevertheless what what I really noted was the huge American flag flapping from the boat’s rigging as the T-Rump undergraduate declared his self-absorbed arrogance. When I described this aberration to my wife she declared it an act of aggression. I think she is right. It seemed an American solution was in order, one which involves several machine guns. Do NOT come into my country to piss on my head. This Canadian is not inclined to be warm and fuzzy toward such an affront; eh! Maybe we should build a wall!
It’s that time of the year again. The annual salmon spawn is on.The elk are getting into the mood. The incumbent patriarch is chasing off an usurper. His defeated rump is dissappearing into the brush on the left.
One of the issues on our national plate these days is to continue the plan to purchase a load of several F35s from the US. At this summer’s Abbotsford Air Show an F35 was part of the spectacle. A news story had an expert describing the wonders of this aircraft and how it was “The most technically advanced fighter aircraft ever.” The flight demonstration was cancelled at mid-point due to “technical difficulties.” Say no more. Through my lifetime of being around things mechanical, the ultimate sophistication is always about simplification. A friend recently described problems with his electronic kitchen faucet. He loved the device but parts and support were in Toronto. I suggested a simple turn-the-knob tap from the local hardware store. Yeah but…
In a documentary about a village in rural Russia running water there involved a well with a windlass and a bucket on a rope. The water was murky. You run home with a pail in each hand. Everyone gathered around the well waiting to crank up their daily water declared Russia to be the best country in the world. Da! Perspectives. Here, we’ve had a rainy twenty-four hours. The earth slurped it up greedily. But now it is early autumn, all teetering on that one day of desperately needed moisture. Hopefully a majority of gringos are going back into the woodwork as we grab a few days of residual summer.
The sad state of our island railroad. We desperately need it back in service. There is little hope apparently.The ding dong is done.
In the interior, Indian Summer comes after a first frost. Here it is after that first serious day of rain. The weather at the moment is perfect so… we know that only fools and newcomers predict the weather. Frankly those girls on TV wearing tight skirts can go to hell with their atmospheric rivers and predictions with newly invented words. I am an old-school pilot and mariner. I can still out-predict them usually with an eye on the barometer and the sky; and know that I’m no smarter than I look! Just get in tune with the home planet.
Oh Canada! Should we build a wall?
Last week we went to a place called Saratoga Beach Resort. It is halfway between Courtenay and Campbell River. It looks out across broad white sands to Mittlenatch Island, Desolation Sound and the coastal mountains beyond. We have been driving past this place for forty years and wonder how we have missed it. The RV park is small and patronized by quiet and friendly people. The beach is stunning with spectacular views of the the mainland coast and the rugged mountains inland. I know that part of the coast intimately and take great comfort in seeing old familiar haunts even if from ashore.
A view to mainland Canada and Desolation Sound.Confrontation.In the bosses footprints.Sunup before coffee.Canned people.Solitude and salmon.
On the drive up from Ladysmith it was once again obvious that our old yellow pickup truck was a little too light for towing our trailer. While doing a quick search online to see what decent used trucks were available, and affordable, (virtually none) I found one at a used car lot only two miles away. Go figure! We went for a look. All I’ll say is that this is the story of a twenty-two thousand dollar camping trip. Any other similar used truck was easily twice the price. Jill has done an amazing job of shaking our scrawny money shrubs and she gleaned what we needed. We’ve just bought a house and the ribs on the piggy bank are showing. My imagination is beggared at what folks are paying for used vehicles with very high mileage. New vehicle prices, for me, are incomprehensible. How the hell do people survive while supporting such high prices? We have an enviable lifestyle and nobody is shooting at us, yet, but we seem determined to live within a growing hairball of need and greed.
Honest Harold’s clean used cars.Das Voody. Locals line up for burgers cooked in the old bus.A Dodgy truck, a 1960 D100. The Dodge I bought is 68 years newer. It is very nice but I think I’d rather have the old one. Despite the rust-hole, it is in amazing condition.
At this time of year many folks are able to flaunt a well-bronzed body. However every year one of the signs of summer’s end is men in shorts with a glaring fluorescent pair of shanks. Where they’ve been since spring, with their legs hidden away, is anyone’s guess but Geez Louise! They sure stand out. It is an annual phenomenon which perhaps precludes the winter shorts gang who are out in several feet of snow with glowing red legs. There are also other folks already in wool toques and parkas which leaves me wondering at the togs they’ll sport come winter. It is a cute wee conundrum to have along with taking for granted having food, clean water, hospitals and other infrastructures for all who want them. God bless us every one.
On a final note of how we are so blessed here I sat yesterday on a bench beside the Nanaimo River. The dogs and I were out for our daily walk. The water was crystal clear. I soon noticed that I could see spawning salmon swimming up in mid-stream. I am always drawn to think of their incredible journey, out into mid-Pacific and then back to exactly the same place they were spawned. To have fish and a clean river full of fresh water is an abundance we take for granted. Autumn arrives and the cycle of life continues.
Is this a sign of autumn or did a passing dog leave a pee mail?
“When you get to the end of your rope, there’s often a little more rope.” anon
More rain tonight. Looking out from my desk as I post this blog.
I am sitting at my desk waiting for the bank’s security department to pick up my call-on-hold. It’s been over fifty minutes of dreadful music. Then the call finally timed out. Ho hum.
The flower before the pumpkinAnother pumpkin flower
This was after several hours on the line with a scammer who cleaned out my bank account, with my help. I am neither senile or stupid but they bagged me with some cyber trickery. I won’t crawl back through the gory details except to say I was phoned by someone claiming to be from Amazon Security and that my account had been hacked. They wanted to help me get refunded for my loss and to block the alleged scammer from access to my account. I fell for it. There’s an old rule that says if it smells like fish, chances are, there be a fish! In hindsight I should have first checked my bank account for anything unusual and then called Amazon to see if indeed anything was amiss. There are now several obvious questions I should have asked. The biggest one is Why the hell didn’t I just hand up? I am sick at my loss and sick that even an old smart ass like me can be so easily scammed. Enough said, stay alert!
Another smokey day. There are three ships in this photo.
Well, well I’ve got my money back!!! My rapid response somehow stopped the scammer’s process. I’ve since learned that with today’s new telepathic mobile phones, using one in close proximity to your computer can give the caller-scammer instant and full access to all of your information and accounts. It is a scary world and unfortunately it pays to be paranoid and suspicious. Even with no fiscal loss I am shamed and humiliated that this jaded old fart could let someone jam a stick into my spokes so easily. The whole event has upset me quite badly. I’ll admit that. I wonder about how many folks are just too embarrassed to admit that they fell prey to some very clever thief. There are plenty out there. Apparently it pays. Even with the wisdom of older years, folks are being bamboozled by nasty people at the top of their game and who are very hard to out-scheme. They are incredibly blatant, just like certain politicians.
A few days later, the scammers had the temerity to call me back. Click!
The title comes from the message shown when I went to finish my last blog. General Error the computer said. That translates to “Poof Gone, we have lost your files!” What a week! Suddenly it is September with golden days and cool early sunsets. The anchorage in the harbour is still full of yachts, my head is still full of dreams, life goes on. Today is the only one we have.
The solar line.Smokey dawnHigherMore upOur life-giving star.Next morningThe world is on fire.The lawn ornament. Damn! What an ugly car! It is a late 50’s/early 60’s Vauxhall Victor. I know. I had one for a first car. The rusty beast ran as well as it looked. No wonder girls did not want to come out with me. It would NOT ever be used as a garden decoration.No ambitions. Porch hounds on a warm summer’s afternoon.Absolutletly
“ The truth has no defence against a fool determined to believe a lie.”
My blog was originally intended to chronicle my adventures at sea and on the roads ashore. It has devolved to writing about absolutely nothing (Like the Seinfeld Show). I sit at my desk watching the world go by and offer cryptic comments about what I see through the window. I continue to take and post photos because I know that should I stop seeing beauty in little things, in the ordinary, then my life is over. I hope I help others also see a wee bit better.
Artichoke season comes to an end. New plants are trying to shoulder their way into the world.
Last night, while watering the raspberries, I noticed a stalk of corn wiggling vigorously. It turned out to be a rat up the stalk snacking away like a politician on a beautiful ear of corn. The defiant bugger only scooted away when I turned the hose on him. Once I was twenty feet away he was back at it. By morning he had cleaned up my entire crop of corn plants.
So I’ve been killing rats lately like a mad trapper. Despite having two vital dogs bred for ratting I am starting to feel overrun. Yes I know rats are one of God’s creatures and I do feel guilt even for killing insects but it sure is frustrating. The property next door is a bit of a feral forest and that is probably where they come from. I can’t put poison out because of the dogs, nor can I use the classic snapping trap, because of the dogs. My shotgun is not acceptable. I continue to harvest varmints with my electric rat zapper trap. I’m beginning to reconsider the effort and expense of gardening at all.
Bzzzapt! Gotcha!
But then there is the taste of fresh from the garden vegetables. Life is about moments of bliss. This morning was the succulence of a peach straight off the tree with sweet nectar dribbling into my beard. There is the fresh over-abundance of zucchinis and just out-of-the-pod peas. How about just-dug potatoes? There is more to growing vegetables than economics. It’s good for the soul.
Onions on parade.Door knocker onions. They’re going fast but it does my heart good to see something from my distant past.Scene of the corn crime.Just peachy. Damn they are tasty!
To relieve the tedium of our urban banalities we have hauled our trailer out into woods, but for only two nights, It is only a few miles from home up the Nanaimo River Valley. With the high wildfire risk there is no point in going far only to be turned away. As it is, we passed a small fire on our way there. It was quiet, we essentially had the campground to ourselves. We took a short hike through the mutilated jungle to a beautiful swimming hole on the Nanaimo River. It is a backwater beside a short set of rapids. Shortly after we settled there a flock of six geese descended the rapids bobbing and dashing along in single file. It was a wonderful sight and of course, no camera was handy in time. Later, while swimming, I realized there is a good population of crayfish. I know the river is also home to freshwater clams. What a delight to have raw water that clean and how sad that it should be notable.
Yet another photo of my favourite house on Vancouver. I don’t want the bother of maintaining it but I sure admire this old shack. So one more crack about when poor people ate fish and lived by the sea.
Back at our campsite bright yellow birds fed in a Saskatoon bush and an indigenous red squirrel scolded from the trees. I haven’t heard that song for a very long time. Later I made a a successful drone flight. It is now safely back in its bag. I feel quite chuffed to finally accomplish a happy ending with a drone mission. It has only taken a year.
Ever seen a bear on a roller skate? That’d be me. This is a 1981 Honda CT 110 Trail. It is an an iconic motorcycle and is a very capable ride. It could be for sale.
Suddenly the long weekend in August is already past. Despite the extreme risk of wildfire there were celebrations in our waterfront park including a small town fireworks display. Tiny boats helter-skeltered in the dark harbour looking like a swarm of fireflies. Judging from the din someone was having a grand time. This old grump on the hill went to bed and promptly fell asleep during the barrage, my dogs curled up beside me.
More old wheels. A 1948 Mercury. It is older than me and in much better shape.No air bags.Prison made.A Fart Parkerson 59 motors downwind in a perfect sailing breeze. I’m just jealous.
We descend into the last half of summer with shortening daylight and cooling temperatures. Back to school ads are playing. We know what comes next. Despite all that we can find wrong here we live in a wonderful corner of the mad, mad world. That alone is reason to stay happy and thankful.
Milo on the prowl.Find the dog. Libby takes the high road.Find the trout.Tiger ShroomsThe moon also rises. Not a bad photo for a hand-held cell phone in the dark.
“The older I get, the more clearly I remember things that never happened.”
Venus rising. The morning star in the best part of the day.At this time of year Arbutus trees shed their old leaves. On the path they crush underfoot and produce an aroma that should be bottled.Wait for me!
Some older men sit on a porch with a pot of morning coffee. They speculate if Clint Eastwood and Willy Nelson made it through the night. “Yep” offered one geezer, “they’re both older’n dirt. Can’t live forever.”
“Well so are we!” another geriatric retorted. “No point in buying green bananas for any of us.”
It is three minutes of wonderful down south blues and should cheer anyone up. If the link doesn’t work just Google up Sam Dad Radio green bananas. Uhuh.
Artichokes are a mysterious plant. Some people eat the flower buds, I prefer to just watch them evolve. They look like a delicacy for dinosaurs.Bees love them too.
So here I sit at 04:00 on the last Sunday in June. The glass of 2025 is at halves, full or empty, that’s up to you. Venus, the morning star, sits brightly in a cloudless sky. Various yachts sit anchored in the harbour, their anchor lights glowing prettily. I’m sleepless again. And here I muse over a mug of tea, my churning brain contemplating issues of no consequence that I can’t flush. It’s no way to start the day.
Doggy done in. A tangled lap dog.
Now it is the first day of July. 09:00 in the Morning. A flawless weather day with tepid breezes wafting in through the open window at my desk. The lemming race down on the highway is building already. Hurry up and relax. Now the first yacht leaves the anchorage, rushing home to see tonight’s fireworks and then be in the office tomorrow.
Who drank all the Cinzano? A golden morning in the anchorage. The yacht in the center is a Nordhaven 50 something, an enduring fantasy of mine.Don’tcha buy no ugly boat. To this old salt’s eye this has not one nautical line. The side ports are all too low, there are no flags, no name, no home port. Some folks spend a lot to grab a little attention with no sense of seamanship. (In my opinion)
After misadventures last year with my drone I’m battling with the insurance replacement unit which has sat in my closet all this time. I will admit I’ve been afraid to use the thing. Booting up the wee flying computer now has it asking questions which I’ve never seen before. Tektwits! Every electronic device seems determined to subjugate its operator. Facebook now demands that I wait for them to email me a password so I can finally open the account to read a message someone sent me. Then…they email me a query about me being active with passwords. WTF? YOU just sent them to me!
What the hell ever happened to simple old emails? Now everyone wants to use quack, twitter, squawk, fart, bleep and bark instead of going with what works. I refuse to be trendy especially if it requires downloading more apps that instantly scramble other enablements already lurking in my laptops dark brain.
My existence seems to be punctuated by moments of things with red wheels. When I was very young my father owned a 1938 Ford car. At that time it would have been 17 years old. I don’t remember rust but can see a gleaming dark blue car accented with chrome trim spotted with a bit of red paint. For example there were V8 emblems on the hood and red wheels with V8 logos on the hubcaps. I can certainly remember the warm aroma of the fabric interior. I have anecdotes about that vehicle and it is one of the few things from from my childhood I would love to see again. Another item from that era was my Werlich wagon. Werlich was a company in Preston Ontario which produced wooden items like toboggans and wagons. I don’t know who provided it to me but I loved it for many years.
I owned it before we moved from farm to town but that was where I really began to exploit its possibilities. I would kneel in it with my right leg and propel myself along the concrete side walks of the block around our house with my left foot. Mother could never work out why my left shoe was always so badly worn. We lived across Church Street from the fire hall and my world was the four sides of that block. I loved the firehall. I loved the clackety clack of the cracks in the sidewalk as I scooted along and steered with the tongue of the wagon folded back to work as a tiller. One day I swerved around a pedestrian and rammed a parking meter. Unbelievably, the meter’s lid popped open and a cascade of pennies and nickles rained into the bed of my wagon. Around the corner was the local pharmacy and confectionery. That wagon came home with a heap of candy. My parents were boggled. There was probably some sort of martial law applied, there was for nearly everything, I can’t recall, but it was a glorious day which I’ll always remember.
In later years, that wagon was used to deliver newspapers. Neither rain nor snow held me back as I delivered the Toronto Telegram. On Saturdays I had 120 customers and each thick paper could weigh up to 12 pounds. You can now find those antique wagons for sale on Ebay for stupendous prices. I still remember the dark wet and cold of late Saturday afternoon and the added misery of collecting payments. As an adult I’ve proven to be an abject failure as an entrepreneur so clearly I learned little from my early endeavours.
This a 1960 Vauxall Epic, some folks called them “Epidemics.” This one, remarkably free from rust has been turned into a hotrod with a small Chevy V8. I owned a 1957 version, a “Victor” which was even the same colour plus mucho rust. It was a horrible car.
As our daughter approached her 16th birthday she began to campaign for a red Saab turbo convertible. I tried to describe my first car, a 1957 Vauxhall Victor. It was red and white and rust and rust. “Vauxhall? Wasn’t that some sort of vacuum cleaner?” I answered that indeed it had really sucked! Eventually she received a very basic Nissan Sentra which proved to be the most impossibly reliable car ever. It never quit, ever! “Dad…that piece-of-shit car you forced on me is broken down again.”
“You mean it’s out of gas again.”
“Well I put five dollars in last week!”
“And look, it’s out of water!”
“Water? C’mon!”
An old MG at last weekend’s car show. It is annual event, always on a brutally hot day with loads of rude people and self-appointed experts on the Britsh car.A Jaguar XKE. Unless you cdan jack it up in the air and install big fat wheels, I don’t want it. I just wish I could afford it.Uhuh!Say no more.In the trunk of a 1950 Jaguar sedan. It doesn’t say much for the car’s reliability but also states that men were expected to have some basic mechanical knowledge. Many can’t even change a flat tire anymore.The heat of the day drew a lingering aroma of leather car interiors.When only the best would do.“I say old chap!”I prefer the common man’s car. This Morris Minor is a lovely example. Still, they seldom came out of their tiny garage until the weekend. They were a hit in Canada for a while, then the Japanese cars took over.You can’t have a British Car Show without an Austin Healy 3000.
We bought and moved to a lovely house last fall. The neighbour had one of those ubiquitous eternally closed garage doors. That, of course, excites a growing curiosity. Then one day this spring the door was open and there to my wondering eyes appeared one little red British sports car. A 1973 Triumph TR6. As a nostalgic old mechanic I soon found myself tinkering on it. I soon recalled that my love/hate relationship for old British cars requires accepting a curse that you are never done tinkering. A tune-up involves eternal adjustments, nothing is ever set forever.
What’s behind the door?6 cylinders, 2.5 litres. A torqy wee bugger.She’s beautiful but I’m a truck kinda guy.
However, this cherished relic does have a wonderful sound when it is running. That throaty roar is probably why so many people bought the things. This one also possesses a rare set of fully functional brakes. I don’t think I ever owned a British car which didn’t require pumping the brakes every stop. Getting in and out of the wee fliver is a challenge for this old dumpling. The foot pedals are ridiculously close together for my pair of boats, the seat does not adjust back far enough. It is not comfortable. I can’t drive it without one elbow hanging over the door. Frankly, after having known British cars, boats and aircraft it seems a requirement that nothing ever be comfortable. “Wot? Comfort? Naaw, we’re British!”
There is nearly always someone beaking away at the car with their usual vomit of testosterone-induced bullshit about their vast knowledge of British sport cars. That gets to be irritating. On a test drive, a Mazda MX-5 convertible pulled out ahead of me. “Wow,” I thought, “They sure don’t make them like they used to, thank God.” But then, being of British descent I understand that we are a race of masochists and that comfort is irrelevant to holding a cutting image. “Keep your pecker up” is an iconic British declaration. So is “Stay calm and carry on.”
My latest foray into wee red wheels is to acquire a 1981 Honda CT110 motorbike. That was built 2 years before my wife and I met. It was a beast with a whumping 110cc motor and a double range of gears which gives the rider 8 speeds. You can climb cliffs and pull stumps. There is a huge cult following of millions around the world. In Australia they were known as “Posties” for their long service there in the postal service. They must have worked well, Australian Post sold them all off. Crowds of delighted folks proudly own them now. There are parts available nearly everywhere. The little trekkers are still made, now sporting a 125cc motor and disc brakes but that old gearbox is gone. The old bikes hold their value often selling for more than when new. I feel like a bear on a roller skate in the saddle but it fits easily onto a rear bumper carrying rack and makes a perfect exploration vehicle for little jaunts into the back of beyond.
Bikers arent so tough when they’re on their own! You’ll hear me coming “Ring ding ding ding.”An early ad fronm the 1960s. The rifle probably sold for more than the motorbike.Fried Egg Flowers among the wild peas. I love blending wild flowers with domestic ones.My growing buddy ‘Milo.’Grrrrr!
So, if you see a portly geezer wobbling down the road it is only me on a beer run. If the day comes when I’m whisking along on my electric scooter, chances are It’ll be red. There is already one in town lurching down the sidewalks and flying a Jolly Roger flag.
Geezers rule!
The ubiquitous light at the end of the tunnel.
“Don’t let yesterday take up too much of today.”—Will Rogers
I told my friends after suddenly losing their beloved dog that the next one would find them. There were doubts expressed that they’d ever have another dog. Along came Milo. He’s 11 weeks old, about 4 pounds and king of the heartbreakers. “Only love can break a heart, only love can mend it again.”About 250 metres below my office window runs the Vancouver Island Highway. It is also a part of the Trans Canada Highway. It is busy. My neighbour’s house obscures my harbour view but also blocks some of the din from the roadway. Amazingly a lot of the traffic is a huge number of motorcycles. You can’t mistake them. Some are the howling crotch rockets. Apparently, paramedics refer to their accidents as “donor cycle crashes.” Say no more. Another huge number of motorcycles are Harley Davidsons. Their blatant roar is unmistakable. For the last three nights, in the wee hours, one has passed at what sounds like full throttle. Its straight-pipe exhaust screams defiant blapping contempt. Every time, not far behind, comes the warbling woo-woo of a police siren. I don’t know the rest of this story but it sounds like someone is having fun. Perhaps the local donut shop is now open all night.Where all they all now?
I’ll soon be out there giving those Harley folks a laugh. I have just purchased a 1981 Honda CT110 otherwise known as a Honda Trail. I know I’ll look like a bear on a roller skate. I don’t care. They have a tremedous reputation and are world famous. One even went around the world! In Australia they’re known as a “Postie.” That is because they were popular with the down under postal service. Imagine my bemusement when I came upon a YouTube video called “Rusty Postie.”
Little dogs have taught me that it is entirely noble to do big things with tiny friends. Boats too!
These are incredibly popular tiny motorcycles well-known around the world. Honda has sold millions of them. They first appeared in the 1960s and apart from larger engines now, they remain virtually unchanged. They started with a 70cc and are presently being sold with a raging 125 cc power. They are over-priced and supply is minimal. I’m told the new bikes just don’t compare to their ancestors mainly because their gear boxes have been changed. The old ones had a two speed transfer case which allowed the driver a choice of eight gears in all. I’ll soon find out if I can actually climb a vertical cliff with mine. They are delightful little machines, easy to handle and can go anywhere. They’ll get 100 mpg and can stretch up to speeds of 50 mph. That’s ample velocity for some fatal stupidity.
Maybe it was the sign but the trail seemed hard too find.It was a quiet neighbourhood.
My wife has been away for the past few weeks. Our dogs have dulled into her absence. When she arrives there’ll be a circus of yelping, licking, peeing, twirling dances and every manner of woofing excitement. Their honest enthusiasm is always delightful. How I’d like to know that exuberance within myself once again. Meanwhile I’ve been heads-down at domestic chores in Jill’s absence. There was a plethora of little jobs around the house and yard including a new fence between the neighbours and our yard. Now that the moat is all dug out, I’ll flood it in the morning. Damn those summer water restrictions!
The bridge under troubled dogs. They were fascinated with the view.Preparations for the new fence. Mexicans welcome.A breath-taker in my front garden. I’ve learned that it is called a Hydrangea Bluebird, or serrata. I am much pleased.A free tree in every nut. Some squirrel forgot where he buried his lunch.A humble potato flower.
I am not an enthusiastic gardener but have disciplined myself to plod away at it. One tiny joy was the ripening strawberries I’d nurtured. I decided to allow one more day of succulent red ripening to perfection. Then I’d freeze them. Some furry varmint ate every one overnight. God bless all his mangy critters. Allahu Akbar! They deserve more rights on this planet than I do but it is hard to accept. Meanwhile a truckload of gorgeous strawberry redness from Mexico has appeared in the local store for a exorbitant price but still below what my pathetic crop has cost per stolen berry. Well, I can still take drinking water for granted and I’m staying overweight.
Indian plums seem especially succulent this year.Recycling. Not a new concept.The RVer. They poke around everywhere in the summer.
Things ain’t so bad!
“Y’all come back now.”
“A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
If you don’t like my peaches don’t shake my tree. Looks like a bumper crop coming on.Everything has a season. “Feeling nearly faded as my peony.”SadioliasThe aphid eaters.
It is no big deal. Lots of folks live far beyond this age and continue to be vital, providing a contribution to the world around them. So it should be. When I was a child the old biblical three score and ten was your divine allotment and life beyond that was was either a holy gift or perhaps a devlish deal had been made. We have generally abandoned that nonsense now. Not only are folks living longer than ever, they are alive in all senses. They don’t look, act or smell geriatric. Not like the geezer who sat next to me in church when I was a child, his hearing aid a twisty-wired contraption that squealed horribly and he stank, a decompossed smell. Maybe it was his underwear. In contrast I watched a video last night of the entertainer Cher, at age 79, prancing on stage in bare-bum glory. You go girl! I remember first seeing her on 1960’s black and white television. She’s still ticking.
My dad was an old-school English train-spotter, among other things. He planned everything to the second. Garden planting schedules, vacations and nearly everything else had to have a precise itinerary and if something were three minutes late, “Heads would roll.” He was a postman and even that went according to an exacting military routine.
He even managed to die exactly on his seventy-third birthday. That is stuck in my brain, especially today, my own 73rd birthday. I’ve scoffed at this simple barrier and know I am the one who has erected it, but the notion won’t bugger off. So what do I do when I wake up tomorrow morning? “I’ve beaten the bastard” I’ll chant as I shuffle down the street right into the path of a speeding garbage truck. I know there are far less sleeps ahead of me than behind. Perhaps now I’m over the hump of my weary thoughts I can charge down the other side of this mountain like a runaway train. It’s all bonus time now. Perhaps I’ll yet get to expire in my sleep… unlike all my screaming passengers. Haar!
As I sit at my desk and look out on the harbour I start to think of all that is taken for granted which never existed at one time in my life. There is a grand glistening white fibreglass yacht anchored out there. Most yachts are now made of that stuff. When I was a kid all were made of wood. Steam trains were a fact of life, just like the ice man and the coal man. Rotary dial telephones were a novel idea. Cartoon character Dick Tracy talked into his wrist watch, ( a ridiculous fantasy) people still rode across the oceans in propellor and gasoline powered aircraft. Many still felt travelling by ship was much safer. Doctors made housecalls. Police, priests and teachers were pillars of the community. The notion of pecking out some writing on an electronic brain was certainly far fetched. In fact, the word “electronic” may not have existed yet, certainly a transistor radio was cutting edge. It would be easy to reminisce for pages but my avatar says that would be dead boring.
Faking it. I decided thar fake water lilies were a helluva a lot cheaper than the reals ones. There’s a lot less fuss and they do look fairly authentic.
So all is well, the tic-toc goes on. Everything is ticking, thumping and squishing along as it should. I’m sitting at my desk on June 2nd at 04:30 watching the sun rise behind a thick overcast. Robins begin to sing as a fierce low red spreads across the low horizon. This is not in the forecast, let’s see what we’ve got. The clouds cleared and a northwester began to blow. It was a perfect day and the forecast is for a long string of perfect summer days ahead. We need rain but I am not going to complain.
REALLY! A two-day advance booking, paid in full. i arrived in good time and was still put on Standby. No point in raising a fuss, you’ll just go further back in the bus. BC Ferries!!!The dogs hated it too. This was the best possible accomodation for them…and me.
I sat out on the front doorstep just at sundown. The wind continued to blow. The air was a cool notch below tepid, entirely pleasant. A waxing halfmoon was settling in the west and the air was filled with the aroma of roses, both wild and growing in my garden. The concrete beneath my bare feet was still warm from the day. I held a fleeting joy of home ownership until I began to consider all the projects still ahead of me.
I’ll have some time ahead to focus and try to get the work done. My wife Jill is away home to the UK for a few weeks. She has family and old school friends to visit, a precious thing indeed. I’ll bear down, making all the noise and mess I want. After all the tragedy we’ve endured together we have managed to survive as a couple. We are esoteric opposites and she needs to get the hell away from me for a while. I know I’d sure like to leave myself behind for a while, vexatious old fart that I am. She loves me and carries me in ways I don’t understand and I am deeply grateful. Seventy-four or bust!
Waiting for mum…every day.Porch Pirates. Still waiting.A dire red sunrise. We’ve had not a cloud nor drop of rain ever since.Pie in the skyLet’s go walkabout.The sneak, looking for mum.Hi Mum. Still waiting.
“The goal of life is to take everything that made you weird as a kid and get people to pay you money for it when you’re older.” — David Freeman
Can’t you see I’m busy? bugger off. Swarms of honey bees are busy with the tiny blossoms of shrubs in our hedge.
I rang the doorbell and there was no sharp bark on the other side of the door. Something was wrong. I soon learned that Fritzi was gone. These folks are some very good friends and so was their dog, a rambunctious, joyful daschund. His long backbone had done him in. He’d suddenly lost the use of his hind legs. The only loving thing to do was to end his suffering and put him to sleep. He was only six years old. I discovered that despite my own two beloved wee dogs, I’d also been going to see my other four-legged friend. He has left a very big void in several lives. Rest in peace my friend. Like my own previous dogs I’ll miss him forever.
And then it finally rained. A gladiolus prepares to bloom.More please.
It is very odd about how torn-up a person can get over a dog who has died. People…well ? Not so much. I do value my fellow specimans but few can match the honesty, loyalty and simple affections of any canine. Some folks condemn others for keeping the company of dogs but frankly if you can’t find a place in your heart for a dog, and worse, can’t let them love you, you don’t have any hope of getting along with people.
JOY! Two dogs in a flowery meadow.The last trillium. Blooming white in their prime, they turn purple and then shrivel at the end of their season.
We’ve had a string of clear days with little rain. For the usually wet month of May it is very dry. Municipal water restrictions are in effect. We have to be frugal with water for the garden but hose your heart out if you are washing your car or filling you swimming pool. All the time that we worry about having enough water we are still selling building permits for even more subdivisions. I can’t fathom the thinking but then why are we allowing dudes like Trump to rampage over every country on the planet. To think that we are being affected by the edicts of a megalomaniac from the inner sanctum of a golf course in Florida. Wot’s a birdie?
An iris in its prime.
Wild
May is proving to be a month of drought. It is often very rainy right through to mid-July. I’m trying to persuade my vegetable beds to sprout the seeds I’ve planted. There seems to be a determination for dust. The summer ahead looks long but then only fools and newcomers predict the weather.
The girl next door. A lady lives on this property, in another house. she’s been there since she was a little girl.I used to call it the haunted house. Now I live next door.A field of ferns. Did I hear a rustling sound in there?Don’t like the weather? Wait ten minutes. It will change.
I am using the weather to try and complete all the projects I’ve planned. I’ve completed repairs to the former fish pond in the front yard. Once again it has a little working waterfall. The birds come to drink and to bathe. It’s fabulous. Meanwhile domesticated Fred has a heap of generators, powersaws and outboard motors to get running. The neighbour has 1973 Triumph TR6 to tuneup. There’s a new fence to build, vegetable gardens to water and weed. I’m not thinking of getting a goat but maybe…a milk cow? The gardens need the manure.
A 1959 Evinrude Flightwin 3hp, 2 cylinder. I could not get it to run. Every bolt was seized solid. Use it or lose it!It landed just before nightfall. Actually it is a metal interpretation of an old indigenous fish trap.Beam me up.They’re wild, deep in the forest. They looked like tiny orchids.Waking up can be such a hard thing.Weeds are just plants that someone else says are bad.
I sit at my desk looking out on the harbour on Sunday morning,Victoria Day weekend. Yachts sail out. It is hard for me to watch. Then I find this quote on the internet.
Pie in the sky. A sun dog, a tiny cloud and a contrail make a weird image in the sky. Verily, verily, strange signs shall appear in the firmament.
“ The best way to keep a person in prison is to make sure they never know they are in prison.” Isn’t that true for all of us?”
Know what’s weird? Day by day, nothing seems to change, but pretty soon…everything’s different.
