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Otra Vez

Peachy. After a severe pruning our fabulous peach tree makes a decision to keep on living.

In English: One more time. There’s no fool like an old fool. I am ninteen years old but trapped in a seventy-four old body. I’ve heard it said that “If I knew I’d live this long I would have taken better care of myself.” Fred Kneivel doesn’t have much of a ring to it but the gods know I’ve tried. Crash boom bang, Still I tick. A video series I watch begins with the words “Another day, another opportunity.” What can we get into today?

So here I sit. The sun broke the horizon at 07:14. I’ve pulled the curtain so I am not blinded by the light. My neighbour suggested I prune his cherry tree so I could better see the bay. My buddy was up a ladder with a chainsaw a year and ended up in hospital. I kept that in mind, lecturing myself that a turning saw chain knows no difference between wood and meat. Having survived that ordeal. Now this used-to-be-a-logger sits at his desk savouring the sight of boats heading out at dawn over a base of cherry blooms further down the hill. Aren’t people odd? It is forecast to pour rain tomorrow so it is seize the moment time.

The improved view. I’ve cut up a cherry tree so I can see cherry trees.

Cherry blossoms elsewhere. Pretty even in dull light.

There’s plenty to do. A house and yard to look after, especially in spring. Then there is a truck and trailer that always need something. For the moment there is no boat but there is a new used motorcyle. Yep here I go again. I had a beautiful little Honda, a wee bike designed for putting around the back country. For a Rubenesque old raider with a gimpy leg the bike proved a little too wee and reluctantly I sold it. Now I have a Yamahopper, probably a bit more than I need but I’m the nut that holds the throttle. I’ll try to remember to take my prudence pills. I do like to try big things with tiny units, boats, airplanes, motorcycles, finances.

Tomorrow is the first day of April, the year is one quarter gone. Spring plods along, cold and grudging. I sit at my desk, looking out, cold and grudging. While walking the dogs a few days ago, we took a back route where I slipped and landed with my hip on a sharp rock. I lay on the ground as the pain washed over me. Thinking the worst I knew a broken hip is a harbinger of advanced old age. And he’s going to zoom off on a motorbike? Well all is well, it is a pain in the ass but use it or loose it. The parts the bike needs finally arrived today. Hopefully I can swing a leg over the contraption and then keep myself from falling on my door knob.

Deep in the dark forest, in the pouring rain, the first trilliums put on a show.

So here I sit on April Fool’s day watching clouds scud along the ridge across the bay. The forecast is for rain. I have finally received my long-awaited motorcycle parts. Once I can ride what can hold me back? Well next to arrive, today, is a metal gazebo from China. It needs to be assembled. Oh bueno! That’ll get me through the weekend. I don’t really want to drag my trailer into the woods to drink beer while sitting around a smokey fire as some dufus in a brown shirt tells what me what I can’t do.

Where are the brown shirts when we need them? Transmission fluid leaks into the seawater as yet another derelict boat is abandoned on the old coal beach.

A vague claim of ownership. One old bow line tethers the hulk to a useless peg. It is careened with the deck facing the wrong way, in my opinion. Hopefully she’ll rise with the tide before she floods.

Wasn’t that a party? There was no sign of anyone else there.

Half a gazebo arrived ten days ago, it was a hundred pound box. The rest of the order did not show up so now, hopefully, we’re receiving a whole order. Wanna buy half a gazebo?

“A good thing about becoming old and forgetful is that you can hide your own Easter eggs!” …moi

Clever People

From where I view the world. In the murky dawn I can hear sea lions. Later a little sunlight appears.

There are nearly one and a half billion Chinese. This is a nation of folks who can eat soup with chop sticks; an art I am yet to master. I mention this only as admiration for ancient skills beyond my understanding. They also understand patience and long, hard work. Some of the world’s largest earth-filled dam’s are in China. They are mostly built by hand, one hatfull of soil at a time. It is a nation of formidable determination. We could learn things.

A courier delivered a heavy box today. My wife had ordered an open wardrobe for our guest suite. Yep, it was made in China. My job was to assemble it. Me, the jaded old mechanical guy. The first trick was opening the box which was emblazoned with a warning “DO NOT USE SHARP KNIFE TO OPEN.” Uhuh! Of course one has to use a knife and with that accomplished there was the ubiquitous explosion of white styrofoam insulation; statically charged snow stuck to everything. “Well golly” I muttered as I surveyed a cleverly-packed heap of bits and pieces. There must be a university degree available for packing boxes. You’ll never get the contents back in again. Bags of screws all counted out to the exact amount required, marked tubes of various lengths were all to be assembled into a single fuctional contraption. Frankly the heap of bits looked a bit like a home-built airplane kit; yes a real airplane. Serious business. Where to start? The manual, including a tool kit, was in the bottom of the package, of course.

Contraption complete. I used my own tools.

More instructions. First I need new glasses.

It won’t fly. But everything eventually fit together perfectly and it is solid as a rock. The only tools I needed were two proper screwdrivers. All I had to do was look carefully at the drawings in the manual. I recall that the worst diy assemble-at-home furniture I’ve faced was neither from Asia or Scandinavia but from Quebec. I can read French and the instructions still made no sense. Pictures are good.

When I think of Canada’s new agreement to buy Chinese Electric Cars I wonder if the low price means they have to be assembled by the buyer! Clever people those folks!

Anenome fading. Perhaps the most beautiful time.

It is Monday morning, Friday the 13^th has passed, Saint Patrick’s day is now in the rearview mirror. It is cold, damp, grey. The week ahead is forecast to be a continuous rain storm. Flood warnings are posted. The wind at times is filled with a mix of wet snow flakes and cherry blossoms but by week’s end the biblical deluge has not arrived here. Friends describe their vacations in Mexico. Good for you! The news from around the planet is filled with doom and gloom, suffering and hopelessness. Clearly, there is an invasive species that is out of control. We know who we are.

Down in my workshop I’m building a doghouse. Springtime. Uhuh!

Walk quickly, you don’t need any hairy sticks.

Happy people produce. Bored people consume.”
― Stephen Richards

The Sea Duck

Some folks call them sea ducks. I know them as mergansers. They are furtive and elusive. The brief and distant glimpses they allow provides a mystery to the jaunty figures they cut. They have a Woody Woodpecker haircut, the females have a russet colour to their crested heads, the males are black and oftern mistaken for loons. When they see you they will paddle away vigourously or dive instantly or explode into startling rapid flight.

Ring-Beaked Common Merganser. It’s the shiny things that get us all.

The dogs and I were sitting at our favourite spot in the local salmon hatchery soaking up a few minutes of delightful mid-winter sun when I noticed a clump of feathers hauled out on a nearby log. I was glimpsing this apparition through a thatch of tree limbs and assumed it was a gull which is seldom a shy bird.

Another fish-eater. Blue Herons are one of my favourite birds. They can be found just about anywhere around the world.

To my surprise it was a female common merganser. It had a metal ring jammed over its upper beak right to the base. It was clearly unable to eat. It was not doing well, otherwise it would not be sitting there alone and allowing me, and the dogs, to approach within thirty feet. This beauty needed help. I feared she would starve unless the ring could be removed.

I went to the folks at the hatchery, but clearly I was not going to spark enough interest to attempt a rescue. Their little boat was away for repairs and I understand that mergansers eat the tiny salmon hatchlings. At home I began to telephone all the people advertising themselves as animal/ bird rescue organizations. I did hear a creative collection of excuses. Reluctantly I phoned the BC Conservation folks. (Usually when a conservation officer becomes involved, something gets shot) Admittedly they were the only ones to respond at all.

That call-back came hours later from someone with a very broad Cantonese accent. At first I thought he was another telemarketer. I was hanging up when I heard him say “Common Merganser” albeit with his twisted pronounciation. Eventually I grasped that he saying he was in Vancouver and so could render no assistance. I thanked him for the call and then hung up in frustration. I’d done my best. I could not do anything effective on my own. If I tried, chances were there would be some self-appointed gatekeeper calling someone like ICE to take me down for harrassing wildlife. God knows that is the world we live in now.

Abeautiful basket filled with spring nettle tips. They became soup. Yum!

Next morning I was back at the hatchery and could see no mergansers, anywhere. That was good I reasoned. The bird had been caught and helped… or it had been able to fly away with its flock. In any case, it was well enough to fly and I had done my best.

Another sign of spring. It is not my idea of going to sea but at least they’re out there!

First flowers from the garden this spring.

Ok, I know this isn’t a very interesting story to most people. But of bemusement to me is that I was once a farm boy with a single-shot .22 rifle who typically killed everything he could see. I remember once killing a tiny song bird. For no reason. All that was left was its pea-sized heart still beating on top of the fencepost where the little singing bird had sat moments earlier. At the time I though it was funny. I have graduated to possessing a nagging sense of disgust and self-contempt for being such a horrible little brute.

A notion of progress. The toilet goes here. IP

I evolved to become a seasoned great white hunter and killed an awful lot of beautiful wild creatures big and small. They did all become food but eventually I could not justify hunting any more. I realized my slaughter was as much about testorone as anything to do with being a provider. I didn’t want to feel that I was one of those bastards. Now I’m another kind of nasty human… an urbanite! An overweight one who aches to be back in the woods and out on the ocean, far away from the sight, sound and smells of people living in grossly unnatural congestion. Then we become unnatural beings and chose for leadership those other unnatural beings who prove too unfit for any sort of progressive human endeavour.

If that makes me a bird hugger … so be it!

“ So much of language is unspoken. So much is comprised of looks and gestures and sounds that are not words. People are ignorant of the vast complexity of their own communication.”

…Enzo the dog, ‘The Art Of Racing In The Rain’ Garth Stein

Ho Hum Morning

Mid-February; already. It has been dull and rainy with frosty nights. Another normal winter. There is the occasional burst of birdsong and green buds are swelling but I also know that we can yet receive several feet of snow overnight. Remember the Australian love call “Brace yourself Sheila!” Be ready for anything.

I will not add my uninformed opinions to the gross cacophany of inuendos, half-truths, and outright lies in the air. What do you believe anymore? I am not prepared to engage myself in a fist fight over material gleaned from our media sources. The most recent horror is a school shooting in a northern BC community. Television News trips over itself with conflicting facts and some politicians are trying to make mileage for themselves out of this deep tragedy. What a weary and sadly repetitive gearbox of human folly.

Be braced for all the juicy news rhetoric and mindless speculations. School safety, mental health, gun licensing, gender designations will be within the weary mantras that will be spun every way except sensible. Within two days the story is no longer headline news and the dark gears of human tendencies grind on. Try to imagine the dread and reluctance every parent must endure, in every Canadian community, as their children go off to school.

Reminds me of someone I used to know. An interesting example of winter fungus.

Frosty bathing at low tide. Feb. 8th Brrrrrr!

Look up! you never know what might fall on you.

You’ve got to sing like you’re all alone.

Last night I sat and watched the Television News cover the vigil in Tumbler Ridge for the victims of this week’s mass shooting. The Prime Minister and prominent politicians were there, both federal and provincial political leaders offered sincere words of condolence. Some were even visibly in tears. I was too.

Guess who’s coming to dinner…even with two ratter dogs in the house.

What occured to me is that around the world there are many communities who endure such horrors on an almost daily basis. They do not even have the opportunity to stand together in the open to mourn their losses and their shared misery. The horror of their existence is so common it is not even newsworthy. This singular event in Canada has drawn the entire country closer together. In our troubled times with the notion of a country divided and the bullying from south of our border, I hope we are better able to stand firm in the face of it all. The most wonderful thing about our country is freedom. You are free to leave. No-one forces anyone to stay. If you cannot find the good in being Canadian, if you do not want to be part of the family; please go. We’ll be better off without you.

Zoom! RCMP Pilatus PC12 on short final to land in Nanaimo.

I sit with a mug of hot coffee and look out over the bay at sunrise. Fog is dissipating and drifting south. There is a background of grey and brass cloud split with a dagger of blue open atmosphere. Boats go about their commerce in the harbour. Now some fog moves northward. Camilia buds on the tree in my front yard swell and take colour. Birds twitter at the feeders outside the front window. It could be worse; so much worse. Be content. Breathe.

Life is often a lonely old path. Keep walking toward the light.

“We’re too poor to buy cheap boots.”… Janusz Konkol, Haber Yachts

Looking Up

“Oh Camilia, you’re breaking my heart” Much too early this camilia flower on the tree in my front yard adds brightness to the winter gloom.

Well Happy, Happy New Year! Ain’t it all a flock of bluebirds flitting about under a triple rainbow!

Can it be the Easter Bunny already? With high grocery prices it may well become someone’s supper.

I have just sat outside for a few minutes on my front porch. There is a street lamp outside our hedge. In its cone of light a thick soaking drizzle sheets down in waves. It looks like a Hollywood film set. Humphrey Bogart could appear in a trench coat, collar turned up, fedora low over his eyes. “Gotta light sweetheart?” It has rained steadily all day, there are two more days and nights of this in the forecast. Happily, it’s not snow. Yet.

No man is an island. Especially when he’s out of rum or firewood.

We’re already well past the middle of January. It seems we’ve already had enough woes thrust upon us to last until next Christmas. “Can’t have gravy all the time” a former boss used to say. I’m not asking for anything but a happy news story or at least an intelligent one. I am happy to not be spending the night in a doorway and I’m glad enough to be here versus so many other places on the planet. We’re doing fine. The only ambitious thing I did today was to walk the dogs on a sopping path in the woods nearby. They were happy to be home again. The hammering rain continues.

My tide guage. In the extreme spring tides just after the New Year, or “King Tides,” I use this dock across the bay as a tide guage. When the ramp is nearly horizontal, it is near high slack. At lowest low tide, in the dark, it will be tending toward the vertical.

Sunup 08:00. A gift. Mount Baker, our own volcano about ninety miles away, sits just over the wire.

Finally the weather breaks and we are caught in the chill damp of mid-January. The sky is clear overhead but before the frost has melted away my backyard is in shadows for the rest of the day. Within that gloom I look up to the glittering spectacle of high altitude flights glittering in the azure lofty sky. This nutter is trying to accomplish some landscaping projects while the rain holds off. What other goofs are out there trying to reshape their little world in the middle of winter? Passengers in those aircraft are thinking ahead to tepid seas, warm sandy beaches, palm trees and icy citrus drinks. Bugga!

Winter ducks. Isn’t your ass getting cold?

Did a manic winter-bound sun-starved pagan carve this?

Aliens. Lenticular clouds over the Strait of Georgia.

Today the bay was shrouded in fog. It lifted and fell, swirled and drifted, twisted and rose then fell again in a heavy bank. The day was dark and forbidding. Late in the afternoon a ship came in to anchor. Its horn thundered wonderfully and continuously in the thick fog. It sounded as if we would soon see the bow looming over our backyards. Finally there came the thunder of the anchor chain as several shots of writhing steel shot out of the hawse pipe. Then silence. Out in the bay, in the night’s fog, a ship and its crew, from some foreign port rests.

WALK? We’re warm, we’re dry and you want us to go out there in the cold? Leasve sleeping dogs lay DAD!

Somewhere else tonight, coyotes howl under the light of a gibbous moon. A mesquite log shifts in a campfire and little creatures skitter among the brush and cacti. I wish I were there, just for the night. The desert is a splendid place to sleep. Perhaps someone there also wrestles with a troubled mind. What do they worry about? I doubt they think of anyone on a water-logged island somewhere in the North Pacific. And who cares? We’re here; now. That is all there is.

Yippy owooooo.

I love this painting. It adorns the wall in our favourite restaurant in Ladysmith, the ‘Indian Palate.’ The food is fantastic. This unsigned original was purchased by the restaurant owner in India.

“ I would rather die of passion than of boredom.”

“Art is what we leave of ourselves in other people.” – Fredrik Backman ‘My Friends’

Don’t Look Back

As I prepared to post my previous blog about Christmas I watched a documentary about the death of Rob Reiner and his wife only a week before. How such a splendid journalistic effort was put together in seven days is amazing. It hit me quite hard. I knew little about the man and his various triumphs in the film industry. I still don’t. He was an outstanding character who directed some very moving work and who also was driven to make a difference in the world around him. He was a huge positive influence on those who knew him. The world is a better place because of the influence of “Meathead.” I know he was a good guy, Mr. T-Rump had nasty things to say about Reiner’s passing.

It has been a dark year with many sad events, some of which are still unfolding. That a man who worked so hard to do good, both artistically and socially, is stabbed to death by his own son is inconceivable. This happens while the politicians and influencers sit about picking steak from between their own gold teeth. Nothing changes. In my previous blog I could not bring myself to make mention of such darkness while also trying to dredge up a bit of joy for the festive season.

Life goes on. All the heinous and dark news never causes time out for reflection. The world has known some very dreadful times and I fear there are worse ahead. I am sitting at my desk on the morning of the last day of the year an hour or two before daylight. That will depend on how thick the fog is out there. I have no witticisms, no high moralizing, no sage advise. Today is the only one you have. It is made up of a whole bunch of moments and each of those is the only space in time when you can make decisions and actions no matter how many tik-toks you may think you have in your basket. You will never find a rewind button. DO IT NOW, whatever it is. There are people who talk about it and those who do something. Make a choice. Take it from an old man.

Stand the test of time like a polished stone.

Oh! Happy New Year. May you have someone to love, good things to do and something to look forward to.

“A gentleman is someone who uses a butter knife even when he is alone.”

– Howard O’Hagan… Tay John

One Tiny Light

Winter Solstice. Some rare minutes of sun cast long shadows. These wild elk are an eternal attraction for passing motorists.

It is one thirty in the morning, a few days before Christmas. I face my reflection in the window. It floats on the crushing blackness over the bay. From where I sit at my desk I can see no lights out there, except one. There is a single boat in the anchorage across the bay. It is displaying the required anchoring light which appears to be a genuine oil lamp. It flickers just enough to reveal its authenticity. The tiny thin gold ribbon of its gentle light on the still waters reaches across to my side of the bay.

A very cool change. This is where I bring the dogs on aa hot summer day. Winter rains and wind make a huge difference.

Dark days make mobile phone photos very difficult. This one pushed the limit. Hard to believe this baby eagle was just an egg a few months ago.

I am always anxious when these characters look down on my wee doggies.

For a closer look come back at low tide.

Recently, most nights and days have been raging gales with pummelling rain, torn limbs and general mayhem from wind damage. Fortunately on our hillside we have known no flooding. If I bend my head a bit I can see further down the shoreline where waterfront homes blaze with festive lighting, even now in the wee hours. In the other direction there is the harsh glare of work lights from the log sorting grounds. I focus back on the the little flickering light and realize how that speaks to me of Christmas so much more than all the crass glitz and din of this massive commercial season. I refuse to get caught up in that.

Surf’s up. Cox Bay, Tofino, full gale on a high spring tide.

People go out there for fun with a surf board.

I’ve already deleted one blog. It dripped of loss and jaded views. This is not a time to look for negativity and regret. There is already far too much of that. I ache for friends passed on and a daughter who is no more. This season can bring such loneliness. Being naturally bent toward depression it is far too easy for me to swerve into a spiralling tunnel. I have to look for all the wonderful things we have and don’t see. How blessed we are to live where and how we do. No one is shooting at us, we’re free to leave this country at any time, we have clean air and water. Despite cries of tough times, most of us have a surplus of rich food. Enjoy it.

Snug. Pounding rain outside. Inside the smell of wood smoke, kerosene lanterns, fresh coffee.

Refined to its base elements life is about someone to love, something to do, and something to look forward. That is it. I wish you all plenty of those three things and perhaps the ability to help others find the same.

Happy Christmas.

Christmas: the only time of year you can sit in front of a dead tree eating candy out of socks.
~ Anon

Shouldering Season

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.

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.

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.

Autumn 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.

Those who wish to sing Always find a song. Old Swedish proverb.

November Blahs

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

“Often people are the least lovable when they need love the most.” anon

Lost For words

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?

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.”

Really? It’s hard to look ahead if you’re texting.

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.

The proprietress could charge admission.

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.

Meet me there, where the sea meets the sky,

Lost but finally free.”

Inscription on memorial bench, M-y-grib Point, England.

From ‘The Salt Path,’ Raynor Winn.