November 2023 - bc-bog-trotter.com

Remembering

Cherry ree in a coal heap. a remnant of the glory days of coal mining and export. Environment was a world seldom used and misused.

Between the sea and the mountains. Burnaby, once a suburb of Vancouver has become another urban jungle.

November 11^th. We had a windstorm last night. Half our leaves are gone and the starkness of winter descends. I always say things about Remembrance Day that inflames someone. I’ll keep my pie-hole shut except to say that we really need a day to remember all the innocents who die in wars which are always about someone else’s greed, usually far away form the carnage. There is no-one standing to the haunting strains of the ‘Last Post’ and thinking of the thousands of children dying in Gaza, Israel, Ukraine and other places we’ve simply forgotten. There is no point in remembering anything about war if it is still not in the past tense.

You’re probably wondering why I called this meeting.

Lately we seem to worship the infinite possibilties of artificial intelligence. No-one wants to consider the overwhelming force of genuine stupidity and that we have not learned anything through the ages. Our weapons may have evolved but our penchant for cruelty and destruction remains immense. Frankly my perspective leads me to feel that the war-dead, military and civilian, are the lucky ones. Their pain is over. It is the survivors who carry immense burdens for the rest of their days that we the ignorant elite cannot comprehend. It is also part of my silent rage that the Americans must have a finger in every pie. I understand that they truly believe they offer help but goddamnit! Stay home and clean up your own mess. Maybe a lot of the world’s troubles would disappear if you retracted your missionary compulsion to make everything just like home.

I’ll keep my uninformed opions to myself. There is no media source which is trustworthy, there doesn’t even seem to be concern about using language correctly. “No doubt eh?” (Yes really) You have to put together the pieces of conjecture to arrive at a vague overview of the approximate truth. Every time I have had firsthand experience with an event which the media covered, their account left me rather mystified about what they are talking about. But today of all days, when our noble savages who went to the other side of the planet to “Defend democracy” are touted as heros, and we see images of wide-eyed traumatized children huddling in the rubble of Gaza… don’t you want to ask a few questions? Then, after all the lip service and horn blowing, think of how many of our vets are treated so poorly. It is bullshit!

It is a sunny morning, most unusual for November eleventh. I remember standing in a military uniform at various cenotaphs, always in the cold pouring rain, listening to trumpet solos and some medal-chested geezer droning on with cliche sentiments. I don’t intend disrespect but do wish folks would peek out from under their blinkers and try to grasp a bigger picture.

Another fine day. Nanaimo in the autmn sun.

The dogs are asleep in their wee beds and I’ve been perusing advertising as I look for a small travel trailer. Folks, if you really want to sell something put some basic information up front. Make, year, length and please lay off the bullshit. “No leaks in roof but four walls are water damaged.” I see! There is a venerable wooden tugboat, now a liveaboard, being advertised as “Lovingly restored above the waterline but needs some work below.” Uhuh. That’s nice.

A head of its time. The tasty tidbit, a long way from the stream is proably being enjoyed for supper at this moment.

Here today, gone tomorrow; a lot like us.

This delicate beauty looked edible to me. But I didn’t.

November 12^th dawns grudgingly. It is bleak, grey and slimy damp. Life stumbles on. My knee which awaits replacing throbbs mericilessly like a ten-pound toothache. It is amazing how that seems to suck the energy out of a body. I remember the grumpy old folks of my youth and finally, I get it. Still, today is the only day available and we may as well make the most of it. The dogs knows only how to live in the moment and they want to go for a walk; NOW.

This damned leaf leaves me feeling awfully tiny.

And now, on the 15^th, I’m getting around to posting this blog. Life gets in the way at times. I’ve had time to think about what I’m saying and I’ll stand by every word. So there!

Out of ballast, heading for a cargo. “The same mystery which floats a vessel in a fathom of water, provides bouyancy in a thousand.”

“War does not determine who is right – only who is left.” Bertrand Russell

Refuge

Well we was down about the old 55 board. That was still a long walk to Victoria but then we heard a whistle in the distance and the tracks began to hum.

Admit it or not, nearly everyone has a secret place in their mind where they can hide away. I have two places where I may retreat in times of extreme emotional or physical pain. They are both in my imagination. Through the years I have developed those fantasies when I need them. They can become as real as the desk where I am sitting. Think, for example, of laying in a dentist’s chair. I hate that simple act of submission let alone the tools and apparatus employed. For me, the loss of control is harder than the pain to deal with. I want to be anywhere else; and so I go.

I so wish I knew the name of these hardy beauties. They’ve been blooming since the intense heat of late August. Now we have the dank dreariness of November. They appear to be delicate but they keep on proving their cheer.

One is about warm, green translucent sea water sluicing through the skuppers of a beautiful sailing boat. There are teak decks and humming rigging. An ensign cracks happily in a fragrant breeze. The boat heels on a starboard tack and that canted deck plunges into the crests of waves. The sandy beach lays dangerously close downwind yet I have a light and steady grasp on the helm and I feel superbly in control. Palm trees wave in the shore breeze and nothing else exists to cloud my mind. I can sail like that all day and sometimes pull myself out of a successful trance with reluctance. And so I endure an ordeal in that dentist’s chair or similar spot of hell.

At other times, usually when having difficulty falling asleep, I put myself in a tiny log cabin. It’s old but sound. The logs are recently chinked and there’s a rough plank floor. A comfortable bunk is built against one wall, big enough for a man and a dog. On the opposite side is a small but heavy door and one tiny window. A stove used for cooking and heating sits beside the bed and provides the only light inside. There are some fruit box shelves, a small wooden table with two chairs. It is minimal but snug.

In that fantasy a severe winter blizzard moans outside. Snow drifts against and over the cabin and despite the stout walls, tiny tendrils of the blasting wind make it in through the walls. I nestle in the bed beneath a thick wool blanket, with a furry companion curled beside me. The heap of embers in the stove beside me pops and shifts. Its warmth defies the singing wind outside which drives rasping billows of snow over the cabin. I am secure and want to stay forever. Many nights in my real world, that cabin is where I go when sleep comes hard.

Ginko gold by my front door. Soon a frost and a wind will take the leaves. Bare prehistoric limbs will sleep ’til late spring.

G’mornin! An autumn freshet in Haslam Creek heralds the return of the salmon.

I’ve heard that if you swim up that wee stream you’ll never be seen again.

As I write this I look outside where a scum of grey slush covers everything. October twenty-fifth in Ladysmith where only a few weeks ago some folks were still whinging about the heat. We’ve had a horrific front bring a day of torrential rain, now this. A weather girl in a tight skirt will tell us about an “atmospheric river.” I have other names. There are only four or five months of this ahead. The following night we’ve had our first frost and it’s frozen hard. I know, I’ve just put the garbage out. Now doggies and I will head out upon the boggy moor and do our daily patrol. At the moment they are curled up together by the fireplace and who am I to tamper with a tender moment? We have a few sunny days ahead in the forecast and nobody is shooting at us; yet. Life is good.

Two weeks have passed. After my incident on my motorcycle I have not felt very frisky. The grey weather has not inspired much photography. My days have not been eventful and one hand has been too jammed up to even poke at this computer. But we move on. A few days ago I sold my little old car. The price was two thousand dollars and when the new owner went to register it and pay sales tax she was told that it was worth three thousand and that was the amount she would pay tax on. Well, we live in Canada and so far as I know, at the least we’re still free to leave. Last night I attended a local municipal council meeting. Good grief! There’s another blog in that story.

The following quote came from a photo taken by friends exploring in South Africa. To be truly free is about much more than just ourselves.

“To be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” Nelson Mandela

Thwack

Mt. Baker from the BC Ferry as it nears the Tsawwassen Terminal. It was a gorgeous day. There was no hint of the terror for me coming in the minutes ahead. Accidents happen when least expected.

Two blogs ago I used a quote about how it is always in season for old men to continue learning. It’s true.

I had another quick lesson a few days ago. I’ve been healing ever since. I took my motorbike on the BC Ferry to Tsawwassen to visit a friend. Usually when the ferry arrives, motorcycles are disembarked first and have a chance to scoot ahead of the herd. This time, there were only two of us and we were held back to be finally released within the main herd. Folks are determined to drive like rabid lemmings, ignoring speed limits, cutting each other off, tailgating then slamming on their brakes. It is not a place to be on a motorbike, and yes I was a bit tense.

I held back, trying to maintain a three-vehicle distance ahead of me. A fellow in a pickup truck tailgating me decided that that gap ahead needed to be filled. He passed on the left over the double line into the oncoming lane, swerved in front of me then slammed on his brakes behind the next vehicle ahead. I believe I had a nano-second to choose between slamming the back of that truck or laying down on the road. It all happened very quickly and I cannot honestly recall the blur of the next few moments. I braked as hard as I could and then I was skidding along the road on the face of my helmet. What a noise it made! I recall worrying about being run over by the vehicle behind.

Skidmarks. That full face guard saved me from a nasty injury. Imagine what my face could have been ground down to. What a hell of a noise it made!

One vehicle’s driver yelled to ask if I was OK then roared on ahead. A young man with a, get this, unicycle, on the road shoulder came to assist. He got me on my feet, helped pick up the bike and gathered bits of mirror and other collateral damage. I was very grateful to say the least. The motorcycle seemed entirely roadworthy. I was numb and incredulous about how lucky I was. I rode on to my friend’s home and did a full assessment. There were some tweaks required on the motorcycle and some permanent honourable battle scars. Profuse thanks were offered to my friend. He’s a seasoned motorcyclist who finally convinced me to wear proper protective clothing. Both my gloves and riding pants were in use for a first time. I couldn’t thank him enough, delighted that simple common sense had overcome a testosterone rush.

Received from a friend, I’ve no idea who drew this. Full kudus are due. We all know the feeling.

I hurt in several places, my left hand has been useless and is swollen like a football, but everything is slowly improving. I would have been a bowl of pudding without the protective clothing. Frankly, it was the autumn temperature that demanded the riding gear, but they’ll be a fact of life from now on no matter what the weather. I fully realize how very, very fortunate I am and accept my pain as the price of being alive. I have had a dark image of a beige hospital ceiling and a tangle of hoses and wires while the electronic bleeps and blips marked every pulse. I’ve been there and don’t want to go back. I was too thumped-up to ride the bike home, I’ll have go back and get it. That might be a long ride home and I have some decisions to make.

Hot Head. I know it’s rude but that’s the way it was. My fellow rider was the same age as me and also recently returned to riding. He wore this replica German Army helmet while he rode his beautiful Harley, all the way to Mackenzie BC . He did have electrically-heated hand grips and vest.

Should I treat this as a lesson or a warning? Am I too old to be a safe rider? I do not have a lifetime of riding confidence and instinct to rely on. Part of my safety agenda is knowing that I am no longer a snappy young operator with the instincts of a wasp. Was my incident something for which I can blame myself? What could I have done differently? Dunno. I think of some of my heroes and just cannot let my age be an excuse. Many of then were seniors before they started out on their exploits. Things happen so quickly. It was as if a big hand with a monster fly-swatter had reached down from the sky and given me a wee tap. I then remember the last thing to go through a bug’s mind as it hits a windshield. His bum. Part of the lesson may well be to simply not over-analyse. Get on with life.

Harbour glow. Life goes on, no matter what happens to who. Grab every moment you can. There are no second chances.

“Only a biker knows why a dog sticks its head out of a car window.” – anonymous