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
