Death Of A Dog

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.

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.

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?

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.

They’re wild, deep in the forest. They looked like tiny orchids.

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.

— Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes

Easter Past

Dang it! I Was posting my latest blog when old stumble-thumbs hit a wrong button. Yep, gone!

I guess I shouldn’t complain, it could have been an entire novel. So…where was I? Trying to remember verbatim would be like hiding my own Easter eggs. Haven’t found one yet and I’m not really sure I hid them in the first place.

The fence between our place and the neighbour immediately below is very tired. There’s a space between the garden shed and the fence which is perfect for a lawnmower shed or what I’ve come to call the “Donkey Shack.” I leaned slightly on that section of fence to see how rotten it really was. There was a crack. Then came the crash! Suddenly this Rubenesque geezer found his beak planted in the remains of the fence, ten feet lower in altitude. I cautiously checked my appurtenances. I shut off the fuel and electricals and then wiggled all my extremities. Then I began to laugh. Dumbass, dumbass, dumbass. I’d have to apologize for crashing the neighbour’s party. “Wasn’t planning on dropping in like this.”

All’s well that ends. The fence is repaired and the shed has been completed.

Dawn patrol. Ever notice that the best sunrises require some clouds?

Bedheads. Jill and Arye greet the sunrise over our balcony. It is a lovely place to start the day with a coffee. I don’t know what happened to Jill’s mug.

Things happen in a flash. My last escapade was flying over the handlebars of my motorbike. I usually put only myself at risk, but then there all those uncontrollable moments out on the highway. That was one. This past winter a friend launched himself from the lower step of a ladder while pruning a tree. Fortunately he did not land on his still-running chainsaw. He called me from hospital where he lay with seven broken ribs and other collateral damage. Another friend had a leg collapse, as they do, while on his concrete driveway. He suffered a split femur and had surgery to install clamps at the ends of the bone. Are you squirming yet?

A turdshroom. At first I wondered what that dog had eaten. It is another forest fungi with a purpose and right to be even though we may not understand it.

Some times it is hard to not become paranoid. But life is like that and we’ve got to carry on. And so we do. The next morning I was mowing the lawn and discovered a spring bubbling out of my front lawn. Uhuh! Broken water line. That was Good Friday. Fortunately a good plumber we know was there in little over an hour. I knew it was foolish but I dug a pit where the water was coming out. Of course the source proved to be elsewhere. You’ve got to try nevertheless. Our man suggested we simply dig a new trench and install a new waterline. Digging up the old line, finding the break and patching it, probably having to patch the old line again in the near future just didn’t make sense.

I was already too knackered from my previous digging effort to be of use. This plumber had the new trench dug out by hand, on his own, in about four hours. Most others would have used a mini-excavator, boosting the invoice by a thousand bucks and tearing up our front yard. We had water again the next day. I can only offer humble kudus to a man of integrity who is willing to work. Sadly those are a rare breed now.

The trench. A defense against invasion and other Trumperisms.

While digging, we broke into a mysterious cavern. We decided to leave that wonder for another day, when it becomes a sinkhole.

I’ve rumminated about what decadence it is to be able to take for granted the wonderful luxury of being able to casually turn a tap for an endless supply of clear, safe water drinking water. Millions do not know of such a thing. The water we use to flush the morning toilet would be a precious gift to an entire family in a place like Gazza. How lucky we are!

A week later, spring advances. The swallows have been back for several days and water restrictions are coming into effect. Municipal spring cleanup is in full swing. Folks drag their heavy trash out to the street for a special pick up. The stuff is amazing. Appliances, beds, furniture and other valuable commodities languish shamelessly. I am frustrated that the taxpayer should cough up the funds to account for other’s waste and greed.

Back to the inlets for another load. The work never ends.

Other folks cruise the streets looking for treasures. They find plenty. I am always shocked at the mindless disposal of goods which third-world folks would soon turn to wealth. Consumerism is our modern religion, it is our reason to be, our measure of status and the dogma which drives us toward economic and environmental disaster. Bic economy, burn it up and throw it away. We talk about it, but that’s it. As I sit writing I can hear fuel-gobbling vehicles being driven as hard as possible up the highway. The comedy goes on. The latest folly is the federal election on Monday. There may be new clowns, but will it be the same old circus? Who is going to clean up behind the elephants? Was that a Republican joke?

Even the trillium season is nearing its end already.

A storm always ends. Enjoy it while it lasts.

“”Don’t look for luxury in watches or bracelets, don’t look for luxury in villas or sailboats!

Luxury is laughter and friends, luxury is rain on your face, luxury is hugs and kisses.

Don’t look for luxury in shops, don’t look for it in gifts, don’t look for it in parties, don’t look for it in events!

Luxury is being loved by people, luxury is being respected, luxury is having your parents alive, luxury is being able to play with your grandchildren. Luxury is what money can’t buy.””

(2024) ” Clint Eastwood

Seed Not Included

The favourite. Despite baskets full of squeaky toy’s, this one is Libby dog’s prefered unit. No head, no squeaker, plenty dirty. Love requires no explanation.

Feeling hugely benevolent, I bought a sack of bird seed that was on sale. Mix with hot water, let sit until mushy, then add a little brown sugar, it’s a breakfast of champions. Twenty bucks will keep a person in breakfasts for well over a month. And it’s good for you.

Anyone seen the dog? It’s winter. Bugger off, leave me alone!

Seriously, seeing wee dickie birds coming by the window brings a little cheer to anyone. “Look at the pecker on that one!” There is a decrepit old feeder which I cleaned up a bit and now that birds are coming to my window, they will get a brand new shiney restaurant. Joy to the world! The on-line comfirmation of the order clearly stated “Seed not included.”

Really? Would some folks expect it. “Product not as illustrated.” Perhaps someone would impose a trade tariff or would it be a contravention of some obscure agricultural edict? Then there’s the “Free Willy” bunch who would advocate that feeding wild birds ain’t natural. There is nothing you can do without pissing someone off, especially the self-appointed experts. There is no bottom to politics and in the weeks ahead we will see some new lows. “Seed not included,” perhaps that’d make an interesting bumper sticker.

Bob! He loves swimming, cold and wet be damned. Go Bob!

And so it became Christmas Day. The temperature is just a few degrees above freezing. Rain bucketed down. When I was a scuba diver there was a joke about the rain being too heavy to go diving. It is one of those days. Huge gusts of wind randomly blast the deluge almost horizontally for a few moments. The wet splatters on the windows. Oh lord! I’m so glad it is not snow. Homeless folk huddled in doorways and under bushes and I remember a time when that was me. This wet winter weather is as deadly as the minus forty degree days and nights I knew. It holds a mortal threat which is slower and more painful. Everyone is hunkered down as these winter systems march in off the North Pacific; the next week’s forecast is grim. I sit at my desk and watch as herds of white ponies gallop and turn on the black water of the harbour. Some crash on the reef across the bay. The dogs sleep.

The lowly kale. A food staple for man and beast through the ages. The center part will make soup before next frost.

A southbound flock. I believe they may have been discussing what to do to that solar panel.

The shiny new bird feeder has arrived. It is an instant hit. Tiny birds fly through the rain. If I scaled it up, and it were one of us swooping around out there, each raindrop would be a bucket of ice-cold water. How do those fragile wee creatures survive? The miracles we look at and just don’t see!

I am malingering. This blog is now looking into the mouth of the New Year. The weather is dull, dull, dull and so am I. I have hardly been out and about and there is not enough light to photograph much of anything. I went to the local liquor emporium and bought myself an expensive treat; the birds can’t have all the joys. I once was given a bottle of Irish whiskey called “Teacher’s Tears.” It was nectar. So I went looking. I ended up buying the least expensive bottle of “Writer’s Tears.” It surewasn’t cheap, but worth every drop. The problem is that it is 40% alcohol and is certainly a jug of whammy. Sleep comes easily after a few sips of this brew. Bloody lovely so!

The former MLA’s office is now a massage parlour. Draw your own metaphors.

After a soothing massage you may as well go across the street to the pub. It’s warm and dry with good food and beer.

And so the New Year begins. No resolutions. Buckle in, I think it’s going to be a wild ride.

The bleary old fart hisself doing a little bit of bookwork in his lonely writer’s garret. No wonder he’s lonely, just look at the bugger! Photo by Jill.

“Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life .” – Robin Sharma

Prairie Schoonering

A prairie schooner was apparently the name given to the covered wagons and carts used by the first white settlers. Apparently, from a distance, they held the appearance of white boat sails. It sounds romantic. Uhuh!

Aliens! If I saw one of these on my lawn I’d come out with my hands up. They are appently called air seeding drills. the discs furrow into the ground then compressed air blasts in seed, Beats hand-casting I guess. Not cheap I’m sure.

Yesterday was weird. The day began with a missing pot of margarine. It had utterly vanished and I cannot tell what happened. Just a crack of senility I guess. Then I hit the wee deer. To ice my cake I lost my second drone. I drove on into the gathering darkness and rolling squalls until I finally found a level paved place. I settled in as a dog barked in the distance. ( Next morning there are two pots of margarine in the fridge! WTF?) Is this senility or just stupidity?

As I finally drifted into sleep, a raucous chorus of deep barking broke out right outside my bedroom window. Two big white dogs had appeared and seemed determined to roust this interloper. They spent the night laying beside the trailer and taking turns re-waking the dead. Dog-lover that I am I was not about to go out into the dark and try to make friends. This morning they lingered until I opened my door. Gone! I am knackered. I’m starting the day with a stout coffee as I write this. There is some tinkering to do on the truck, a bath and some breakfast and then my little wagon train will lurch on eastward. Actually, by morning, I realized the dogs were barking at coyotes who lurked all around within the wandering herds of cattle.
Maybe they were guarding my trailer.

When I stepped out of the trailer there she was! The big girl was there, all wiggles and waggles. She’d been there a long while. I have the suspicion that she had been abandoned. Bits of her fur hung in the fence. Was she waiting for her last human to return? The other dog must have gone home to some distant farm. This beauty was gracious, sweet and completely endearing. Lame in one foot, covered in dreadlocks, emaciated and begging for love she had found the king of the dog-lovers. Damn and double goddamn! How I wanted to bring her along. I fed her and petted her.

I rationalized my conundrum both ways. Ultimately, cold practicality won over passion and even our instant bonding. She is a big girl and there is not enough room for her in the passenger seat. We already have two dearly loved dogs. I have a long trip ahead. I can only pray that someone will open their heart as she waits at the turnout. Driving away from where my drone had hidden itself was not at all as heart-rending as seeing this beautiful girl in the rear view mirror. I shed tears and will wonder at her fate for a very long time. Wot a sop!

Yeah? Well you might have a hot tub in your RV but I’ve got a sandbox! This is the second cleaning.

I drove onto a gravel portion of highway, dog thoughts overwhelming me, I forgot to close the roof vents in the trailer. They very efficiently inhaled what seems like a bushel of dust. It is insidious stuff and I’ll be cleaning it away for months ahead. But what’s a little dust to this incredible open land. Wildlife abounds here. From amazing flowers and birds to pronghorn antelope and deer, I even saw a huge black cow moose! As I write this I am beside an old corral where I’ve spent the night. The prairie wind moans softly through those roof vents. It is very peaceful. I fight the urge to turn back and look for my dog friend. Here, I am endeared by a tiny ground squirrel. Sop! East, old man, east!

A sqinny, also known as a thirteen-striped ground squirrel.

I am overcome with a sense of wonder at the vastness. It is very much like being out at sea. It is endless. I swear I have passed through a trillion acres of fertile open land. How we humans have fought to conquer it. I see the remnants of homestead farms, some abandoned entirely, some have clearly prospered through the following generations. Everything is huge. The machinery, the homes, the size of the farms. How did anyone think they could prosper with a quarter-section of land and perhaps a horse? But they took joy in their freedom and never looked back. Nearly everything was done by hand. That’s one reason families were so huge; manpower! It also was a good way to stay warm on a bitter cold prairie night and what the hell else was there to do?

My musings shifted and I looked at all this land. You can drive all day and it stays the same. Vast is such a tiny word to describe something so incomprehensibly huge. Then it occurs to me that all this land is broken, tended, seeded, harvested, then shipped. The product is distributed globally and processed so that some green-belly self-proclaimed environmental fantasist can go into any corner cafe and have a muffin! All of that industry requires the consumption of incalculable amounts of diesel fuel. We are ALL part of the problem. DO NOT start talking about electric tractors. It won’t happen, not even with ten times more windmills planted out in the fields.

How do! Downtown Maple Creek Sask. after a cloudburst.

Bear in mind also that this massive hairball of food production is utterly dependant on the whims of nature. One badly-timed severe storm, a drought, a too-wet season, a wildfire, the dark possibilities are endless. Yes even locusts and grasshoppers. As I drove along with my hand hanging out into the rush of warm air it began to be bulleted by these flying protein bombs. I’m told they’re tasty fried, and crunchy. They hurt like hell too! This year is very dry so the wheat is now at its peak. There is a massive frenetic effort to get the crops in. Often at about this time of year, there are a few minutes of devastating hail or rain. Then it is zero for the home team!

It was as if I’d landed in small-town Quebec. Tabernac!

Finally I have arrived arrived in Weyburn. My truck died here. I went skidding sideways through a highway intersection, the trailer trying to pass me. I’d blown out a brake component. I am sitting and writing in my bug-spattered trailer, the truck is in the hospital. The town has a wonderful municipal campground, easily located and adjoined to a huge playground. All the folks I’ve met are lovely. The internet is pathetic and I cannot check my e-mail or post a blog.

It is cool-my-jet time. I need it.

Doiwntown Weyburn. Tommy Douglas and always the wheat.

One of the things I wonder about in the south of these Canadian prairies is lumber. There are obviously no forests here. All the boards for the houses and barns and train stations and grain elevators had to be imported. Probably most of it came from Northern Ontario and British Columbia. It would have been expensive. Some old places I’ve seen are built of logs. Where did they get them? The buildings as they were abandoned were generally left, it appears, to fall down and rot. If nothing else they were a good source of dry firewood. That lumber, aged old growth dried planks, surely was precious to someone. It sure is now. Prairie folk are noted for their thriftiness but then they also clearly abandoned their redundant machinery. It is a question I wish someone could answer to my satisfaction.

The wind moans incessantly, but there are no answers blowing in it.

A root cellar, meat locker , and storm cellar.

Day two in Weyburn dawns with a clear yet smokey sky and a gentle wind. Just me and my resident houseflies in this small trailer. Damn they’re irritating! I’m waiting for my truck to be ready. While I wait I’m going to exorcise some more dust, the bathroom is loaded with it. I began to understand the prairie dust storms of the 1930’s! It is rich stuff if you can nail it down. This afternoon I hope to do some laundry and be on the road first thing tomorrow morning. I’m a day’s drive away from Virden. Meanwhile incredibly long trains gently rumble through town day and night. There is something reassuring about their steady throb and heavy clatter as they flow along the arteries of the nation’s commerce.

KAL Tire, Weyburn. Those folks were excellent! That’s my front ball joint. I wonder if my old knee joint looked something like that? It looks like it had no more potholes in it.

I met a couple from Victoria. They’ve followed the exact same route which I have and pitch a tent each night. They are not youngsters. We all marvel at the vastness and compare notes of wonder at the pioneers who first came here. What they went through on their odysseys from Europe can only be a speculation. Just to spend endless weeks in the guts of some sailing ship would be a lifetime adventure; and that was just the beginning. There would have been a bone-wracking railway journey through a huge landscape far bigger than any imagining. Then they finally arrived to confront this vast unknown. You’re here! Oh yeah, winter’s coming.

Few of us today would have the physical or mental stamina to begin, let alone endure, the ordeal. I find the simple effort of driving wearing enough.

Checking the weather this morning I realize that I am presently equidistant from Hudson Bay, The Great Lakes and the Pacific. That is one very long way from the ocean. What a huge country! I’m still not halfway to the Atlantic. I marvel that we are known as a nation of snivellers and bend-overly polite people. I’ve previously hitch-hiked across this expanse, travelled it by train, flown over it in big and little aircraft and still can’t grasp the magnitude of our country. With our tiny population and huge resources, we should own the planet.

Yeah but…..!

Is this anywhere near Kansas, Dorothy? Hello…hello Dorothy?

“He had seen it often, from the verandah of his uncle’s farmhouse, or at the end of a long street, but till now he had never heard it. The hollowing hum of telephone wires along the road, the ring of hidden crickets, the stitching sound of grasshoppers, the sudden relief of a meadow larks song, were deliciously strange to him.”

― W.O. Mitchell

Wounded Knee Rides Again

“Honey I felt the earth move!” The Hope Slide.”

I got up early to catch the ferry. With the wait in the terminal it took half a day to get across to mainland Canada. I spent the actual two hour crossing in my own dark, cool, comfy bed in my trailer. I have my own bathroom so there was no need to go to the upper decks for anything. What they don’t know won’t hurt them or me. The drive eastward was hell. With clear blue sky above It was hot and smoggy. The traffic was horrific as I drove through the murk. There is random construction. The roads were clogged both ways. Nearly everyone is a road warrior and recent gruesome fatalities on this highway slowed no-one.

A clever homebuilt expedition vehicle from Nevada. I had to stop. SWB, 4×4, diesel, someone smart fitted a trailer to the flat deck to make this beauty. Don’t laugh, she’s paid for!

So, finally I made it to Hope. Now all fuelled and grocery-ed up I’m parked in the bushes beneath the Hope slide. Odds are, all those car- sized boulders perched thousands of feet above me will stay put for one more night. If not, well it is meant to be and it probably won’t hurt a bit. I am just off the highway but well hidden. The flies are bitey friendly and it’s toasty warm (31C) but once it cools down I’ll go to bed in hope of an early start. My little truck clearly does not like dragging the trailer up long steep grades on a summer afternoon. Even the front fenders were too hot to touch.

Faces in the rocks above at the Hope Slide

My early start shuffles past eight o’clock. Rain spattered sweetly on the roof through the night. Now thunder rumbles and echoes between the towering cliffs above me. The purpose of this frivolous trip is to visit a dear old aunt in Manitoba. I am doing this on the generous means of my dear wife. I have to remind myself that I am to meander, there are no deadlines and I need to restore my soul which has suffered after two dreary years of death, illness, surgery and poverty. Just be, old man, just be and remember, how you once travelled with a backpack and your thumb. Best years ever. As for Jill, getting me the hell out of her face must be a reward on its own.

Forest fire smoke has proven to be a constant all the way across the prairies.

Yesterday’s inferno has passed for the moment. There were spatters of rain through the night and at the break of day it was gloriously chilly. I ( had hoped to drone the Hope Slide but the wind was gusting and there were squalls of rain, neither are good for the drone, especially at the hands of a rookie. I headed east and groaned up one long, steep grade after another. The engine wanted to overheat on each one and I stopped more than once to cool things down. The worst was the zigzag crawl up to Anarchist Summit from Osoyoos. All the day long the temperature was as hot as yesterday and thunder rumbled overhead. Finally, nearing Greenwood the truck began to steer oddly and once in town I discovered a nearly flat rear tire. I changed it myself as thunder-rain spat down. A lady stopped, but not to offer help. Her dog was missing. Gabby the collie had run off. I hope that girl is home safe and healthy.

The grind up from Osoyoos called Anarchist Hill. “Oh Lord, your hill is sooo big, and so is this damned trailer!”

Now in Grand Forks, I am parked in a large feral field beside a fleet of logging trucks. A young boy is riding his tiny motorbike, with training wheels, round and round in a cloud of dust. A friend tries to follow on a small electric John Deere tractor. I’ve been told that I can stay here by the folks at KAL Tire. I wheeled in there with my sick tire just before closing time and wholly expected to be told I’d need a new one. They could have, I wouldn’t have known. It was simply a bad valve stem. They refused to charge me. It follows that I inspected the other three tires and they need the same treatment. I’ll go back in there asking about the problem with being nice to a pain in the ass. Of course the answer is: they come back! I have a friend here whom I’ve known for fifty years. A visit is due. I already like this town and mucho kudos to the tire shop boys.

The next night finds me parked in a gravel pit beyond Yahk, which is not at all romantic as it sounds. My poor little truck staggered up the numerous long steep grades. If it were a mule it would be on its knees with tongue over shoulder. It is frustrating when you cannot go over 50kph whenever and wherever you’d like just like all the folks passing you at 140 kph. I just don’t want to cook my motor. There was a car and then a motor-home burned to a crisp along the roadside. I got the warning. Haste makes waste. In days past, even at my trundling speed it might have taken two weeks instead of two hours. From the top of the passes you can see valleys and mountains stretching into apparent infinity. The smoke adds a mystic touch to the scenes. It is still hard to grasp how big our single province is. There are all those others beyond. The grand thing was being able to smell the fragrance of the sub-alpine forest at the summits, those indelible aromas of balsam and spruce and buck brush that waft out into the summer air. There must be an air freshener called ‘Alpine.’ What memories those aromas bring!

You just never know what you’ll find. This delightful fusion of odd bits is in the lovely bakery in Greenwood.

In the morning it turns out I’ve backed into a spot on the edge of an impromptu fire-fighting depot. A helicopter comes and goes and I remember my heli-days so long ago. One whiff of jet exhaust and the clap of rotors brings so many recollections. That was me? In a single life?

Still a thrill for me. Helicopters have always amazed me and later ones are an incredible blend of technologies.

The day wears on. Leaving Cranbrook, a lovely spotted fawn suddenly appears in front and there’s no chance to stop. There is the expected sickening crunch and I bound out to have a look. The fawn has disappeared and truck in not damaged. It is not my fault but I feel sick for the rest of the day. I wonder what happening to this once great white hunter.

Finally at the Frank Slide, just into Alberta, I stop and get out the drone. This is where an entire half-mountain crumbled and buried the town of Frank. Itis horrific. I’d promised myself to make this my first good drone footage, so first a test scan. Out a hundred metres, up fifty then I press a wrong button. The drone lands instead of returning home. The last image I receive is a bleary view between rocks. I activate the “Find My Drone” and go hobbling down between the treacherous rocks with my cane. I slip and fall, loose my glasses, manage to retrieve them from a narrow crevice. By the time I clamber over to where I think my drone is, my controller has a message that says a rotor was jammed so the drone has shut off its power to prevent overheating. No more homing signal. Then came the return clamber, empty handed and feeling like a very stupid old man.

The Frank Slide. There is an entire little town, and its inhabitants, buried beneath that crumbled mountain.

I don’t know the story but it looked to me like part of a building sticking out of the massive lumps of rubble. Can you see my drone?

It is a place that leaves one completey humbled.

The limestone rocks are house-sized and smaller. Jagged, sharp, loose and dangerous it is no place for an old man with a walking stick.

Fortunately I’ve bought some insurance for just such an event but I do not feel any better. I was not employing my own advice about caution and certainly feel the diminished rookie.

Drive on old man, drive. Eastbound was a spectacular show of wondrous clouds, rainbursts, lightening, brilliant ladders of light between the clouds onto the foothills. They were all juxtaposed over columns of massive whirling windmills. I could not photograph any of it. The rocketing traffic made stopping too dangerous. Tonight I am parked on the side of the road at the former townsite of Whiskey Gap. It was a smuggler’s town in the 1930s. Now there are only cows bellowing from the ridge at the top of the coulee. A few miles back was a signboard noting the location of Aetna. But it’s not on the map either. This will be the norm I think.

In Fort McLeod. There’s a definite flavour of the old west.

In the Silver Grill. A Chinese menu with margaritas.

DRAW!
Downtown Fort McLeod on a Sunday evening. “Git his boots.”

And so I progress into the prairies. I will meander along the southern roads and explore the beauty of this vast and windy land. It’s a long way from the sea.

” A ship is safe in the harbour, but that’s not what ships are built for.”

Gael Attal

Spring Grind

Dogwood blooming at the corner of Seemore and Do-less. This is the ubiquitous four-way stop in downtown Ladysmith. It seems to utterly confuse a lot of folks. First come, first go but some people prefer to park out there and give directions.

A harbour view. Ladysmith is picturesque.

It is Saturday afternoon, (Well it was when I started this blog) the last one in April. The wind is gusty and brings fusilades of thick rain. The Corona umbrella is still furled up in the garden shed. Typical spring weather, it comes sandwiched between forecasts of an impending drought.

The weather inside my head is just as spring-like. “Use it or lose it.” That’s how it works. Efforts at writing are both pithy and pissy so I go and tinker at projects I invent. I’ve had the suspension on my trailer rebuilt. New parts throughout and the axles were remounted beneath the springs. The trailer is now 4” higher. The scrape marks on the bottom of the sewage holding tank are that much further from the ground. I’m not afraid to leave the pavement now.

“Dunno how it happened boss. Everything was fine until I went under that bridge.”

So no more excuses other than lack of money. I’m going to break out of this suburban gulag where there is a constant drone of lawnmowers and the distant wail of sirens. Struth! Just go sit outside for five minutes and simply listen. What a world we’ve created! We don’t even hear it. A neighbour recently complained to me about the sound of mourning doves!

There are billions of them. I wonder at times about the drive to live no matter what.

Wouldn’t it be nice not to question the meaning of life?

Vanilla plants in bloom. If tied up in bunches and hung in an enclosure these will make a natural insect repellant.

May

Now it is a week later. I’ve just walked the dogs and am having my last coffee of the day. I started doomscrolling, that process which so many of us fall into with our cell phones. Then I was hit with these two quotes.

“When you get lazy you are being disrespectful of those who believe in you.” The next went, “A winner is just a loser who tried one more time.” Bugga! Those hit me below the belt. I’ve been thinking of quitting blogging all together but then I find quotes like. People also send notes telling me that I’ve made a difference. And so life goes on. The weather forecast this week is for perfection in the skies. Maybe we’ll drag the trailer to a beach and see if a winter’s tinkering was worthwhile.

Two weeks later

Paddleboard dog. Heading up the San Juan River. The yellow streak is pollen. It has been a bad year for sinus problems.

San Juan River morning. The last bend before it meets the sea. A bear was ambling around in the meadow across the river.

And so we did. The drive to Pacheedaht is less than three hours from home and entirely on pavement. The pavement is badly heaved a lot of the way and so there’s no point in hurrying. It is a very popular route for motorcycles although the lurching sections must be hell. One can leave Victoria, make your way first to Port Renfrew, then Lake Cowichan and Duncan and finally back to Victoria all in one day. Or, go the other way around. We arrived late and had to settle for a spot next to the north end of the one-way bridge. “That sun brings ’em out” the lady in the office said apologetically as I picked a remaining spot. For the next three days we listened to the thump thump of vehicles taking their turn at the bad plank on the bridge just above us or the blare of their stereo as they waited to cross. We did have a spectaculat view of the last bend of the San Juan River where it meets the ocean just below the bridge. The wildlife and constantly changing tide provided an intriguing and peaceful show.

Where the river meets the sea. These houses look out the bay to the open horizon. Jill took this photo while I napped with my achy knee buried in the sun-warmed sand. Very nice. Meanwhile blappety motorcycles were thumping across the bridge. Our trailer was just on the other side of it.

There was indeed a tremendous number of motorcycles, almost half of the traffic at times. Of those, half seemed to be rumbling Harley Davidsons. I don’t understand their popularity but that’s fine too. It is a culture beyond my interest, wheeling a behemoth through the traffic and along our winding roads holds no appeal. I’ve been a mechanical guy long enough and I hold no interest in what flavour of pistons someone has installed in their ride. Whatever floats your boat! I seem to prefer feeling like a circus clown on a tiny bike but even that is beyond me at the moment. I am waiting and waiting for a knee replacement and hopefully after that I’ll be a little friskier.

Other folks paddled their kayaks and paddle boards up the river. One dufus had a boom box tied to to his board and proudly ascended the river stroke stroke, change sides, stroke stroke, bringing crashing rap culture to the forest. It is a good thing that I had brought no firearms. And…he was no teenager!

On the first night there was a spectacular display of Northern Lights which apparently were seen across the entire width of Southern BC. Always humbling and awe-inspiring’ the dome of throbbing light all around overhead reminds us of how tiny we truly are.

Well tiny as we are, we’ve found our way home again. Yet again, I’m having coffee after walking the dogs. I’m waiting for the truck motor to cool down; then I’ll treat it with a set of new spark plugs. Damn! I just paid more per plug than I did for my first car! I haven’t changed them since buying the vehicle so now I’ll know when they were done. Hopefully $140 worth of spark plugs will be amortized in fuel savings. I am finishing this on my new whiz-bang laptop computer. It seems odd, everything is new and feels it, all the keys have a letter clearly inscribed on them. It still seems to make spelling mistakes, I couldn’t find one with dumbo keys for banana fingers.

Trailer for rent. Quiet country setting. A gardener’s delight.

Time passes. So do we. The beauty of the day is all we have.

So now I have a fully functional computer, I can hit the road. I live in a truly beautiful place but once in a while one needs to see things from a distance. A fresh focus can only be good. Boots and saddles, wagon ho!

The first wild rosebud I’ve seen. Once they have bloomed and their petals are falling it is summertime.

If you know you can do it, why go in the first place? …Iohan Guearguiev

A Quick Trip

Heading out. The view from my Astoria motel room. Sliding under the Columbia River Bridge, within the hour she’ll be over the Columbia Bar, will have dropped off her pilot and be setting a heading for somewhere in Asia. Magic! The white exhaust means she’s switching over to burn Bunker C, a thick, toxic fuel oil which is much cheaper to burn.

The bogman goes to town. Astoria is a fascinating town to visit, with shops, restaurants, architecture and scenery which should interest everyone.

I can only guess the rest of the story. Astoria, like most Westcoast communities has its share of dead-end stories. I don’t think this was one, vbut there was no sign of happiness here.

February 28^th sees a torrential rain with dire warnings for the whole day. I messed around until noon, waiting for the rain to ease before taking my two wee dogs out for their daily walk. They waited patiently. When I was finally getting ready to go, I discovered a very neat dogpile on the floor in front of the toilet. Now that’s a clear, simple political statement. Dogs can teach us so much!

Local talent. Roosevelt elk are indigenous. At Fort Smith they provide an organic solution for cutting and fertilizing the lawns.

Coffee Blues. Buildings are painted boldly in Astoria, there’s a taste in cuisine and music for everyone.

This forepeak will never go to sea again. The old hull has some fine lines, but no living thing goes on forever.

Home, Sour home. Someone’s shelter. The garbage seethed with fat, brown rats.

Little boxes. No more buzzing in the crossed wires.

Mechano Spawn. The art galleries are fabulous. I could have spent thousands.

I’m home again after a grand weekend in Astoria at the annual Fisher Poets gathering in Astoria. From Ladysmith it is a three hundred mile drive plus a twenty-five mile ferry ride. All went well, my readings were well-received, I was MC at one event and met up with old friends and new. Astoria is a delightful town and my one regret, as usual, is heading home again so soon.The weather, for once, was decent, but Highway 101 south of the town named Forks, has deteriorated badly, so with ferry connections the trip is the best part of a day each way.

Retro town. The cherished architecture of Astoria is grand.

An old railcar is slowly recycling itself.

Wanna buy some good used chain? Each link is about 10″ long.

Dennis performs. He’s hilarious! The event has grown to present over 100 readers and musicians.

Doreen is in her nineties. She’s eloquent, fresh and feisty. Many of the younger performers are also incredible.

I stop to talk with pretty girls. This is Stella.

Astoria has several excellent Mexican restaurants, ‘El Jarrocho’ is the newest and is fantastic.

Hung by the river. Some old rigging from days gone by. The pigeons love it.

I wannit! Left-hand steering; an ultimate 4×4 truck.

The line. Ships anchor in the Columbia River to take on cargos as far inland as Idaho.

“Skipper, I see fish.”
A rare find, a new fishing boat under construction. The openings are for a bulb-bow and a bow thruster.

The two pm ferry trip back to Victoria meant I had to leave my Astoria motel by 06:30 and arrived in Port Angeles 6 hour later after an intense drive. That’s when the fun began. The boat did not have a large load but it would prove to be a memorable trip, especially for all those not of nautical experience. All the way from the Oregon border (Columbia River) I had been chased by an advancing cold front. Gusting blasts of wind and a heavy cold rain hounded me up the twisting route. Now it was arriving at the Strait of Juan De Fuca. Tugboaters know it as “Wanna Puka.”

The Coho swings in for a stern-to landing in Port Angeles. It was poetry in motion.

This cable layer was laying at anchor facing east. Then the squall-line hit. She abruptly swung 180 degrees and settled in for the blow about a half mile from where she’d been. You can see that she’s actually heeling to a big blast of wind.

The spit at Port Angeles which shelters the bay, and the open strait beyond.

Salt water window wash. Perhaps this little girl will always remember her ride.

A fierce westerly hit the bay at Port Angeles. There were no large waves but a suddenly a flat foam raced across the ocean’s surface. A small sloop with its genoa out took a serious schooling. I went to the front of the boat and took my photos and video early. I knew what was coming and did my best to keep my smirks to myself. I know the ‘M.V.Coho’ as the stout and seaworthy ship she is. Outside the buoy on the spit the plunging and rolling began. It is amazing how quickly large seas can build, especially when an ebbing tide slams into a gusting thirty knot breeze. Within minutes the passengers were practicing their silly walks, clinging to anything apparently solid. Some made their way to the front windows which were now regularly covered in inches of sea water blowing over the bow. One twit decided it would be manly to go stand at the forward flagstaff and show the world how daring he was. Fool! Most of the water was going over his head but one errant lump would have taken him overboard without a trace. I was not going out to tell him so and clearly neither were any of the crew. Those inside he thought was posing for also saw him as an idiot.

Four more goofs joined him but were soon back inside, soaking wet and hypothermic. Other passengers gave them a wide birth. Meanwhile, the stewards went around with armloads of sick sacks. Theyv’e clearly seen it all before. If you close your eyes and remember Julie Andrews singing, hear the revised lyrics: “The decks were alive with the sound of puking.” Kansas, or wherever these folks came from, will never be the same again. They’re smarter now. It is not a recommended weight lose program. This old salt wedged himself into a corner and had a nap through the mayhem. I was at home. Aaaaar Billy!

The old boat, with her keel laid in 1959, is a marvelous sea boat, completely at ease in heavy weather and never has crippling maintenance issues. I dare to guess, that with the proper maintenance she clearly gets, she may be only at mid-life. She is owned by the Blackball Ferry Line and so far as I know, is a private business with no grants or subsidies. I wish BC Ferries, a crown corporation, would have a look at how things can be done. They, whenever the wind rises above a seagull fart, tie up the fleet and constipate coastal highway traffic massively, sometimes for days.

“Thank you for sailing BC Ferries.” As if we had a choice! Now imagine if we also had to pass through customs and immigration at BC Ferry terminals. Two of our vessels were built in Europe and of course delivered here on their own keels. Surely they can handle the Strait Of Georgia. It can get darned rough, but not like Juan De Fuca.

“Traffic, Starboard bow.” Both ships followed the book of course and all was well. Cameras have a way of making waves look much smaller. This wall of water was about twelve feet tall. You know it is blowing seriously when the wind is shaving the top of the waves.

Last Sunday, the old ‘Coho’ kissed the dock three minutes late. Guided ashore prompty, I cleared customs and was home in little over an hour. Simple.

“The unavoidable price of reliability is simplicity.”– Tony Hoare

(It follows that whenever government becomes involved, simplicity, and so reliabilty, vanishes.)

Dream Box

Last year, for less than twenty bucks, I bought this living tree already decorated. I have even reused the string of tiny lights. Two trees are still alive out there because I’m a cheap old knob.

Feeling miserable as last year’s little Christmas tree, sitting in its little pot on the back on the deck while beat upon by the cold December rain. Nasty blasty weather days are punctuated by clear and cold but penetrating damp days. Solar illumination available 8am to 4pm. Considering weather, economic and political climates we live in probably the best place on earth. Yet, my old bones crave warmer climates. All it takes is money, attitude and a southern latitude. I’m sure someone in Gaza woud be happy to trade places with me.

Last year at this time salmon were spawning like the end of the world. Maybe it was.. They were everwhere, you could walk on them. This year there are hardly any. That is not a sign of end times, climate change or any political malfeasance. It is normal to have fluxuations in all things natural, especially weather and climate. The rest of the effects follow as they always have. There are rich years and then lean ones. Indigenous people starved during low-cycle years and understood that was how it worked. They did not trot around looking for someone to blame. No human has a hand on a switch to control those things, whatever folks may choose to believe. Folks used to accept that fact but now that most of us live in a man-made synthetic environment, many of us look for someone to blame when we’ve planned our picnic wrong.

A different kind of alone. Stuck on a foreign ship in a harbour in the cold pouring rain, can’t go ashore. Waiting for cargo. Thoughts of family at Christmas.

A lovely tradition. Some folks randomly decorate trees along paths in the woods. That never fails to cheer me up.

The wee dogs and I have just returned from our morning outing. It is hammering a very cold December rain mixed with blobs of slush. The girls reluctantly trotted up into the dog park, did their business, and hurtled back to the truck but I forced them to walk one round of the park. They both wear colourful winter rain jackets but they prefered the comforts of home. They’re now laying in front of the fireplace. Through the scudding clouds I can see fresh snow on the mountain behind town. Think I’ll go downtown and line up for a jug of rum.

“For a good second look, come back at high tide.”

Sunday morning is blacker than inside a bear but there is no snow on the ground. I guess it is nice that all I have to whine about is the weather. I put hot coffee and food inside my fat belly and then the dogs walk me around an old local farm, We meet kindred spirits out with their lovely dogs. Those pets show their resilience and joy in the moment and keep their complaints to themselves. We have so much to learn from them. If only we would pay attention.

Sometimes we’ve got to SEE the beauty in the things we look at.

“Yep, and be sure to see the things looking at you.”

The month wears on. It’s like a slow skid on a gravel road. I’m tinkering up my recently-bought trailer. Personalizing it, stowing “stuff”, dreaming of fragrant ocean breezes, seeing monster saguaro cacti through the windows, hearing the cry of a caracara. Perhaps that’s the value of the thing, the dream box.

Lone gull on the road to Crofton in the afternoon.

White car passing in Sunday morning red dawn.

Survival = Anger x Imagination Sherman Alexie

No I Don’t

A little bit of rain and back they came again. Torrential rains in the forecast for tomorrow.

Often before I go to bed I cruise about on my computer looking for various distractions to clear, or blur, my brain in preparation for hopefully drifting off into a sound sleep. Last night I stumbled upon a fellow named Tokasin Ghosthorse. (Isn’t that a fine Irish handle?) He is, in fact, a Lakota philosopher and teacher who was nominated once for a Nobel peace prize.

Here are some of the things he had to say:

“It’s easier to lie to children than tell them the truth.”

“We’ve educated the wisdom out of ourselves.”

“Education is about domination.”

“Humanity must shift from living “on” the earth to living with it.

Take it, or leave it, you can look him up or forget him. I was impressed with how he spoke. Clear-eyed, with an inner peace and strength, this is a man of substance. There are certainly few enough of those around. I woke up this morning as impressed with his words as when I went to sleep and I will learn more about him and his wisdom. With all the darkness swirling about us these days, both at home and around the world, it is lovely to have some fresh mindful thinking to explore.

I went to Vancouver yesterday. Some people do that every day, once will be enough for me. I haven’t been over to the big smoke for a long time. There was not a lot I recognized anymore and I felt absolutely like an alien. The Bog Trotter in Xanadu. And, God forbid, masses of people actually live in that swirling concrete mess. How? You have to evolve into a different sort of creature. It’s clear. I first hit Vancouver over fifty years ago. Intimidating as it was to me, there was a very different flavour to my senses then. The city seemed easy-going, relaxed with even the hint of a frontier town. It’s very different now. There is certainly nothing relaxed about it anywhere. I once sailed my boats into False Creek. I’d anchor there and conduct my business and pleasure there, using my boat as accommodation. I could not be at ease enough now to do that in the maelstrom of stone-faced humanity, din and harshness that the city has become.

Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? I’ve been to London to visit the Queen.

Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under her chair.

I rode across to Downtown Vancouver on a recently instituted ferry service for foot passengers called HULLO. Once their Nanaimo terminal was located at the end of some convoluted routing with poor signage, the rest was a breeze. The staff were all grand, the boat amazing, and the trip was a dream. I’ve never been on a passenger vessel with seat belts before, but having made my living out there on the open strait, I’m sure some days they’re necessary, especially when skimming along at near-flying speed. The boat was immaculate, the ride was magnificent and on time. You are delivered into the bowels of Vancouver a few blocks from the Seabus / Skytrain terminal where for $2.10 I was whisked off to the far east side of the city. Full Kudus to HULLO and to the Vancouver transit system.

The hi-backed seats hide how many passengers there are. There is also an upper deck.

Then this which I much prefer. Jill and the doggy girls take me for a stroll in magic land.

No comments on what has become of the city. It reminded me of that old Blade Runner movie. Nor would I have been surprised to see a naked Arnold Shwarzenegger character throwing cars around. To me everything seemed surreal and the people completely abstract. My sleepy little Ladysmith is a much more comfortable place for human beings like me.

In comparison to Hullo, my return trip to Vancouver Island, now with a vehicle, was made with BC Ferries. “Thank you for travelling with BC Ferries.” Yeah right; as if we have any damned choice. I often rant about the general inefficiency and ineptitude of this crown corporation. Here’s my latest experience. I arrive at Horseshoe Bay at about 5 pm. I am told that the next boat will depart at 6:35 pm but, chances are that sailing is already full. I’ll probably be on the next boat at 10:10 pm. Yet I could be lucky, “Ya never know. Stay in your vehicle!” I’m hungry and want to walk into Horseshoe Bay, but fair enough, shit doesn’t always happen and I’ve already missed enough ships in my life.

The signs indicated to follow lane 6 for Nanaimo and so I went, pulling up behind a magnificent Ural motorcycle and sidecar on a trailer. A BC Ferry worker in a 3/4 ton 4×4 with beaucoup flashing lights pulls up behind, and tells me that I’m in the wrong lane. My ticket says lane 4. So, at his behest I back up a very long way and settle into place for my long wait in the longest line. I knew that I had no hope of getting onto the next boat. My stomach is growling but I cling to a ridiculous faint hope.

.At 6:45 there is yet another garbled intercom announcement that ‘Queen Of Surrey’ from Nanaimo is now arriving. The wait continues. No vehicles drive off of the boat and finally comes another announcement that the ferry is having problems with the ramp but will have things sorted “momentarily.” Finally there are three blasts of the ferry’s horn, the reversing signal. Now another announcement, the problem can’t be solved and the vessel is moving to a different dock.

To make this long story a bit shorter, let’s just say I did make it onto that next ferry, there was only one vehicle behind me that was squeezed aboard. I was stunned to find that same motorcycle on the trailer four places in line ahead of me. WTF? Of course the boat is crowded now with hundreds of tired, confused, hungry, grumpy passengers. Screaming babies seem to be everywhere and no-one is inclined toward graciousness. I shuffle into line for the cafeteria. Baa! It moves at a glacial pace but it’s the only game on the boat. Finally I arrive at the order counter and note to a worker that there are no more trays. “No there’s not,” she agrees, “we’re short-staffed!” The meal I wanted was “All out.” It was simply a mushroom burger and apparently not something which could be cooked on demand. I agree to something else. “That’s OK, I’ll just carry my meal to a table on top of my head.” There was laughter in the line behind me. Finally some tiny trays were produced and slammed down, then my food was slammed down.

I survive by looking for the humour in things but it was goshderned hard to find any there. The crew DID look stressed and weary but that should not be the passenger’s problem. I heard one kitchen worker explaining to a passenger about how very distressing the stuck ramp ordeal had been. Really? You were all down there working on it? Wow, you don’t even have any dirt on your apron! Once again the announcement came thanking everyone for sailing BC Ferries. Uhuh! I so happy to drive off of that ferry. At 10:10 pm I passed the Nanaimo ferry parking yard which was full of vehicles hoping to make it to Vancouver yet that day.

The new dog uber. What I drove home from Vancouver. The Hemouth is gone. Here’s something simple, affordable and easy to find in a parking lot.

Mating season. Maybe there will be more little trucks.

I’m finding plenty of fungal photos this fall.

Years ago I experienced a very odd loading protocol on another ferry trip. When I said to a deckhand “You’ve got to tell me what that was all about,” he replied, “No I don’t.” That sums it all up I’d say. When I compare BC Ferries to Hullo or to Blackball Ferries I am simply embarrassed. An old proverb says that a “Fish stinks from the head first.” Could be.

What can be finer than to wonder as you wander?

“It is always in season for old men to learn.” Aeschylus

Blank Spot

Butterfingers. The new kid in town. I’ve never seen one of these before.

Saturday morning. Sirens wailing. Woo, woo, woo. Another wreck on the highway where people hurtle through town in a quest to hurry up and relax? The sirens stop abruptly, somewhere nearby. Perhaps another old soul in the neighbourhood has a medical crisis. Dogs bark, the children next door make the noises of happy children. There’s a country song coming out of all this. Goldang!

The summer sun and a few sniffs of rain have produced a fabulous blackberry crop. They’re being picked off but not by the hordes one could expect.

Too high. Part of blackberry strategy seems to be sending out thorny vines that no-one can reach. Bird’s reserve?

Sunday morning. Overcast sky, it feels good. There’s a forecast of rain two days away. We’ll see. Joey is barking out her morning sonata. This poor old German Shepherd has been at it for the fifteen years we’ve lived here. She’s a fine dog who never gets walked and has a path worn along the inside of her back fence. She sounds fierce but I can pet her and give her treats. It’s the silent rottweiller she shares her existence with to watch. Everyone wants to shoot the dogs for their incessant noise, I want to deal with the owner. Occasionally there is a shout of “Joey shaddup” but that is a token of showing she cares. I don’t know what to do to ease the torture of these poor creatures. They turn the back alley into a gauntlet for anyone walking by. The neighbours complain to each other, nothing changes.

A spring of fireweed appeared under the front yard landscaping. Just a weed!

The long weekend is past, we’ve had a wee sprinkle of rain. Despite their best efforts there have been no heaps of traffic victims on the roadside waiting for their helicopter ride. It has to be a miracle that dozens don’t die on our roads daily. They sure work at it. Enough said.

Original paint. Twin I-beam suspension, country white walls. No airbags, seatbelts or emission controls. Fuel was sold by the gallon, for pennies. Ah, the early sixties! I remember when these were brand new.

Hand-painted advertising. Touched up along the way. Wots a decal?

I went to see a surgeon yesterday and am now on a list for a new knee. Something within the next year. Now that’s something to look forward to. I understand that the healing process is long and painful but the reward is to have no more pain and crunching parts. The old knee is worn down to nearly the last kick. I was warned, but life is wasted on the young and I can’t think of one thing that I’ve proven except that I’m an idiot. The new synthetic knee is a marvel of engineering. I examined one yesterday. Once the Canadian Tire label is gone it will look good on any fireplace mantel. It is a result of modern technology, cleverly designed and built. The stainless steel knuckle will cause hell in airport security but we will deal with it at the time. I asked if I could get one with a grease nipple. The surgeon has a sense of humour, everything will be fine.

This blog was slid to the back of the shelf to ferment, or perhaps, desiccate. Days have passed. There are no dramas or points to ponder so we have just sat. Even I’m finally admitting that it’s bloody hot today. There’s a lovely Westerly breeze blowing but it is like a blast furnace when you step outside. I am cooking supper on the barbeque, it would be too warm to bake a meat loaf inside. All the fans in the house are murmuring away. It feels relatively cool in here at my desk, but the air seems to go muddy again, I stare blankly at the wall. Perhaps that is an achievement.

Sunday morning again, suddenly it is a week later, still the sirens wail. Woo, woo!

August morning. What’s more beautiful than a flower beginning to fade? Beauty is fleeting.

“We can know only that we know nothing. And that is the highest degree of human wisdom.”
― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace