Mental Health Archives - bc-bog-trotter.com

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

Seventy- Three

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.”

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 73^rd 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 2^nd 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!

A dire red sunrise. We’ve had not a cloud nor drop of rain ever since.

“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

New Adventures

Dark blue sails. A perfect tack into a perfect wind on gentle seas. Sitting on the beach, this old sailor’s heart aches.

I was leaving today. That was the plan. An important appointment out of the way, my birthday past, the open road beckoned and I would be gone, trailer and all. There is a dear old aunt in Manitoba whom deserves a visit and that shining idea has kept me going with something to look forward to. The borderlands of the Canadian Prairies are beautiful this time of year. Then the phone rang.

Finally, much to my surprise a date has been set for a knee replacement; June 20th. I was told “Perhaps in August” so yeehaw, there goes my summer. Maybe by sometime in August I’ll be out and about. I am not complaining, there are times when I want to take an axe to this throbbing horror so the notion of finally being rid of that incessant ten-pound toothache has great appeal. I know there is an ordeal of pain during the recovery that awaits me but all I see beyond that bridge is bluebirds and rainbows. UHUH! Ordeal or adventure; that attitude adjustment is entirely up to me.

Pipe birds. “Look at the pecker on that one!” The birds are sitting on wooden pipes four feet in diameter. They run for miles and supply water to the local pulp mill.

Meanwhile there’s a urine yeller peecup truck sitting in my garage. I’ve been thinking that I should take the rear brakes apart and have a look. I have not yet since buying it last fall. Thinking of towing a trailer almost half-way across Canader…. and being the former aircraft mechanic obsessed with preventive maintenance! Uhuh again. Then came a brake squeal and a clunking in one rear wheel. After beating the brake drums off I discovered a wonderland of black muck and rusted everything. Clearly the previous owner had regularly launched boats into the ocean. The brakes had been working wonderfully. How, I cannot explain. There is now black brake soot all over the garage floor and the knees of my coveralls. It’s all part of the familiar but with a knackered-up undercarriage and a lame hand everything takes longer than in the good old days. I clearly understand why old farts can be a bit cranky.

My liuttle shop of horrors; or is it a Taliban training center? Fortunately, nothing goes on forever. My strata neighbours loath me and my redneck ways. But, they don’t mind calling me to fix something for them! Almost all of them *are* nice people.

Then there’s the business of jobs like this and working with eye glasses. There is a challenge that comes when you’re humped over like a three-legged dog trying to fornicate with a greasy football. Your glasses, or goggles or spectacles, as you will, keep wanting to leap off your sweaty face. You grab them with one mucky paw and stuff them back into position but of course everything’s a blur now with goop on the lenses. Then the phone rings and you get an itch and then you have an urge to pee. The romance of it all, sweaty testicles. I meant spectacles, spectacles! After injuring my left hand in a motorcycle crash. My existence and survival have depended on that paw all my life. Now it is painful, weak and unreliable. All my days I’ve been life support for that hand and now it needs to retire.

The job is done, the brakes work well. Then a tree swerved in front of me.

No seriously, it’s all good. Then the handle for the engine hood release fell apart. It’s fixed. I checked online and a new electric Hummer is $131000. Plus tax! Think I’ll keep what I’ve got.

My wrench-bending days are coming to an end but I can appreciate other folk’s passions. I don’t know what make this car was once but it is NOT electric.

Just think, I was going to look for a copy of “ Do It Yourself Knee Replacement For Dummies” I’ve already got a meat saw and a hammer and chisel. It is truly wonderful what modern medicine can achieve. I’ve talked to folks who’ve had this procedure and they all describe it as worthwhile. So I take a breath and jump. I look forward to being able to walk confidently and explore beyond the end of the road. Head Bashed-In Wheelchair Jump.

Imagine the stories still held within this wee wooden rowboat. Feel the spring as wooden oars pull her forward and hear the gurgle of the passing sea water. Think of the loving hands that shaped her lines. There is nothing made in plastic to match it.

To get anywhere, all those wee legs have to work together. That’s a political lesson!

Got bugs. There were several of these nests one day. I can’t find a name for these pin-prick sized gangsters but I’ll bet they have a nasty bite.

Warm and fuzzy. Peace and serenity, a harmless wee pup. This mini daschund ( smaller than pictured) chased a black bear away a few days ago. Libby is 100% dog, in all ways.

Berry blooms in the rain. There is a deep slurping sound in the woods today.

Remember that a weed is just a flower someone else doesn’t like.

“The only disability in life is a bad attitude.” Scott Hamilton

Survival

Silently it flew up fron the ground in front of me. The Barred Owl sat motionless and soundless in the dim light. I always feel honoured to see one.

The first thing I do in the morning is check myself for bed sores. Damn, I’ve sure sleep a lot this winter! My little dogs have taught me well. “Eat it, hump it, pee on it, have a nap;” not necessarily in that order. Hibernation is a cheap way of passing the winter. Jill and I sleep separately, in opposite ends of our home. Fair enough, no woman should have to endure all that snoring and farting. Each dog has chosen who they sleep with and hunker down in their own little bed. They usually get up around first light, go outside briefly then trade beds. They finally rise long after we have and then go to their day beds in the living room. They’re tiny and can insert themselves into obscure spots with a genius for rolling up in a blanket and becoming invisible. A person has to be careful where they sit and learn to check where they land their bottom.

What’s more poignant than the fading glory of a flower. Any natural colour at this time of year is precious.

After the debacle with the Ladysmith Maritime Society I try to keep my head down. I know I have less sleeps ahead of me than behind and I’m not going to waste them peeing up any ropes. Friends send me headlines from around the province. In the lovely town of Powell River there is a proposal from the local First Nations to change the community’s name. A majority of folks are opposed. One of those citizens, born and raised there and who has served that area as a paramedic for 38 years, raised his voice, along with a large percent of the population, in support of keeping the original community name. He was fired from his job by the BC Ambulance Service, accused of posing a “threat “ to local indigenous folks! WHAT? What I find really stunning is that this story broke on the pages of the New Westminster Times. It has not appeared, so far as I know, in any of our other major provincial news sources.

A Ladysmith morning. This self-dumping log barge has a ahng-up but the decks were soon cleared. The massive tug and barge were off to a logging operation upcoast for another piece of forest.

That ambiguity is what concerns me. The streets should be filled with angry protestors. Complacency to some very disturbing trends terrifies me. In Pender Harbour, the local First Nations are working on a proposal, underscored once again by the Provincial Government, to force people to remove their private docks from waterfront properties. In the Kootenays, a reclaimation of native lands could see 95% of all BC crown land turned over to First Nations. All I will say is that this old fart is damned tired of being stuffed into a pigeon hole called “Last Nations.” If folks continue to sit around saying and doing nothing but grumble you’ll get what you deserve. Write a letter at least, put your name on it! The Provincial Government appears to have a secret agenda, our First Nations people are merely a pawn in a bigger game.

Rock Pock. It’s always a joy to walk the sandstone beaches.

In a few days I will travel to Astoria, Oregon to participate in the annual Fisher Poets Gathering. It’s the first time I’ve been there since Covid hit. I’m really looking forward to meeting with old friends and sharing our creative efforts. You might find fisherpoets.org interesting and we’d love to see you there. I’d love to have someone ride shotgun with me on the drive down and back. It’s a delightful weekend in a delightful town. It’s a nice drive too.

I’ve finally spliced together some video bits into a short YouTube clip. It’s very short and hopefully a bit funny https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=teFBzolIbGk

I’m really intigued with the process of vlogging and want to develop those skills. So be warned. In the meantime stay out of the bight and don’t let the bastards grind you down.

“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” Mae West

Warm And Fuzzy

It is already near the end of January. We are in the middle of a coastal winter. There has been over a foot of snow, blasts of freezing rain, sub zero temperatures and a general grey permeating coldness throughtout everything. I’ve been slowly tinkering on my travel trailer and dreaming of the day when I’ll actually see tropical plants through its windows. The days drag by and the snow piled higher. The the rain washed it all away. Last night I was overcome with a poxy illness that haunted me all night and was settled in firmly by morning. I spent the whole day in bed and slept through nearly until it was dark again.

Three dog night, all day long.
photo by Jill

Our Callas Lily continues to add cheer in the kitchen. I prefer buying potted plants to cut ones.

Downtown Duncan. I call it “rustic charm”
It’s an exotic destination for the winterbound.

Five Ships. i never tire of our harbour views.

My two wee doggies cuddled close all day long. It was very touching. The girls confirmed how dogs are more in tune with their inner self that humans. They know when you’re down. When I finally crawled into the shower there they sat shoulder to shoulder making sure I was OK. My wife cared for me lovingly and tonight I’m hoping to feel well enough to crawl out again in the morning. Meanwhile friends are sending photos from places like Florida and Baha. I’m happy for them. Yeah right!

There’s not a lot to write about these days. The battle for the rights to the Ladysmith Maritime Society is over. We lost. There’s no point in analyzing our defeat. I like and respect the folks at LMS but they were too darned Canadian and nice. No one was willing to fight fire with fire and be a little nastier than the people overrunning us. I’ve alienated myself by suggesting that. There’s nothing more to say. Oh right, “Be kind.” Nice guys finish last.

“Dad, why are they called car… toons?” photo by Jill

Can you hear the winter wind whistling in the roof top?

More winter lines, low tide at the black beach. It is a former coal terminal. A carbon footprint.

He’ll be a big dog when he’s all grown up!

And so this jaded old prince has spent an ungainful hibernation month with little dogs cuddled up beneath the blankets. It is so zen! Then one farts. FAAAW! A sub-nuclear lethal cloud from a tiny beast. Wow, drop a few of these over the Ukrainian border and the Russians will be gone. The wonderful thing about dog gas is that it’ll stick to your leg and only release you when it’s ready, no matter how fast you run. The Taliban Chihuahua. Allah fartbar.

I’m going back to bed.

Peter Kreeft Quote: “Don’t be more serious than God.

God invented dog farts.

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

Wheels North

Sing a song of summer! This wee bird declares his presence under a cloudless sky. I’m proud to mention that this was taken with my mobile phone. Amazing I think, and you wouldn’t believe the phone calls I can make with my camera.

I have a friend. Surprising perhaps, but actually, yes I have a few. I’ve always reckoned that if someone claims to have lots of friends, they may well have none. Perhaps acquaintances are considered friends by some, but you find out quickly whom your true friends are and who are not when the chips are down. You need to be relied on at all costs, and vice versa. I have a few of those and of course they have me.

Jimmy is a buddy whom I have known over forty years. Anyone who can put up with me for that long is worth keeping in touch with. He’s also the same age I am and tonight as I write he’s setting up his tent somewhere in Northern Yukon. From here I can hear the whine and bump of bugs outside the thin fabric as he settles down to rest from a long day and recharges for the next one ahead. An avid and seasoned motorcycle dude, he has ridden his Suzuki DR650 toward Tuktoyuktuk.

Once he’s had a sip of Arctic Ocean he’ll turn southward to return home to Ladner, an entire trip intended to be completed in six weeks. Phew, there’ll be no moss on his wheels! You’ve seen other folks making videos about similar feats, but Jimmy and I are the same age. We’re firmly into our seventies. He has previously ridden a motorcycle all over the continent and also sailed several boats all over the Pacific. You can’t keep a good man down and…there’s a lovely wife who provides him with excellent ground support; long-suffering Donna.

This is my pal Jimmy on a lake somewhere in the Yukon last night. I should mention that I’m posting this photo without permission. Great selfie!

I’ve been following Jimmys progress on Goggle Earth. Donna sends me his position on SPOT and I survey where he is. Tonight his wee tent is set up about fifty feet from a huge bear pile, right behind a blueberry bush. His next town will be Dawson City. I’ve noticed that just to the north is the place name of Off Leash Dog Park. In all of that vast wilderness that’s got to be the town for me!

Batmobile recycled. I’m happy to report that this abandoned bike has been salvaged by a boy from up the alley. He rides it daily. Batman lives!

The amazing woodsplitter slug. Every firewood pile needs one.

As a young man I was deeply inspired by Francis Chichester, an Englishman in his mid-seventies who incidentally also had cancer. He had already become famous with global exploits in his tiny Tiger Moth biplane. Now in a newly-commissioned huge and hard-to-sail yawl he sailed off to go around the planet once again. Crews of younger men have since tried to re-create parts of the original voyage in that same boat. It beat them down until they had to head for port. It’s clearly all about attitude. I’m afraid mine is terrible at the moment. I don’t want to discuss issues here but I do want to thank the inspiration of folks like my friend Jimmy. My sense of mission in life is to create a little light in other people’s eyes. You’ve certainly done that for me amigo. Thanks!

The fleet. There’s not much prettier than wooden rowboats

By strange coincidence I stumbled on a YouTube video about a 94 year old man who still rides his fleet of Triumph motorcycles. He began racing Triumphs in 1952 (The year I was born) and became known as ‘Fast Eddie’. So he’s been riding all my life and is still going strong although he can barely walk out to his barn full of kick-start motorcycles. Inspiring!

Almost ripe. Indian Plumbs are ready when they are a dark blue-black. They seem almost tasteless but they vanish when they’re ready. The birds know.

There is no glory in vicarious adventure. No-one will ever be recognized for what they watched on television. You’ve got to get out there on your own and light your own little star. I can also state from personal experience that often there is a quiet courage in the business of simple daily living. As I get older and my body decomposes while yet I breath, like everyone else, I endure physical pain as well as the guilt and frustration about all the things I could have done differently. There is great anxiety about not being able to do what I want due to lack of funds. Still there are people who make excuses and those who get things done. The two seldom mix.

Green fly on a blackberry flower. The berries seem to be flowering about six weeks early this year

There are a lot of folks my age and younger in a similar situation. Trying to make it through the month on a tiny pension without ending up a little further in debt is an acheivement now. Bought a cabbage lately?

Inflation is when you pay fifteen dollars for the ten-dollar haircut you used to get for five dollars when you had hair.”
― Sam Ewing

Cheer Up, Whether You Like It Or Not

Spring. What a wonder! And a free tree in every nut.

I remember how I once woke up in the mornings after my feet were already on the floor. I was already in gear and racing into the possibilities which the day held. I had enthusiasm for everything. I could outwork, lift more, stand more heat and cold and noise than anyone else. I had been taught at a young age that to be a beast of burden was noble and divine. Stupid bastard! It got me nowhere. Now I am old and burned out, in constant pain in many ways.

Bleeding hearts, for looking at, not listening to.

It is a terrible thing for an old man to wake up with dark thoughts. He lays on and on in bed as the perfect morning sunrise streaks through the gap in the curtains. He contemplates that perhaps his entire life was a waste and that there is little of value to show for his existence. His passage through it all was of nuisance value only. He knows that’s not true but the thoughts are there and that is not any way to start the day. Friends and family have children producing babies lately. Perhaps that’s what has brough this on. He has none. Oh blub blub.

Three steps further, the camas are now in bloom. The bulbs of these flowers were a food staple for the indigenous folks…so long as they knew which ones were poisonous.

Grumpa, cheer up enough to swing your gnarly old feet down on to the floor, open the curtains, go let the dogs out. They’re thrilled to simply be alive. That’s why we have them in our lives. So wake up one toe at a time if that’s your best, follow the dogs out and inhale the dawn. No-one has shot at us, there have been no fires or earthquakes. You know who you are and where you are. Not a bad start! It’s Monday again. Three days until garbage day. We’ve just lost Gordon Lightfoot. All is bluebirds and rainbows.

So let’s sit a spell and have a chat. I’ve got to get this hot tub fixed but it has a lovely view.

A post from a friend this morning reminded me that as spring advances so does tick season. These nasty blood-sucking insects which burrow into your skin can also carry plagues like lyme disease which has a wide range of unpleasant symptoms. After being outdoors check behind your dog’s ears especially, but also all over their body, and then check you own corpulous delectum. The wee flax seed-shaped bugs are not fussy with their taste. I once discovered a tick had lodged itself in my armpit.The discovery came while scuba diving. I wore a neoprene wetsuit over the spot and was in ninety feet of water when the discomfort set in. Gnyum, gynum, yum. So it was grin and bear it for the rest of the dive and then wrestle out of my gear once back on the surface and remove that invasive beast which by then felt about the size of a shovel.

You can remove them by firmly pulling and twisting, preferably without breaking the little beast into bits. Any remains can become a nasty infection but broken-off heads do NOT continue eating their way inwards. That’s just a myth. There are special tick removal tools available at pet stores. Be sure to check and remove any you find as soon as possible, they do like to chew their way in and once swollen with blood are much harder to remove. An acclaimed repellant is a spray mixture of one third white vinegar and two parts water. Well now, that’s out of the way before breakfast.

Under the rhodo. A spider works the point, perhaps waiting for flies coming to the flower.

Fish do fly. This carving is on a rock beside a fish ladder at a local salmon hatchery.

It is now almost NOT news that there has been yet another mass-shooting in the US. Sadly, mass shootings are hardly the sensation they once were. Canadians are neighbours to this clearly conflict and violence loving nation. We too share the same culture and embrace entertainment which consistently has characters waving guns. The film sets run with blood. It’s expected and even taken for granted. We just don’t notice it. Gun violence in Vancouver and on Vancouver Island are now a daily fact of life and there is more going on than ever makes the news. Then there are the goons hurtling around our roads in their projectiles weighing infinitely more than any bullet. All the horrors of war, earthquake and famine just don’t register in our collective conscience. There are a lot of good things happening but before we spend more on stuff liking sending back breath-taking images of the unknown universe perhaps we should clean up our only home and make life a little more bearable for most of our global population who suffer horribly every day.

Trillium in passing. Their season ends far too soon.

I was confronted by one of those characters last week, who from his suv seat threatened me with his brass knuckles. I refuse to run from any thug. He backed down when I challenged him to discover how this old bull got to be old. He left. I do seem to find an inordinate number of confrontations but I am hard-wired against conceeding to bullies. The whole world seems to be tense and angry but running from any tyranny, no matter how small, is to endorse it.

There are other forms of foolishness we also have to deal with. I am writing this on mother’s day and the weather is now seasonally normal, in the mid to high 20s. The media is determined to place us within a heat dome and caution us with how to deal with the extreme heat. You can go back into the archives and find that this is normal late-spring weather and I suggest that hot, even to us folks, is in excess of 30 degrees. Nice and warm has been replaced with hot and dangerous. What’s with all the drama? Isn’t paying for gas and groceries exciting enough?

The sun daughters. They know how to start the day.

Verily, verily. Here’s a whole truth. Man creates his gods in HIS own image.

I don’t know how to act my age, I’ve never been this old before! anonymous

All Thumbs

Kinkweed. AKA cyclamen. I found a new button in my photo editing program.

I recently sat in a hospital waiting room and watched as an elderly lady thumbed rapidly through a text conversation on her mobile phone. Suddenly I recalled how older ladies were constantly knitting when I was a child. Their hands flew as various woolen items took shape beneath their flying fingers. I can even hear the gentle click of their needles. They carried a purse and a knitting bag, everywhere! I’m not so sure that some didn’t even knit while sitting in church.

“Can’t a gull go anywhere to be along?” Cleanup after the latest spawning run.

He showed up early at the speaking stump to chair the meeting. Nobody else came.

My dear old English grandmother kept me in sweaters and socks, pajama bags, hats, scarves and clothes that lasted forever. I don’t know where any are now, but I treasure the memory of them. There was a vogue in recent years when young women wanted to be seen knitting but I don’t know what happened to that. I suppose it’s impossible to text and knit at the same time. Perhaps there’s an app.

It now seems to be all thumbs on cell phones everywhere and I’m amazed at the apparent dexterity that some folks possess. I’m an old banana-fingered poker. I actually care about spelling so I do plenty of erasing and repeating. I will never master the art of texting, (or spelling.) I’ve been in the backwoods of a Mexican jungle and found locals coming out of the bushes, head down, intent on their texting. I have watched as young parents push their offspring in a stroller out into traffic without bothering to look up at all. We’ve even lost our basic instinct of lizard response fear.

The Pink Patrol. If there’s a smell of fish…chances are somewhere there is a fish. I didn’t let them roll on it.

Now where’s that darned dog? Libby takes advantage of laundry day. She loves denning up.

Winter hook in the cold cold northwest wind. Mount Benson, behind Nanaimo, looks down on Ladysmith Harbour.

A brrrroad reach, riding the tide and chill winter wind out of Ladysmith Harbour.

BUMP! Things that arrive in the dark on a flood tide. A good reason to not be under way at night.

Those of you who have been following my blog through this year know the litany of woes I have related. I’m weary of it all and ache for something good to look forward to. Two weeks before Christmas I am writing on a Friday night as the wind and rain hammer on the skylight over my head. Instincts from a long life on the water catch me thinking that maybe I should go down and check the boat. Then I realize I don’t own one anymore, well, at least at the moment. I’d enjoy tramping down the heaving dock, head bowed to the rain and wind. I’d check the dock lines, which at all times, were always thick and doubled-up for heavy weather. Then inside, I’d look for leaks, start the furnace, break out a glass of rum, light and trim an oil lamp or two, and settle back to listen to the symphony of the storm outside.

Sometimes the mast would vibrate in a heavy gust. I loved it. There was no place I’d rather be. The only thing better was to be in the same sort of night on the end of an anchor chain. The motion of the boat is much different out on the hook but, being confident in your skill at setting the anchor, you could relax and listen to the wind moan and rattle in the rigging. The boat would dip and roll but it was just part of the soothing waltz of being anchored. And there was a dog, blissfully asleep in his cozy bunk, perhaps chasing dream rabbits, uncaring about the storm outside. You could fall into an easy sleep, confident in your instinctive ability to be wide awake instantly should anything change. The oil lamps cast a warm glow on the varnished wood and the ship’s clock rang out the watches. There was a feeling of being at one with the universe, your vessel, your beloved dog and of being in the one place you wanted to be. Bliss! How I miss it! I’ve tried to convince myself that my life did not end the last time I stepped off that boat but all I’ve done is confirm who I am.

Tonight I’ve just put on my rain gear and carried my little dogs out for their night time ritual of pumping ship just before bed. They did not want to go out on their own! The rain is bulleting horizontally. They’ve now nestled into their wee bunks. Soon I will join them. I will endure another long night of dark dreams and sudden wakings when there is any strange noise. Jill is recovering slowly and I worry constantly. We are not celebrating Christmas this year due to lack of family and shattered finances. The winter ahead looks long and bleak. Blub, blub, blub. When I think of all the places I could be, a bombed-out basement in the Ukraine, teetering on a hangman’s scaffold in Iran, living in any city, I know how lucky I am.

By noon the next day, the rain has eased and doggies and I have been out for a walk. Our regular trails are now free of the trample-packed ice and are ankle-deep in running rivers of ice cold rain water. Now I’ll make some soup, so it can sit and ferment until supper time, go check the camper, take a load to the recycling depot, have a nap, watch the TV news over supper, fall asleep in front of the televison, wake up and drag myself off to bed where once again I’ll stare into the night, afraid to fall asleep and have yet another nightmare. How does the human mind conjure up such weirdness? I know I am still in the grieving process for my daughter and that all this aberrant mentalism is part of it. I feel guilt at the notion of letting go and walking away. I know that to some degree there will always be a sadness, some people never let go of that but life is for the living. This old tugboater clings to the motto of “Never look back” and it is a chore to find the right balance. At least we have the closure of knowing what happened to our daughter. Some folks never even have that.

When I’m especially depressed or stressed, (For example, laying in a dentist’s chair) I pull up a recurring image from the back of my brain. I am sailing, on a starboard tack. Tepid green seawater washes through the port scupper and I run my hand through it from where I sit in the cockpit, my other hand on a well-balanced helm. The translucent water is inviting. The boat is on a lee shore. The beach is lined with palm trees and somehow, from downwind, cooking aromas are able to reach me. Lee shores are dangerous places to be near, yet I feel peace and fulfillment, confident that I can tack out into open water as I wish. So, if you see me staring at the wall, know where I am.

We finally conceded an issue this week and bought a new television. By today’s standards it is tiny, only 32”, the same size as the old one. I was fascinated by the image quality on some of the huge wall-sized units. They remind me of the screens at drive-in movie theaters! The price of them was stupendous but most impressive to me was the heat pulsing out of them. So much for thinking green! It must take the energy from one hydro-electric dam to power just a few of these things. Frankly with these huge, larger than life screens you’d need one hell of a long room to see them properly. Boggle view! Can’t be healthy.

How not to think green. This non-fragile package was in a box within a box, packed in with paper. A waste of material, unless the cardboard can be used for an environmental protest sign.

One of the first programs I watched was about Cuban wildlife. I almost felt like I was there. To hear a hummingbird appear from somewhere out there and then look into its eyes with crystal clarity was thrilling. The entire scene was portrayed in brilliant natural colours. There was a walk-in depth to it. Perhaps, one day television will be like a door which we can step through and find ourselves surrounded in the scene. We can be one of the actors and have a chance to shoot old John Wayne in the knee.

It is amazing what twelve years of evolution in electronics has brought. The image is now scary-clear but what is truly wonderful is the sound. I can hear everything! It is wonderful and terrifying. I now have three remote controls to work in sequence and the gods forbid that I try to adjust anything. Apparently everything can be consolidated onto one control. Yeah right!Pushing one wrong button may provide a window with ten more options. Pushing that first button twice, well….! Dinosaurs disappeared because they could not evolve quickly enough! G’bye.

Hollyolly
We’ll take all the happy colours we can get.

“ I know it must be close to Christmas, I’ve just seen my first Easter ad.”