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.We could live here!
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.Fog signalsAnd then the bombs began to land.
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’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.
Rose hips for lunch.
“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” Mae West
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 JillOur 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.Coastal scenic winter splendourFive Ships. i never tire of our harbour views.Between storms. Full moon harbour.
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!
You can’t see me.
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 JillCan 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.
The first sign of spring, Snowdrops.Second signMind how you go.
Peter Kreeft Quote: “Don’t be more serious than God.
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.On Golden PondI’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.
And then they turned the time back.A certain dark beautyFading, fading.
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.
See ya in the spring.
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
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.
Pirate Air.
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.BuzzWild pink
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?
The End.
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
Spring. What a wonder! And a free tree in every nut.
I remember how I once woke up in the morningsafter 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.Bluebell morning
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.
That your fiddlehead?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.A doghair tulipVerily, verily. Here’s a whole truth. Man creates his gods in HIS own image.Mother’s Day with a view. Damned wires!
I don’t know how to act my age, I’ve never been this old before! anonymous
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.
Eh!“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 snow walkerAyre Wise EyesDad! Winter sucks!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.Dogpatch winter, a snug anchorage.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.
Meet you at the pump stump.
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.
A tidal winter backwater
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.
May your path ahead be free of snow.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.”
Remembrance Day. The weather is typical, cold, damp and rainy. I recall parades on this day over half a century ago when I was a pimply Air Cadet. I’d stand in rank on rank at attention in my immaculate blue wool uniform, very heavy Lee Enfield rifle sopping wet with rain or snow, fluttering pigeons trying to crap on the uniforms. You’d get an itch you dare not scratch and then the bugler would blow the ‘Last Post.’ Warm tears in that cold rain. At the time it was somehow romantic and en-nobling but then I grew up some more. It is always the young people who get charmed into going to become immortal. I got to know some real veterans and almost went to Vietnam (because the US Army would teach me to fly helicopters for free) That’s another story.
After getting to know some of those people I can tell you that Remembrance Day is more than a little twisted. Yes there are hundreds of thousands of military personel who never came home but there are uncountable thousands of dead and maimed innocent civilians that were left behind. Conveniently we don’t take time to remember them. Of the veterans who made it home, there are thousands with shattered bodies and minds who truly pay an ultimate price over and over again. We try to ignore them.
War is no video game. If you think so, try an all-inclusive holiday in the Ukraine or perhaps Afghanistan.
Well, there’s my annual Remembrance Day rant, but remembering the horrible consequences of our base human nature is a daily obligation we all need to fulfill. Pray your children do not get called to go run the gauntlet.
Heading out. Three men in a tiny boat go to sea in anticipation of finding a fish to killUnder the high way. We live under a designated air route where commercial flights come and go to Asia. The weather has been beautiful, though dry, and we had best enjoy it while it lasts. Six contrails line the sky.
Tick, tick, tick, tick. It sounds like rain dripping on a roof. It is the rhythm of meters and gauges of the monitoring equipment wired and plumbed into my wife’s body. She’s had a heart attack and after a week in the hospital, things are going better. There’s a stint installed but after subsequent complications she is in an induced coma and a ventilator. There is a harness of plumbing down her throat and I feel horribly helpless. There is nothing I can do except just be there. And, nobody can piss off my wife simply with their presence like I can. Haar!
Wired. One side of the bed. The other was just as busy. All the wiring and plumbing fed into my wife’s anatomy. it’s so hard to just sit there and feel useless.
A week later, she’s still in the hospital. This and that have happened and now she is lost in a sea of delirium. I suppose if her rants weren’t directed so pointedly at me and the hospital staff, it would be funny. Even though I understand the situation, it is quite cutting and hurtful and it is hard to not take things personally; which of course is foolish. This will pass, but then there is the daily drive along the snot-chute which is the south island highway, then into the Downtown Victoria traffic and finally finding a parking spot at the hospital, only to spend a few minutes with your loved one before realizing your presence is upsetting her; that’s a crusher.
A fungal sweat, but this too has passed. Jill is home again.I can’t resist saying “Look at the pecker on that one.” Blue herons are one of my favourite birds.
You reverse your route homeward with a heavy heart and despair that there is nothing else you can do. Meanwhile, every third zoom-head on the road seems to want to kill themselves and take you with them. I caught myself doing 120 km/h to go with the flow and still felt I was holding up production. Once finally home you spend the long minutes through the rest of the day, and the night, pondering if she’ll come out of this and wondering how long her minutes are. At least I have the two wee dogs and their wonderful company. One of Jill’s greatest frustrations is that I’m not bringing them for a visit and refuse to understand that they can’t come into the hospital. That breaks my heart. The dogs would do so much for her, if only they could indeed visit.
The girls. Remember how you hated being tickled when you were little?The new girl in the house. Libby has made herself right at home.My bookendsDa girls wuz hereCollateral damageI’ve got your back.
I know that some folks endure this kind of ordeal for years. May the gods grant me that kind of courage to stand up to whatever challenges lay ahead. Even if it were not payback after all the years that Jill has supported my back, I just want to get her well enough to come home. So, enough blubbing about poor me. Jill needs everyone’s positive thoughts and yes, even prayers. She has had a horrible year and does not deserve this. Through her long career as a teacher, Jill has positively influenced thousands of lives, both students and teachers. That she has been dealt these hard hands this year is completely unjust but then life is seldom fair. Thank you to those who have offered and provided their support. It means so much.
Almost three weeks later she is home again. She is frail and weak and has lost a lot of weight. (Hospital food!) She has a stint and a pacemaker, covered in bruises and bandages. She is definitely not up for dancing on any tables but there is still a spark in her eyes. The dogs are thrilled to have her home and so am I. We don’t know what the future holds but we’ll take it on one day at a time.
Sadly one of my dear friends has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I can say without reserve that I love this man, a highly skilled shipwright and craftsman who has lead a wonderful life and drawn around him a brilliant assortment of friends who are also lovely people. He has taught me a lot and flavoured my life brilliantly. I’ll not mourn for him yet but am horrified that his days may end like this. BASTARDS!
What more is there to life than the ocean, a dog, a stick, sunlight and someone to share it with.On the hook. Anchored beneath the October harbour moon. Don’t call me in the morning.Nanaimo River low. In our seasonal late-summer dry season, the river runs clear. Despite the cries of the apocalypse apostles, this is normal until around mid-October. Then the rain will come, any day now, the salmon will spawn and the doomers will use the autumn weather as yet another sign of what they want to prove this week.Meal with a view. On the way home from the hospital we stopped at the Malahat Chelt. The cuisine, the service and the prices are as good as the view of Finlayson Inlet at sundown.
Perhaps providentially, I found this poem today and post it with my blog instead of the usual quote. It is timely and appropriate.
To laugh often and much;
to win the respect of the intelligent people and the affection of children;
to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends;
to appreciate beauty;
to find the beauty in others;
to leave the world a bit better whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition;
to know that one life has breathed easier because you lived here.
The Bee’s Knees. Little Ayre tries to rule the house and I’ll admit she is an endearing enigma.Remove all tags before operating.Aw dad! Naaw! You said these were rolls of toilet paper. NOT!
Some times when I’m poking around YouTube I stumble onto something special. I came across a performance on America’s Got Talent which is a live audition of selected acts. What I saw was a woman named Jane Marczewski aka Nightbirde. She was skinny as a rake and incredibly beautiful, even seeming to possess an aura. She sang a song she had written called ‘It’s OK’ and brought the house down as they say. She was fighting terminal cancer and she said some amazing things. “I’ve got a two percent chance of survival but that’s a lot more than zero.”
She also said “You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore until you decide to be happy.” Wow! Isn’t that warm and fuzzy? Jane has since passed away after inspiring millions. Her appearance has inspired so many other lives. It got me thinking. Head happy or heart happy? It is indeed a mighty challenge to make yourself feel happy by choice but to be happy is very different. I cannot even define that very well. I suppose it has to do with living within a sense of well-being no matter what happens to you or those around you. Then I thought further and wondered if folks like Mr Putin have inner peace. Suddenly I was exploring madness. Religions offer a promise of that, for a price, and a lot of folks have written books and make speeches about living in a state of divine nirvana. I once heard a therapist describe clients who all wanted to be happy and his perspective was that it can be achieved when one gives up expectations of bliss. Who ever told us we deserved to be constantly happy. There’s a headful!
Ayre’s favourite beachIs that Canada over there? The mainland beyond the Gulf Islands and across the Strait Of Georgia.Who says you can’t photograph a nightmare? This ant-covered flower seemed surreal to me.They kept coming.Is this better?Some sunsets, the shoreline seems to take on its own glow.
Perhaps simply being content in the moment, at peace with a current reality, knowing that nothing is forever and that all things pass, both the good and the other. For years, on the bulkheads of each of my various boats, I installed a framed black and white photo of a storm-wracked rocky beach. I had written on it “A storm always ends, enjoy it while it lasts.” Good advice if only I would pay attention.
We’ve all been there!
One of my excuses for being tardy with my blogging is that I’ve been busy re-editing my second novel. I pushed it to the back of the shelf many years ago, having given up on the notion of ever getting published. This has been an especially tough year for me, emotionally it has been an all-time low, where I have often found myself simply staring at the wall. I decided that I had to do something to affirm my existence, perhaps find my “inner peace,” and so I began the odious task of correction and punctuation of every jot and tittle. Hey, it’s a pretty darned good read! Oddly, it is set here on the coast of the Pacific Northwest and is about an austere loner who can’t exist away from the sea. I don’t know what to do with it when I’m finished but the affirmation is wonderful. The sea and being on it is my passion and reason to be. No amount of denial can change that.
When I stepped off of my beloved ‘Seafire’ I wrote that if owning “stuff” defined who I was, then I was better off without it. Well, for me life is awfully dry without a boat. Most of my friends were seadogs as well, and so we have drifted apart. A boat is a tool to live my life where I do feel content and whole and somehow I must get back there. It is who I am.
“Could you pass the sunscreen?” I put him back in the water, but although still alive, he was done. Medium rare.Woof over! And no tail gating.Pool Hog, but he’s happy.Generscape. A backup generator and a Gulf Island landscape with a muffler.The visitor. It has been raiding the nut tree next door.Wind in the corn. Flowers and cobs already.
My old truck, camper and trailer will continue to be part of my life and remain part of my plan. One of the intentions of the recent trip where I took my rig along some very rugged logging roads was that it would be a true “shakedown” trip. Anything that was going to fail, has. Guess what I’m up to these days. I’ve been sorting out the wiring for the lights and brakes. Nothing can humiliate a man quite as well. The builder of this trailer hired someone right off the farm. Wire colours meant nothing to them, nor did sharp corners. Twisting wire ends together, soldering them and wrapping them in tape seemed to be their protocol, unless…someone else down on a farm has since had a go. No worries, now I know what I’ve got. To add to the challenge my strata council has forbidden me to do repairs in any of our parking and storage areas so I’m sneaking around in public places to find an obscure corner to go tinker. Damn! I miss my boat.
On the hot, hot summer sidewalk. Subtle and haunting. I think someone is very talented.Walk onThe ‘Providence’ came back…then left again. She’s my kind of boat.
“A sailor is an artist whose medium is the wind. Live passionately, even if it kills you, because something is going to kill you anyway.” ―Webb Chiles
Aw shaddup! For some reason, there have been a large number of crows in the tree tops recently. Their croaking and rasping is not a pleasant bird sound, especially first thing in the morning.
I need to repair the paint on the back deck before everyone is awake and the wee dog comes to help me. And, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. In his last months old Jack had a hard time getting around and would content himself with peeing on the back deck. In time the paint in those spots lifted and now I go to patch that final shred of his existence. Can you believe there are tears in my eyes?
Hang on, it’s never over ’til the last petal falls.
A few weeks after Jack passed my daughter drew her last breath. I’m still in a permanent state of numbness. There is no joy, no sorrow, no beauty, no creative urges. I sit on my shoulder and watch as the world goes by. I know every moment not lived is gone forever but I just don’t have the mojo to grab the brass ring and ride on. I’m afraid of being permanently in this rut but it is up to me to find my way onward. Jill, my wife, has displayed an enormous courage and energy. She has dealt with an amazing mountain of things which one must after a daughter has died. I cannot comprehend her coping mechanism and can only admire her tenacity and grit. The little dog we’ve inherited is doing a tremendous job of motivating us.
Ayre, Queen of the Jungle.I’ll take the high road, you look out below.Little dogs unite!
This morning window is open. Warm fragrant summer morning air cascades in. There is the ubiquitous sound of a motorcycle and then the howl of heavy truck tires from down on the highway. There is a stop light there beside the old post office and I can hear the world accelerating into its rush to get somewhere, or nowhere. From that corner, a street climbs a steep hill to a four-way stop on main street. On one corner, every early morning, a tiny group stands in cheap polyester suits, covid masks, hats and sunglasses. They hand out road maps to heaven and will gladly try to persuade you of your sin. I wonder how they believe what they do and I feel a deep pity for them.
Up! Imagine all that this venerable giant has seen.The organic Cadillac. Compare its life to the tree above.
On this same corner, years ago, a retired mortician used to sit on the iron bench next to the drinking fountain. I recall an old lady who said she was determined to stay alive until this character was gone. She did not want him touching her cadaver. After his retirement this obese old man sat for hours on this bench with his little dog. His suspenders were twanging taut over his enormous belly. He smoked heavily and coughed up bits of himself until one day the little dog was gone. Shortly after, so was he. Pity the pallbearers. Life went on. The god-botherers came back.
The corner as described. The big building was the Ladysmith Trading Store, two floors of mercantile goods. From dress patterns, needles, thread and buttons, to work clothes, boots, suspenders, long underwear and sundry household goods. All gone in a new world I don’t really understand. I liked it the way it was.
Well, we all have our persuasions. Like the mob who have taken the Canadian flag and turned it into a symbol of contempt against our own country. Despite all the problems in our nation, I haven’t heard of any of these self-styled patriot rebels packing up and moving to some place like Kiev. They damned-well know how good we have it here but I’m not convinced they actually know what it is they are protesting about. I’m bloody angry about the ridiculous price of fuel, especially diesel, these days but I’m not going out to interfere with anyone else over my peeve. I too am free to leave. I just can’t afford the fuel.
The day is rising into more glorious weather and it is time to abandon my desk. Live a little. The wee dog that was my daughter’s, and now is mine, is at the door wanting out for her morning relief. Life goes one. On Sunday we had a lovely life-giving rain, warm and steady all day long. We need it. The woods were getting too dry already. The RVs sloshing homeward on the wet highway did my heart good. I know, grumpy old bastard!
Canada Day weekend, 2022.
Fuzzy promenades down on the old Malecon.
“I don’t understand all the fuss about rushing off to “Go camping.” Don’t people understand that they’re free to live in a tent and sleep on the ground all year long?” – Allen Farrell
