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A Department Of Lawlessness

The Department Of Lawlessness

Be Prepared To Stop. What moron wrote that sign? Surely no idiot who ever sat behind a steering wheel thought, “That’s it. I’m never going to stop again!” The whole premise of operating any machine is knowing when, where and how to stop. The biggest pedal among your controls: it’s for the BRAKES! But then there are many flavours of God’s children whom I have not yet met.

If you need to be a round within a square, may you have sharp edges

There is probably a law on the books about not being prepared to stop. In fact, somewhere beneath the seventh basement floor of our government buildings is The Department Of Laws Not Yet Written. So, somewhere there is a Minister of Lawlessness. It is right down the hall next to the Ministry Of Stupidity. Then there’s the department of NAFTA. Not A F…ing Thing’s Allowed.

Ducks and swans in the soggy edge of the field

The tops of these willows mark high water mark of last year’s freshet on the Chemainus River. That is NORMAL! It is not the sign of an apocalypse. Our abundance of water is a luxury we take for granted. Now think Gaza!

Is this the second start of the Ladysmith Maritime Society? It actually looked like much like this once before. What a tragedy!

Remember my best pal Jack? Over two years since his passing here he lays in peace in a place he loved.

As you roll down your driver’s window the police officer says, “I could see you were not prepared to stop.”

“Hell no. Thought I’d keep on going until my wheels fell off.”

“Thet game yer tryin’ to play, is that PICKLEBALL?” “Uhuh! It’s illegal!”

“Smiling permitted only if wearing a facemask. If we can see your teeth, you’re dangerous!”

Slow children playing. Caution. Be careful for whom? Me or them. If they’re slow, why’d you let them go out on the road? Do they have weapons? Other signs leave me scratching certain body parts. How about: For sale by owner? So who the hell else can sell it? Oh you’ve got an agent to peddle it for you! Did you know that?

All of the above were within a 100 metre radius at one end of the same campground. Have a nice time!

Here’s an old friend. Blah, blah,blah,blah.

In Mexico there is a sign which drives me mad. TOPĔ. It means that somewhere ahead there might be a monster speed bump. Up to two metres long, they call also be up to twenty centimetres high. Jamn on your brakes, those puppies can rip the guts right out of your vehicle. You can see how the tops are ground down from the impact of hurtling masses. They could be called Grindems. Buses and commercial trucks seem to take on topěs with full gusto, there is a way of hitting hard-enough that apparently works. Don’t look back.

Topĕs may be at the sign, or anywhere beyond or nowhere at all. Clearly, it’s the sign that makes drivers frantically slow down. Job done. The worst of those bastards are somewhere down the road where you’ve forgotten about the bloody sign. WHAM! Often there’s an angry Mexican driver behind you blaring their horn because you’re messing with their rhythm as you stand on your brakes too late. It must be one reason so many down there can’t seem to drive without screaming radios. Drown it all out! Bachĕs (potholes) are more frequent but come with no signs. Vibradorěs are a series of small topěs designed to make it sound as if all the tires on your vehicle have been shredded. Sometimes there are signs for them. There are also Militarĕs which may come with a variety of signs. There is no doubt when you’ve found one. Often there is a length of 6′ ship’s hawser snaked back and forth across the pavement. There is also a gaggle of young men in military costumes with machine guns and at least one wide-eyed fellow sitting in the back of a truck pointing a .50 cal mini-cannon between your eyes. You WILL slow down!

Lawlessness? Don’t ask questions. Gringo-think does not work here.

Funny how a comment on silly signs leads directly to Mexico. I love that place and the obvious contempt for law and order. There are times when it is nice to believe that everyone is playing with the same rule book. Other traffic signs which bemuse me are thos warning of a “Dead End” or “No Exit.” Go down there, you’ll never be seen again. Really!? It seems in this cold real world there is a law and a sign against everything. Use a little humour folks, tell us what’s allowed, perhaps even approved of.

Perhaps the most memorable sign I can recall was in, yep, Mexico. It was at a crocodillerio, a place where crocodiles are raised and protected. These salt-water beauties can get up to 16′ in length. There’s no doubt that these are the last of the dinosaurs. I don’t believe they operate with any morals or conscience. Eat! It’s all they know. A hand- painted illustration showed a sad fat lady holding up a dog leash with an empty collar. The polite and graphic message was clear. Peligroso!

Tonight I have my little trailer parked in a commercial camping ground. It is not like meself to pay for this diminutive priviledge. The notion is to spend a couple of nights here using all systems and debugging any imperfections before heading into the back of beyond. So far, so good. I understand that when people pay for the priviledge of parking here, they expect serenity. So there is a long list of rules which come with the map to your parking slot. It’s simple. No nuthin’. Have fun. God help dog owners. More rules. Arf! Tires constantly crunch back and forth on the on the gravel paths, all day all night. An interesting observation is that many of these psuedo homes have Cadillacs parked in front. There’s a statement.

Pals.
They haven’t seen a sighn yet that impresses them, well maybe they’ve peed on a few.

Yak attack. This model 3 is Russina/Chinese designed and built. There were rugged trainer/fighters and make a desirable private plane. The throb of their engine is music in the sky.

It is just not for me to have an Rv so that you can park neatly parallel 4 meters from your neighbours. I enjoy being where no-one else is. Here folks have subtle ways of telling you that they were here first. As if I give a toss. Clearly, living in a frail trailer has become a culture of people who cannot, or are afraid to, live in a more permanent home. Aside from the mantle of rules there other inconveniences. For example, living in an Rv park ten kilometres from town on a divided highway with the nearest turnaround to go back toward town yet another ten kilometres down the road. So, that forgotten box of fruit loops requires a minimum fifty km drive. Porridge again! Then there are the tornados! Perhaps a viable new television series could be “Geezer Park Games.” Move over Bubbles. Could these be the same people, who fifty years ago, were called hippies? Peace man!

“Any fool can make a rule And any fool will mind it.”

― Henry David Thoreau

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.

So Ended The Year

A Callas Lily offsets the dreary days of January.

Same old, same old. Christmas evening. Presents opened, dogs have them half-chewed up, meal is finished and cleared out of the way. The weather has gradually worsened until a heavy surging rain is blowing horizontally in the wind. It is dark and quiet, except for the weather. Daylight faded completely at around three pm and there’s a long night ahead. Joy to the world.

Blackhawk down. The mighty military war horse is also a very capable work horse. It thrilled me to see it. I began my apprenticeship as a rotary wing engineer in 1969. Things have changed a bit since then.

One dog gift was a stuffed toy that looked like a carrot and was filled with catnip. Some dogs love it. Then doggie chewed through and there were suddenly drifts of the strange spice all over the house. How someone managed to get a shovel-load of that shit inside one tiny carrot-sized toy is amazing. It was fun while it lasted. A non-eventful week flew by and now it is New Year’s Day. I’m proud to report that I have no hangover and can launch myself into the new year with a clear head. There was a platoon of thugs who advanced down the street firing random rounds, or was that just a bunch of youngsters with loud fireworks? I don’t really give a toss except that you really upset my dogs and I hope that you get your ass bitten. “Tastes like chicken!”

Soon there was cotton stuffing and tentacles were spread around the room.

So ended the year. Now almost another week has passed. There’s nothing accomplished yet. I’m still tinkering in my little trailer but mostly I just enjoy sitting there, warm and snug as the winter weather jostles it about. It feels a bit like being in a small boat. Today I connected the TV and the dvd player. They worked! Now I can get away from it all and bring it all with me. Actually, a good film is like a good book, worth looking at again and again with something new to be discovered each time.

There’s an old Redneck espression about pay day when the “Eagle shits again.” For some, it’s a sparrow.

There are still odd but happy dramas. In today’s morning headlines an Alaska Air 737 Max9 leaving Portland OR depressurized at 16,000′ when a door blew out. Everyone is fine. “I was having a nap when my blanket fell out of the airplane!” A mother holding her infant son almost lost him but all’s well that ends. Here we go again! The evening news assured us that all is well here in Canada. No Canadian airline owns one at the moment. Meanwhile, somewhere in Oregon, there is a chicken coop with an honking big airplane door jammed in its roof. No eggs today! Well they have now found it in someone’s back yard. Bob the teacher’s friends told him to go have a look and sho’ nuff, there it was. Everyone can come up for air now except for one TV reporter. She stood in front of the camera and declared that a fuselage had fallen off an airplane. OK?

Winter swamp. Come summer all that water will be gone.

Isn’t it interesting how non-descript things can catch your attention? I’m looking at the logo on a tube of Arm and Hammer toothpaste. It is a drawing of a blacksmith’s powerful right arm holding up a massive steel hammer. I marvelled to realize that is exactly the same illustration that I admired as a young boy so very long ago. For years I possessed a pair of arms like that, now they’re kind of withered and flabby. I used to have a hard time finding shirts that my arms fit, now it’s the belly. I wonder what happened to the rest of the blacksmith. I also use a arthritis cream called Voltaren. It and the toothpaste sit on the counter side by side and are both the same colour. I wonder if there’ll come a day when I discover the taste of Voltaren on my tooth brush. Ah, the reward of having all your own teeth!

Niether rain, nor sleet….
There’s a reason we were out there all alone.

It was 5:30 pm when I came inside. It is a beautiful clear evening with Venus beaming brilliantly in the evening sky. There is still some daylight in the west. The second sign is that today, while trespassing in the halls of the Home Despot, the BBQs were out and for sale.

Soon the aroma of cut grass and burned meat will again waft through the burbs.

Winter is a reminder that life isn’t forever. Luke Parker

A Celebration Of The Homeless

Christmas Pickins’
He’s my favourite decoration

He shuffled out of the bedroom and said, “I’ve got two stiffies this morning.”

“You what?” She responded, “A tooth fitting!?”

“ No, no, my knees!”

That’s a real story. It occurred a few minutes ago right in this room. This getting old has its moments. Thankfully I’m still alive enough to have a sense of humour. When that’s gone, so too will I be. Today is the 21^st, the shortest daylight hours of the year. The official solstice is at 01:27 UTC tomorrow morning. There’ll be palm trees swaying in the breeze before we know it and parrots squawking at dawn.

Meanwhile I’ve been out in my cold, cold garage overhauling my wee genset. These new ones are amazing. They’re tiny, they’re quiet and produce electricity for hours on one tank of fuel. I have an “app” on my mobile phone which lets me monitor load, remaining fuel and allows me to shut the machine off remotely. It has not been running perfectly so I decided to remove the tiny carburetor for a good cleaning. So! Try jamming your gnarly old paws into that thing, while holding a wrench. It’s like trying to do brain surgery on a kitten, through the rectum! I succeeded. tt runs fine now but there were contemplations about the price of a new generator. Think green, bic it!

It’s complicated. These old poplar trees stretch out in the winter sun

Christmas shopping is at full frenzy. Folks are lined up in the grocery store buying their festive spam and the elite may be able to manage a sack of gizzards. Gull or turkey, who knows? While truly thankful that I’m not in Gaza, or the Ukraine, I wonder how this will end. Most folks in our culture don’t even know how to plant a potato. Damn we are spoiled and soft! In my favourite auto parts store a man was buying a full case of WD40 in spray cans. I complimented him on his clever Christmas shopping and wondered how long it would take to gift wrap each can. He told me that products in aerosol cans were being banned and he wanted to lay in a rest-of-his-life stock. Hmmm. As if the company was closing its doors! I wonder if he scooted on to pick up a case of toilet paper. We’ve been there before! And if you live on an island… with a belly full of turkey spam! Yer gonna need it.

Here in Ladysmith, the town throbs with Christmas lights, and they love special interest activities. One is to drive around town, and around, and bloody around with fire trucks and wailing sirens. The poor dogs howl their asses off and grumpy old men fume. What the hell sirens have to do with peace on earth is a total mystery. But then our neighbour has a pulsing, garish light display that looks like the crash scene of a 787.

In the distance, shotguns bang away at ducks. Christmas in the estuary.

And so now I’m writing on December 24^th. Everyone is out there rushing about on their final Christmas missions and I’m half a pot of coffee into my dawn watch. After a while I realize that the dull pallor is as good as it gets. It’s time to get out and walk the dogs before a heavy rain begins again. I wish everyone a happy traditional Christmas and that you all have someone to give a gift to. Fleas navigate and bumhug to all. Don’t let it make you swell up too much.

Christmas is built upon a beautiful and intentional paradox; that the birth of the homeless should be celebrated in every home.h G.K. Chesterton

Dream Box

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lone gull on the road to Crofton in the afternoon.

White car passing in Sunday morning red dawn.

Survival = Anger x Imagination Sherman Alexie

Hell On Wheels

The line up and say “Baa” queue. After getting up in the dark to catch a ferry to the mainland, all you want is a coffee. You join a lineup which goes half-way around the ship and shuffles along for an eternity to get some yuck breakfast on a tray and a papercup of hot bilgewater. Beats swimming!

I’ve been looking, and looking, for the right travel trailer. Of course I wanted a pristine flagship for the price of a worn-out child’s wagon. It is an enlightening experience. There are a lot of gold bricks hidden in those old boxes. If folks would dig them out our economy would be healed overnight. We all want the most for the least but I need simple warm, dry shelter big enough to stand in and lay down in with a spot to safely cook. Soggy floors, leaks repaired with paint, missing registration papers are all disqualifiers. I’m not prepared to pay new prices for something that is fifty years old and rotted out. I don’t care how much fun you’ve had in this in the past. I actually had a lady explain how she repaired a roof leak from inside with paint. Really! I didn’t inquire about the rest of the rig.

My BC Ferry share certificates are in the mail. Fuel surcharge? No comment.

Room with a view. After paying the fare for the trailer I decided to break the rules and stay inside it. I prentended I was on a cruise ship and this was my cabin.

I’ve sold off a bunch of stuff recently and am fed up with the response on MarketPlace, “Is it still available?” The only thing worse is the vendor replying with “Are you still interested?” No, I just thought I’d bother you. Now I’ve advertised my beloved Yamaha motorcycle, to see what the Gods ordain and there has been a string of dudes asking “Is it stll available? Would you be interested in trading for something along with some cash?” There is is no mention of what the “something” is and how much cash is in the pot. That is despite my ad’s warning not to ask if it is stll available. It leaves me wanting to speak explicit redneck. I guess you’ve just got to kiss a lot of toads before you find your frog. It’s tedious.

We know the average life span of an RV is about ten years. Ones older than that are often described as “Retro.” I don’t care how old they are. If they’ve been properly cared for they may be in better condition than newer ones. A photo of some old moss-covered relic keeled over in the blackberries just doesn’t float my boat. Some old motorhomes are advertised for less money than a trailer but if their structure is not filled with cancerous growths then they have a huge old engine with a gas line as big as your knee. I’ve foolishly wasted far too much money buying somebody else’s problem. Poverty begets poverty. I don’t need a major project.

Last weekend I burned off a 3/4 tank of gas to look at a trailer, which when I arrived was claimed to be just sold. They knew I was coming. Damn their teeth! Most interesting was a newer and much nicer trailer which had to be the one photographed to advertise the older unit. I then developed an interest in a trailer which was Australian-built but when I asked for an address to come see it, a deposit was demanded to “Hold” it for me. Communications ceased when I asked why all the photos of the trailer were taken in Australia. Hey mate, we don’t have many eucalyptus trees here.

Finally I found a cute little trailer far away in Chilliwack and off I went to the bustling mainland, furiously squeezing the piggy bank until its ribs began to crack. The trailer was the right size (19′), in good condition, had plenty of room, and I liked the family selling it. It now sits in my back yard. It is lovely and Jill likes it too. She helped make this possible. A bed we can sit up in, room to get around each other and plenty of storage space. We don’t need to step outside to change our mind. Mexico or bust, we just need a little more mordida. I’m usually alone on my adventures and this trailer is all I need. Home on the range!

Home on the range. Wow, you sure have to kiss a lot of toads before you find your frog!

It was full moon last night. It glowed down through a blanket of fog and now at 07:30 the sun is trying to illuminate our gloomy world. How I hate this time of year! The damp cold penetrates to your aching bones and the sun is setting shortly after it rose. At least I’m not living at a more northerly latitude anymore where sun light was at even more of a premium. We are having a drought at the moment and so there have been several clear sunny days. Our life-giving star becomes a curse with its harsh light seeming to be in your eyes no matter where you look. Pedestrians and vehicles appear suddenly out of the deep shadows. Curse or blessing, it is all about attitude.

Feral fog apples. A free worm in every one.

The dawn grudgingly yields to minimun dimness, time to roust the hibernating wee girl dogs and go make tracks in the frost. The day stayed gloomy with a penetrating damp chill. Then I sold my motorcycle. I love it and what it represents to me but I’m realizing that maybe I have to concede that age and all its old injuries have not left me the snappiest cracker in the box. I love the wind in my face and the acceleration that comes with the twist of the throttle. Risking a quick death is one issue, but laying in a hospital bed staring at a beige ceiling with a B747 wiring harness hooked to my smashed parts is another ordeal. I’ve had that adventure and I don’t want to repeat it. My long-suffering wife doesn’t deserve any more ordeals at my own hand, she’s endured enough already. I have learned that motorcycling in traffic is where you submit your fate totally to other drivers. Superior pilots use their superior judgement to avoid situations requiring their superior skill. Enough said. That’s how I got to this age, time to move on. But…bear in mind that simply walking down the street can be as dangerous as anything else. We have no control over our fellows.

I’ll miss this beauty. I truly had a short “head over heels” romance and now she’s gone. It is the story of a motorcycle which morphed into a trailer. I have plans for another wee bike.

Still they come. After a day or two at best, they’re gone until next year.

Fungi demonstrate the meaning of life. Whether we understand or not, life must go on.

Here I am at 03:30 pecking out my musings. It is two days past full moon, a time of month when I often cannot sleep. Outside, the opalescent gloom crushes down on the town as its light is reflected back from the fog. It’s a strange silent world out there, the sort of night where characters in fedoras and trenchcoats wander the echoing alleys in hard-soled shoes. Dawn seems an eternity away. I’ll post this sometime after that.

Another day goes by. Sometimes the business of just living can quickly fritter the whole day away. And so once again, here I am peering out into another bleak dawn. It’s garbage day again. I step out into the cold, cold grey damp of the morning fog. I say goodbye to a cherished pair of shoes, finally worn beyond hope. Ingloriously I tie the bag over them, another friend gone. Back inside, it is warm with the frangrance of coffee and a little dog happily wiggles around my feet. Here in Ladysmith, it is also the traditional day when all the downtown Christmas lights are turned on. Everyone turns goofy and they do things like driving around and around town celebrating the season with fire truck sirens screaming. The dogs love it! Uhuh. Oh how I’ve been waiting to say this: “BUMHUG!”

May your lights be bright and your nights filled with happiness, good health and something to look forward to.

“A man is a very small thing, and the night is very large and full of wonders.” – Lord Dunsany

Remembering

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

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

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

You’re probably wondering why I called this meeting.

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

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

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

Another fine day. Nanaimo in the autmn sun.

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

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

Here today, gone tomorrow; a lot like us.

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

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

This damned leaf leaves me feeling awfully tiny.

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

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

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

Refuge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’re The Odds?

We’ve begun to experience autumn weather with bouts of blustery wind and blasts of rain. Leaves and needles are knocked off the trees and our green summer frippery is on the turn. I understand the changing seasons but I’m puzzled about fir needles. The wind can perfectly insert one beneath a vehicle’s windshield wiper. Consequently it is always located exactly where the arcing streak of water it causes provides maximum visual irritation. No matter how hard it rains or the wind blows, or how fast you drive, that fir needle lodges itself firmly beneath the wiper blade and rides back and forth until you personally remove the wee bugger. If it occurs once, well shit happens, but how can that repeat so often? That mystifies me.

No bells. Next summer seems so far away.

I’ve just sold my lovely wee red scooter cycle. I’ll miss it. This old fat boy felt like a pig on a roller skate on that little beauty. Every time I went ding-ding-dinging down the road with those tiny wheels spinning among the potholes there was an uncomfortable angst. The Honda Navi wasn’t intended for off-pavement use so wobbling along desert roads would have been a disaster. I’ve recently wondered if maybe being over 70years old isn’t good reason to leave motorcycles behind. It is clearly not. The fellow who bought the little Honda is 80! He’s taking it to Mexico. Enough said. Wait til you see what I’ve bought. Haaar! Courage mon vieux!

Yom Kippur today, and all the world is at war or on the edge of it. Even the Israelis are tussling among themselves. Perhaps that will give the Palestinians a bit of a break. After thousands of years of swords, spears, and shields nothing is going to change overnight. I’ve never been to that part of the world but images I see make it look a horribly bleak place to fight over. What strange creatures we are! Save the planet? We can’t ever get along with each other! We don’t even want to!

It’s UIO. These lovely wee stuffed toys are hand-knitted. I think they’re delightful.

Much further up the spectrum here’s another brilliant piece of art. It suddenly appears as you motorcycle along a winding country road.

You never know what’s around the next corner.

Here, on the 25^th of September the greenery outside is lashing about in a vicious gusting wind and rain hammers on the skylights. I’m going 40 miles north to bring home my new motorcycle. Smart as he looks, smart as he looks! Two days later it is still drizzling and raining as if it has forever. It feels like it. The thought of the winter ahead leaves me wondering how the hell I’ll make it through to spring. A week ago some folks were complaining about how hot and dry it was. Isn’t life odd? Absolutely nothing is forever.

Back roads have delightful surprises. It’s the only way to travel if you can.

The rain finally eased and I took my new motorcycle out for a spin. I stalled it and fell over right at the turn out onto the street. No harm done and I teetered off at the back of the parade all the while lecturing myself that I had to drive as if I knew nothing. What I used to do fifty years ago means zero. To underscore all the skill that I’ve lost, my front brake suddenly quit. Nice feeling! A hydraulic fitting had come loose, I repaired that quickly. Once again the lesson hit home, assume nothing. The bike soon proved to be the right one for me. There are some mechanical tweaks, and some old man tweaks, but what a joy to be flying along with an machine that is comfortable in its task. However, the damp air soon ate through me and I came home a popsicle. Warm riding pants are a must, the ones with the skid pants on the bum and knees. There is one type of weight loss which I’d as soon avoid.

Sniff that! One of those quick moments along the trail.

Busted. Dunno, thought he went your way.

Yesterday seemed reasonably warm so off I went to visit friends in Nanaimo. The bike and I made it home in one piece, albeit a little humbler. Relearning how to smoothly work the clutch and throttle is a bit challenging, especially when I start to think about it. Somebody went home last night telling about an old fart doing the herky jerky motorcycle dance in an intersection. I must have been a sight. Be warned, I’ll be back at it today. This may kill me, but that’s fine. No lingering hospital departures for me. I’ve been there. Shit-brindle beige is not my colour.

A jewel in the navel. The community garden and sandbox in downtown Ladysmith.

I’ve made another lovely trip into the back country. I love the bike. 250cc is more than enough to fling me along well over any speed limit or up any mountain. Why I’d need more is beyond me. Although, I recently sat aboard a 1800cc BMW and will admit to a little tingle. Do they come with knobby tires? For me more power seems decadent as well well as having to pick up a heavier bike when I fall over. I’ll make my little adjustments and inspections now. I want to feel absolutely ready to go south at my earliest convenience. Steeling my mind for winter here leaves me cold and feeling dead. Somehow, this year I’ve got to get down there. If only this motorbike could fly. What an image!

One fine day. Suddenly, after a few days of rain, the sun is no longer a curse.

“Make yourselves sheep and the wolves will eat you.” Benjamin Franklin