A Rude Awakening

Ya missed it. By 40 years! It is hard to hold a sense of time, and of infinity in this vast place. Here on the coast, where land now seems valued by the square inch, it’s hard to comprehend the openess even when you see it.

Abandoned bridge for sale. Well not really; it’s just sitting there. Once an engineering feat, now it is someone’s nuisance.

An abandoned railway trestle. Can you see steam locomotives chuffing across this amazing structure? The photo shows about half of it. I mentioned beautiful air-dried old growth timber. Here’s some. It looks as if the post in the foreground is propping the whole thing up. The trestle is somewhere east of Sakatoon.

Boom, boom, boom, boom. The noise came from far away. I didn’t know or care where. I just wanted to stay deep within the sleep I’d been enjoying. Then I remembered. I was on my bed in my trailer. I was on a ferry boat. Oh shit!

I’d driven from Salmon Arm, planning on stopping for the night somewhere along the way. I knew a place but drove on by, then another until finally I was in Hope. No campgrounds appealed to me. Now the gauntlet of the Fraser Valley Trans Canada Highway lay before me. I remembered the ordeal in getting out of the lower mainland. Reasoning that if it was that bad during the day, then in the morning when the whole world was rushing into the city area it would be very, very bad. Westward I went and soon enough the traffic was bumper to bumper, lurching forward up to 100kph then slamming to a stop. There were the usual idiots trying to weave in and out and the worst were the heavy trucks. Then the rain became serious. It poured. I hoped the thick layer of prairie grasshopper DNA on the trailer front was softening.

The rain continued as I boarded the ferry at Tsawassen. There was room for only one highway tractor behind me. I slipped into the trailer for a wee nap. Two hours later, boom, boom, wake up old man. The poor buggers must have been wondering what they had on their hands. I stumbled out groggily to find myself and the truck stuck behind all alone on the vast emptiness of the lower vehicle deck. There was a tribunal of unhappy deckhands standing with arms crossed. Then my key stuck in the ignition and would not turn. Finally the nightmare ended as I drove off the ferry and into the cloak of darkness. In the morning I discovered that despite nineteen feet of metal trailer to pound on, one star had decided to break a window. Collateral damage for my stupidity. The truck stuck behind behind me on the ferry passed without a friendly toot, toot. All’s well that ends.

Lenore, downtown. All of it. Typical of hundreds of small prairie towns desperately clinging to life. I was inclined to join them. There is a certain peace knowing what is not coming. Amazingly, many of these communities have memorials going back to WWI. This one had a monument flanked with genuine vintage Lewis guns.

I include a motley collection of images from my trip. In retrospect I should have continued in my meander mode and not rushed home. There were no events I could change in person, I simply needed to demonstrate that I cared. They knew that and the world turns just fine with or without me. I’d go again in a flash, the leaves were just going into their autumnal tones and a spectacular photo season is about to begin. I regret not stopping in so many places which held some great photos. I have long looked forward to exploring Drumheller for example, but the pretty town in a lovely valley seemed like a bizarre Disney effort with people swarming everywhere. The Rv campground I saw looked like a version of hell. I did not stop and dragged the trailer up the steep hill on the other side of the valley. My recently rebuilt knee did not feel like it wanted to wander far on foot.

“Son, here’s a tire gauge. Go check those tires. There’s only fifty of them.”

Here is the pusher truck hooked to the back of that trailer. I could have used it at times!

I don’t know what these enormous tanks are but I wouldn’t brake-check the trucks carrying them.

Yeah, yeah just another shot of my little rig. Now look out on the highway behind. That is one rotor for a windmill. Compare the blade’s root to the tractor carrying it. The trailer is clamped on far behind. Whoosh! That thing twirls around like a kid’s toy.
It puts things prairie in perspective.

The outskirts of Calgary are a sprawling urban mess with mega houses (Note I don’t say homes) up long lanes behind hideous gates. If it is an impression they’re trying to make, they did and it wasn’t positive. Banff has become a hideous neo-faux attempt at a glossy Western theme with waves of tourists wandering everywhere and sipping sexy little coffees in outdoor bistros and wondering what in hell they paid so much for. At a gas station there, I discovered a bidet. In a gas station! Imagine going to the attendant and complaining that the bidet was malfunctioning. “fired me right up against the ceiling!” I also remember being stuck in rush-hour traffic on the “Circle Drive” around Saskatoon. It was hot and the air reeked of hydroponic marijuana smoke. Not a stereotypical home prairie moment. Well, maybe these days it is!

Ya missed it. By 40 years! It is hard to hold a sense of time, and of infinity in this vast place. Here at home on the coast, where land now seems valued by the square inch, it’s hard to comprehend the openess.

Much of the old prairie has disappeared. Old homestead buildings and machinery are mostly gone. I’m told they are often simply buried. Whole little towns are gone or going until at times there is only a name board left on the roadside. Train stations and the metal rails have vanished and the nostalgia days of the prairie pioneers are forgotten. One lady, whom I flagged down for directions, know nothing of the old Miner Creek school. It turns out that her house was built on the exact same site of the historic one-room school building.

Agriculture has become an industrial monster which sits in the same show circle as mining, oil/gas, transportation, neo energy. The romance of any of it is lost. It is an industry. Art has become science. Soon the entire Trans Canada Highway will all be a four-lane hurtle-shute and with our modern vehicles, folks won’t even need to look out their windows.

The bright lights of Manyberries. An old stock yard, a few houses, no post office, corner store or gas pump. The wind whistles through it. The station is now someone’s house but nobody was home.

On the broad lawn of the Orthodox church near Smuts, thousands of these beauties sat in the grass and trembled in the wind.

There were copious motorcycles on nearly every road. It seemed that black-clad riders sat on bellowing black Harley Davidsons and rocketed along in small groups. It looked glorious. I did wonder at the riders with no face protection and what taking a grasshopper in the eye, at ninety miles an hour, was like. It must certainly deplete one’s testosterone level. I repeat that if you find the prairies flat and boring, you are flat and boring. The nuances and visual dramas are everywhere and the beauty is overwhelming. I can also say I met no-one I disliked.

Due South. We can fly, the grader’s just been by. He’s a smooth operator.

It’s amazing how buildings begin to crumble once they’re abandoned.

The ubiqitous prairie slough. If only you had one of these! Can we call this waterfront property?

1″ clear cedar tongue and groove in the ceiling! You cannot find lumber like that anymore.

Despite all the work, the dreams, the suffering, all things eventually return to the earth.

A bee falls in lust with its reflection in a screw head on my kayak.

A public school. Can you smell the dusty books?

Smoke, heat , dust and wind, It was a prairie summer day.

Isn’t it amazing how this all works? These grain cars will probably end up in Vancouver and their cargo will go on around the world.

A small private grain elevator. Could it make an interesting house? Good views!

Another token of the prairies. Horsehead oil wells bob their heads in herds all over the prairies. The arrangements are complicated. Don’t assume the farmers are making a high return from having these on their land.

There are thousands of prairie sloughs, small and large, natural and man-made. With all the grain fields it is heaven for waterfowl… and, for hunters.

Are you drinking enough? That was the sign above the toilet in the tire shop at Tisdale SK. Bemused I discovered a colour chart which showed what your urine should like if you consume an adequate amount of water. Humour, don’t leave home without it, it helps keep you alive no matter where you are.

If your dog runs away you’ll be able to see it for the next three days.

All’s well that ends. I’m home again on Fraggle Rock, with twenty-five miles of Pacific Ocean separating me from the motherland. Vancouver Island is a wonderful place to live but I ache to be on the road again.

Wow! After weeks on the prairie mountains are especially breath-taking.

A bridge in the Kicking horse Pass. I thought it was brilliant. Look at the constant grade it joins.

My greeter. This Pileated Woodpecker dropped by to say hello where I stopped in Salmon Arm. He’s about 18″ long. You never know who or what is just around the corner.

Marcel Proust

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

For Aunt Florence

For Aunt Florence

(And the wonderful family I didn’t really know I had)

The family farm down in the Pipestone River Valley. This photo hangs in the hall by her door in the senior’s home where Aunt Florence now lives and is well-attended by three generations of descendants. I photographed that image. I’ve been there and it really is beautiful.

A view from Butler Hill Farm; yep that’s the same beautiful barn. My cousin divided his parent’s farm with a daughter and her husband. What a feeling it must be to carry on a family business and a tough but fine way of life.

Near the farm is the little community of Cromer and its church which is clearly dear to my aunt.

“Bringing in the sheaves” Auntie calls the emergency monitor around her neck her “cowbell.”

I have decided to post this blog in honour of my dear Aunt Florence with whom I have spent the past too few days visiting. Getting to know her, her sons, her grand children and great grand children has been very uplifting. I’ve learned much and am delighted in meeting family who are outstanding and all are people to be cherished. I hold my head a little higher.

A beautiful example of a stone house in downtown Virden Manitoba.

There was once a brickyard nearby. I am not, of course, showing the humbler clapboard homes on the same tree-lined streets. This one’s for sale, but let me tell you about the winters.

What would Virden be without the railway? Just another bit of prairie?

My other cousin’s house in Kenton MB. It is over a hundred years old but is solid, and very cosy and homey. I instantly loved it. He bought it for $10,000! It needed a few renovations but… he owns it. Outright!

Sadly it was time to go far too soon. Leaving Virden was not a happy event for me. I drove as far as Yorkton and then turned due North. I decide that while miles out of the way, after all that family business, I’ll probably never be back this way again. I’d better go and try find my mother’s childhood haunts. The scenery changed to scrub bush and swamps. I began to expect moose to leap out in front but I saw none. Finally, a few miles before the town of Hudson Bay farmland reappeared as a mixture of rolling fields and and forest interspersed with plenty of waterways. The area must be a hunter’s delight. It is beautiful to my eye. In the Co-op store I ask an old man if he’s lived here long. He nods, but when I ask if he knows anything about the Eldersley area he says he’s never heard of it. I explain that it is the next town down the road but he’s stumped. Now that’s parochial! Uhuh!

Weyerhauser has an OSB plant there and now on the road, logging trucks compete with all the grain and oil heavies. Roads in swampy land roll and pitch, driving require full concentration. I discover another damned flat tire on the trailer. I change it but cannot find a tire shop and decide to just go find a place to sleep for the night. I was stung on the shoulder yesterday by a tiny wasp. It is still swollen and painful, right up my neck as well, so a good night in the rack is just the ticket. I’ve found a clearing tucked back in the woods out of sight from the road. It has been a very long time since I’ve been in a black spruce forest like this. Short with thick limbs, a whole industry has been built around this forest which sprawls across the entire Canadian Shield.

Best logged in sub-zero temperatures, when the ground is frozen, they have several months of that here each year. It is no country for this old man anymore. But the mosquitoes still like me.

A prairie bush berry. Folks may call them soap berries. They make a lovely bit of colour within thickets of spruce trees.

The apex of my odyssey. The land adjacent is where the one-room school once stood. Nothing is forever but this marks where my moom and all ten of her siblings attended. no-one seemed to get beyond grade 4. Most proved to be clever people who went on to lead interesting lives. I asked a lady but she didn’t know a thing. It turns out her house is built on the ruins of the old schoolhouse.

I drive west and finally see a sign for Miners Creek. This is the site of the schoolhouse which the whole immediate family of my mother. My mother and all her brothers and sisters grew up in a homestead shack within walking distance. The nearest townsite is Eldersley. It is almost completely gone. A few miles west is Tisdale where I stopped for a new trailer tire. One geezer, when queried if he lived here long, replied that he was a newcomer. When pressed, he told mine that he’d only arrived in 1939! Another old fellow replied that he vaguely recalled the family name but nothing more. He did know about the old schoolhouse and confirmed that the site was now a farmer’s house and yard. My family mission was accomplished as far as possible. Home calls.

The Eldersley train station is long gone. I think the small elevator was there. I vaguely remember that from my last visit 69 years ago. My mother probably boarded the eastbound train to Toronto from here with a gleam in her eye. Guess I’m the result!

That old building sits beside the tracks and may be from my mother’s time so long ago. It looks as if there may have been a baseball field there at one time.

Miners Creek trickles on. Some day it will arrive at some ocean. The name remains a benchmark in my sense of family history.

Somewhere in a near radius of where I stood to take this photo is where my grandparents, and all their chidren, tried to carve a homestead farm out of the forest, one tree at a time. They did not know it couldn’t be done but perservered. It took the next generation, and the next, to find a foothold. Life goes on. When it rains, these dusty prairie roads become muddy trails the oldtimers call “gumbo.”

Tisdale. A priaire landmark. i don’t how old this water tower is but it marks what were the bright lights of town for the surrounding farmers. I’ve repeatedly heard a lot about going to Tisdale. I vaguely remember the broad main street of the old town. It wasn’t paved back then. While I waited for a new trailer tire, I ate at Tim Hortons, then headed west.

I should mention all the splendid photos I’ve had to drive by. Shoulders on prairie highways are narrow, steep and soft. It was too dangerous to stop and capture spectacular sights when dragging my trailer. Today finds me in a RV park just on the outskirts of Rosetown Saskatchewan. Morning light sifted through a heavy fog and I drifted back to sleep. I awakened to the music of snarling crop dusters taking off from the nearby airfield. I’m staying the whole day as the warm prairie wind rises now and begins to moan. It was a near-incessant sound which, apparently, drove some of the homesteaders insane. Others endured quite nicely.

A girl on a swing. Still looking good at 87. Her life as a prairie girl and farm wife (67 years) deserve a book. Wow! the things she knows! The hardships and triumphs and surrounding family leave me feeling humble and very, very proud. I love you all.

“At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.” ―Frida Kahlo.

Prairie Schoonering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doiwntown Weyburn. Tommy Douglas and always the wheat.

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

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

A root cellar, meat locker , and storm cellar.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah but…..!

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

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

― W.O. Mitchell

Spare Parts

Canada Day. Morning glories and blackberries.

It is July 1^st. The weather is perfect. The temperature is just right. My wee doggies are sleeping peacefully after our morning walk. The second half of the year begins.

Canada. It’s a big place. Go see it. It’s yours!

I’ve promised myself not to go on about recovering from my surgery. It is a tough grind with constant pain. Soon it will be down to the level before they rebuilt my knee and I’ll be able to feel it was all worthwhile. I can say that I am fully impressed with all the medical folks I’ve met. They have taken great care of me, promptly and compassionately. To constantly do what they do, all day, every day amazes me. Frankly, when I hear the incessant howling about our medical system I am angry. If you truly believe there is something better out there, go find it. Maybe a few days in Gaza, or the Sudan, or almost anywhere else is just what you need to change your perspective. Oh Lordy, we are SO spoiled!

My girls, my joys. What friends! they’ve really helped my recovery.

We live in one of the best places on the planet in consideration of political climate, geographic climate and economics. Most of our concerns are about pinpricks in our comfort zone and which we are too damned complacent to deal with ourselves. And the nicest thing about living in West Coast Canada is that if you are truly unhappy here, your are free to leave. There is no emigration quota. Good bye.

Meanwhile this old sack of spare parts is hobbling along toward a recovery as fast as I can. They’ve rebuilt me here and there through the years and the future is up to me. As is often said, “ If I’d known I’d live this long, I would have taken better care of myself.”

And so it goes. There will probably be fireworks in the harbour after nightfall. That will upset the dogs in town including our two girls but it will pass. The sun will rise in the morning and our lives advance. Happy Canada Day.

Old spare parts hisself. All rebuilt and ready for the next adventure. Photo by Jill

” We peer so suspiciously at each other that we cannot see that we Canadians are standing on the mountaintop of human wealth, freedom and privilege.” Pierre Trudeau

Clickety Clack

(Nimrod’s Silver Chisel)

The old handle. It’s something I whittled out over dark and stormy nights in my boats. the ball bearing in the beak makes a good impression when necessary. The physiotherapist told me, in a room full of people, that I was using it wrong. WRONG!

Bummer! You should see the other guy! This is the back side of the new improved knee. Dead sexy! Photo by Jill, what she has endured to care for me is beyond any degree of love. Thank you!!!

This is what the knee feels like. Believe it or not, this was the main battery ground wire in my trailer. It severely overheated and it is a miracle that the trailer did not burn down. This cable was 2″ from the propane line. The cable was too light a guage and poorly fastened. I should have checked it months ago. Lucky guy!
ASSUME NOTHING.

Way back while working on the tugs I regularly sailed with an engineer I soon named “Clickety-Clack.” Lord he stank! He was a good engineer, even enthusiastic, but his personal hygiene was not a priority. There was a reason. As a boy, he was heading for a local fishing hole on his bike when the home-made pipe bomb in his pocket exploded. That he lived is amazing. Missing an arm, a leg and a few other body parts, he healed and soldiered on through life with a cheery optimism. The noise of his prosthetics could be heard over the incessant white din inside the tug. Showering with only one arm and leg would have had to have been a huge challenge, especially at sea.

“Clickety-Clack.” Now that noise is me. I am hobbling along behind one of those lightweight tubular contraptions called a “walker.” The Brits call them “Zimmers.” And so I remember a former shipmate. My knee replacement surgery is already a week past. I came home a day later and have lain through long hours, night and day for the last week in a narcotic haze and a welter of pain. I finally clattered out today simply to stand beneath open sky. It was glorious!

In position. Libby, the light of my life. How i have been smitten by this wee dog.

Jill loaded me into her car today and hauled me off to a favourite pub in Crofton. It was a perfect day, the weather was flawless. It felt especially so after being housebound for a full week. That’s just not my style. It is summer solstice and I’ll be out there. I’ve shed that damned walker for a home-made cane and I intend to able to hoof over the hill sooner than anyone expected. SPRISE!

Most communities like to describe their hospital as the worst ever. There is one on Vancouver Island, which in repeated experiences, has proven to be such a place, but it is certainly NOT Duncan. The building is old and a new one is under construction but the present hospital crew are wonderful. YES I said that, the old grump hisself. ALL, to the last person, convey a sense that they truly care. The worst thing was a sandwich. The day before surgery wore on, and it was well into the evening before I could ask for food. I was brought a limp sandwich made from two slices of white bread which clung to a thick grey smear of protein-like substance. It was labelled ”Beef Sandwich.” Yum! I took a breath and swallowed it down, thinking of all those folks in Gazza. Burp, fart, all’s well that ends. I was hungry. Isn’t it amazing? How do we go into a shit-brindle brown monster building wholly staffed with total strangers and those who deliberately render us unconcious then cut up our bodies to reconstruct them? Trust? When you are in pain and fear, the risks you’ll assume are beyond reason.

Vultures circled outside the surgery window.

The surgeon, named Nimrod Levy, (REALLY) worked his magic fingers on my old bones and I’ll soon be leaping over the outhouse once again. My pal Nim phoned three times to follow up his surgery! Yes, three! He is a great guy with an actual personality. It’s restored a bit of faith for me. After my major heart rebuild, there were never any calls. Ever. Enough said.

I now sit in my living room now with my leg jacked up and inside an ice machine. It’s on the summer solstice afternoon looking out through the dirty swirls on the glass door. I’d just bloody cleaned that into crystal sparkles two weeks ago. Funny how that goes.

How’d this character cross the road? I carried it. It was huge!

“ there is no better surgeon than one with many scars.” Spanish Proverb

Spring Grind

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

A harbour view. Ladysmith is picturesque.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May

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

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

Two weeks later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nowhere Man

Behind the front. This warm front brought a heavy downpour. It’s spring, you can expect anything.

He’s a real nowhere man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody

Doesn’t have a point of view
Knows not where he’s going to
Isn’t he a bit like you and me?
Nowhere man please listen
You don’t know what you’re missing
Nowhere man, the world is at your command

He’s as blind as he can be
Just sees what he wants to see
Nowhere man, can you see me at all
Nowhere man don’t worry
Take your time, don’t hurry
Leave it all ’til somebody else
Lends you a hand
Ah, la, la, la, la

Doesn’t have a point of view
Knows not where he’s going to
Isn’t he a bit like you and me?
Nowhere man please listen
You don’t know what you’re missing
Nowhere man, The world is at your command
Ah, la, la, la, la

He’s a real nowhere man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody The BEETLES 1965

Allegedly written by John Lennon in a moment of despondancy, there are days when anyone can feel it was meant just for them. It’s OK, the feeling will pass.

Dogs on path. Trilliums are popping up all over. They fade almost as fast.

On the way out already but what’s prettier than a fading flower?

It’s dericulous! Not even Jerkules can get the lids off half the bottles and jars nowadays. Wots goin’ on?When all else failed I used to be able to take pride in my thick wrists and massive hands. Now I’ve found humiliation with a pot of honey! And mayonaise! And jam! My wife smirks discreetly and produces her plastic lid popper. I look forward to the day I hear that wee widget snap in half. I used to be able to open any jar or bottle without any fuss, a clear smug sign of my manliness. Then there are those plastic sacks. Potato chips for example. One can apply the pry of Sampson on them and they won’t yield a milimetre. You try different angles of attack until finally the bloody thing explodes, grenading chips all over the room. If you try to save the remaining contents and roll up the bag, it’ll now rip like wet toilet paper. It’s a plot! Destroy their self-esteem. We’ll over-run them without even wearing gloves.

It can’t be geezerhood. Artificial Intelligence?

Ever heard of PETA? It’s an international organization allegedly dedicated to the welfare of animals. I sent them a humble fifty dollars for the abandoned dogs in Ukraine. Since then, now years later, I incessantly continue to receive thick solicitations for more money. They have spent far more than the original fifty bucks on stationary and postage. There is continuing evidence that Peta also euthanizes thousands of animals regularily. Even elephants! I want no part of a money-grubbing charity with self-serving interests. Enough said.

Fern song. Some go, others arrive. This fern uncoils its fiddlehead in the spring rain.

On a lighter note, in a local marketing app, I found someone was advertising a “Hitch-a-shidder”. It was a toilet seat mounted in a rear bumper trailer hitch on a pickup truck. I guess it’s for those tailgate parties and for what some folks call “glamping.” Just add a seatbelt and you’re good to go! A load for the road!

Dung-ho!

Today is overcast with a light, cold rain. There is a determind rising paranoia about a summer drought so this should assuage the fear a bit. I suppose folks have always worried about the weather, their fate eternally in the grip of some “atmospheric river.” For thousands of years, farmers knew their survival depended on the vagararies of the weather Gods. Now in BC, orchardists and vineyard owners are demanding compensation because they claim their crops were damaged due to harsh winter conditions. As if the government has control over the forces of the spinning planet! I’ve seen beautifully ripe grain harvests destroyed in a five minute hail storm, luschious hay crops wiped out by heavy rain. It is part of the risk of agriculture. Not one farmer is suggesting that in good years will they pay extra taxes. Fishermen have good years, but we only hear about the bad. C’mon folks, the only guaranteed income I know of is when you become a politician. Suck it up!

I’ve just learned this morning about a new documentary called “My Adventures With Assholes.” Finally I’m getting some attention. Admit it or not, we all contribute to this social phenomenon in our scramble toward self-entitlement. I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m sure it will bob up. Mind you, half a nation wants to re-elect a man for president who falls asleep at his own criminal trial and then produces putrid farts. Dern that caviar! As it is said, you can’t make this shit up. This puts a new twist on the verb to ‘ trump.’

Humpty Trumpty produced a great smell

Dropped a bomb among his lawyers

and drove them all to hell.

Let’s see if the spin doctors can fix this one. May the bird of paradise fly up your nose!

“ Today is the tomorrow you were so worried about yesterday.” Anthony Hopkins

Really!

They’re here! An air plant fitted into a sea urchin enticed me to buy it. Just what I needed!

For once, the evening’s news mentioned nothing of Ukraine or Gaza or any of the horrific trouble spots elsewhere on the planet. A fresh sizzle sells. Off we go in a new direction.

The container ship ‘Dali’ hit a bridge in Baltimore. A yet unknown number of people are dead ( I hope I’m wrong, but 6 seems very low) and critical transportation systems are crippled for years. That’s all we know. We won’t have a final toll until all the debris is cleared up. Although most of the media doesn’t even know port from starboard it is determined to analyse what went wrong and speculate about what “they” should have done better. All this uninformed opinion, as usual, is being pedaled as news and sadly the masses buy it. I have a background in the commercial marine industry and I refuse to speculate. We just don’t know, so let’s just stay focused on reality.

The Floatel. This fully seaworthy ship is used as accomodation for a major contstruction project across the strait.

Ever been on a ferry which had seat belts? The HULLO ferry system is fantastic. I love it. Downtown to Nanaimo to Canada Place in Vancouver in 70 minutes. You can’t beat it with a stick!

One wide-eyed reporter stood in from of the camera and declared that the ship was going too fast which is why its steering was lost. What? How can anyone have the temerity to come up with raw lies like that when they don’t even know what they don’t know? Surely they understand that! Loss of propulsion means a loss of steering and loss of power also means no hydraulics to operate anything. Stop the bullshit, you simply do not know. I’m curious about how the vessel lost both the main engine and the generators. These are two different systems, for very good reason. Keep a questioning mind as the media spews out its uninformed opinions.

Why, within hours of the collision, was the media researching previous incidents the ship had endured? It is beyond dismal and unforgivable. What the hell does that have to do with the business at hand? When you see an image of the vessel imbedded in the ruins of the bridge, bear in mind that the ship is one third of a kilometre long. It takes a huge amount of energy to move a mass that size at any speed or trying to stop it . yoiu can’y stop a mass the size of an aircraft carrier instantly.

A week has passed. The bridge story has subsided into an account of various points of human interest. Work is underway to reopen the port’s main shipping lane. It’s tedious work and the media will fade off to other interests.

Times is tough. The economic currents are so strong the beaver has had to learn the breast stroke.

At home, Easter has passed with a healthy increase in carbon tax, but that’s not news. There will come a time when folks will swarm over our parliament buildings in rage. Not many own chainsaws, shovels or pitchforks anymore but I’m almost ready to build a guillotine. Unfortunately our expectations exceed our sense of reality. Until we are living in burned-out basement shells, cold and hungry, listening to the anguished wails of our starving children, will we get pissed off enough to demonstrate a serious anger. Wandering down a street, chanting and waving silly signs doesn’t do anything and that’s what our most militant do. Our comfort zone is too wide and deep. Let’s enjoy it while we can. If you don’t think we’re spoiled, let me sell you an all-inclusive weekend in Gaza. Bring your own water.

Our country, long known as an agricultural leader now imports a very large part of its food from somewhere else on the planet. Think of all the carbon fuels burned to accomplish that. Carbon tax? Yeah right. Even this old sailor knows that the ability to feed yourself is a cornerstone of economic security. It’s thin rhetoric when all we really want to do is talk.

There are many signs of spring. One in our town is the annual heaping of household junk out on the curb.There is a provision for an annual pickup of things folks want to dispose of. There are appliances of all sizes, electric tools, mattresses, toilets, bits of building material, baby equipment, the wealth of it all is amazing. I find it embarassing. With all the wailing about tough finances and thinking green, look at this decadence. Folks whom I’ll call alley pirates go about retreiving items they can re-use or even sell. I’ve always had enough dignity to dispose of my own spoils, party because when it leaves my possession it is truly thrashed. Clearly none of us truly understand poverty. The final grind is that we expect the common tax payer to foot the bill of it all. If you could pay a shiny price and manage to tote it all home, you also have the means to take it to our beautiful muti-million dollar disposal and recycling center.

Meanwhile, guys like me drive the streets, slowing at each pile of redundant box store furniture, home gym sets, and other wtf’s-that?

ondering what we might be able to McGiver and astonish the world. I remind myself that I didn’t need it until I saw it. Drive on old man.

Red Breasted Sapsuckers set up a home for the summer.

Well you can tell how long this blog has sat on the back of the stove. I use a process sometimes which I called ‘fermenting’. I mull things around in my head until those wonderful “Aha” moments which come in the middle of the night. You know, usually when you’re up to have a pee. (Which is why we call it the golden age.) I’ve had no ‘ahas’ lately and the fermentation process more closely becomes one of rotting. Let’s call it composting, it’s that time of year.

Olly. Sunddenly stricken blind in January, he’s adapting quickly. He is doing well.

“Life is like a coin. You can spend it any way you wish, but you only spend it once.” —Lillian Dickson

NEXT!

We’re in the pink. Individual cherry blossoms are very pretty too.

Have you ever noticed that when someone dies they instantly become the finest person who ever lived? Every evening, victims of tragedies are suddenly remembered as everyone’s friend, always a happy soul, always bent over helping people, their presence enriched everyone’s existence. They did no wrong and what’ll we ever do without them? It doesn’t matter what brought their end, even a drastic accident where they were driving like a moron or indulging in a criminal activity. No matter what sort of pathetic arsehole they were or even if they were a blight on the whole of humanity now that they are dead, they were a diamond. What brought them to this tragedy? A poor victim of society indeed!

An Austin America, late sixties. A Mini 850 made-over specifically for the US market to compete with the VW Bug. All this time later this is a rare sight in cosmetically good condition. Even the original lemon colour. They were a bit ahead of their time and would soon be replaced by a funny little car called a Honda Civic. Everyone knew that too was a passing fade. Ha!

Then there are the prominent politicians. Brian Mulroney was one. We planted him last Saturday. I didn’t know him personally but I certainly recalled how everyone loved to hate him. I recall him being regarded as ruthless, insensitive and arrogant. I recall that as a politician, many in Western Canada regarded him as typically Eastern and without empathy for anything out of sight of the skyline of Toronto. It was, apparently, a grand funeral, a state ceremony with a singing granddaughter and a recording of the man’s own voice canting out ‘We’ll Meet Again’ as his carcass was hoyed out to his grave. (Spike Milligan and Vera Lynn must have been gigglling in the corner) What that last song had to do with sending off a Canadian politician bemuses and offends me. Well, I guess it was his last gig. We could install a looped recording of his song at the gravesight.

Avowed an Irish kid from Baie Comeau (Iv’e lived and worked there, it was not an Irish town although perhaps somewhat Catholic) he was processed in a grand style in the biggest Catholic Church in Montreal. Now he’s under a green lawn with a soccer team’s worth of other priviledged stiffs. There are, take note, several other tothering old politicians shuffling towad the head of the line. Keep that song book handy.

Rise up and kiss the sun.
A lovely bit of carving beside the fish ladder.

Spring slink. A pair of mergansers tuck in their heads and scoot silently past a screen of budding willows. They’re shy but beautiful birds.

I won’t be buried. There’s just not enough money for that environmentally unfriendly effort, my personal dogma doesn’t believe in it and who would listen to a recording of my gastric eruptions? I certainly could never carry a tune in a gut bucket. So yes, next please! Death may be what brings some recognition for my writing efforts and my photography but really, Fred who? Just another old fart from the Last Nations.

It happens to the best of us.

On Spike Milligan’s headstone: “I told you I was sick.”

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