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From My Window

My blog was originally intended to chronicle my adventures at sea and on the roads ashore. It has devolved to writing about absolutely nothing (Like the Seinfeld Show). I sit at my desk watching the world go by and offer cryptic comments about what I see through the window. I continue to take and post photos because I know that should I stop seeing beauty in little things, in the ordinary, then my life is over. I hope I help others also see a wee bit better.

Artichoke season comes to an end. New plants are trying to shoulder their way into the world.

Last night, while watering the raspberries, I noticed a stalk of corn wiggling vigorously. It turned out to be a rat up the stalk snacking away like a politician on a beautiful ear of corn. The defiant bugger only scooted away when I turned the hose on him. Once I was twenty feet away he was back at it. By morning he had cleaned up my entire crop of corn plants.

So I’ve been killing rats lately like a mad trapper. Despite having two vital dogs bred for ratting I am starting to feel overrun. Yes I know rats are one of God’s creatures and I do feel guilt even for killing insects but it sure is frustrating. The property next door is a bit of a feral forest and that is probably where they come from. I can’t put poison out because of the dogs, nor can I use the classic snapping trap, because of the dogs. My shotgun is not acceptable. I continue to harvest varmints with my electric rat zapper trap. I’m beginning to reconsider the effort and expense of gardening at all.

But then there is the taste of fresh from the garden vegetables. Life is about moments of bliss. This morning was the succulence of a peach straight off the tree with sweet nectar dribbling into my beard. There is the fresh over-abundance of zucchinis and just out-of-the-pod peas. How about just-dug potatoes? There is more to growing vegetables than economics. It’s good for the soul.

Door knocker onions. They’re going fast but it does my heart good to see something from my distant past.

To relieve the tedium of our urban banalities we have hauled our trailer out into woods, but for only two nights, It is only a few miles from home up the Nanaimo River Valley. With the high wildfire risk there is no point in going far only to be turned away. As it is, we passed a small fire on our way there. It was quiet, we essentially had the campground to ourselves. We took a short hike through the mutilated jungle to a beautiful swimming hole on the Nanaimo River. It is a backwater beside a short set of rapids. Shortly after we settled there a flock of six geese descended the rapids bobbing and dashing along in single file. It was a wonderful sight and of course, no camera was handy in time. Later, while swimming, I realized there is a good population of crayfish. I know the river is also home to freshwater clams. What a delight to have raw water that clean and how sad that it should be notable.

Yet another photo of my favourite house on Vancouver. I don’t want the bother of maintaining it but I sure admire this old shack. So one more crack about when poor people ate fish and lived by the sea.

Back at our campsite bright yellow birds fed in a Saskatoon bush and an indigenous red squirrel scolded from the trees. I haven’t heard that song for a very long time. Later I made a a successful drone flight. It is now safely back in its bag. I feel quite chuffed to finally accomplish a happy ending with a drone mission. It has only taken a year.

Ever seen a bear on a roller skate? That’d be me. This is a 1981 Honda CT 110 Trail. It is an an iconic motorcycle and is a very capable ride. It could be for sale.

Suddenly the long weekend in August is already past. Despite the extreme risk of wildfire there were celebrations in our waterfront park including a small town fireworks display. Tiny boats helter-skeltered in the dark harbour looking like a swarm of fireflies. Judging from the din someone was having a grand time. This old grump on the hill went to bed and promptly fell asleep during the barrage, my dogs curled up beside me.

More old wheels. A 1948 Mercury. It is older than me and in much better shape.

A Fart Parkerson 59 motors downwind in a perfect sailing breeze. I’m just jealous.

We descend into the last half of summer with shortening daylight and cooling temperatures. Back to school ads are playing. We know what comes next. Despite all that we can find wrong here we live in a wonderful corner of the mad, mad world. That alone is reason to stay happy and thankful.

Find the dog. Libby takes the high road.

The moon also rises. Not a bad photo for a hand-held cell phone in the dark.

“The older I get, the more clearly I remember things that never happened.”

— Mark Twain

Old Red Wheels

Venus rising. The morning star in the best part of the day.

At this time of year Arbutus trees shed their old leaves. On the path they crush underfoot and produce an aroma that should be bottled.

Some older men sit on a porch with a pot of morning coffee. They speculate if Clint Eastwood and Willy Nelson made it through the night. “Yep” offered one geezer, “they’re both older’n dirt. Can’t live forever.”

“Well so are we!” another geriatric retorted. “No point in buying green bananas for any of us.”

Which brings me to a marvellous music link at Sam Dad Radio: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkWbYjunkfs&list=RDxkWbYjunkfs&start_radio=1

It is three minutes of wonderful down south blues and should cheer anyone up. If the link doesn’t work just Google up Sam Dad Radio green bananas. Uhuh.

Artichokes are a mysterious plant. Some people eat the flower buds, I prefer to just watch them evolve. They look like a delicacy for dinosaurs.

So here I sit at 04:00 on the last Sunday in June. The glass of 2025 is at halves, full or empty, that’s up to you. Venus, the morning star, sits brightly in a cloudless sky. Various yachts sit anchored in the harbour, their anchor lights glowing prettily. I’m sleepless again. And here I muse over a mug of tea, my churning brain contemplating issues of no consequence that I can’t flush. It’s no way to start the day.

Now it is the first day of July. 09:00 in the Morning. A flawless weather day with tepid breezes wafting in through the open window at my desk. The lemming race down on the highway is building already. Hurry up and relax. Now the first yacht leaves the anchorage, rushing home to see tonight’s fireworks and then be in the office tomorrow.

Who drank all the Cinzano? A golden morning in the anchorage. The yacht in the center is a Nordhaven 50 something, an enduring fantasy of mine.

Don’tcha buy no ugly boat. To this old salt’s eye this has not one nautical line. The side ports are all too low, there are no flags, no name, no home port. Some folks spend a lot to grab a little attention with no sense of seamanship.
(In my opinion)

After misadventures last year with my drone I’m battling with the insurance replacement unit which has sat in my closet all this time. I will admit I’ve been afraid to use the thing. Booting up the wee flying computer now has it asking questions which I’ve never seen before. Tektwits! Every electronic device seems determined to subjugate its operator. Facebook now demands that I wait for them to email me a password so I can finally open the account to read a message someone sent me. Then…they email me a query about me being active with passwords. WTF? YOU just sent them to me!

What the hell ever happened to simple old emails? Now everyone wants to use quack, twitter, squawk, fart, bleep and bark instead of going with what works. I refuse to be trendy especially if it requires downloading more apps that instantly scramble other enablements already lurking in my laptops dark brain.

My existence seems to be punctuated by moments of things with red wheels. When I was very young my father owned a 1938 Ford car. At that time it would have been 17 years old. I don’t remember rust but can see a gleaming dark blue car accented with chrome trim spotted with a bit of red paint. For example there were V8 emblems on the hood and red wheels with V8 logos on the hubcaps. I can certainly remember the warm aroma of the fabric interior. I have anecdotes about that vehicle and it is one of the few things from from my childhood I would love to see again. Another item from that era was my Werlich wagon. Werlich was a company in Preston Ontario which produced wooden items like toboggans and wagons. I don’t know who provided it to me but I loved it for many years.

I owned it before we moved from farm to town but that was where I really began to exploit its possibilities. I would kneel in it with my right leg and propel myself along the concrete side walks of the block around our house with my left foot. Mother could never work out why my left shoe was always so badly worn. We lived across Church Street from the fire hall and my world was the four sides of that block. I loved the firehall. I loved the clackety clack of the cracks in the sidewalk as I scooted along and steered with the tongue of the wagon folded back to work as a tiller. One day I swerved around a pedestrian and rammed a parking meter. Unbelievably, the meter’s lid popped open and a cascade of pennies and nickles rained into the bed of my wagon. Around the corner was the local pharmacy and confectionery. That wagon came home with a heap of candy. My parents were boggled. There was probably some sort of martial law applied, there was for nearly everything, I can’t recall, but it was a glorious day which I’ll always remember.

In later years, that wagon was used to deliver newspapers. Neither rain nor snow held me back as I delivered the Toronto Telegram. On Saturdays I had 120 customers and each thick paper could weigh up to 12 pounds. You can now find those antique wagons for sale on Ebay for stupendous prices. I still remember the dark wet and cold of late Saturday afternoon and the added misery of collecting payments. As an adult I’ve proven to be an abject failure as an entrepreneur so clearly I learned little from my early endeavours.

This a 1960 Vauxall Epic, some folks called them “Epidemics.” This one, remarkably free from rust has been turned into a hotrod with a small Chevy V8. I owned a 1957 version, a “Victor” which was even the same colour plus mucho rust. It was a horrible car.

As our daughter approached her 16^th birthday she began to campaign for a red Saab turbo convertible. I tried to describe my first car, a 1957 Vauxhall Victor. It was red and white and rust and rust. “Vauxhall? Wasn’t that some sort of vacuum cleaner?” I answered that indeed it had really sucked! Eventually she received a very basic Nissan Sentra which proved to be the most impossibly reliable car ever. It never quit, ever! “Dad…that piece-of-shit car you forced on me is broken down again.”

“You mean it’s out of gas again.”

“Well I put five dollars in last week!”

“And look, it’s out of water!”

“Water? C’mon!”

An old MG at last weekend’s car show. It is annual event, always on a brutally hot day with loads of rude people and self-appointed experts on the Britsh car.

A Jaguar XKE. Unless you cdan jack it up in the air and install big fat wheels, I don’t want it. I just wish I could afford it.

In the trunk of a 1950 Jaguar sedan. It doesn’t say much for the car’s reliability but also states that men were expected to have some basic mechanical knowledge. Many can’t even change a flat tire anymore.

The heat of the day drew a lingering aroma of leather car interiors.

I prefer the common man’s car. This Morris Minor is a lovely example. Still, they seldom came out of their tiny garage until the weekend. They were a hit in Canada for a while, then the Japanese cars took over.

You can’t have a British Car Show without an Austin Healy 3000.

We bought and moved to a lovely house last fall. The neighbour had one of those ubiquitous eternally closed garage doors. That, of course, excites a growing curiosity. Then one day this spring the door was open and there to my wondering eyes appeared one little red British sports car. A 1973 Triumph TR6. As a nostalgic old mechanic I soon found myself tinkering on it. I soon recalled that my love/hate relationship for old British cars requires accepting a curse that you are never done tinkering. A tune-up involves eternal adjustments, nothing is ever set forever.

6 cylinders, 2.5 litres.
A torqy wee bugger.

She’s beautiful but I’m a truck kinda guy.

However, this cherished relic does have a wonderful sound when it is running. That throaty roar is probably why so many people bought the things. This one also possesses a rare set of fully functional brakes. I don’t think I ever owned a British car which didn’t require pumping the brakes every stop. Getting in and out of the wee fliver is a challenge for this old dumpling. The foot pedals are ridiculously close together for my pair of boats, the seat does not adjust back far enough. It is not comfortable. I can’t drive it without one elbow hanging over the door. Frankly, after having known British cars, boats and aircraft it seems a requirement that nothing ever be comfortable. “Wot? Comfort? Naaw, we’re British!”

There is nearly always someone beaking away at the car with their usual vomit of testosterone-induced bullshit about their vast knowledge of British sport cars. That gets to be irritating. On a test drive, a Mazda MX-5 convertible pulled out ahead of me. “Wow,” I thought, “They sure don’t make them like they used to, thank God.” But then, being of British descent I understand that we are a race of masochists and that comfort is irrelevant to holding a cutting image. “Keep your pecker up” is an iconic British declaration. So is “Stay calm and carry on.”

My latest foray into wee red wheels is to acquire a 1981 Honda CT110 motorbike. That was built 2 years before my wife and I met. It was a beast with a whumping 110cc motor and a double range of gears which gives the rider 8 speeds. You can climb cliffs and pull stumps. There is a huge cult following of millions around the world. In Australia they were known as “Posties” for their long service there in the postal service. They must have worked well, Australian Post sold them all off. Crowds of delighted folks proudly own them now. There are parts available nearly everywhere. The little trekkers are still made, now sporting a 125cc motor and disc brakes but that old gearbox is gone. The old bikes hold their value often selling for more than when new. I feel like a bear on a roller skate in the saddle but it fits easily onto a rear bumper carrying rack and makes a perfect exploration vehicle for little jaunts into the back of beyond.

Bikers arent so tough when they’re on their own! You’ll hear me coming “Ring ding ding ding.”

An early ad fronm the 1960s. The rifle probably sold for more than the motorbike.

Fried Egg Flowers among the wild peas. I love blending wild flowers with domestic ones.

So, if you see a portly geezer wobbling down the road it is only me on a beer run. If the day comes when I’m whisking along on my electric scooter, chances are It’ll be red. There is already one in town lurching down the sidewalks and flying a Jolly Roger flag.

Geezers rule!

The ubiquitous light at the end of the tunnel.

“Don’t let yesterday take up too much of today.”—Will Rogers

Rusty Postie

I told my friends after suddenly losing their beloved dog that the next one would find them. There were doubts expressed that they’d ever have another dog. Along came Milo. He’s 11 weeks old, about 4 pounds and king of the heartbreakers. “Only love can break a heart, only love can mend it again.”About 250 metres below my office window runs the Vancouver Island Highway. It is also a part of the Trans Canada Highway. It is busy. My neighbour’s house obscures my harbour view but also blocks some of the din from the roadway. Amazingly a lot of the traffic is a huge number of motorcycles. You can’t mistake them. Some are the howling crotch rockets. Apparently, paramedics refer to their accidents as “donor cycle crashes.” Say no more. Another huge number of motorcycles are Harley Davidsons. Their blatant roar is unmistakable. For the last three nights, in the wee hours, one has passed at what sounds like full throttle. Its straight-pipe exhaust screams defiant blapping contempt. Every time, not far behind, comes the warbling woo-woo of a police siren. I don’t know the rest of this story but it sounds like someone is having fun. Perhaps the local donut shop is now open all night.

I’ll soon be out there giving those Harley folks a laugh. I have just purchased a 1981 Honda CT110 otherwise known as a Honda Trail. I know I’ll look like a bear on a roller skate. I don’t care. They have a tremedous reputation and are world famous. One even went around the world! In Australia they’re known as a “Postie.” That is because they were popular with the down under postal service. Imagine my bemusement when I came upon a YouTube video called “Rusty Postie.”

Little dogs have taught me that it is entirely noble to do big things with tiny friends. Boats too!

These are incredibly popular tiny motorcycles well-known around the world. Honda has sold millions of them. They first appeared in the 1960s and apart from larger engines now, they remain virtually unchanged. They started with a 70cc and are presently being sold with a raging 125 cc power. They are over-priced and supply is minimal. I’m told the new bikes just don’t compare to their ancestors mainly because their gear boxes have been changed. The old ones had a two speed transfer case which allowed the driver a choice of eight gears in all. I’ll soon find out if I can actually climb a vertical cliff with mine. They are delightful little machines, easy to handle and can go anywhere. They’ll get 100 mpg and can stretch up to speeds of 50 mph. That’s ample velocity for some fatal stupidity.

Maybe it was the sign but the trail seemed hard too find.

My wife has been away for the past few weeks. Our dogs have dulled into her absence. When she arrives there’ll be a circus of yelping, licking, peeing, twirling dances and every manner of woofing excitement. Their honest enthusiasm is always delightful. How I’d like to know that exuberance within myself once again. Meanwhile I’ve been heads-down at domestic chores in Jill’s absence. There was a plethora of little jobs around the house and yard including a new fence between the neighbours and our yard. Now that the moat is all dug out, I’ll flood it in the morning. Damn those summer water restrictions!

The bridge under troubled dogs. They were fascinated with the view.

Preparations for the new fence. Mexicans welcome.

A breath-taker in my front garden. I’ve learned that it is called a Hydrangea Bluebird, or serrata. I am much pleased.

A free tree in every nut. Some squirrel forgot where he buried his lunch.

I am not an enthusiastic gardener but have disciplined myself to plod away at it. One tiny joy was the ripening strawberries I’d nurtured. I decided to allow one more day of succulent red ripening to perfection. Then I’d freeze them. Some furry varmint ate every one overnight. God bless all his mangy critters. Allahu Akbar! They deserve more rights on this planet than I do but it is hard to accept. Meanwhile a truckload of gorgeous strawberry redness from Mexico has appeared in the local store for a exorbitant price but still below what my pathetic crop has cost per stolen berry. Well, I can still take drinking water for granted and I’m staying overweight.

Indian plums seem especially succulent this year.

The RVer. They poke around everywhere in the summer.

Things ain’t so bad!

“A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”

Jackie Robinson

Seventy- Three

If you don’t like my peaches don’t shake my tree. Looks like a bumper crop coming on.

Everything has a season. “Feeling nearly faded as my peony.”

It is no big deal. Lots of folks live far beyond this age and continue to be vital, providing a contribution to the world around them. So it should be. When I was a child the old biblical three score and ten was your divine allotment and life beyond that was was either a holy gift or perhaps a devlish deal had been made. We have generally abandoned that nonsense now. Not only are folks living longer than ever, they are alive in all senses. They don’t look, act or smell geriatric. Not like the geezer who sat next to me in church when I was a child, his hearing aid a twisty-wired contraption that squealed horribly and he stank, a decompossed smell. Maybe it was his underwear. In contrast I watched a video last night of the entertainer Cher, at age 79, prancing on stage in bare-bum glory. You go girl! I remember first seeing her on 1960’s black and white television. She’s still ticking.

My dad was an old-school English train-spotter, among other things. He planned everything to the second. Garden planting schedules, vacations and nearly everything else had to have a precise itinerary and if something were three minutes late, “Heads would roll.” He was a postman and even that went according to an exacting military routine.

He even managed to die exactly on his seventy-third birthday. That is stuck in my brain, especially today, my own 73^rd birthday. I’ve scoffed at this simple barrier and know I am the one who has erected it, but the notion won’t bugger off. So what do I do when I wake up tomorrow morning? “I’ve beaten the bastard” I’ll chant as I shuffle down the street right into the path of a speeding garbage truck. I know there are far less sleeps ahead of me than behind. Perhaps now I’m over the hump of my weary thoughts I can charge down the other side of this mountain like a runaway train. It’s all bonus time now. Perhaps I’ll yet get to expire in my sleep… unlike all my screaming passengers. Haar!

As I sit at my desk and look out on the harbour I start to think of all that is taken for granted which never existed at one time in my life. There is a grand glistening white fibreglass yacht anchored out there. Most yachts are now made of that stuff. When I was a kid all were made of wood. Steam trains were a fact of life, just like the ice man and the coal man. Rotary dial telephones were a novel idea. Cartoon character Dick Tracy talked into his wrist watch, ( a ridiculous fantasy) people still rode across the oceans in propellor and gasoline powered aircraft. Many still felt travelling by ship was much safer. Doctors made housecalls. Police, priests and teachers were pillars of the community. The notion of pecking out some writing on an electronic brain was certainly far fetched. In fact, the word “electronic” may not have existed yet, certainly a transistor radio was cutting edge. It would be easy to reminisce for pages but my avatar says that would be dead boring.

Faking it. I decided thar fake water lilies were a helluva a lot cheaper than the reals ones. There’s a lot less fuss and they do look fairly authentic.

So all is well, the tic-toc goes on. Everything is ticking, thumping and squishing along as it should. I’m sitting at my desk on June 2^nd at 04:30 watching the sun rise behind a thick overcast. Robins begin to sing as a fierce low red spreads across the low horizon. This is not in the forecast, let’s see what we’ve got. The clouds cleared and a northwester began to blow. It was a perfect day and the forecast is for a long string of perfect summer days ahead. We need rain but I am not going to complain.

REALLY! A two-day advance booking, paid in full. i arrived in good time and was still put on Standby. No point in raising a fuss, you’ll just go further back in the bus. BC Ferries!!!

The dogs hated it too. This was the best possible accomodation for them…and me.

I sat out on the front doorstep just at sundown. The wind continued to blow. The air was a cool notch below tepid, entirely pleasant. A waxing halfmoon was settling in the west and the air was filled with the aroma of roses, both wild and growing in my garden. The concrete beneath my bare feet was still warm from the day. I held a fleeting joy of home ownership until I began to consider all the projects still ahead of me.

I’ll have some time ahead to focus and try to get the work done. My wife Jill is away home to the UK for a few weeks. She has family and old school friends to visit, a precious thing indeed. I’ll bear down, making all the noise and mess I want. After all the tragedy we’ve endured together we have managed to survive as a couple. We are esoteric opposites and she needs to get the hell away from me for a while. I know I’d sure like to leave myself behind for a while, vexatious old fart that I am. She loves me and carries me in ways I don’t understand and I am deeply grateful. Seventy-four or bust!

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

“The goal of life is to take everything that made you weird as a kid and get people to pay you money for it when you’re older.” — David Freeman

Death Of A Dog

Can’t you see I’m busy? bugger off. Swarms of honey bees are busy with the tiny blossoms of shrubs in our hedge.

I rang the doorbell and there was no sharp bark on the other side of the door. Something was wrong. I soon learned that Fritzi was gone. These folks are some very good friends and so was their dog, a rambunctious, joyful daschund. His long backbone had done him in. He’d suddenly lost the use of his hind legs. The only loving thing to do was to end his suffering and put him to sleep. He was only six years old. I discovered that despite my own two beloved wee dogs, I’d also been going to see my other four-legged friend. He has left a very big void in several lives. Rest in peace my friend. Like my own previous dogs I’ll miss him forever.

And then it finally rained. A gladiolus prepares to bloom.

It is very odd about how torn-up a person can get over a dog who has died. People…well ? Not so much. I do value my fellow specimans but few can match the honesty, loyalty and simple affections of any canine. Some folks condemn others for keeping the company of dogs but frankly if you can’t find a place in your heart for a dog, and worse, can’t let them love you, you don’t have any hope of getting along with people.

The last trillium. Blooming white in their prime, they turn purple and then shrivel at the end of their season.

We’ve had a string of clear days with little rain. For the usually wet month of May it is very dry. Municipal water restrictions are in effect. We have to be frugal with water for the garden but hose your heart out if you are washing your car or filling you swimming pool. All the time that we worry about having enough water we are still selling building permits for even more subdivisions. I can’t fathom the thinking but then why are we allowing dudes like Trump to rampage over every country on the planet. To think that we are being affected by the edicts of a megalomaniac from the inner sanctum of a golf course in Florida. Wot’s a birdie?

May is proving to be a month of drought. It is often very rainy right through to mid-July. I’m trying to persuade my vegetable beds to sprout the seeds I’ve planted. There seems to be a determination for dust. The summer ahead looks long but then only fools and newcomers predict the weather.

The girl next door. A lady lives on this property, in another house. she’s been there since she was a little girl.

I used to call it the haunted house. Now I live next door.

A field of ferns. Did I hear a rustling sound in there?

Don’t like the weather? Wait ten minutes. It will change.

I am using the weather to try and complete all the projects I’ve planned. I’ve completed repairs to the former fish pond in the front yard. Once again it has a little working waterfall. The birds come to drink and to bathe. It’s fabulous. Meanwhile domesticated Fred has a heap of generators, powersaws and outboard motors to get running. The neighbour has 1973 Triumph TR6 to tuneup. There’s a new fence to build, vegetable gardens to water and weed. I’m not thinking of getting a goat but maybe…a milk cow? The gardens need the manure.

A 1959 Evinrude Flightwin 3hp, 2 cylinder. I could not get it to run. Every bolt was seized solid. Use it or lose it!

It landed just before nightfall. Actually it is a metal interpretation of an old indigenous fish trap.

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

Weeds are just plants that someone else says are bad.

I sit at my desk looking out on the harbour on Sunday morning,Victoria Day weekend. Yachts sail out. It is hard for me to watch. Then I find this quote on the internet.

Pie in the sky. A sun dog, a tiny cloud and a contrail make a weird image in the sky. Verily, verily, strange signs shall appear in the firmament.

“ The best way to keep a person in prison is to make sure they never know they are in prison.” Isn’t that true for all of us?”

Know what’s weird? Day by day, nothing seems to change, but pretty soon…everything’s different.

— Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes

Easter Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The trench. A defense against invasion and other Trumperisms.

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

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

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

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

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

Even the trillium season is nearing its end already.

A storm always ends. Enjoy it while it lasts.

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

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

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

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

(2024) ” Clint Eastwood

JUMP

Like it or not, see it or not, the sun always rises. I leave my curtains open to catch that first light on those mornings when the clouds allow it to shine through.

I am a recluse. An old T-shirt of mine sports an image of a Sasquatch above the word “Introvert.” That’s me. I do not like crowds and people’s conjoined behaviours within them. I prefer to hear music versus being slapped on the face with a monstrous din. A friend called to say that he had an extra ticket for a Bachman Turner Overdrive concert, probably their last one ever. Did I want to come? I agreed, then instantly had regrets. Yeah but…

“Takin’ care of business.” What must it be like to play that same song thousands of times?

So! I’ll long remember that April fool’s Monday night in Victoria. There were thousands of lumpy old farts and younger folk leaping joyously about to the music, happy and in harmony. It was an uplifting experience. Randy Bachman is now 81 years old, the band has been going for 55 years! His arthritic hands still play flawlessly. The other iconic band Randy participated in was the Guess Who and they played several of those songs as well. WOW! Happily, the band put a distinctively Canadian edge on the show. There was enough positive energy exuded to power an electric car for a year. I should also note that an opening band was April Wine, another half-century old, world-renowned, Canadian band. One opening band was Headpin, descended from yet another famous group, Chilliwack. The Pins have also been around for a long time, notorious for being the loudest rock band ever. No kidding! My buddy renomered them the ‘Pinheads.’ I came home with ringing ears, wondering what the hell I’ve done with all my years of rockless existence. Wot? Now, each morning when I’m out collecting the daily crop of doggy dna I catch myself hummimg “Takin’ care of business.”

“My father was a Cushman My mother was a Checkered Cab.” Move over Tesla, here is a practical urban electric transport. BEEP!

A week later, after a brief respite of semi-sunny days, we’re back to the spring drearies. Rain.

The drier days were long enough to weed the gardens and discover an infestation of Japanese Knotweed. It is a pernicious fauna, an invasive species which tends to over-run all else. Each tender shoot rises from a massive system of underground rhizomes. And so my life is reduced to this, pulling weeds. I remind myself that weeds are merely plants someone else says are bad bur I have an ingrained sensibility. Just let it be I tell myself, but my distant farmboy instincts have their own imbedded rhizomes. Damn it all! How about the Knotweed Cookbook? Boil the piss out of them!

A quick peek at a root. Apparently they can run 20′ underground and 7′ down. They have pretty flowers in August but can completely over-run a garden. Yet another example of someone thinking they can improve nature, this one came from Japan.

Careened. The traditional way of servicing a boat’s bottom. There didn’t seem to be anyone around on the coal bank. That seemed odd. Usually there is frantic activity as the tide turns and returns.

A Westsail 32 is all trimmed up to sail on the wind and out of the harbour. It is sometimes a poignant view for this old sailor sitting at his desk.

I sit at my desk watching sail and power yachts leaving the harbour at sunup. For all the possible reasons to own a boat, mine were spiritual. It is where my soul felt at home. I also held an illusion that I was free to leave this civilized world behind. The current madnesses out there really weigh heavily. The latest Trump tariffs have been impossed on tiny unihabited islands in the South Pacific and Southern Oceans, their only significant population being penguins. I guess when you’ve alienated all the people you may as well go to work on the birds. There is a meat wholesaler from over in mainland Canada who delivers to our local butcher. They’re named Penguin Foods. I’ve asked the driver who eats all the penguin meat but he didn’t get the joke. Wot? That, of course, makes it even funnier.

A bed of Fawn Lilies. Despite the cool wet weather the seasons march on.

Peach blossoms against my wall. Will every one become a tasty fruit?

Quail attack! A flock has discovered the seed spill beneath the bird feeder. I love these boisterous, zippy, noisy birds with the jaunty feather on their head. We also now have Mourning Doves visiting as well. I love them and their wonderful soothing call.

I wanted them but was told the “Bubbles” weren’t for sale.

Our reluctant spring continues. Just as the world dries out enough to get to work out there, another heavy shower arrives. We’ll need that moisture come summer. I sit at my desk and watch the world go by. The rain now comes by horizontally.

“The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.”

…Dolly Parton

SPRING

When I woke up this morning. An hour later it was raining again.

Have you seen my little dog. Despite the dawn she snored on contentedly.

Sitting slumped in a restaurant booth, I watched a television hockey game reflected on the rain-spattered window. We were experiencing a late-winter gale with high wind and heavy rain. It was supposed to rage on through the night. Two emergency vehicles with screaming sirens pelted off down the highway into the gathering darkness. That damned bridge construction again! I was dejected. My effort at a simple plumbing repair had turned into a monster. We were eating out because I had to leave the water shut off. My wife is not happy with me. Neither am I.

Yes really! A White Fawn lily. Winter must be over.

And in my garden, things are showing up. It’s our first spring here so there are all sorts of mysteries appearing.

Nothing is forever. Understanding that is a joy of aging. “This too shall pass.” So…when you see certain politicians on the tely, know they’ll be gone one day. The plumbing is corrected, the rain has ended, life goes on.

A Nuthatch, or Little Quank, Does it know how tiny it is? It is as important as any other creature in the woods.

Knock, knock. Having breakfast and helping keep the forest green.

Then came the carpenter ants. If you listen carefully, you can sometimes hear their tiny power tools.

Today is another spring day. Don’t make plans, the weather will change. This morning there was a sparkling sunrise. Everything was sharp and rich with colour. In a bight a mile across the bay from my window is a house with a huge, impossibly green lawn. Beneath the lawn, down a bank beside a long dock sits an overturned canoe. Directly above the canoe’s bow, up in the treeline on the ridge behind is the pointed top of a green water tower hidden among the tree tops. It is hard to find even when you know it is there. Today into that crystal air smoke rises in laddered shafts among the surrounding forest. Spring clean-up I suppose and a moment frozen in time back to when wood smoke was a sign of civilization. Now it is part of a panorama of houses all along the shore and I wonder how it looked before the encroachment of all us crackers.

Sleep tight, our Navy is awake…and hiding in Ladysmith Harbour. This is an Orca class coastal training vessel. Identified as # 57, can we call her the’Heinz?’

By mid-afternoon it would soon be time to head out for the next load.

I don’t want it but I sure admire it; and wish I could afford one like it. Then I could buy a really nice boat. A favourite local home to me, it always reminds me of a time when poor people lived by the sea and ate fish.

Later in the day, after a drive home from Nanaimo in a pounding rain and hail storm I sit back at my desk. The massive storm cell through which I drove now speeds southward on a westerly wind. The black mass with its dark skirt of precipitation is born in a clear sky. The surface wind on the harbour comes from the south, the opposite direction to the winds aloft. They’re shooting more movie scenes in our Downtown much to everyone’s inconvenience. One block on main street has been remade to look like a small town in Colorado. I wonder if there is not a movie set in Colorado made to look like Ladysmith. I also ponder about whatever happens to our movie earnings. Despite a very public impact we are never told where that bonus revenue goes. It is a secret. Spring.

The crew shivers through another dawn, wondering when they’ll be assigned a berth and a cargo.

It’s not mine. Good tradesman always put their tools away.

Let me repeat some old wisdoms. “If it seems too good to be true, it is.” I’ve been trying to organize my workshop and after much recrimination decided to order a too-cheap-to-be-true tool chest. It was a scam, money out, no toolbox. When you’re low with funds you tend to take some dangerous chances. “There’s no fool like an old fool.” Uhuh. Spring.

Yup that’d be me. The suit and tie is my disguise.

“Flowers don’t worry about how they’re going to bloom. They just open up and turn toward the light and that makes them beautiful.”

— Jim Carrey

Going To Astoria

The ‘Polynesian Queen’ heads upriver under the Astoria Bridge. An hour earlier she was inbound over the notorious Columbia Bar. The bridge is huge, very high and five miles long.

Another year, another trip to the Fisher Poets Gathering in Astoria. It is something I treasure and looking forward to the event helps me through the winter. I have to thank my wife for her wonderful support. High lights have included an intense inspection by a US Homeland Insecurity K9. What a beautiful dog! The trip proved to be the usual litany of rainy grey roads and the gauntlet of trying to find a motel in the dark. The road signage at times is terrible and I really prefer now not to drive once the sun goes down. Many vehicles have searing bright headlights and not content with that, their owners will have banks more of add-on blazing lamps and do not dim anything as they approach. Of course these vehicles also usually have jacked-up suspensions as well. Share the glare! Having a blinded old geezer’s truck jammed in their grill is a potential danger they don’t grasp. The testosterone years! Somehow I survived my own and don’t want to go in a puddle of someone else’s juice.

A real truck. It’s almost paid for! 1964 Ford complete with tool box beneath cargo bed and a puddle of pee on the rear tire. The engine is an orignal 292 with a classic stuttering roar…music to my ears. The sign in the back window says”Eat More Possum.”

If you can’t see my mirror, I can’t see you.
Images may be closer than they look.

I vowed to keep my political mouth shut while in Amurica. It is too dangerous in an agitated country that may have a hand gun in nearly every purse and pair of pants. I did see a large demonstration in one town where everyone waved signs saying “Who Elected Musk?” My Canadian heart sang. I like driving back roads. There is a copious number of people who seem to prefer inhabiting the bog lands in broke-back hovels in varying states of decay surrounded by moats of mud heaped with junk. Huge black hogs snuffled in the carnage. Many of these properties displayed large TRUMP 2024 signs. Say no more, just button up the old lip. I don’t want to end up feeding the beasties in someone’s patch.

Downtown Raymond WA
A patch of sidewalk in front of the Hungry Heifer Cafe.

Buying yourself a job. Downtown Raymond.

I spent one long night in a redneck motel. Sometimes you take what can be found. The office was guarded by a huge yellow dog named Elmer. He was a delight. But the room, good grief! The carpet had streaks of black tractor grease and a stain like someone’s donkey couldn’t hold it anymore, the bedside lamp didn’t work, the toilet was plugged, there were evil-looking stains all over the bathroom wall, the linoleum was damaged in several places. All the caulking around the shower was covered in mould. Grey spider webs wafted from the ceiling. Of course the internet password did not work.The Eeech Inn. Yes, I checked the bedding, it seemed fine. All this included for a full fee. Elmer, you old dog! The proprietor, when asked about nearby food, told me about MacDonalds over the bridge. So I found a lovely tavern right across the street from my room, with great craft beer, good home cooking, live music and friendly locals. Uhuh? All night folks out on the street were trying to do tricks with their ve-hickles and none seemed to have mufflers. Then around 04:00 the loggers staying next door got up and dieseled away into the night after a good long warm-up.

Arriving at Marrowstone Island near Port Townsend this US Navy vessel gets the Queen Bee treatment. “Ye may have crossed the Pacific but ye canna dock it on yer own!”

First thing I wanted to do at my next accomodation was to have a long, hot shower. I guess not every town can have a Trump Hotel. I don’t find the drive southward through the state of coastal Washington particularly scenic. There seem to be endless miles of raped and abandoned forest, mouldering little towns gasping their last breaths. But, those back routes, for me, certainly beat the chaotic gauntlet that is the throbbing pain of driving in the Seattle area. Everything seems exploited. The drive on highway I5 seems an endless strip mall all the way to Portland which is also a tumbling mess of urban blight. There are certainly wonderful and uplifting places to visit but so much seems so very soul-less in the land of the free.

Shop Astoria. They had some wonderful items…at wonderful prices!

Well there was plenty of soul in Astoria. It is truly wonderful to meet up with old friends of a kindred spirit. There was a blur of wonderful poetry and music. All too soon it was time to head home. Up early in the morning, back over the long, long bridge and then a heads-down drive to the Black Ball Ferry terminal in Port Angeles. Home again in Ladysmith by Sunday night and then it is as if the event had never happened. Now it is already nearly a week since my return. Several folks apologized to me for their gormless president’s remarks about the 51^st state. I get it, and appreciate their chagrin. We have similar issures here.

Breakfast at the Workers. The bartender kept busy pouring drinks and cooking wonderful meals.

penciled beneath the word author it says “who judges books by their cover”

Ching, ching, ching, ching, music to eat eggs derelict with a bloody mary.

Blink! The dogs were within three feet of it before the rabbit bolted.

The poser. In the centerfold of ‘Playmutt’ Magazine

In the few days that I was away the snow had all melted. Flowers are trying to bud and it is time to get to work on this new old house and yard. So, first thing I did was to blow up my used pressure washer. It was a great price and worked wonderfully; twice. Now it is up on my shop bench with the guts hanging out of its pump.

Some farmer’s sons never learn! Spring is sprung. Time for a good manure spreader.

Isn’t it amazing what people can achieve when they work together? The Astoria bridge is 5 miles long where it spans the mighty Columbia River. It has 200 feet of clearance at mid-tide. The river can run at up to nine knots. Politicians should look at this bridge over bubbling waters and think about a few things other than themselves.

In short, corruption destroys the ‘deal’ – the bargain – between the citizen and the state; and it harms the poorest most. Hilary Benn

On A Winter Day

Have you ever noticed that the coldest moments of the night come just at dawn? Frost will form just as the sun is about to appear. Sitting at my new desk and looking out over my neighbour’s roof to the harbour has repeatedly confirmed that this winter. It is 08:08, under a cloudless sky and it is happening again. I think I undestand the phenomenon but it is complicated to explain. And do we need to dissect every bit of life with science? We just need to understand that things happen and we don’t have to try to change anything. In fact, I enjoy a certain degree of mystery in the machinations of the universe.

How the human race manages to stumble on in spite of itself is amazing to me. I grasp that I’m jaded. I could easily come to believe that nice people are simply assholes who want something. It does seem that way somedays. However I know enough folks who can easily prove me wrong. Here I go but for the grace of a few charitable, loving souls. In the days I see ahead it is important to avoid close-ended political rhetoric. We will be demanded to choose a side and that is always dangerous. I prefer stealth tactics. A seasoned US journalist, David Cay Johnston, in his poltical comments about current events says that the reason we are in the mess we are is that fifty percent of North Americans are semi-literate or worse. When people dismiss the value of the cornerstone of their culture, language, they also dull their critical thinking skills. When folks don’t ask intelligent questions they fall into a mindset of herd instinct and unquestioning direction. I just cannot say baa.

‘Reborn’ She was apparently built in Scotland in the 1930s. This is a sad way to die.

Dogpatch, the bay of broken dreams. In a quest, or necessity, to live off-grid, some folks see buying an old boat as an easy answer. They cannot grasp that the price of freedom is responsibilty. Old boats are cheap because of the overwhelming burden of maintenance. Then comes a sinking feeling.

The independant. I admire this character. They are tidy, unobstrusive and apparently self-sufficient. No-one bothers them. It must be miserable under those plastic wraps in the morning but they soldier on through the winter. Kudo’s indeed.

So, once again I sit watching another clear-sky winter sunrise. It is only minus five outside the window but there is a damp cold I can feel in my bones. I don’t want to concede to anything geriatric but I do wonder if plaid blankets are warmest. “Oh lord I’m beggin’ you please, for a new set of glow plugs and if you can; spare me a pair of grease fittings for these creaky old knees!”