Tik Tok

Dreamer’s Dawn. My new desk is in a room where I can display all my nautical trinkets and art. It has been a long-held dream. I love just sitting here and watching the harbour.

From whence comes the light. Looking out the window at dawn. Not bad I think!

Well shazbot and dinglebog! It is already one month since we started sleeping under this roof! We home! Time flies whether you’re having fun or not. I’ve pecked away at this blog despite illness and weariness. How the hell do you write about something as boring as moving into a new home? Well, I did! There’s a mountain of empty boxes downstairs ready for the next mission. Want ’em? Late summer has turned to mid-autumn and there was sleet in yesterday’s downpour. Any old how, we here ’cause we ain’t all there. Spring never seemed so far away. Life goes on.

Downtown Ladysmith on a sunny morning. Hunkered in the chilly shadows, as usual, God-botherers sit to hand out roadmaps to heaven. I keep my opinions to myself and just cross the street.

Charlie takes a dip. Cold sea water clearly does not bother him. He just likes swimming.

A grudging smear of grey begins to appear outside. Those glorious summer mornings of soft light and singing birds are over. It is an autumn dawn. Our Thanksgiving weekend is over. The emergency sirens down on the highway are quiet now, the carnage has ended for the moment. It was constant all weekend-long. There is a threat of rain and we know that, of course, it will be bucketing down on Friday, our moving day. That forecast hasn’t flickered. I am beseeching the weather gods otherwise.

Ayre, queen of all she surveys. Clearly I am smitten by my little dogs who are the real thing in every way.

We walk around in here sideways, between the stacks of boxes. Jill has done a magnificent job of extricating our possessions from under beds and out of cupboards and shelves. Each box even has a printed label which notes the destination room. We inherited our daughter’s belongings. She seemed to have a fetish for suitcases. I muttered this morning that we have more of those than a train station. They’re all bloody full! I swear that this will be the last move of my life and that I may as well try to enjoy it.

The control center. A place for everything and everything in its place. Uhuh! The pee-pad boxes proved to be perfect. Thank you Grace for sourcing those!

Dawn Patrol. Despite my contrary misgivings about Remebrance Day I always enjoy the fly-overs. This is a Chinese Yak 3 trainer.

A week later. We’re still walking sideways between the stacks of boxes but they are diminishing. I, of course, am finding things to repair and adjust. We’ve both had extremely nasty colds and there is little happiness in our new camp. But it will come and the dogs are thrilled. They seem to love the space, especially in the back yard. They race about as if they’ve grasped the notion that it is all theirs. There have been spectacular moon rises and I am sitting at my monstrous new free desk looking at my spectral image in the window’s reflection. It is nearly 7am and once again there is the faintest glimmer of grey dawn over the harbour. It will slowly evolve into an overcast morning but even that view is a huge treat to me. So long as I can see the water and boats going about, my world is endurable.

The days rumble past with an endless plethora of odd jobs and eternal unpacking. There is an occasional frantic about something misplaced but then it reappears. There are also a load of handyman jobs. I’ve been horribly ill for the past three weeks and every tiny effort is massive for me. The grudging dawns continue. I enjoy being up in the inky black pre-dawn and watching the sky lighten. There is what appears to be a large beautiful Krogen yacht anchored in Dunsmuir Bay. It has been there for several days. I can see its anchor light, a tiny speck in the blackness. How I wish that was me out there. Life without a boat is terribly dry but I do have this wonderful new office, something I’ve dreamed about for years.

Today is finally the one when we are promised to learn the outcome of our Provincial Election.

Who won? I’m outta here! Tides and the seasons may come and go but no matter what colour the hat the politcal game never really changes.

Ten days after the polls closed, some ridings are within a handful of votes between the two parties, it is that close. I, for one, am happy it’s turning out like this, political arrogance cannot continue to run this wonderful province into the ground. Either the NDP or the Conservatives will be just as bad. So long as they get on with the business of government instead of throwing poo pies at each other, we’ll be all right. At least, for once, there was an enthusiastic voter turnout. The teeter-totter of democracy was tipped by twenty-seven individual votes in our provincial election. Getting out to cast your ballot does make a difference. Imagine the T-Rumping coming up in a few days south of the border. I can’t comment on Amurican politics, I don’t even understand Canadian politi-games. One way or the other, we’ve some interesting times ahead.

Wasn’t that a party? End of a salmon run. But, there are more on the way. Life goes on.

Life continues in the woods, cold and damp as it is.

And that’s it for October. I’m now sitting at my desk and making faces at the reflection in my black, black window. I went to bed too early. Time has just tripped over midnight and fallen into November. It is tweak the clocks back weekend. Wasn’t it bend them ahead time just a few weeks ago?

First thing on a Saturday morning another small forest is delivered to the local log booming grounds.

Later that same day, the barge was empty and gone for more. As we sleep our industries goe on.

“Time is a created thing. To say ‘I don’t have time’ is like saying, ‘I don’t want to.’” – Lao Tzu

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

Survival

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warm And Fuzzy

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

Three dog night, all day long.
photo by Jill

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

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

Five Ships. i never tire of our harbour views.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m going back to bed.

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

God invented dog farts.

Blue Moon

Twelve yachts sail out into a smoky day.

I did not get a photo. I was laughing too hard. He was a brawny four pounder, four inches across at the shoulders, bristle-faced with two gleaming black eyes. Jill and I have each been awake half the night trying remember his name but we can’t. (Recalling our own names can be a challenge.) It was lugubrious and meant something like unconquerable. What was truly amazing about this wee beast was how he peed. He stood up on his front legs, extended his little pinky and squirted away. How he avoided soaking himself is another trick. We both saw it. Is this an evolution of simply cocking a leg? Is it a provocation of his name?

A little research says that it is not that uncommon. It is a little dog’s attempt to “overmark” other dog’s pee mail. No big deal and come to think of it, a huge number of humans do the same same thing, at least figuratively. Everything is a pissing contest for some folks as they try to compensate for a sense of inadequacy. We do tend to wet our own knitting all too often.

Temperatures in Ladysmith lately have risen to the mid-thirties. Funny what happens in August. It IS very, very dry and the usual summer westerly wind is howling. I’m terrified of what can happen if there’s one fool smoking a joint in the bushes. Yes it actually keeps me awake. Our Volunteer Fire Department Emergency call-out siren blows regularly. I’ve helped fight forest fires and there is no romance in any of it. With the present winds any flame will become a monstrous blowtourch that nobody can outrun or control. There is a campfire ban for the whole province, I think no-one should be allowed into the woods, anywhere. I suppose the BC Ferry campgrounds are safe enough, all the trees were cut down long ago.

The smoke thickens. It seems half of the interior in BC is ablaze. The smoke has settled over us here on the coast thickly, one can even taste it. I’ll keep my own opinions to myself and hope desperately that no runaway fires burst out here on Vancouver Island. Further to the south, Mexico has been hit from the Pacific by Hurricane Hilary. There is extreme flooding. My beloved Barb’s Dog Rescue, presently caring for four hundred dogs has had its decrepit electrical system wiped out. They can’t even pump drinking water at present. They’re desperately reaching out for any help folks can offer. It’s a perfect time to win a lottery. One of my joys would be helping certain folks out… and telling others where to go.

Does this remind you of anyone? Amazing grain in a maple log on the river side.

A tree springing up from its nurse stump, unfortunately it is not well-rooted.

Nor this one…you’ve got to be well-rooted.

Sniffing among the fallen. Leaves not making a contribution to the tree, are soon cast off. Yep, another tree metaphor. Nature has no welfare system.

I cannot explain it. I am by nature a creative character; I can make a mess of anything. I do like what I can do with my writing and my cameras but this year I’ve had a hard time forcing myself to make videos. I find that work very challenging and my technical abilities remain primitive. Nevertheless I’ve put this effort together:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDvfJzhPlCM

I hope you like it and I would love any comments and suggestions. I watch a lot of travel vlogs on YouTube and feel inclined to bend that way. I’ll start with routes and back roads locally. So there, now I’ve posted a commitment and I’d better get out there. Have scooter-cycle, will ride.

MY territory, GO AWAY! This suddenly leapt out at me, after I stood chatting about six feet away. It’s Coast Salish but somehow reminds me of Lahaina. What’s happened to that story?

I should mention that I have not heard a lot of whinging about the heat this summer. That seems most unusual. Perhaps with all the press about our province-wide wild fire devastation we all realize how fragile our existence really is. One flipped cigarette butt and we could face a horrible doom. Life is that close to the edge. The streams are all running dry and we are only mid-way through summer. But then, think of all the other places we could be living. There is nothing we need or want that we cannot take for granted. And so far, we are still free to leave. So far we can still feel safe flying in Canada in our own private jet.

What’s wrong with this picture? Once famous, this ferrocement ketch was designed, built and sailed by John Sampson. He has passed on and this boat is clearly no longer cherished. To leave a mast unproperly stayed is an invitation for serious collateral damage. This old sailor is upset. Her name is ‘StormStrutter’ and was once a beloved home which traveled far and wide for many years.

By the way, it’s a blue moon month (Two full moons in one month) Thursday the 31^st, last day of the month. Be on the highest local peak for the moonrise, just bring your dancing boots and don’t worry about what to wear. Get naked!

The swimming hole.
Every summer needs one.

‘There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.’ George Carlin

Blank Spot

Butterfingers. The new kid in town. I’ve never seen one of these before.

Saturday morning. Sirens wailing. Woo, woo, woo. Another wreck on the highway where people hurtle through town in a quest to hurry up and relax? The sirens stop abruptly, somewhere nearby. Perhaps another old soul in the neighbourhood has a medical crisis. Dogs bark, the children next door make the noises of happy children. There’s a country song coming out of all this. Goldang!

The summer sun and a few sniffs of rain have produced a fabulous blackberry crop. They’re being picked off but not by the hordes one could expect.

Too high. Part of blackberry strategy seems to be sending out thorny vines that no-one can reach. Bird’s reserve?

Sunday morning. Overcast sky, it feels good. There’s a forecast of rain two days away. We’ll see. Joey is barking out her morning sonata. This poor old German Shepherd has been at it for the fifteen years we’ve lived here. She’s a fine dog who never gets walked and has a path worn along the inside of her back fence. She sounds fierce but I can pet her and give her treats. It’s the silent rottweiller she shares her existence with to watch. Everyone wants to shoot the dogs for their incessant noise, I want to deal with the owner. Occasionally there is a shout of “Joey shaddup” but that is a token of showing she cares. I don’t know what to do to ease the torture of these poor creatures. They turn the back alley into a gauntlet for anyone walking by. The neighbours complain to each other, nothing changes.

A spring of fireweed appeared under the front yard landscaping. Just a weed!

The long weekend is past, we’ve had a wee sprinkle of rain. Despite their best efforts there have been no heaps of traffic victims on the roadside waiting for their helicopter ride. It has to be a miracle that dozens don’t die on our roads daily. They sure work at it. Enough said.

Original paint. Twin I-beam suspension, country white walls. No airbags, seatbelts or emission controls. Fuel was sold by the gallon, for pennies. Ah, the early sixties! I remember when these were brand new.

Hand-painted advertising. Touched up along the way. Wots a decal?

I went to see a surgeon yesterday and am now on a list for a new knee. Something within the next year. Now that’s something to look forward to. I understand that the healing process is long and painful but the reward is to have no more pain and crunching parts. The old knee is worn down to nearly the last kick. I was warned, but life is wasted on the young and I can’t think of one thing that I’ve proven except that I’m an idiot. The new synthetic knee is a marvel of engineering. I examined one yesterday. Once the Canadian Tire label is gone it will look good on any fireplace mantel. It is a result of modern technology, cleverly designed and built. The stainless steel knuckle will cause hell in airport security but we will deal with it at the time. I asked if I could get one with a grease nipple. The surgeon has a sense of humour, everything will be fine.

This blog was slid to the back of the shelf to ferment, or perhaps, desiccate. Days have passed. There are no dramas or points to ponder so we have just sat. Even I’m finally admitting that it’s bloody hot today. There’s a lovely Westerly breeze blowing but it is like a blast furnace when you step outside. I am cooking supper on the barbeque, it would be too warm to bake a meat loaf inside. All the fans in the house are murmuring away. It feels relatively cool in here at my desk, but the air seems to go muddy again, I stare blankly at the wall. Perhaps that is an achievement.

Sunday morning again, suddenly it is a week later, still the sirens wail. Woo, woo!

August morning. What’s more beautiful than a flower beginning to fade? Beauty is fleeting.

“We can know only that we know nothing. And that is the highest degree of human wisdom.”
― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

BLUE

Corona Time. Summertime sea side, it’s thirsty business.

My liitle big dog Arye and I were on our morning walk. We had come from a loop in the woods and were returning to our vehicle on the distant side of of a very large hay field. There was a light wind, the sky was absolutely clear. There was no wisp of cloud, just deep pure blue. Somewhere up there, from the southwest, came that ubiquitous sound of a high-flying airliner. It was up there, possibly forty thousand feet or more. The air mass was so stable and dry that no contrail appeared. The aircraft was invisible to my eye

The thought came to me about a hundred or more bombers up there, preparing to loose a rain of thousands of tons of death nearby and maybe on my head. Where do you run? It was a chilling thought. How many people have endured such terror? How lucky most of us are to never know a feeling which at best, we can only imagine. Why would I conjure up such a nightmare? It was a perfect day. I don’t know. But then that’s what writers do, think out of their box or, is it about going outside other’s boxes?. Some of us are regarded as nutters. That’s fine; I don’t want to fit in with the status quo. But for the moment I had another indelible reality to cope with.

The hayfield had already produced two crops this year and was now being fertilized. The reek of liquified cow manure was heady in the summer heat. Recycling in the raw. As we walked, another truck load bounded into the field. The driiver hit his switch and a thick gurry of green-brown effluent spun through the air in a hundred-foot-wide rooster tail. Gaglicious! Dungsaway! The sky was void of any birds. This old dairy farm kid savoured a fleeting comfort in the fumey funk and then smirked as I considered having that truck out on the highway on certain days for certain people. A tailgating convertible, “Bombs away Billy!” I’m sure wee Arye wanted to go roll in the liquid delight. Something to take home for mom with lots of clinging cuddles.

This morning we all went for a walk together. The dogs love the local fish hatchery which is a mix of streams, ponds, shady trails, open roads and other dogs. It is where my beloved old Jack is buried. This morning I saw two fat trout side by side in a bubbling part of the stream in the shade of an overhanging alder. It feels very good to just leave them as they are, going softly and doing no harm. It has clouded over this afternoon, we may get some rain. A respite from the hot sun is certainly welcome.

I found this screwed to a tree in the woods recently. A family must have camped here. Some children actually still do this sort of thing. What a reassurance! “Look ma, no apps!”

Hobbit Home. While we are looking at warm and fuzzy images, here’s one place that always does my heart good. I don’t know the story but it leaves me wanting to crawl in and hunker down.

…as we stumbled into the clearing we first noticed the center pole. We had discovered the village site of the dreaded Onga Bonga tribe. The firepit was still smouldering.

My arthritic knees were especially painful today, perhaps due to the change in weather. Once home I was forced to go lay down for a while. Oddly, those worn-out joints also start throbbing like two monster toothaches in the middle of the night. What does resting them have, and not have, to do with any relief. Once I wondered why old folks were often so cranky. Now I get it. I lay there watching the activity in a shrub outside the bedroom window. That greenery is properly named a Skimmia Japonica ((I’d see a doctor about that son!) I just call it the bush, and Jill insisits that this old logger leaves the pruning to her. It has copious tiny white flowers, which are lovely and in winter, it produces arrays of bright red berries and all the while keeps its leaves.

The pollinator. A Skimmia Japonica bloom under assault. The bees worked the blooms even in the driving rain. Note the bundle of pollen on the bee’s leg.

The ant and the bee. One more image of bugs in the blooms.

There’s something enticing about swamps. With a diversity of creatures and an unspoken mystery I find myself drawn to them.

Harbour traffic. The same mystery which floats a kayak floats massive ships.

Bees love the flowers and I lay on the bed watching their industry. They were everywhere and despite the odd dogfight about a certain flower, it was a peaceful assault. Then I realized there was an accompaniment. We have new neighbours next door. The owner has rented her place out to a lovely couple with two young boys. They were interacting happily. There were no screams, or shouts or whining. It was bliss. Somehow the lyrical sounds of happy children underscored the aerial ballet of the bees. I realized what a rare sound it is to hear children interacting harmoniously. Usually, so often we don’t even notice, the sound of children at play incorporates screaming and wailing. There are few sounds of simple joy but rather those of the violence and altercation they’ve already learned from the world around them and…it doesn’t all come from video games. What a sad realization that genuine children’s laughter is so rare.

Apart from the signs, is there any reason we shouldn’t drop by for a visit?

I lay savouring my sweet reveries and then another neighbour ran his shrieking, smoking ancient lawnmower along the fence. He’s a good neighbour too.

And yes, it rained. Ahhhh!

Country bus stop. Summer travels,
to town!

“Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.”

Robin Williams

Band Names

Back in the spotlight again. Princess Arye catches her morning rays.

Are you a reader? I mean, are you someone who reads a lot? Books? I believe that one of my obligations as a writer is to read. When I begin reading a book I feel a silly obligation to finish it, no matter how much work that may become. It is partly out of an obligation of respect that someone convinced someone else to take the risk of publishing their work. And that work I know, if the writer has done their own research and editing, is horrific. All books, I suppose, are intended to entertain. They are all, even if not intended, also to educate and will alter the way we eventually think and perceive. So even the ones I find as boring as a dried turd must be endured. There may be a nugget in the manure pile.

“Back off bitch! I’ll pee on your foot.” They soon became friends.

Tiny church. This shrine is hidden away neatly in front of our favourite local Thai restaurant.

My twisted mind. I call it the brain tree and can see birds and snakes in its labyrinth.

Someone once declared that a book is the last place you can go to be alone. So is writing one. I sit on a dull but sunny early summer Sunday morning. There is no breath of a breeze. This afternoon may well be a warm one. An airplane drones overhead. Someone dragged their arse out of bed and had enough money for gas to auger their way up into the sky to enjoy the view down through a crystal clear sky. I miss those mornings. I miss a lot of things, like waking up on my own boat on a morning such as this. Perhaps waking up on a stormy morning was much better. If the anchorage was safe then there was a simple resolve to stay put and do nothing. There’s nothing like being on a rocking vessel, warm and dry while the wind and rain screech and rattle outside. I look forward to more of those.

We never pick cotton, it just falls from the trees. They’re called cottonwoods.

The deer trail. The corn is now high enough to hide in.

Meanwhile back on the shoreline. There are dogs and people in this photo.

Meanwhile life ho-hums along while everyone else seems to be up to something meaningful. Even those dudes in the mini-sub who spent a quarter-million each to go down and get squashed like bugs went out in a wet flash doing something interesting. My latest thrill was to be out scootering along, enjoying the warm cool of riding in and out of the forest shade. I was wearing shorts and feeling like a part of the universe when it hit me; the shrapnel sting of a bee hitting my inner thigh. Bam! Just hang on old boy, don’t end up in the ditch. Wobbledy wobble! I hope this doesn’t hurt any more than it does already! The last thing to go through the creature’s mind as it mushroomed into my tender blubber was his little bum; but he was quick enough to point his stinger in kamakazi mode. I was happy to keep my little scooter wheels pointing where they should and that the little exo-skeletoned beast had not made it further up my leg. Let’s just say that it has been a long time since anything down there swelled up that quickly. Hey baby, wanna see my bee sting? Uhuh! It’s funny now. Bahaha.

Now it is the Canada Day Long Weekend. The highways have been clogged with hurtling Rvs (Sounds like a rock band) all week long. BC Ferries have once again managed to have a major breakdown. Now their parking yards have become campgrounds, no campfires please.The fury to go hurry up and relax always amuses me. To hell with the price of gas, they’re going to rush out to a reserved camp spot and pretend to be hairy people. Parking a mortgaged Rv between hidden stumps ten feet from someone else and having a person in a brown shirt regularly reminding folks of all that they can’t do is no part of any wilderness experience. Then they’ll join the lemming rush toward home where they live with millions of others in the biggest clearcut in the province. Think green!, camping

Jungle mark 49. Another bark owl deepens the mystery. Who does this? Why?

For some reason friends and heros are passing away in numbers. That always seems to happen in multiples and hopefully it’s over for the time being. Their time on this planet has made it a better place. My pal way up north on his motorcycle is soldiering on in his grand adventure. He’s made it to Tuktoyatuk on July 1^st but finding the Artic Ocean breeze too brisk and the price of accomodation also too brisk, promptly began the southward trek and is camped near Inuvik. Me, I’m going to cool my cold jets and putz around on the back roads looking for another bee. Last blog, I’m the one who mentioned the apparent lack of bugs!

Like bark owls, some folks leave their rock paintings randomly in the forest.

Don’t forget the wee ones. Little flowers have amazing beauty

On a final note, I recently watched a smidge of a ‘Save the wild creatures’ program which, admirably, must leave a lot of people realizing the value of wildlife of all sizes. The good people were trying to save a baby red squirel which needed to nurse. The problem was successfully solved by finding a lactating rat. “Now then,” I thought, “there’s a band name!”

Shall we have a contest?

“There is a planet in the Solar System where the people are so stupid they didn’t catch on for a million years that there was another half to their planet. They didn’t figure that out until five hundred years ago! Only five hundred years ago! And yet they are now calling themselves Homo Sapiens.” – Kurt Vonnegut ‘Timequake’

Down

Depth of Field. Just weeds. It’s a jungle in there.

I was enjoying a few minutes of bliss wandering along a local sandstone beach. The dogs scampered happily among the driftwood. The sun was warm and the seabreeze entirely pleasant. A Rubenesque woman, clad in black spandex and blending in to the shadows, was squatting on the end of a log and suddenly shouted out “Yer dog jes took a shit!” I replied calmly as I walked on, “It’s OK. She’ll put it back.” The woman was sitting with her bumbas hanging over her perch as if she might be “taking” one herself. I wanted to point out that the scat from seals, otters, racoons and all the birds were strewn all over the beach. No point; “He who argues with a fool,” you know the rest.

My little girl Libby did her business discreetly underneath a log where no-one could tread if they wanted to. I don’t want anyone to suffer anything due to my dogs but I also refuse to step outside the bounds of basic reality. Shit happens. And so it goes.

The E&N railway.
Exploited and Neglected.
It’s a lovely place to stroll with the dogs.

My friend on the motorcycle odyssey called me early this morning. Jimmy is in Dawson City, cooling his jets and waiting for the arrival of his brother on a motorcycle. They’ll ride together on to Tuktoyaktuk, the apex of the journey, and then begin a fast but meandering journey homeward. All is well and I wish him every joy on his trip. We discussed a few current news items and got stuck on the missing mini-sub at the Titanic site. It had been four days since the alarm was sounded, they’re out of oxygen now, they’re dead. As a mariner, I mourn their loss, and empathize with their long wait in the cold and dark. At least now they sleep.

A sudden update announces a debris field which would indicate a severe malfunction and that the five aboard endured a quick and merciful end, probably only a short while into their descent.

Forest lunch. A little rain brought them up overnight, by tomorrow, they’ll probably be gone.

Jimmy related a conversation he’d recently had about this same subject. It covered all the resources spent, financial and economic, to save the lives of five wealthy people enjoying an exotic adventure. The Titanic is a grave site. It contains the remains of hundreds of people, or at least the memory of them. Now its ghosts have claimed five more lives. Leave it alone. It should be a sacred place. There are other mysteries to spend money and interest on. We have turned it into another commercial venture. But then, in another week , this too will be an abandoned story.

A week ago, an immigrant vessel off the coast of Greece, capsized and sank with hundreds of desperate souls aboard. They all invested all their resources in a mere chance at a new life. Locked below deck within a mass of terrified fellow human cargo, in the disoriented darkness, one can only image the immense horror of a slow excruciating death. We endured three days of speculation and generally uninformed opinion and now will hear nothing more. Mothers and children, in the hundreds, refuges of war and poverty, are already a forgotten news item.

Yesterday 227 migrants were rescued off the Canary Islands and in a separate incident 39 died when their inflatable boat sank. Within the past month over 5,900 refuges have been helped off the Canaries. There has been nothing on the evening news about any of this. Apparently human lives have differing values. The carnage in Ukraine continues, Sudan is an ongoing disaster, earthquake survivors in Turkey and Syria continue to grapple for basic needs. They are not newsworthy any more. We move on to the next saleable media item, such as the Glastonbury Music Festival in the UK. Mountains are swept under the rug.

For those who go out on the sea and never return.

Cream rises to the top, so does scum. Welcome to the swamp.

“If people in the media cannot decide whether they are in the business of reporting news or manufacturing propaganda, it is all the more important that the public understand that difference, and choose their news sources accordingly.” Thomas Sowell

Dog Napper

(The price of being cute)

The first we saw of Arye. Our daughter sent us this. We were smitten by this photo.

I know I’m a recluse but I don’t need my computer to keep telling me that my “social tab is empty.” This morning I checked my email as usual. I receive a daily e-bulletin board from La Manzanilla in Mexico with a post from someone named Rebecca. “Does anyone know of a beach town in the area without so many gringos?” Uh Becky! Mirror? Just leave my social tab as it is.

Jack and Arye dearly loved each other. He cherished her visits.

The Queen of Cute. We were allowed random visits before events brought her into the immediate family.

Are we there yet? They love travelling and watching the passing sights together.

Last blog I promised new adventure and this isn’t it; but it’s an interesting little story. When our daughter passed away nearly a year ago, we inherited her little dog Arye. It’s taken us that long in our continuing grief to each find a balance and a way to live. That little dog has taught us a lot. When our daughter’s close friend also passed a few months later the shock of that news came with a request that we consider adopting her little dog Libby, a miniature daschund. At first we said no but by next morning we knew what we had to. The two dogs had been buddies and their mutual company would help ease everyone through whatever lay ahead. In the moment that I was picking up Libby, Jill was being rushed to a Victoria hospital in an ambulance. That’s another story. She is recovering but we’ve had a very long dull winter and thank the gods for the blessing of those two wee dogs. Libby and Arye are “thick as thieves” and help to make our house a home.

Arye gives Libby a schooling in the art of tickling.

And every time you think you taken the ultimate cute photo…

Somehow five months have passed since Libby joined us. Based on the veterinary records we have it was time to take her for a checkup, an ID chip and the necessary vaccinations. For some reason we both went with her. I waited in the lobby while Jill took wee one (4.7 kg) into the examination room. I waited and waited. A RCMP constable walked in to the back of the clinic. I waited some more, wondering what in hell was taking so long. Then Jill emerged with a stricken look on her face and beckoned me in with her as Libby came pelting out and hopped into my arms. I walked in to find the constable there. A hairball of emotion popped into my throat. “Who’s died now!?” was my first instinct.

It turned out that our vet clinic had phoned Libby’s previous vet to learn if there were any interesting details. There were. A few weeks ago, the former boyfriend of Libby’s previous owner had appeared at that clinic after all those months, to claim that the little dog had been stolen from him. We do know that he’s not a savoury character and not the sort to care one fig about any dog. However Libby could produce valuable pups. Bastard! We’ve learned that the vet thinks it is best for Libby not to have pups, it could be devastating to her if not fatal.

“Walking on the rails might be easier.”
Yeah but it’ll be awfully cold on the feet.”
“It IS a long bloody way!”

There is a legal protocol that requires the veterinary clinic to do as they had and I understand why we were kept in the dark until the gestapo arrived. (The CIA: Canine Insinuation Agency) This old pirate does not like being told to sit in the corner and just listen. Both the vet and the cop assured us that they had no suspicions about us and that we were obviously loving care givers. I must say that both folks were quite supportive in the end.

Jill’s caregivers. How much they’ve helped we’ll never know but they’ve kept our wee house a home.

Fortunately Jill had kept all of her texting records which confirmed our story. We’ll consider the matter closed but will employ reasonable caution in future. After all we, and especially Jill, have endured in the last year it was reasonable to assume there were no more lumps to hit the fan. For a while at least, we’ll have to shoulder a burden of paranoia. Leaving the wee ones to wait in a locked vehicle for even a little while has a new perspective. Gee thanks. I do prefer to trust folks ….but!

Never trust a person who doesn’t love dogs.” anon.