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.How cute can it get?And every time you think you taken the ultimate cute photo…See what I mean?
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.
Snow Walker
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.
Laundry GirlJill’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!
Dos AmigosThe old dogwalker hisselfThe Poser
Never trust a person who doesn’t love dogs.” anon.
Aw shaddup! For some reason, there have been a large number of crows in the tree tops recently. Their croaking and rasping is not a pleasant bird sound, especially first thing in the morning.
I need to repair the paint on the back deck before everyone is awake and the wee dog comes to help me. And, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. In his last months old Jack had a hard time getting around and would content himself with peeing on the back deck. In time the paint in those spots lifted and now I go to patch that final shred of his existence. Can you believe there are tears in my eyes?
Hang on, it’s never over ’til the last petal falls.
A few weeks after Jack passed my daughter drew her last breath. I’m still in a permanent state of numbness. There is no joy, no sorrow, no beauty, no creative urges. I sit on my shoulder and watch as the world goes by. I know every moment not lived is gone forever but I just don’t have the mojo to grab the brass ring and ride on. I’m afraid of being permanently in this rut but it is up to me to find my way onward. Jill, my wife, has displayed an enormous courage and energy. She has dealt with an amazing mountain of things which one must after a daughter has died. I cannot comprehend her coping mechanism and can only admire her tenacity and grit. The little dog we’ve inherited is doing a tremendous job of motivating us.
Ayre, Queen of the Jungle.I’ll take the high road, you look out below.Little dogs unite!
This morning window is open. Warm fragrant summer morning air cascades in. There is the ubiquitous sound of a motorcycle and then the howl of heavy truck tires from down on the highway. There is a stop light there beside the old post office and I can hear the world accelerating into its rush to get somewhere, or nowhere. From that corner, a street climbs a steep hill to a four-way stop on main street. On one corner, every early morning, a tiny group stands in cheap polyester suits, covid masks, hats and sunglasses. They hand out road maps to heaven and will gladly try to persuade you of your sin. I wonder how they believe what they do and I feel a deep pity for them.
Up! Imagine all that this venerable giant has seen.The organic Cadillac. Compare its life to the tree above.
On this same corner, years ago, a retired mortician used to sit on the iron bench next to the drinking fountain. I recall an old lady who said she was determined to stay alive until this character was gone. She did not want him touching her cadaver. After his retirement this obese old man sat for hours on this bench with his little dog. His suspenders were twanging taut over his enormous belly. He smoked heavily and coughed up bits of himself until one day the little dog was gone. Shortly after, so was he. Pity the pallbearers. Life went on. The god-botherers came back.
The corner as described. The big building was the Ladysmith Trading Store, two floors of mercantile goods. From dress patterns, needles, thread and buttons, to work clothes, boots, suspenders, long underwear and sundry household goods. All gone in a new world I don’t really understand. I liked it the way it was.
Well, we all have our persuasions. Like the mob who have taken the Canadian flag and turned it into a symbol of contempt against our own country. Despite all the problems in our nation, I haven’t heard of any of these self-styled patriot rebels packing up and moving to some place like Kiev. They damned-well know how good we have it here but I’m not convinced they actually know what it is they are protesting about. I’m bloody angry about the ridiculous price of fuel, especially diesel, these days but I’m not going out to interfere with anyone else over my peeve. I too am free to leave. I just can’t afford the fuel.
The day is rising into more glorious weather and it is time to abandon my desk. Live a little. The wee dog that was my daughter’s, and now is mine, is at the door wanting out for her morning relief. Life goes one. On Sunday we had a lovely life-giving rain, warm and steady all day long. We need it. The woods were getting too dry already. The RVs sloshing homeward on the wet highway did my heart good. I know, grumpy old bastard!
Canada Day weekend, 2022.
Fuzzy promenades down on the old Malecon.
“I don’t understand all the fuss about rushing off to “Go camping.” Don’t people understand that they’re free to live in a tent and sleep on the ground all year long?” – Allen Farrell
Apple blossom season … already. There was a frost yesterday morning.
I’ve never heard that term until recently. I’m told it’s common but although it’s new to me I’ll run with it. I like it. These days exactly describes the state of mind for both me and the dog. That wee Chihuahua/ MinPin employs these responses with no apparent regard to present details and damn; it does have some teeth! As previously mentioned, we have inherited her from our daughter and we had no idea what traumas the little beast has developed before we brought her home. We still don’t. These are known to be a one-person dog and this little critter is all teeth and arsehole on four nuclear-powered legs. She can operate at the speed of light. Time and tenderness will tame the beast and in the meantime if Ayre the wonder rat doesn’t rip off my fingers I’ll continue to write.
I’ve smirked when I’ve seen old codgers walking a rodent-sized dog, sometimes even wearing a silly costume, and now I am one. I’ve seen these mini-mutts in action as Mexican strays. They have my deep respect, they are indeed real dogs but thank God they don’t come any bigger! However once you’ve had one nestle into the crook of your arm, I’ll confess they are heart-breakers who can win anyone over, even a half-hearted old crank like me.
Aaah, the sun! Rain hammered down all night and morning, the afternoon warmth was a treat.
Lizard Response is also an excellent term for how we are operating at the moment. Thank God for instinct. I’ll confess to spontaneous tears as waves of emotion still break liker towering waves of surf. There are swells of anger, grief, self-pity, then moments of peace before the cycles wash past again. Even funeral arrangements for our daughter seem overwhelming and there are all sorts of details we haven’t even thought of yet. Thank you to all of those who have offered their sympathy, empathy, tears and broad shoulders. Times like these certainly sort your friends from those who are not. Life goes on and elephants never forget. Meanwhile my life as a zombie shuffles slowly along in a vaguely consistent direction.
Hawg down! Nobody was hurt. Oddly, this happened a half-block from the Honda dealer where I was going to pick up my own new little scooter-cycle. This, I took as a warning.Now THIS is scary! No worries, bikers aren’t so tough on their own.
One of my distractions is a determination to rebuild my website to something new and improved which will allow me to monetize all my years of writing and photographing. This is probably going to require putting up yet another new url. Seafire Chronicles has become Driftword.ca which I thought was dead clever. Unfortunately lots of people hear Drift wood instead of word so it is clear that I have outsmarted myself. I’d love to hear any interesting ideas for another new name. It must be simple, be a real grabber which is easy to remember and spell as well as having some sort of PNW/ocean connotation. Your homework is due by Monday. Seriously, it sounds simple, but after each idea ferments a while, I reach for another one.
This stool is the most treasured item from among our daughter Rachel’s possessions. When I first met her it needed repairs. So I did. After a fresh coat of paint I decorated it with these images. She cherished it for the last forty years.Our home is full of flowers sent in condolence. My sinus’ are tingling. This beauty is among them. It occurred to me that if one could see a fart, this may be what it might look like in technicolor.Who me?Spring becomes. Some lovely graffiti framed by spring growth seemed especially lovely.
The image is one I conjured up for a tattoo which hasn’t happened yet. Maybe there’s something in it for a blog heading. Meanwhile I continue to search for a snappy url which hasn’t been taken. fred.com and fredwrites.com are taken. The brassmonkeymagazine.com is dedicated to pole dancing and I love this one, numnuts.com is the site of a company which markets rubber rings used for castrating sheep. Now there’s something I’ll bet you didn’t know! The day is not lost, we’ve learned something.
East. In this dark and troubled month, my heart is out there. I may be shore-bound, but my heart is out there. My heart is out there.West. The Strait of Juan de Fuca, looking out to sea from Victoria. Just past that point, beyond Race Rock is the open Pacific. How I ache to be back out there, out of sight of land.Finally! After years of trying I’ve finally caught the magic moment when the self-dumping barge sheds its load. Valves are opened to flood tanks inside the barge until it lists enough for the load of logs to slide off. It’s an efficient way to move logs, like it or not.Loose the hounds.When the trilliums turn purple.Another Jack. Nothing can ever replace my beloved Jack, now gone 3 months. But there are other dogs named Jack, including this beautiful big husky. Life goes on.
“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” — Albert Einstein
Magnolia trees in bloom. That fleeting glorious splendour marks the surety of the seasons, the bursting out of spring, warmer days ahead and then the luxuries of summer. In a day or two the wind or rain will tear away the stunning beauty of those magnificent blossoms. Like the rest of life, beauty is a fleeting thing. There are flowers and buds all around, very intense after the reluctant retreat of winter. They mean nothing. It is Easter, the celebration of hope and rebirth. This year, it means nothing. All is a hollow, echoing nightmare. I see but do not grasp, there is no reaching sound, no smell, no taste. All is surreal. All is a void. A few days ago her mother found her body in her apartment. Her frantic little dog was guarding. Apparently, we learned, Rachel our daughter had been dead a few days.
Rachel. She was seven years old when I met her. She and her mom were a package deal. I have no regrets about that.She was incredibly beautiful in all ways.
No mother should ever have to find her daughter’s corpse. How I wish I could erase that horror for her. I cannot imagination how she deals with this end of her motherhood. She will be a mother forever. What a slam! No manipulation of words can begin to describe the depths of anguish and darkness we find ourselves plunged into. We function like automatons, mechanically going about all the ordeals and logistics we must at such a time. There may be a short pause in my blogging. There is too much pain to be able to write coherently.
Rachel at about the age of ten with her dog Fletcher. That was thirty-seven years ago. How time flies! I cannot describe the depths of grief at losing her so suddenly. It is pain no parent should ever know.
It is absolutely no consolation but I think of people in an identical circumstance in a place like the Ukraine. Their loved ones are gone, there may be no family left to share the grief, no home or any familiarity for shelter, no food. Shattered bodies lay in the rubble-strewn streets. There is a smell of decay and soot and torn earth.
I try to find solace in the love received from my family and friends, it truly is a comfort. Yet for the time being I travel in a place I do not know, nor want to. I find myself in a dark labyrinth of caves. I do not know which way to crawl, I can see nothing. This will pass. Life will go on, with or without me, all I need is to grasp a single thread to follow back toward where I can see well enough to find the path ahead. I try to imagine that Rachel and Jack, who loved each other dearly, have found each other in some beautiful place and have each again found the bliss they used to share. Meanwhile, Rachel’s own little dog is utterly confused and I cannot image the wee beast being alone with her for days after she had died. Little Ayre is a living extension of our daughter’s existence and we will cherish her.
We had no chance to say goodbye to our daughter. And my message to you is to understand that every time you say farewell to anyone, it may be the last time. Life is like that, it is fragile. Don’t leave anything unfinished, leave no regrettable words, tell them you love them, hug your children every chance you get. Happy Easter.
Ayre. Rachel’s loyal companion past the bitter end. She watches for Rachel to reappear, just like her parents do. Is any of this real?
“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”Winnie The Pooh
I awoke in the morning with that damned old song looping around in my head. From beneath the blankets I could feel the grey outdoors and life seemed pointless. One of those mornings. Bathroom, coffee machine, morning grunts on the living room rug, then open the curtains and confirm what I already knew. Another voice from the past echoed in my head, “Can’t have gravy all the time.”
“Leave me alone” I wanted to shout, but still “Nowhere man” wouldn’t let me go. I suppose I’d been pondering the point of life, past, present and future and came up with a foggy zero. Another slash of rain rattled on the skylight. March 26th, Yeehaw!
Currantly blooming. It is a reluctant spring this year.
My habit of late is to check the news and see if there are any significant developments in the Ukraine. The first story to stop me today is about a dog abandoned in a Ukrainian train station. There must be hundreds of them. I want to do something, but what? I ended up making a small donation to PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals)There are so many people who have to come before any dog but in my jaded brain I have a hard time accepting that a dog is less worthy of love than a person. And, no-one has ever been shot at by a dog! Yesterday while making up the bed in the Hemoth I noted a faint odour of Jack in the duvet. I will wash it or replace it, but it is a last link to my beloved friend who has already been gone almost two months. Well isn’t it all too bizarre and depressing? As a tugboat dispatcher in my past used to say, “She’s all bluebirds, just fuckin’ bluebirds.” On that note, the barn swallows have just returned.
I don’t know their name. I don’t care. That they draw me down onto the soggy spring ground to take a photo brings me back to life.I’m a sucker for fawn lilies.Don’t dare step on any!A cable runs through it. What’s the rest of the story?
Saturday evening passed with me watching ancient Sterling Hayden movies on YouTube then music videos of James Mcmurtry and Ray Wylie Hubbard. All the cheery stuff! All the while I snacked on Cheesies, washing that health food down with straight Demerra rum.
A path well trod. This was a regular haunt for Jack and I. He loved the gravel bars out in the estuary of the Chemainus River.
I’ve decided that it’s time to start looking for another dog. There are no merit points in mourning for Jack. He’s gone, life goes on. He will always be a part of me but my life is not complete without some canine company. I’m not rushing into anything and need to feel that somehow the dog finds me, but I’m open to possibilities. I have no breed or gender preferences, so long as the dog will be able to adapt to life in the Hemoth, or in a boat.
“Help Wanted. One dog. Job description negotiable.” Posted on the woofernet, March 31st.
The ache in my heart. How I miss him! He’s a tough standard for any new dog.
“A boy can learn a lot from a dog: obedience, loyalty, and the importance of turning around three times before lying down.” Robert Benchley
Looking east, same old harbour view after the rain. A venerable Westsail 32, often referred to as a ‘wetsnail’ yet used as a standard for decades against other offshore sailboats is anchored off the beach. Whether your vessel is 20′ or 70′ dead-reckoning for all is calculated on the basis of 5 knots per hour. Any passage of over 120 nautical miles per day is considered good.
“Our fears are like dragons guarding our most precious treasures.” Ray Wylie Hubbard
How can those few words from a Texan country singer not tug at your heart. They apply to all of us. Consider how you feel about our present times. They really hit home for me as I regard a present visitor. Ayre is a 3½ month old tiny dog. She weighs less than 3 kilos (about five pounds.) This five-pound monster has stolen my heart. I find myself taking to her in silly voice puppy-speak. Jack gives her a deep warning growl when she comes prancing at him; he’s doing his part in mentoring her. She’s cute as hell even when she tries to sink her tiny needle teeth into my fingers, growling with all the ferocity she can muster. Of course that bravado is a mask for all that frightens her. “The best defence is a good offence.” Who could want to harm her? There are those who would and some creatures see her as a tasty snack. I can’t imagine how the world must look to a being so tiny and newly arrived. When I pick her up I’m afraid I’m going to break her frail-feeling bones but soon the warm wriggling fragrant bundle of puppy licks my big old hand with a tiny soft pink tongue and there is a moment of joy and a gush of paternal instinct. Awwwww.
2.4 kg of self-righteous canine dignity. Ayres is all dog, size is irrelevant to her.Just call me Maytag.Who me?
Of all the negative things we can find about human beans one of the rays of hope is our indefatigable instinct to care and protect tiny creatures. This little dog can soon prove itself a pain in the ass, demanding attention and food then more attention. Yet an old bush ape like me finds patience and tenderness much to my own amazement. She’s running the whole household, both innocently and deliberately. I’ve know little of the horror of a screaming baby in the night but I suspect this is much the same. There is some override wiring which brings patience and caring without contemplation. Mothers possess a courage and stamina I don’t grasp.
You say I used to be like that? Naw!
Today is August 3rd, a provincial holiday, BC Day. The weather is languid, the streets are quiet (After a bout of wailing sirens at 04:00) The mourning doves are hoo-hoo-hooing and all seems calm, Covid be damned.
Nevermore times three.
Recently some friends and I held a conversation about the correct, and also the legal way, to merge into traffic. I found myself contemplating this again while out walking Jack this morning.
I’ve some some research online. In BC there is a bit of a grey zone about this with references to “being socially handicapped” and “it’s the polite thing to do.” It is clearly stated however that a vehicle making a left turn, or entering traffic on it’s left is always the give-way vehicle. If there is an accident involving any merging vehicle it will be always that vehicle deemed at fault. A vehicle in the moving traffic lane must not impede the flow of traffic it is in to accomodate a merging vehicle. Our traffic laws were generally written based on marine traffic rules and it makes sense that a vessel entering a busy channel must give way to others already underway. In the air, or on the water, a vessel with another on its right is the stand-on vessel.
I have a notion that folks demanding you merge ahead of them, or go before them at a four-way stop for example, are often actually empowering themselves rather than trying to be nice. There are no “Nice Police” and usually simply playing by the rules is the nicest thing to do, then we all have a notion of whazzup. I’ve held a drivers license for fifty-two years without any crashes. With all of the driving I’ve done I like to think I’ve done something right. I’ll certainly admit that as I age, my reaction time is beginning to slow as well as my ability to see things as quickly. Being honest about your abilities is a good way to help stay safe. Ever notice how no-one admits to being a poor driver? It’s always the other guy.
“Take me to your leader.” This is a Ten-lined June Beetle, also known as a Watermelon Beetle. It is a scarab, about about one and a quarter inches long. This is a male, the large antennae are to detect female .pheromones.Whassamatta? Got bugs? These tiny free-loading spiders don’t look like fun.Hey! That you Bob?Going.Gone. Nothing’s forever.A flash in the weeds.
Blackberry season is now in full swing. Men with plastic buckets lean into the brambles picking the succulent treats. Except for one. He stood watching and holding a full pail while his elderly wife worked on filling another, all the while she was holding a big German Shepard on a leash. It did not like the brambles. I wanted to kick that old misogynist’s arse but he would have spilled the berries and the dog would have bitten me. Isn’t it interesting what one can assume from a glance? Everyone seems extra testy these days so it’s best to keep to oneself. At least we’ve had no explosions. Working in the backwoods I learned how even twenty pounds of ammonium nitrate could crack away a big piece of granite mountain. Nearly three tons of the stuff in downtown Beirut is like a nuclear bomb. That thousands, out and about living their daily lives, were not killed is a miracle. Bang. How quickly life can change!
Season’s change.Fresh-washed.Yum!More to come. A grand thing about blackberries is that they ripen sequentially. There are blooms and then fruit perfectly ripe over several weeks each year.Bee Happy.Bee Gone. Blackberry honey in production.
Jack and I have just come back from our morning walk, or in other words, shuffle and sniff. It rained last night and there is a subtle perfume of freshness. We met that old couple with the dog again. Pops was holding the dog this time and his wife was breakfasting on wet blackberries. All three seemed pleasant and amicable. So…three friends, instead of enemies.
The fourth agreement: “ I will respect the power of my words.”
As my beloved pal Jack advances further into his dotage he continues to learn new things. Or perhaps he teaches himself; and me. Over the past several weeks he has begun employing an extension of his vocabulary of grunts, sighs, groans, growls and barks. Now he regularly emits a special short, sharp bark. Standing beside the door it means he wants out, or back in. By the pantry door the bark means a treat is expected. Coming from the middle of the living room it means he’d like some petting and general attention. In one of his three beds the same demand is a request to be tucked in with a blanket over him.
The watcher
This morning, while laying on “his” living room couch the demanding bark rang out. It meant, I think, “I need to go out but I’m not standing by that door like some sort of common dog. Hop to it doorman!” So I did; and so did he. Spoiled? Oh yeah! But I hasten to say that he can never be out-given. He manages to put back far more than he takes. I cannot imagine life without a dog. For those who don’t understand that, you have my sympathy for missing out on one of man’s highest achievements. Yes, the dog.
The watchedI’ve always thought that Oyster Catchers were first drawn by a child. They’re slightly out of proportion. Yet, they are perfectly designed for a life in the inter-tidal zone and are a delight to watch and hear.
On that note, while I’ve promised to pare down on my political/ social comments (Because opinions based on media conjectures are simply irresponsible) I’ve decided to share a simple analogy I’ve recently heard.
I’ll admit to being a member of a capitalist culture. Even Jack is. He hides his bones, keeps a watchful eye on his toys and dishes, guards and marks his territory. At times he even demonstrates a sense of ownership of his human units. Wolves, spiders, birds, fish, all creatures can be possessive about a territory necessary for the needs of their survival. There are some sound reasons for a sense of propriety. However, we humans have a compulsion to acquire for the simple sake of our own insecurity and a false sense of adequacy which comes from amassing far more than we need. It is what we have been taught and in conforming to that premise we have allowed ourselves to be enslaved far more than ever before in our entire earthly history. Yes, you ,me, all of us.
Door please!Gotcha! That was MY treat! Jack was always a street-fighter but he really doesn’t mind sharing treats and toys. This scuffle was all play.Always a consummate sea dog. I think he misses the boat as much as I do. He is always wanting to head down any dock we come to.All you really need. The ocean and a dog.
The analogy I mentioned describes capitalism as cancer. The body is finite and limits its growth within parameters. Cancer is unlimited growth within a finite host. Unless that growth is checked and controlled it will destroy the body and ultimately itself. If the body is our planet and all the symptoms of unsustainable economic development are simply for its own sake then the sad conclusion is obvious and imminent. It is over-simplified perhaps with plenty of possible “Yeah-buts” but I like simple. This is a concept even I can grasp. I’ll keep my opinions to myself.
Massive wealth
“If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and man.” – Mark Twain
An old friend. ‘Seeker Of Truth’ was found by a friend languishing in a Vancouver Island barn. He restored and renamed it and eventually put her up for sale. I was sorely tempted. She was built in Norway in the early 1900’s and is a lovely example of a well built and maintained wooden boat. With a little love she’ll live at least another century. Carved on a bulkhead below in Norwegian is a legend which translates: “A man without a boat is a prisoner.” Too true! Too true!Not so long ago poor people lived by the sea and ate fish. Note that in mid-summer the dock is not in use. Perhaps this is the autumn cottage?Not far away, another reality beside our abandoned island railroad.
Last blog I offered a cryptic squint at modern policing attitudes. I must add this. Four years ago a habitual drunk in a pickup truck careening through a suburb of Victoria ran a red light and rammed a police car broadside. He fatally mashed a police officer. The victim was a woman and a mother. Her husband still grieves, especially now. The sentence handed down for this horrific tragedy was a mere four years. However we may each value our human lives that punishment seems cavalier to say the least. That the victim was a RCMP constable on duty should perhaps be irrelevant but four years for wilfully dangerous and violent, mortal irresponsibility is a horrific insult to us all. It trivializes the value of everyone’s life.
The anchor for my next boat. YEAH RIGHT! My experience says that Rocnas, a product of New Zealand, are an ultimate anchor. This 55 pound, polished stainless steel beauty will hold a very big vessel.
I stand by my concerns about jaded and arrogant police attitudes but I also grasp how crushing it must be for all officers when they are so demeaned by a casual judicial system. It also helps me empathize a bit better with the policeman’s lot. Small wonder they become bitterly hardened in the face of such crass dismissals of what they endure while trying to do their duty, no matter how they perceive what that might be.
Disposable income, a 1930 Packard. On the wide whitewall tires is a n inscription which says “High Speed, Gum-Dipped”The rumble seat. Complete with its own folding windshield there’s enough room to sleep comfortably beneath the hinged cowling. Nope, no air bags!
By the way, friendly comments about my last blog suggest that I “Stay out of trouble.” All I’ll say in response is this. Name me one of your heroes or anyone else the world remembers who stayed out of trouble! C’mon now, just one name!
August path. The alder leaves emit a lovely fragrance when walked on.August browns. A sign of things to come.The leaky pipe grows the grass. Part of the water supply for our local pulp mill. These wooden pipe lines run for miles. Superb engineering, some of these pipes are several feet in diameter. This one is only about two feet.Bookends. These two young lovely brothers were new friends we met on the trail.A first I thought I was bending down to photograph a ladybug. I don’t know what this cleverly coloured beasty is.
Summer is rushing past. Dried leaves fall and carpet the trails. Over-ripe blackberries ferment and drunken wasps buzz in your face. Tiny songbirds are flocking up and feeding voraciously in preparation for long southward migrations. Second cuttings of hay on local farms have been baled and stored away. Local markets and roadside stalls overflow with fresh local produce. Back-to-school ads flood the media. It seems I was just posting photos of early spring buds. The seasons whirl by. Peter Fonda, the baby-faced biker just died. He was 89!
In the Bogwump. Nothing lives forever. There is beauty in all things if you care to look.
I was shocked to realize that the classic and iconic movie, ‘Easy Rider’ was first seen back in my high school days, an entire lifetime ago. That was over half a century! When you start measuring your own life in those terms, well, you know the jokes about buying green bananas.
Beauty by the dollar. Tugboats, logs, booms, barges, chains, cables, cranes were once a chapter in my life. I am now angered that any wood is exported. This barge load of small second-growth timber is destined for somewhere in the US. Each bundle of wood is a truckload. There is a lot of 2x4s and pulp in that mountain. Logs are boomed in bundles or in flat “swifter” booms as in the foreground. Close your eyes, smell the diesel exhaust, wood aroma in the sun, and seal and otter droppings. Elixer!
I’ve never written a bucket list; I’ve just lived it. The greatest anticipations are yet to be experienced. I’ve learned to quit wringing my hands about things like politics. I still constantly prod people to think, think for themselves but I’ve also realized the wisdom of the old Alcoholics Anonymous mantra: “God grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Or, as George Carlin put it, “Don’t sweat the petty things, and don’t pet the sweaty things.”
Dali Rocks. Jack and I love taking the dinghy and exploring the sandstone reefs and shorelines of our area. These sandstone formations are an eternal fascination for me.Jack surveys his kingdom. He’s showing his years but my dear friend still has a grand sense of adventure.
This blog’s photos are local grab shots taken in the last few days.
Look into my eye. I photographed this wee beauty just a few minutes ago. It was basking under a neighbour’s vehicle. It was a whole six inches in length.Another sign of the season. Wee button fungi begin to appear. It seems a mouse may have had a nibble.Breathe.
A dear friend and fellow sailor presently visiting the Thor Heyerdahl Museum in Oslo Norway has just e-mailed me this:
“Borders? I have never seen one, but I have heard that they exist in the minds of some people.”
It is the second day of July. Last night the holiday fireworks resolved into a mere two huge explosions. Then all was quiet. I hope there were at least a few survivors. This morning it is raining, a beautiful steady warm rain. The doors are open and I listen to the music of water gurgling in the downspouts. There is a lovely aroma of freshness. We need this, desperately. There were a few hours of precipitation last week, the stream beds did not swell at all. Now this. I swear I can almost hear the parched earth soaking it up. More please! This blog will be a simple photo essay about life in my little patch here on Vancouver Island. Rain or sun, bring your hat.
Is Popeye aboard? This surreal vessel holds, for me, a cartoon-like appearance. This old sea dog can see the old girl is near the end of her life. I first met her two years ago far up the coast and was inspired to write a five-page poem about the folly of dreams turned nightmare. A former North Sea beam trawler, she bears evidence of attempts to turn her into something she can never be. As the dream fades, the rust and rot advance, a sad ending indeed. But, never mock another man’s dream…An Air Tractor 802 Fire Boss. That really is their name and they are purpose-built from the ground up with it. A clone of crop-dusters with a wonderful PT6 turbine, these ones are equipped with amphibious floats designed to scoop up water as the aircraft skims the surface of a lake, river or the ocean. That water can then be mixed with fire retardant before it is dropped on a wildfire. This old pilot would love to fly one of these. An exacting skill set is required, but it is a flying job that must be fun. These aircraft are part of a squadron of water bombers used to help contain a recent bush fire that threatened several homes on the mainland. Things ended well. Folks are back in their homes, the bombers are off fighting one of the many fires burning elsewhere in British Columbia and Alberta.Fly United! This pair of mating Crane Flies landed beside the barbeque where I was cooking supper. Then they flew away, still coupled. They are commonly called ‘Mosquito Hawks’ but they are not at all predatory. The big one one had a wingspan of almost two inches. ALWAYS keep some sort of camera handy! I used my cell phone.Wink! A remnant of old growth forest. Those watching eyes are notches where a faller inserted a spring board to stand on while he hand-sawed through the tree, cutting it off about the flare of the butt. Then, after a fire, a dam was built to store creekwater for the old local coal mines. Jack loves wading in this particular pool.DAd? Can we go for a walk…sometime today? Jack waits as patiently as he can while I sit and write.Much better!After the rain. Jack savours puddles and new scents brought by the rain.Drip. Precious jewels after a long dry spell.The sinus headache. That came to mind as I photographed this mutation on a wild rose bush.Oregon Grapes. They make an excellent jelly preserve. Despite our late spring, berries seem to be a month early this year. The Blackberry crop this year will be stupendous.Aqua Apples. An old feral tree beside a local fish hatchery pond produces a burgeoning crop.Profusion. Wild peas colourfully mark the advance of summer.Buddha rocks! This lovely carving sits beside a local hiking trail. I wonder how many folks ever notice it.The Salmon Stone. Some talented soul makes lovely carvings on random stones throughout the area. This one sits beside a fish ladder. The background noise is of rushing water tumbling down.Art among the bushes. This sculpture looks amazingly life-like at first glance.Border Closed! A grand effort to a now-abandoned half vast project.The Portal. Holland Creek, overflow from our local water supply, passes through this old tunnel and then trickles into the sea.The Stink Eye! Jack has a pensive moment.Feathers in the stream. There were several wing feathers, an eagle must have been preening nearby.
“ For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out. James Baldwin.
Welcome to Ladysmith. An early morning birdbath. Any place with a downtown roundabout like this has something going for it. The anchor was salvaged from the harbour bottom.
The proverbial ‘Barefoot Shoemaker’ is someone who is so busy plying their trade that they have no time (or money) to make shoes for themself. This old yacht tinker is in a similar boat. (yes, that’s a pun) I’m so often at work in someone else’s boat. When there is so much to do on my own. When living aboard ‘Seafire’ I don’t have the energy at the end of the day to work on my own upgrades if it is possible at all while living in that same small space. I bought the boat four years ago and immediately had lists of “To do” lists. As soon as one item is crossed off, two more are added to the bottom. Some days it is just not fun and sadly the best days for working on your boat are also the nicest days to be out sailing. But it does beat mowing a lawn. Always!
A dog’s breakfast. Beginning of the project to tidy and rewire engine room looms and refinish the cabin sole“Lard liftin! look ow tick this ting is.” That’s an interior locker face, an inch thick. The whole boat is built this massively
It is the time of year when people are stumbling down onto the docks to see if their boat has survived the winter and is yet afloat. I’ve been moored in the Ladysmith Maritime Society Docks since Christmas. I am there nearly every day and can confidently state that many boats have not had a visit by their owners in all that time. Now the May long weekend is coming and there is a panic to get the old bateau ready for voyaging. “Damn boats, fix, fix, fix, nothing but a hole in the water to shovel money into.” Yuck, yuck, yuck! There are some frantic requests for me to “Git ‘er dun for the weekend” but I’ve decided that, for once, my own boat comes first. Love your boat, she’ll love you back.
The Golden Rivet The ship’s lucky coin, fibre-glassed in when the boat was built, rediscovered during my recent refit.How old is this matchbook? It was printed the same year I graduated from high school. I found it in the bottom of a wooden tackle box that came with the boat. I’ve been using the box as a foot rest since I bought the boat and finally decided to empty it out. Some lures, still in their original packages, sold new for 29 cents!
As I write this somewhere in the Indian Ocean, my friends Tony and Connie, are aboard their boat ‘Sage’ between the southern Maldives and the East Coast of Africa. They expect to be out of touch for up to eight weeks. My thoughts and best wishes sail with them on their long crossing.
With news of the horrific earthquake in Nepal, Deadly hail storms in Texas, a monster volcano in Chile, Israeli military strikes into Syria and renewed drug wars in Mexico, I am happy enough in my own bilge. I’ve had to go backward by about three thousand dollars with the necessary installation of a new charger/inverter. This is a machine that not only keeps the batteries charged when the boat is at the dock but converts DC electrical power to AC power when at sea. This allows the use of power tools and other luxuries like microwave ovens and even, if I want, an air conditioner. If I have to make my way south by fixing other boats, I do need AC power away from the dock.
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There was a time when a small gasoline engine in a sailing yacht was a decadence used only to move the boat in and out of marinas. They were aptly called auxiliaries. (For many years, part of my criteria was that the auxiliary had to have a back-up hand crank to manually starting the engine… just in case) Engines were also used to charge a battery for starting and to run another luxury, a VHF radio. Boats have become much bigger, the list of appliances and gadgets is extensive as is the amount of power required to run it all. Now some sailboat owners brag about their turbo-charged diesel. There is far more than enough power to charge the electrical system and propel the boat but excess is now often a normal state.
‘Avanti’ This is a 1966 Cheoy Lee Frisco Flyer, 26 feet long, in her day she was a grand offshore boat. It’s a boat I rebuilt for a friend. Whole families went off to see the world in vessels like this when seamanship was a prerequisite. Big enough to stand up in, big enough to lay down. What’s changed?
During my years on the tugs, sailboats were often referred to as “Blowboats” or “Stickboats.” We jokingly used them as a wind monitor. While the sails were up and flapping, wind was nil or light. When the sails were stowed, it was getting a bit breezy. Seriously! If a sailboat was motoring with only the mains’l up, chances were good that someone was trying to declare their right-of-way as a sailing vessel, a perverse misinterpretation of collision regulations. Sometimes I took a lot of flak from the rest of the crew because they knew I was a “Ragboater.” There are also those who are determined to prove their saltiness by insisting on, and trying to sail, no matter how light the wind and no matter how they interfere with other marine traffic. In fact I suspect that is part of the fun for them.
All is calm, all is not right Dog Patch, the Ladysmith water squatter’s community
An undue sense of entitlement, or perhaps a quest for empowerment, seems to a prime motivator in our culture. It is often displayed as an attempt to shoulder everyone else aside or to hold as many people back as possible. You can see this behaviour any time on the roads or in the supermarket and at times on the water. We are saddled with a media culture that attempts to diminish our sense of self-worth unless we look like, smell like, live in, drive one of those and generally consume ourselves into a wretched existence. No wonder so many folks subconsciously crave empowerment, entitlement and recognition simply because they exist.
An Audi advertisement on the television this morning stated their automobiles were about “Presence” and provided a statement of “Dominance and intimidation.” Really?
What about reliability, economy, and safety? Oh yeah, and environmental sensibility?
A few days ago I had an adventure with a dog stuck in a culvert. Neighbours were complaining about ongoing barking and howling that had kept them awake. I assumed that someone had left their spoiled-rotten dog alone in a nearby house. The noise continued and, hours, I finally went to investigate.
Wyatt’s Culvert Where dogs, fools and dog-lovers crawl right on in!
I found an old, very large Labrador retriever stuck in a culvert, about twenty feet in. He had been laying in cold, running water for at least twelve hours. Then this old fat boy hisself wriggled into the pipe. For a moment I worried about also becoming stuck but all’s well that ends. Slowly both of we old dogs came out backwards, me dragging the other an inch at a time until we both emerged, wet and mucky, into daylight. We must have quite a sight! Then came a trek with the rescued dog over my shoulder until I could get him laying on a blanket in the sun. He probably weighed seventy pounds and was of course soaking wet, chronically hypothermic and totally exhausted. He couldn’t even lift his head.
Eventually, reluctantly ,some of the neighbours were persuaded to help. Soon after the ubiquitous self-acclaimed expert dog whisperer arrived to demonstrate her superior knowledge. She had little actual sympathy for the dog, he was merely a platform for her warped ego, and yes I finally lost my patience with her arrogant declarations about how much she thought she knew. I cannot abide someone trying to capitalize on another’s misery. Things got quite ugly but eventually I got Wyatt to a veterinary hospital. That was his name as it turned out. (Wyatt Twerp) The vet called me today to say that poor old Wyatt had had to be put down and thanked me profusely for my efforts. Not a word of appreciation from the locals, which I didn’t expect, but ain’t folks funny? If Wyatt had expired in the culvert, I wonder how long it would have taken someone to go find the source of the smell. And if I’d expired in there too…yeeech!
On a back street in Ladysmith. a late 50s Vauxhall Victor Super One of my first cars was one of these. God, it’s ugly!
I recalled this story with a fellow dog lover/walker whom I met out on the trail. I said something about militant feminism. “No, no,” she said, “You were dealing with a womanist. They are the female equivalent of a misogynist and loath men in general. Their perspective is as archaic as the notion of nuns and priests.” Her view was refreshing, but I don’t like to genderize the behaviour of people who live with the sad, desperate need to constantly pee in other folk’s corn flakes.
The edge of town, behind the Ladysmith RCMP detachmentUp the creek. Miner’s dam on Holland Creek
It seems that I’ve found myself recently dealing with folks who are easily upset, determined to take offence and speak condescendingly. It happens at times to all of us and when I find myself in that groove I see myself as the common factor and sit in front of the mirror and review what the hell’s happening. I always tend to feel responsible for whatever might be wrong and acrimony leaves me upset for days after.. This time I can’t figure what’s up. Later, I was talking with someone else who remarked that he had just seen an article describing recent, extra large solar flares and their effects on this planet, including electrical grinds, communication systems, and yes, people’s moods. Apparently there is a general wave of hostility and aggressiveness in human behaviour that might be attributed to celestial influence. Dunno! Maybe? We do know that lunar cycles effect human behaviour among many other things so let’s just keep an open mind. Blame it on the sun.
The Shack Out Back Now a backyard storage shed, this may well have been an early home in downtown Ladysmith
In the face of all the recent miseries of the world I’ve been wandering around Ladysmith with my cameras looking at what we have right here. Don’t we take so much for granted? It is a lovely little town. One of my constant joys in this community is how young families are buying up the older miner’s, logger’s and fishermen’s houses and lovingly restoring them. Many of those house are small, but if previous generations could raise large families in them, surely, one-point-something baby yuppies will do just fine there. The bonus is the large yards, many with mature fruit trees and space for large gardens and room for kids to stay at home and play, physically outdoors. I’m loading this blog with photos of Ladysmith and the local area. A popular bumper sticker here reads, “Ladysmith, where you’re never over the hill.”
A Favourite One of the many lovely restored old miner’s houses in Ladysmith. It’s probably close to 100 years old and may well have no framing but built of good solid, clear, rough-cut old growth fir plankingHeart Break Hotel On The Hill You can only imagine its history
There is a movement afoot for many folks to downsize their homes to the point of silliness. There seems to be a notion that they are re-inventing the concept of minimalism and living with less is a great new idea. The trendy yachting magazines are now glorifying those who’ve dumped their grand yacht and are enjoying life with trailer-able sailboats. They’re discovering a new sort of freedom where their possession are truly serving their interests rather than ruling their life.
Sunset on Main Street LadysmithLooking the other way. What wonderful light!An alley detail Casting date on handle is 1896, this may have been the old coal chute.What views have been seen by what eyes through this leaded glass?
Of course a lot of this is rationalization which comes in the wake of recent economic disasters in North America which have decimated the middle class and the notion of our identities being determined by the stuff we accumulate. We are all out of touch with reality in this part of the world and really have no idea of how most of the world’s population lives, forcing itself to be content with rudimentary shelter and no clear idea of when or what their next meal might be. Gluten? Trans-fat? Yes please.
Another Ladysmith classic (Damn those wires!)More wires! Ladysmith Harbour, aka Oyster Bay, beyond.Ladysmith Maritime Society, the news clubhouse. What a splendid endeavour, proof of what volunteers can achieve.
By the way, a happy note from this old cynic. I often slam modern technology and express my dismay at our growing dependance on machines. But today I reviewed a wonderful application of that technology. A blind pregnant woman in Brazil, entering her third trimester, received an ultrasound of the foetus. Those images were then transferred to a 3D printer and so she was able to feel the face of her unborn baby. That made my face leak.
The town had tiny houses but great plumbing! Water supply line to Harmac Pulp Mill
One last note from the media. We’ve long known that dolphins are one of the few other species which indulge in recreational sex. Now we’re learning they also partake in recreational drug use. I’ve just just watched a video which clearly shows a pod of dolphins gently harassing a puffer fish. Once it defensively inflates itself it floats on the ocean’s surface immobilized . The spiky little bugger than begins exuding neurotoxins, which in large doses can be fatally toxic. In mild doses you get stoned so in turns the dolphins nuzzle the little guy and the effects are obvious. One the part is over, the puffer deflates, heads back to its life on the bottom and the dolphins find other distractions. Interesting!
White Bike When I die, hang me on the gate and put flowers in my arms.
I’m reading two wonderful books at the moment. One, ‘The Shadow Of the Sun’ is by Ryszard Kapuscinski, a Polish journalist who in the late 1950s witnessed the end of colonialism in African, the rise of independent states and the ensuing madness which still grips most of that continent. He affords a graphic explanation of so many things I didn’t think about and certainly did not understand. It is a wonderful essay on Africa and I am glad to have read it. Social studies aside, his writing style is beautiful and I heartily recommend this book for those who like to learn and understand.
Spring stream, clear and cold. Let’s enjoy it while we have it.
The second book is ‘The Inconvenient Indian’ by Thomas King. I believe this is a fine and even exciting text for anyone who wants a better understanding of native perspectives about their place in contemporary North American culture and how they got to their present situation. It is of course, biased, but forgivably so, and the wit and insight this writer offers is refreshing and very enlightening.
I’ll close this blog with a quote from that book.
“Most of us think that history is the past. It’s not. History is the stories we tell about the past. That’s all it is. Stories.”…”I simply have difficulty with how we choose which stories become the pulse of history and which do not.”
Thomas King
Jack on track. Heading for what’s around the next bend. Esquimalt & Nanaimo rail bridge over Rosewell Creek
