Our new old house, by modern building codes, is built like a bomb shelter. The contractor back in 1957 still held a sense of honour which meant that every home he erected was also intended to be a monument to his integrity and skill. The timber used was strait-grained and seasoned. It is massive. We have bridge timbers in the basement which support the floor and upper structure. The original diagonally-nailed flooring still does not squeak.
Last night a massive low (The girl in the tight skirt on TV called it a “Bomb Cyclone”) moved within two hundred miles of our shore and sucked the life out of us. We are some of the few who still have electricity this morning. There were gale winds and hurricane-force gusts. White ponies still race over the black water of the harbour and a low thick grey blanket of cloud races overhead. The rain was biblical. In our last home we had several skylights. I miss them. The rain drummed on them loudly and I loved hearing the weather raging outside. This old house does not creak nor allow anything of a storm’s song to penetrate. I have to open a door to check outside and then I am almost flung out into the garden as the wind catches the door. Bitch, bitch, bitch!
I am stunned as usual to witness the incredible stupidity of some people. Due to massive power outages after our recent wind event, several traffic lights are dead. Most folks understand to fall back on the old four-way-stop technique. Everyone takes their turn, first come first go. That is apparently too complicated for some people. I was making a left turn onto the highway. Other vehicles were clustered at the intersection, each politely taking their turn. When it was my time to go I tip-toed out with a sense of dread. Sure enough! An elderly lady did not even slow for the clot in her route. Using the left turn lane she hurtled through at full speed, narrowly missing me. I’ve heard of a few other similar incidents. Miraculously, I know of no horrific crashes. Clearly, fear is a primal instinct to be ignored.
The previous owner of this house wanted to leave me a massive old upright piano where it sat in the living room. I declined. I was working in the backyard when the poor guy arrived with a friend. I ended up helping them. The trick to moving a piano involves using a sledge hammer and crow bars. It is deeply satisfying. I discovered that it had no keyboard but that there was some beautiful clear, well-aged wood which I cherished. I knew that I’d have to take the whole thing if I wanted a part of it so I shut-up and pushed and shoved along with the others. There is some amazing workmanship in those monster contraptions. Have a look inside if you get a chance.
The old plaster walls hold a plethora of nail holes. It looks like there has been a revolution fought here. The Oyster Bay Insurrection? The walls have a rough texture and are hard to patch. It does add character. Random seniors volunteer bits of history about who has lived here and what they had done for the community. It is lovely.
Friday morning brings us another storm warming. Brace yourselves people! Predicted to not be a bad as the last one two days ago, it IS November. Anything goes. I sit at my desk as usual at predawn while a tug scurries in towing a log boom. Three vertical white towing lights on the tug’s mast and a brilliant port hand running light. On the log tow behind are six twinkling white lights which mark the perimeter of the booms. These are clearly led lights, perhaps even solar charged.
I remember being a deckhand out on the log tows. Once all the rigging up was done on the tow, the last thing to do was place and light the towing lamps. This was achieved by pounding a three foot iron rod into a secure log, tightly held in its bundle. On a bracket welded at the top of the rod we would hang a good old-fashioned kerosene lantern and then tie it with a piece of tarred marlin. Then you had to light the bugger, lower the mantle and trim the wick. This was all accomplished usually in a welter of wind and sea spray. Then you would hike back along the log tow to the tug, afraid to look back for fear the lanterns had gone out. There was a regular duty, whenever possible, of cleaning the blackened fragile glass globes, (Which often shattered when splashed with cold sea water, refilling the lanterns without losing the tiny bungs, and then not dropping the damned things into the ocean. Led lights, yeah baby! Bugger the romance of the sea.
At Gibsons, one of the entrances to Howe Sound, there is a bar which you can sneak a tow over at high tide. There is no time to mess about, you have to get your tide over the bar before the tide begins to drop. One night we were in that slot, following another tow northward to Port Mellon. It was past midnight and we could clearly see the towing lights of the booms ahead. Suddenly a speed boat hurtled out of the harbour. Four invincible young men, were completely drunk after a night in the local pub, Grandma’s Inn. The speedster rocketed directly into the back of those log bundles ahead. One body was found face-planted three hundred feet from the point of impact. In the end, after families of the dead had alleged that there had been no towing lights, we had to provide affidavits stating that in fact there were.
I’ve reminded myself of the first time I arrived in Gibsons. It was just at nightfall and I hastily moored my boat. There is a long ramp down onto the docks. A huge window in Grandma’s Inn looks down that ramp and out onto the beauty of the sound. I wanted to see why what looked like every kid in town was lined up along the railing of the ramp. They were all peering into that big window. A stripper was on a small stage, on her back, lewdly gyrating to raucous music.
Ah! Things that bump in the night. Well, here’s one more thing.
I was down at the nearest Home Despot this morning. I ordered an electric snow shovel. Really! I had not heard of one until recently. Five years ago I would have laughed myself wet. It seemed a reasonable compromise between a snow blower and a shovel.
I asked reasonable questions of the elves in orange aprons. I was assured of how it worked in wet snow and dry, fair enough. Then I wanted to know how far it would throw a dog pile. Uhuh! “How high is your neighbour’s fence?” My thwacker is on order.
Today I came home exclaiming how busy the mall was today. I hate malls and only go a few times a year when I must. Then I learned that it was Black Friday! I really did not know! It was quite like being in a footballer’s training scrum with half the shoppers stumbling around while texting on their phone. It was hellacious. Christmas Spirit? Hmmm.
Lift is created by the onwards rush of life over the curved wing of the soul.
― Robert Macfarlane, The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot
