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Nowhere Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It can’t be geezerhood. Artificial Intelligence?

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

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

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

Dung-ho!

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

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

Humpty Trumpty produced a great smell

Dropped a bomb among his lawyers

and drove them all to hell.

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

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

Really!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red Breasted Sapsuckers set up a home for the summer.

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

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

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

NEXT!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens to the best of us.

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

A Department Of Lawlessness

The Department Of Lawlessness

Be Prepared To Stop. What moron wrote that sign? Surely no idiot who ever sat behind a steering wheel thought, “That’s it. I’m never going to stop again!” The whole premise of operating any machine is knowing when, where and how to stop. The biggest pedal among your controls: it’s for the BRAKES! But then there are many flavours of God’s children whom I have not yet met.

If you need to be a round within a square, may you have sharp edges

There is probably a law on the books about not being prepared to stop. In fact, somewhere beneath the seventh basement floor of our government buildings is The Department Of Laws Not Yet Written. So, somewhere there is a Minister of Lawlessness. It is right down the hall next to the Ministry Of Stupidity. Then there’s the department of NAFTA. Not A F…ing Thing’s Allowed.

Ducks and swans in the soggy edge of the field

The tops of these willows mark high water mark of last year’s freshet on the Chemainus River. That is NORMAL! It is not the sign of an apocalypse. Our abundance of water is a luxury we take for granted. Now think Gaza!

Is this the second start of the Ladysmith Maritime Society? It actually looked like much like this once before. What a tragedy!

Remember my best pal Jack? Over two years since his passing here he lays in peace in a place he loved.

As you roll down your driver’s window the police officer says, “I could see you were not prepared to stop.”

“Hell no. Thought I’d keep on going until my wheels fell off.”

“Thet game yer tryin’ to play, is that PICKLEBALL?” “Uhuh! It’s illegal!”

“Smiling permitted only if wearing a facemask. If we can see your teeth, you’re dangerous!”

Slow children playing. Caution. Be careful for whom? Me or them. If they’re slow, why’d you let them go out on the road? Do they have weapons? Other signs leave me scratching certain body parts. How about: For sale by owner? So who the hell else can sell it? Oh you’ve got an agent to peddle it for you! Did you know that?

All of the above were within a 100 metre radius at one end of the same campground. Have a nice time!

Here’s an old friend. Blah, blah,blah,blah.

In Mexico there is a sign which drives me mad. TOPĔ. It means that somewhere ahead there might be a monster speed bump. Up to two metres long, they call also be up to twenty centimetres high. Jamn on your brakes, those puppies can rip the guts right out of your vehicle. You can see how the tops are ground down from the impact of hurtling masses. They could be called Grindems. Buses and commercial trucks seem to take on topěs with full gusto, there is a way of hitting hard-enough that apparently works. Don’t look back.

Topĕs may be at the sign, or anywhere beyond or nowhere at all. Clearly, it’s the sign that makes drivers frantically slow down. Job done. The worst of those bastards are somewhere down the road where you’ve forgotten about the bloody sign. WHAM! Often there’s an angry Mexican driver behind you blaring their horn because you’re messing with their rhythm as you stand on your brakes too late. It must be one reason so many down there can’t seem to drive without screaming radios. Drown it all out! Bachĕs (potholes) are more frequent but come with no signs. Vibradorěs are a series of small topěs designed to make it sound as if all the tires on your vehicle have been shredded. Sometimes there are signs for them. There are also Militarĕs which may come with a variety of signs. There is no doubt when you’ve found one. Often there is a length of 6′ ship’s hawser snaked back and forth across the pavement. There is also a gaggle of young men in military costumes with machine guns and at least one wide-eyed fellow sitting in the back of a truck pointing a .50 cal mini-cannon between your eyes. You WILL slow down!

Lawlessness? Don’t ask questions. Gringo-think does not work here.

Funny how a comment on silly signs leads directly to Mexico. I love that place and the obvious contempt for law and order. There are times when it is nice to believe that everyone is playing with the same rule book. Other traffic signs which bemuse me are thos warning of a “Dead End” or “No Exit.” Go down there, you’ll never be seen again. Really!? It seems in this cold real world there is a law and a sign against everything. Use a little humour folks, tell us what’s allowed, perhaps even approved of.

Perhaps the most memorable sign I can recall was in, yep, Mexico. It was at a crocodillerio, a place where crocodiles are raised and protected. These salt-water beauties can get up to 16′ in length. There’s no doubt that these are the last of the dinosaurs. I don’t believe they operate with any morals or conscience. Eat! It’s all they know. A hand- painted illustration showed a sad fat lady holding up a dog leash with an empty collar. The polite and graphic message was clear. Peligroso!

Tonight I have my little trailer parked in a commercial camping ground. It is not like meself to pay for this diminutive priviledge. The notion is to spend a couple of nights here using all systems and debugging any imperfections before heading into the back of beyond. So far, so good. I understand that when people pay for the priviledge of parking here, they expect serenity. So there is a long list of rules which come with the map to your parking slot. It’s simple. No nuthin’. Have fun. God help dog owners. More rules. Arf! Tires constantly crunch back and forth on the on the gravel paths, all day all night. An interesting observation is that many of these psuedo homes have Cadillacs parked in front. There’s a statement.

Pals.
They haven’t seen a sighn yet that impresses them, well maybe they’ve peed on a few.

Yak attack. This model 3 is Russina/Chinese designed and built. There were rugged trainer/fighters and make a desirable private plane. The throb of their engine is music in the sky.

It is just not for me to have an Rv so that you can park neatly parallel 4 meters from your neighbours. I enjoy being where no-one else is. Here folks have subtle ways of telling you that they were here first. As if I give a toss. Clearly, living in a frail trailer has become a culture of people who cannot, or are afraid to, live in a more permanent home. Aside from the mantle of rules there other inconveniences. For example, living in an Rv park ten kilometres from town on a divided highway with the nearest turnaround to go back toward town yet another ten kilometres down the road. So, that forgotten box of fruit loops requires a minimum fifty km drive. Porridge again! Then there are the tornados! Perhaps a viable new television series could be “Geezer Park Games.” Move over Bubbles. Could these be the same people, who fifty years ago, were called hippies? Peace man!

“Any fool can make a rule And any fool will mind it.”

― Henry David Thoreau

A Quick Trip

Heading out. The view from my Astoria motel room. Sliding under the Columbia River Bridge, within the hour she’ll be over the Columbia Bar, will have dropped off her pilot and be setting a heading for somewhere in Asia. Magic! The white exhaust means she’s switching over to burn Bunker C, a thick, toxic fuel oil which is much cheaper to burn.

The bogman goes to town. Astoria is a fascinating town to visit, with shops, restaurants, architecture and scenery which should interest everyone.

I can only guess the rest of the story. Astoria, like most Westcoast communities has its share of dead-end stories. I don’t think this was one, vbut there was no sign of happiness here.

February 28^th sees a torrential rain with dire warnings for the whole day. I messed around until noon, waiting for the rain to ease before taking my two wee dogs out for their daily walk. They waited patiently. When I was finally getting ready to go, I discovered a very neat dogpile on the floor in front of the toilet. Now that’s a clear, simple political statement. Dogs can teach us so much!

Local talent. Roosevelt elk are indigenous. At Fort Smith they provide an organic solution for cutting and fertilizing the lawns.

Coffee Blues. Buildings are painted boldly in Astoria, there’s a taste in cuisine and music for everyone.

This forepeak will never go to sea again. The old hull has some fine lines, but no living thing goes on forever.

Home, Sour home. Someone’s shelter. The garbage seethed with fat, brown rats.

Little boxes. No more buzzing in the crossed wires.

Mechano Spawn. The art galleries are fabulous. I could have spent thousands.

I’m home again after a grand weekend in Astoria at the annual Fisher Poets gathering in Astoria. From Ladysmith it is a three hundred mile drive plus a twenty-five mile ferry ride. All went well, my readings were well-received, I was MC at one event and met up with old friends and new. Astoria is a delightful town and my one regret, as usual, is heading home again so soon.The weather, for once, was decent, but Highway 101 south of the town named Forks, has deteriorated badly, so with ferry connections the trip is the best part of a day each way.

Retro town. The cherished architecture of Astoria is grand.

An old railcar is slowly recycling itself.

Wanna buy some good used chain? Each link is about 10″ long.

Dennis performs. He’s hilarious! The event has grown to present over 100 readers and musicians.

Doreen is in her nineties. She’s eloquent, fresh and feisty. Many of the younger performers are also incredible.

I stop to talk with pretty girls. This is Stella.

Astoria has several excellent Mexican restaurants, ‘El Jarrocho’ is the newest and is fantastic.

Hung by the river. Some old rigging from days gone by. The pigeons love it.

I wannit! Left-hand steering; an ultimate 4×4 truck.

The line. Ships anchor in the Columbia River to take on cargos as far inland as Idaho.

“Skipper, I see fish.”
A rare find, a new fishing boat under construction. The openings are for a bulb-bow and a bow thruster.

The two pm ferry trip back to Victoria meant I had to leave my Astoria motel by 06:30 and arrived in Port Angeles 6 hour later after an intense drive. That’s when the fun began. The boat did not have a large load but it would prove to be a memorable trip, especially for all those not of nautical experience. All the way from the Oregon border (Columbia River) I had been chased by an advancing cold front. Gusting blasts of wind and a heavy cold rain hounded me up the twisting route. Now it was arriving at the Strait of Juan De Fuca. Tugboaters know it as “Wanna Puka.”

The Coho swings in for a stern-to landing in Port Angeles. It was poetry in motion.

This cable layer was laying at anchor facing east. Then the squall-line hit. She abruptly swung 180 degrees and settled in for the blow about a half mile from where she’d been. You can see that she’s actually heeling to a big blast of wind.

The spit at Port Angeles which shelters the bay, and the open strait beyond.

Salt water window wash. Perhaps this little girl will always remember her ride.

A fierce westerly hit the bay at Port Angeles. There were no large waves but a suddenly a flat foam raced across the ocean’s surface. A small sloop with its genoa out took a serious schooling. I went to the front of the boat and took my photos and video early. I knew what was coming and did my best to keep my smirks to myself. I know the ‘M.V.Coho’ as the stout and seaworthy ship she is. Outside the buoy on the spit the plunging and rolling began. It is amazing how quickly large seas can build, especially when an ebbing tide slams into a gusting thirty knot breeze. Within minutes the passengers were practicing their silly walks, clinging to anything apparently solid. Some made their way to the front windows which were now regularly covered in inches of sea water blowing over the bow. One twit decided it would be manly to go stand at the forward flagstaff and show the world how daring he was. Fool! Most of the water was going over his head but one errant lump would have taken him overboard without a trace. I was not going out to tell him so and clearly neither were any of the crew. Those inside he thought was posing for also saw him as an idiot.

Four more goofs joined him but were soon back inside, soaking wet and hypothermic. Other passengers gave them a wide birth. Meanwhile, the stewards went around with armloads of sick sacks. Theyv’e clearly seen it all before. If you close your eyes and remember Julie Andrews singing, hear the revised lyrics: “The decks were alive with the sound of puking.” Kansas, or wherever these folks came from, will never be the same again. They’re smarter now. It is not a recommended weight lose program. This old salt wedged himself into a corner and had a nap through the mayhem. I was at home. Aaaaar Billy!

The old boat, with her keel laid in 1959, is a marvelous sea boat, completely at ease in heavy weather and never has crippling maintenance issues. I dare to guess, that with the proper maintenance she clearly gets, she may be only at mid-life. She is owned by the Blackball Ferry Line and so far as I know, is a private business with no grants or subsidies. I wish BC Ferries, a crown corporation, would have a look at how things can be done. They, whenever the wind rises above a seagull fart, tie up the fleet and constipate coastal highway traffic massively, sometimes for days.

“Thank you for sailing BC Ferries.” As if we had a choice! Now imagine if we also had to pass through customs and immigration at BC Ferry terminals. Two of our vessels were built in Europe and of course delivered here on their own keels. Surely they can handle the Strait Of Georgia. It can get darned rough, but not like Juan De Fuca.

“Traffic, Starboard bow.” Both ships followed the book of course and all was well. Cameras have a way of making waves look much smaller. This wall of water was about twelve feet tall. You know it is blowing seriously when the wind is shaving the top of the waves.

Last Sunday, the old ‘Coho’ kissed the dock three minutes late. Guided ashore prompty, I cleared customs and was home in little over an hour. Simple.

“The unavoidable price of reliability is simplicity.”– Tony Hoare

(It follows that whenever government becomes involved, simplicity, and so reliabilty, vanishes.)

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.

So Ended The Year

A Callas Lily offsets the dreary days of January.

Same old, same old. Christmas evening. Presents opened, dogs have them half-chewed up, meal is finished and cleared out of the way. The weather has gradually worsened until a heavy surging rain is blowing horizontally in the wind. It is dark and quiet, except for the weather. Daylight faded completely at around three pm and there’s a long night ahead. Joy to the world.

Blackhawk down. The mighty military war horse is also a very capable work horse. It thrilled me to see it. I began my apprenticeship as a rotary wing engineer in 1969. Things have changed a bit since then.

One dog gift was a stuffed toy that looked like a carrot and was filled with catnip. Some dogs love it. Then doggie chewed through and there were suddenly drifts of the strange spice all over the house. How someone managed to get a shovel-load of that shit inside one tiny carrot-sized toy is amazing. It was fun while it lasted. A non-eventful week flew by and now it is New Year’s Day. I’m proud to report that I have no hangover and can launch myself into the new year with a clear head. There was a platoon of thugs who advanced down the street firing random rounds, or was that just a bunch of youngsters with loud fireworks? I don’t really give a toss except that you really upset my dogs and I hope that you get your ass bitten. “Tastes like chicken!”

Soon there was cotton stuffing and tentacles were spread around the room.

So ended the year. Now almost another week has passed. There’s nothing accomplished yet. I’m still tinkering in my little trailer but mostly I just enjoy sitting there, warm and snug as the winter weather jostles it about. It feels a bit like being in a small boat. Today I connected the TV and the dvd player. They worked! Now I can get away from it all and bring it all with me. Actually, a good film is like a good book, worth looking at again and again with something new to be discovered each time.

There’s an old Redneck espression about pay day when the “Eagle shits again.” For some, it’s a sparrow.

There are still odd but happy dramas. In today’s morning headlines an Alaska Air 737 Max9 leaving Portland OR depressurized at 16,000′ when a door blew out. Everyone is fine. “I was having a nap when my blanket fell out of the airplane!” A mother holding her infant son almost lost him but all’s well that ends. Here we go again! The evening news assured us that all is well here in Canada. No Canadian airline owns one at the moment. Meanwhile, somewhere in Oregon, there is a chicken coop with an honking big airplane door jammed in its roof. No eggs today! Well they have now found it in someone’s back yard. Bob the teacher’s friends told him to go have a look and sho’ nuff, there it was. Everyone can come up for air now except for one TV reporter. She stood in front of the camera and declared that a fuselage had fallen off an airplane. OK?

Winter swamp. Come summer all that water will be gone.

Isn’t it interesting how non-descript things can catch your attention? I’m looking at the logo on a tube of Arm and Hammer toothpaste. It is a drawing of a blacksmith’s powerful right arm holding up a massive steel hammer. I marvelled to realize that is exactly the same illustration that I admired as a young boy so very long ago. For years I possessed a pair of arms like that, now they’re kind of withered and flabby. I used to have a hard time finding shirts that my arms fit, now it’s the belly. I wonder what happened to the rest of the blacksmith. I also use a arthritis cream called Voltaren. It and the toothpaste sit on the counter side by side and are both the same colour. I wonder if there’ll come a day when I discover the taste of Voltaren on my tooth brush. Ah, the reward of having all your own teeth!

Niether rain, nor sleet….
There’s a reason we were out there all alone.

It was 5:30 pm when I came inside. It is a beautiful clear evening with Venus beaming brilliantly in the evening sky. There is still some daylight in the west. The second sign is that today, while trespassing in the halls of the Home Despot, the BBQs were out and for sale.

Soon the aroma of cut grass and burned meat will again waft through the burbs.

Winter is a reminder that life isn’t forever. Luke Parker

A Celebration Of The Homeless

Christmas Pickins’
He’s my favourite decoration

He shuffled out of the bedroom and said, “I’ve got two stiffies this morning.”

“You what?” She responded, “A tooth fitting!?”

“ No, no, my knees!”

That’s a real story. It occurred a few minutes ago right in this room. This getting old has its moments. Thankfully I’m still alive enough to have a sense of humour. When that’s gone, so too will I be. Today is the 21^st, the shortest daylight hours of the year. The official solstice is at 01:27 UTC tomorrow morning. There’ll be palm trees swaying in the breeze before we know it and parrots squawking at dawn.

Meanwhile I’ve been out in my cold, cold garage overhauling my wee genset. These new ones are amazing. They’re tiny, they’re quiet and produce electricity for hours on one tank of fuel. I have an “app” on my mobile phone which lets me monitor load, remaining fuel and allows me to shut the machine off remotely. It has not been running perfectly so I decided to remove the tiny carburetor for a good cleaning. So! Try jamming your gnarly old paws into that thing, while holding a wrench. It’s like trying to do brain surgery on a kitten, through the rectum! I succeeded. tt runs fine now but there were contemplations about the price of a new generator. Think green, bic it!

It’s complicated. These old poplar trees stretch out in the winter sun

Christmas shopping is at full frenzy. Folks are lined up in the grocery store buying their festive spam and the elite may be able to manage a sack of gizzards. Gull or turkey, who knows? While truly thankful that I’m not in Gaza, or the Ukraine, I wonder how this will end. Most folks in our culture don’t even know how to plant a potato. Damn we are spoiled and soft! In my favourite auto parts store a man was buying a full case of WD40 in spray cans. I complimented him on his clever Christmas shopping and wondered how long it would take to gift wrap each can. He told me that products in aerosol cans were being banned and he wanted to lay in a rest-of-his-life stock. Hmmm. As if the company was closing its doors! I wonder if he scooted on to pick up a case of toilet paper. We’ve been there before! And if you live on an island… with a belly full of turkey spam! Yer gonna need it.

Here in Ladysmith, the town throbs with Christmas lights, and they love special interest activities. One is to drive around town, and around, and bloody around with fire trucks and wailing sirens. The poor dogs howl their asses off and grumpy old men fume. What the hell sirens have to do with peace on earth is a total mystery. But then our neighbour has a pulsing, garish light display that looks like the crash scene of a 787.

In the distance, shotguns bang away at ducks. Christmas in the estuary.

And so now I’m writing on December 24^th. Everyone is out there rushing about on their final Christmas missions and I’m half a pot of coffee into my dawn watch. After a while I realize that the dull pallor is as good as it gets. It’s time to get out and walk the dogs before a heavy rain begins again. I wish everyone a happy traditional Christmas and that you all have someone to give a gift to. Fleas navigate and bumhug to all. Don’t let it make you swell up too much.

Christmas is built upon a beautiful and intentional paradox; that the birth of the homeless should be celebrated in every home.h G.K. Chesterton

Dream Box

Last year, for less than twenty bucks, I bought this living tree already decorated. I have even reused the string of tiny lights. Two trees are still alive out there because I’m a cheap old knob.

Feeling miserable as last year’s little Christmas tree, sitting in its little pot on the back on the deck while beat upon by the cold December rain. Nasty blasty weather days are punctuated by clear and cold but penetrating damp days. Solar illumination available 8am to 4pm. Considering weather, economic and political climates we live in probably the best place on earth. Yet, my old bones crave warmer climates. All it takes is money, attitude and a southern latitude. I’m sure someone in Gaza woud be happy to trade places with me.

Last year at this time salmon were spawning like the end of the world. Maybe it was.. They were everwhere, you could walk on them. This year there are hardly any. That is not a sign of end times, climate change or any political malfeasance. It is normal to have fluxuations in all things natural, especially weather and climate. The rest of the effects follow as they always have. There are rich years and then lean ones. Indigenous people starved during low-cycle years and understood that was how it worked. They did not trot around looking for someone to blame. No human has a hand on a switch to control those things, whatever folks may choose to believe. Folks used to accept that fact but now that most of us live in a man-made synthetic environment, many of us look for someone to blame when we’ve planned our picnic wrong.

A different kind of alone. Stuck on a foreign ship in a harbour in the cold pouring rain, can’t go ashore. Waiting for cargo. Thoughts of family at Christmas.

A lovely tradition. Some folks randomly decorate trees along paths in the woods. That never fails to cheer me up.

The wee dogs and I have just returned from our morning outing. It is hammering a very cold December rain mixed with blobs of slush. The girls reluctantly trotted up into the dog park, did their business, and hurtled back to the truck but I forced them to walk one round of the park. They both wear colourful winter rain jackets but they prefered the comforts of home. They’re now laying in front of the fireplace. Through the scudding clouds I can see fresh snow on the mountain behind town. Think I’ll go downtown and line up for a jug of rum.

“For a good second look, come back at high tide.”

Sunday morning is blacker than inside a bear but there is no snow on the ground. I guess it is nice that all I have to whine about is the weather. I put hot coffee and food inside my fat belly and then the dogs walk me around an old local farm, We meet kindred spirits out with their lovely dogs. Those pets show their resilience and joy in the moment and keep their complaints to themselves. We have so much to learn from them. If only we would pay attention.

Sometimes we’ve got to SEE the beauty in the things we look at.

“Yep, and be sure to see the things looking at you.”

The month wears on. It’s like a slow skid on a gravel road. I’m tinkering up my recently-bought trailer. Personalizing it, stowing “stuff”, dreaming of fragrant ocean breezes, seeing monster saguaro cacti through the windows, hearing the cry of a caracara. Perhaps that’s the value of the thing, the dream box.

Lone gull on the road to Crofton in the afternoon.

White car passing in Sunday morning red dawn.

Survival = Anger x Imagination Sherman Alexie