Sal was returning home from the Post office yesterday when a humpback whale rose near her small boat.  It blew, it rolled and it dove.  Sal was gobsmacked.

Sal’s boat is 11 feet long maybe a bit over 4 feet wide.  It has a six to eight inch freeboard.  For me, it is just a small step up from a surfboard but for the featherweight that is my wife, it is simply ‘sporty’.  Like a Miata.  She thinks it is perfect.  She stopped the engine and watched.

And she called me on her walkie-talkie.

The whale ‘humped’ near her and dove under her boat.  She was describing it’s actions but stopped (as usual) in mid-sentence as it passed beneath her.

“Sal?  Sal?  You there?  You OK?  Sal?”

“OHhhhhh…..Myyyyyy……Gaaaaawd!”

“What?  WHAT?!!  YOU OK!!??”

My wife (bless her little heart) is of the opinion that phones, walkie-talkies and cell-phones are intrusions on real life experience.  If she is busy having a real life experience, the communication device is forgotten.  Completely.  That is to say, IF she has it turned on at all – a less than fifty-fifty likelihood.

So, I got nothing.

Silence.

Not even static.

I went for the binoculars.  Couldn’t see her.

“Sal?”

Basically whales are pretty benign creatures, Moby Dick notwithstanding.  I wasn’t really afraid for her.  But then again, it was a whale.  And Sal is a feather.  In a teacup!  And she was NOT answering her walkie-talkie.

“Sal?  Sal?  You there?”

“……………………………………………………………………………………Oh yeah.  Just on my way home.  See you in a few minutes.  Just gonna hang out here for a bit and watch the whale.  No worries…………..” 

As most readers know, we didn’t go ‘off the grid’ to do the Mountain-man thing or even to be adventurous or au naturel or anything.  I, personally, went off the grid simply because I was bored with being on the grid.  Our move ‘out’ was really a way of getting away from being ‘in’.  And Sal is just one of those supportive spouses who just sorta feels that it will all work out in the end and she’s always up for an adventure anyway so, why not?  She was not really conscious about what we were embarking on any more than I was.

And, of course, it has been an adventure.  It has been kinda mountain-manish and we are living much more naturally.  And we have grown in many ways.  So, on the surface, it may look as if it was all part of our intention.  And that our intention was to be more independent.  But it was not.  Most of the really neat off-the-grid stuff was a surprise and or a bonus.  It was all a surprise bonus, really.

I mention all this because I tend to read a lot and I am always looking for books about people who intentionally went off the grid.  Freedom seekers.  And there aren’t many.  One of the few is Chris Czajkowski.  She of Nuk Tessli fame.  The others are more accidental.  Like us.

There are the folks who think they live off the grid because they can’t afford hydro or a truck.  They may live on a road and there may be power on the pole but they don’t have it so they consider themselves off the grid.  Another was a woman who divorced her husband and was a writer on a small acreage.  She considered herself so cut off that she was off the grid.  She wasn’t.  She was just alone.  I recall another who wrote a series for a newspaper about living off the grid because the local store closed in the winter when she decided to visit and because things froze and the ferry didn’t run on time.  Poor baby.

And then there is Nick Rosen.  Nick writes about living off the grid while living in London.  He has expanded off the grid-ness to those who RV or live in cars, those who travel a lot or those who are homeless.  Nick even includes those artistic types who build homes from rubber tires and shipping containers.  Eccentric?  yes.  Off the grid?  Not necessarily.

And It all got me to thinking about what, in fact, is off the grid living…?

In theory, we are way off the grid.  I even called my blog that.  But, honestly?  Our neighbours are going into town and will pick us up some tomatoes which we forgot the last time we went shopping (last Friday).  My genset is running on gasoline that was delivered a month ago and books come by post (via the mail-plane).  Sally fussed when we last went to town because I didn’t have a ‘nice shirt’ to wear.  The dogs eat ‘produced’ dog food.  We drink wine and scotch.  Last night’s dinner was beef Stroganoff with a nice salad with vinaigrette dressing.  Sally finished her meal with a Roger’s chocolate.  Then we watched a movie.

How rough is that?!

I guess what I am saying is that living off the grid nowadays does not seem to be like it was when Chris headed out.  That kind of off-the-gridding is rare.

Then I listened to radio reports about the flooding in Alberta.  People couldn’t go home.  The authorities wouldn’t let them!  Their houses might be unsafe. Presumably the poor dears were too stupid to determine that for themselves.   Reporters were interviewing people who had no electricity.  Or water.  One woman made the news because she had not had a shower in two days!

I dunno, folks.  Maybe it is just me.  Maybe it is just the news.  Maybe it is the authorities.  I honestly don’t know.  But if living off the grid means the lifestyle I have versus the one where everyone is so incredibly dependent or obedient to the grid authorities, where their hardship is measured in showers had and or TVs not working, then there really is a difference and it has nothing to do with hardship.  It has nothing to do with challenge.  Not anymore.  Not like Chris.

Now it has more to do with personal responsibility.  And it has more to do with helplessness.

I guess what I am saying is this: you don’t have to live like a mountain man to be independent and capable.  Not anymore.  But, somehow, living on the grid seems to rob people of even a semblance of that.  Gridders (or some of them) seem to become more helpless. They seem to be more dependent on the grid.  And they become reliant and dependent on the authorities instead of themselves.

Living off the grid today can be modern, reasonable, comfortable and good.  Living on the grid today seems to foster dependence, reliance and helplessness. Who knew?

And this is something else we didn’t know about when we moved out here.  We had no idea that moving off the grid would be confidence growing, capability increasing, responsible and as independent as it is.  It is by comparison, anyway.

We are still very dependent.  We need products and services.  We need each other and our neighbours.  But, honestly?  We don’t need them as much.  Not by a long shot.

I am not really a hobby kind of guy.  Hobbies generally bore me.  I like ’em fine until I get relatively proficient at whichever one I am doing, then I plateau and soon get bored.  Then I have a bunch of crap to deal with, not to mention two or three half-completed bronze castings or whatever.  I’m just too undisciplined to hobby properly.

Plus I still harbour visions of grandeur on some kind of public or even world  scale and hobbies are counter-intuitive to that, really, don’t you think?  Think Bill Gates or Putin have hobbies?  Think Obama ties flies or makes his own beer?

So you can imagine my surprise as I contemplate my current activities…!  They are hobbies!  Even the slow-to-come workshop disguised as a studio is really just me indulging my hobby-builder thing.

I mean, I do need a studio-cum-workshop but I really could have used it before we built the house and now it is more like ’rounding out the empire’ than a really pressing need.

Well, Sal wants to see less of me so she really feels the need for it.  But I’m good.

I’ve done a bit of rustic furniture-making lately and that’s been kinda good.  But I see a plateau somewhere up ahead on all this rustic business.  Only so many rustic end tables needed in the world, eh?  Like a half a dozen?  Maybe?

And I have got a few other goofy ‘hobby-like’ things going on…..too embarrassing to admit to.…….but, I do.  Doing hobby crap is starting to be the default, go-to place for me.  How weird is that?  (Maybe I am trying to wean myself off Off the Grid?  Dunno.  Just kinda riding the horse in the direction in which it is going, ya know?)

So, anyway, how do I reconcile having a hobby (or two) when I have so much real work to do?  On the face of it, it seems ridiculous.  I only have so much energy and I am already limited by so little skill……I really should apply those minuscule resources to where they would do the most good!  Right?

Wrong.  Doing the work that needs to be done is usually a smidge on the dangerous or difficult side and that kind of stuff should be done with Sally.  I think.  Other guys chop down trees and build cabins and stuff alone but not me.  I do that kind of work with Sal.  I don’t really need her for most of it, I guess, but I like the company, the work goes quicker and she is a huge assistance.  I actually enjoy working with Sal.

Mind you, we only work for four hours at a go because she isn’t as pleased with working with me as I am working with her.  And I understand that.  I tend to get focused and a smidge irritated when things don’t go right and, of course, we are amateurs at everything we do so nothing ever goes right.  Not the first time, anyway.  By the time it is going right, we are done with that job.

But it is definitely safer working with a partner.  Ergo, when she is off doing a Sally thing, I am left alone surrounded by way too many sharp tools and so, discretion being the better part of my labour, I tend towards doing a safe hobby instead of the bigger more lethal job.  And, as Sal has been pretty busy lately with a lot of outside activities, my hobbying has been on the rise.

If Sal stays away much longer, we’ll be tripping over rustic.

God, I am weird at times!

.

Orcas last night.  Pod of half a dozen.  Cruisin’ north.  Dogs told us.

Megan can’t bark – she was lasered by her breeder before we got her so that people who attend dog shows don’t have to listen to a lot of barking (you’d think that if anyone would be tolerant of barking dogs it would be dog afficianados, wouldn’t you?).  Fid was ‘done’, too, but his larynx has mostly grown back and he is much more vocal.  Somehow, he is more auditory as well.  I think.

Meg was outside doing her regular lounge act on the settee and the rest of us were inside reading (well, Fid was licking something but we’ll leave it at that).  All of a sudden Fid perks up and ‘listens’.  Meg was miming a barking dog out the window and he must have lip read.  Or something.  Then he takes up the call and all hell breaks loose.

So we get up to have a look and, sure enough, about three hundred yards out, silently (except for ‘blowing’) the whales were coursing up the channel.

Orcas are black.  And it was late.  They are silent except for their breathing.  But somehow, I guess, Meg heard them and passed a message to Fid who, in turn, threw a holy fit in an effort to alert us.  And so we, in turn, radio’d our neighbours.  And we all looked out into the dark hearing heavy breathing.

Reminded me of my youth.

Not a lot these days reminds me of youth, tho.  Especially Father’s Day.  My kids are old enough to have kids!  Last night (just before the whales) we took the boat around to unload some heavy lumber in the lagoon.  Why?  Because the tide was up and it so much easier to unload heavy stuff when the first fifteen feet are done for you by astrophysics.

Mind you, Sal’s recent dental surgery prohibited her from heavy lifting so I had to do it all.  I hate it when that happens!

So there I am with one of five 20 foot 2 x 6 (Fir) climbing up the irregular rockface to get the 50 pound board another fifteen or so feet up the beach (for later lifting by the highline).  It is just past dusk.  ‘Hmmmm, other 65 year-olds are watching TV.  What the hell is wrong with me?’  And, after I drop the first one, I turn back in time to see Sal dragging another off the boat and lifting it to the shore so as to make it easier on me!

“Hey!!  No heavy lifting, you’ll pop a stitch!”

“Better than you having a heart attack, you old fool!  And, anyway, when you drop to the rocks below with a coronary, who do you think is going to have to drag your sorry butt from there into the boat and haul you to the hospital?  Believe me, helping you with a board is the easier option here!”

“Oh.  Well, thanks………..I think”.

Nowadays your average person can e-mail, phone, text or, I suppose, still even fax or snail-mail.  We mime, gesture, lip-read, mind-read, talk-dog and try to foresee the future.  It’s all about getting the message.

On our way back from town, down the old logging road, I turned the corner and saw two space aliens on the road!

Well, one was on the road where it widens at the turn and the other was on the little bridge over the creek that flowed into the lake.  It, she, he was looking down into it.

“What the hell is that!?” said Sal

“Vulcans”, I said knowingly.  “Get ready to be probed!”

Both creatures were dressed in black, baggy, sponge-like pajamas with a neat shiny symbol (kinda like a Hyundai) on the middle of their chests.  They had a few loose belts or tubes or hoses or something hangin’ off them as well.  They had flat lead-like plates on their suits and weird, floppy epaulets on their shoulders.  And they were kinda waddling.

I slowed the vehicle to a stop and rolled down the window.  “Pardon me”,  I said, “Klingons?  Vulcans, perhaps?”

“Well, we are aliens, alright, that’s for sure!  But not space aliens, we are Texans.  From the University of Texas.  We are divers doing research on the Stickleback in this creek.  This is one of the few places in the world we can watch them nest and breed.”  

I narrowed my eyes and affected the look of a rube-in-the-sticks (not in the least difficult once you know how), “Now that is something an alien would say to throw an earthling off the scent.  Ain’t no such thing as Texas scuba divers working in creeks!!  I know that.  Now I am really suspicious. I have half a mind to call my leader!  So, whacha really doin’ ’round here?  Gonna do some probing?”

“Unh, no.  Really.  Research on Sticklebacks.  Honest!”

We bid them good luck and left unprobed and maybe just a little disappointed.  ‘Maybe it was my breath?’

“At the very least.” said Sal

One of our neighbour-friends is from the southern States.  Louisiana.  We had just seen her on the ferry.  We really like her.  She’s a spunky, yoga, happy hippy-chick the same age as me.  Looks younger, moves younger and talks a mile.  Just spent the last five days driving like hell for almost 4000 miles and sleeping in her Toyota.  Said it was 105 degrees much of the way til she got past the Divide.  Bush fires in Colorado, near hurricane in Louisiana, tornadoes in Oklahoma.  “Geez, it’s good to see the green cool beauty of BC.  I just love it here!”

Just another town day.  But they are getting shorter and farther between.  Sal had to see the dentist at 11:00 and, while that personal hell was being handled, I handled the chores.  Left a few undone.  We were on the 2:30 ferry.  Home just after 5:00.  Total town time?  Maybe 3 hours.  Total travel, schlepping, boating, packing and town time?  7 or 8.  Feeling when it is done?  Priceless with a much heavier MasterCard.

“It sure is good to be home, isn’t it?  I mean, this is like a sanctuary, a paradise, a shelter from the madness…..right?”

“Sweetie, we’ve just been gone a few hours….”

“Yeah, I know.  But, honest to God, it feels like pure relief getting home now, don’t you think?”  

“Yeah.  It does.  I know what you mean.  I’d prefer to stay home, too, but I wouldn’t wamt to miss the aliens.”

Out here we have some paranoid whackos.  No question.  Some of them – for years – have been claiming that the Homeland Security monitors cell phone calls (all of them!), e-mails and even your everyday whereabouts by tracking your cell phone even if you are not using it.  They even claimed that the government monitors your internet activity!  All of this coming from unkempt, unwashed, needing-a-haircut, conspiracy theorists who had no such devices or even friends.  Or even indoor plumbing or a shower, for that matter.

‘Course, I considered them mad as hatters and, on so many other fronts, I stand by my judgment.

But, once again, I was wrong!  And my local crazies had at least some of it right.  My local comrades, I mean.

Edward Snowden admitted that, while working as a low level techie at Booz Allen, (a CIA consulting firm), he had access to anyone’s cell-phone records and any other information that he wanted at any time including general internet usage, Facebook and “anyone who ever used Google”.

Around the world!

I could be busted at anytime.

Therefore it behooves me to apologize now for any misstatements and prostrate myself before Big Sister asking for forgiveness for my trespasses and promising never ever to criticize government in all its myriad forms, recognizable or not, official or not, law-abiding or not, acting in the public interest or not, for as long as I live.  So help me Janet Napolitano (director of Homeland Security).  Amen.

Special and extra apologies to Dick and George for my uncalled-for remarks regarding their activities and motives regarding the Iraq war.  Sorry, guys.

I state for the official record (are you getting this?) that I have always acted alone and that no other person, place or thing (dog) has knowingly cooperated with me in my efforts whatsoever.  Although this was not by choice (it can get lonely at times), it is nevertheless true.  I have no accomplices, collaborators or co-conspirators.  Sally knows nothing!  Clueless, I swear!

Further, no animals were ever harmed in any production of anything I have ever undertaken save for mosquitos and flies, prawns and the odd fish.

I admit to being critical of government at all levels and on all things and doing so for almost all of my 65 years.  But I was only kidding.  Honest. I love you guys.  Out there protecting me and all?  Looking out for my well-being.  Gee whiz, it was just a joke!  Honestly, you just keep on watchin’ me and mining my data, you’ll see.  I’ll be good.  Honest!  Real good.  In fact, if you want any information on anyone I know, just ask.  I’ll spill my guts.  To hell with those terrorists (oops, probably shouldn’t use that ‘key’ word), eh?

Well, at least I know I got your attention. 

Listen, I got Jewish friends, Arabic friends, Chinese friends and……get this………weird conspiracy freaks hiding in the woods.  You guys want them?  I’ll cough ém up.  Easy.  Anything for security, eh?

God bless you, Janet! 

Busy, busy.  So much to do.

Some critter got in the garden the other night and vandalized it.  So, Sal had to apply triage-type care on it.  She put in some new plants from a neighbour’s garden donor bank and re-established what she could.  We felt violated.

Oooohhh…….man against nature, eh?  It can get ugly out here.  But we shall prevail!

I am a few planks short of a full load it seems.  Literally.  Can’t get started until I come up with some 16-footers I failed to order first time around.  Only need six.  “A stick!  My studio for a stick!”

Roadway slope at the end of the road was completed.  Finished pictures to follow. We still have some lower (and maybe upper) pathway improvements to do and a small ‘dock/pier’ to build but one day of work should put it right. This is a major improvement.

The locals held a talking stick circle (TC) the other day.  Fashioned after the First Nations tradition, everyone sits in a circle and passes a stick around.  Only the person holding the stick can speak.  But not everyone does.  If they have nothing to say, they just pass the stick on.  And around the stick goes for as long as it takes for all the opinions, thoughts, news and such to get around.  It’s a good idea.

Kinda.

Sal and I didn’t go to this one.  Sal was under the weather and I was dissuaded by our previous experience at the last one (a few talkers went on and on and on…….and on….and on. I seem to recall – just before I passed out – that one of them was performing a very long version of a free-form poem that he had written.) and by the fact that we had so much else to do.  Especially that day.  I really had no time to hear someone ramble on unchecked about something of no interest to me.  And, of course, I have come to learn that, armed with a stick, I can go on and on unchecked about things of no interest to others.

I would modify the traditional proceedings if it was up to me.  I would give everyone a stick but one person.  The person without a stick talks.  If they go on too long, everyone hits them with their stick.  Then the monologues would move along better.

The talking circle was a good idea in its time but forest dwellers mingle more these days and most of us have modern communication devices from radio phones to telephones to internet  We are not so reliant on such quaint or traditional methods anymore.

‘Course, nothing beats face to face communication and so the TC still has a place.  But not for me.  Not now while summer is almost full on, anyway.

Plus – I think we are all getting on and, you see, we older types tend to get set in our ways, get a bit grouchy, grow easily impatient and, quite frankly, are uncomfortable sitting for long periods of time. We have no time anymore for any nonsense.  And even if it is not such nonsense – we tend to think it is.  It is the curmudgeons way.

As a mediator for almost twenty years I also learned that no meeting, no matter how fascinating, can hold the interest of even the most focused person for more than two hours and most of us have mentally checked out after 90 minutes.  It is no accident that movies are the length they are and the last few minutes is where all the action is.

Talking circles don’t have much action.  They are not supposed to.

And, on a beautiful June Day with so much to do, would I willingly sit inside and listen to other people’s opinion’s?  I don’t think so.  Maybe I should but I barely listen to other people’s opinions at the best of times.  And even that would be with those with the best of minds.  I won’t comment on the minds in attendance at our talking circles but, suffice to say, long-winded, free-form poetry is just not an art form I have learned to appreciate.

SOoooooo…………..we have a few squirrels and they are pretty comfortable here.  They have a good time, do what they want to do, go where they want to go and, generally, don’t have a care in the world.  Our two dogs respect them and leave them entirely alone.  Our two dogs seem to respect everything and leave just about everything entirely alone.  Except dinner and a thrown stick.  If we ever get attacked by sticks or rampaging BBQ chicken, we will be able to count on Meg and Fid.

Until then?  Not so much.

We have pacifist Portuguese Water dogs.  Lovers, not fighters.  Well, sleepers, really.  Not even lovers.  And no amount of incitement-to-kill or inter-species-hate-mongering from us can change that.  We used to go “ch-ch-ch-ch-ch” and run at the squirrels pointing and yelling, “Kill, Fid! Kill the squirrel!”  (well, I said kill the squirrel but Sal would only say chase the squirrel) That would get Fid all riled up and he would run with us in the direction of the little tree rat.  As soon as we were all in hot pursuit of the trespassing squirrel, the squirrel would ‘up and stop’ resting on a railing or something, all the better to watch Fid hightail it right on by heading off into the bush pretending to be chasing something.

Sometimes I would rest on the same rail or tree and the squirrel and I would both watch Fid run around.

Some other times when Fid was just lying around being a dog, the squirrel would simply walk by within inches and they would twitch noses at each other.  They had an agreement of some kind, I am sure.  Or Fid is even stupider than I already think.

Hard to imagine.

But this didn’t stop Sal from “ch-ch-ch-ch-ing” and running in the direction of the squirrel when it was perched on her bird feeder.  And that worked for a bit.  I enjoyed the show.  It lasted until the squirrel noted the lack of killer instinct in Sal.  Then I was further entertained while she made futile charges at the squirrel-with-no-fear and would, of course, stop short, shrug and come back in the house mumbling about how stupid that squirrel was.

“I don’t think the squirrel is stupid at all.  You, on the other hand………”

She’d turn on me and chase me.  And I ran.  I saw danger in her even if the squirrel didn’t.

Sal once got a squirt gun and, when the squirrel was Bogarting the bird feeder, she would open the window and ‘spritz’ the squirrel.  After the first such surprise, the squirrel seemed to show up for food and a refreshing shower.  The squirt gun was a nice touch – for the squirrel.

I offered to get a BB gun and shoot the squirrel in the rump.  That suggestion was rejected.  Too mean!

So day-before-yesterday I got out two little 9 volt batteries, joined them to 18 volts and wired in a small swtch.  I then connected the assembly to the metal bird feeder.  ‘Course I had to shoo the squirrel off the feeder to wire it in.  The feeder already had two dark cords holding it from swaying in the wind and Sally had arranged a bundle of small branches that hung around it so the birds could perch more natural-like.  My two wires (both brown) were completely lost in the midst of the feeder surround.

Prior to my wiring in the improvised electronic device (IED) the squirrel was on the feeder like yellow on a banana.  Every day.  Since wiring in the device – which he watched me do – he has not returned.  It has been three days.  No squirrel.

I was thinking of zapping a few birds just to make sure it works but the fact is, it is working like a monitored video surveilance camera.  There may not be a need to for it to actually work if the potential perp thinks it is there and working.  Clearly my squirrel thinks it is there, working, lurking and ready to do some shocking.

How is this possible?  Squirrels understand electricity?  I mean, maybe a squirrel in Vancouver….ya know?……one that has been zapped a few times…………….maybe?  But our squirrels are rubes.  Hicks.  Squirrel bumpkins.  How did the little blighter know that the feeder was now booby trapped?

I am not sure but I am beginning to think that ol’ Mother Nature is planning a retaliatory strike and the squirrels are just part of the much larger force, Luke.

Zap

Sally and I had traveled over to the community dock with one of our dogs, Fiddich, to see the new-and-improved road work being done at the ‘end of the road’.

As readers know, we have a very steep gravel hill to traverse to get from the parking area to where our boats are docked.  It is about 200 feet of trail and slope and the incline is at about 25 degrees.  Getting up and down the hill is an effort and, when carrying heavy loads, a real challenge.  The local road crew was paving that last 100 feet of road so that we can drive our vehicles with heavy loads all the way down to the beach to lift directly into our boats.  It will be a huge improvement.  It has been a long time coming and we wanted to check on the progress.

We’ll still have 15 kms of single-lane, dirt logging road over pretty hilly terrain to help keep the vast mass of civilization at bay but having the last and hardest slope paved will make our bi-weekly trips to town incredibly easier.  We are very pleased with this.

Suddenly, “Iz zat your dok? It is a nice dok!  You haff a very nice dok!”  One of two hikers coming up the trail towards us from the community dock smiled and spoke to Sally and I as we headed back from our look at the road work to our boat.  She was obviously quite German.

Sally smiled back and agreed that we had a nice dock and explained that it was a community dock.

“Äuf! (I have no idea what ‘auf’ means), a community dok!  Very goot!  Everybody’s goot dok?”

“Yes.  Everybody who lives out here uses it.”

“Everybody?  A community dok?  Well, zat’s goot……..goot dok.  Zat dok is much better than my dok!”

“You have a dock?”

“Ya!  Two doks!  Two naughty Jack Russels.  Not goot doks!”

”Oh….dog”!

Sally finally realized they had been talking at cross purposes.

”Yes, dok!” laughed the German woman.

Fiddich had been left in the boat and told to ‘stay’ while we went up the hill to see the road work underway.   Our tourists had obviously just met him while they were down on the dok taking pictures.  And he had, indeed, been a goot dok and had stayed despite their entreaties to get him within patting range.

And so the conversation shifted to dogs and where we lived.  We all chatted nicely and they accompanied us back down to the dock and used their telephoto lens to see across to our island.  Fiddich was released and came off the boat to greet them properly this time.

A nice conversation ensued about Canada and Germany and dogs and nature and then they were about to take their leave.  One of the women extended her hand as a formal gesture of leaving, saying “In Germany we shake hands.”  Sally shook her hand and said, “In Canada we hug.”

Their faces lit up.  “Vell, zen ve hug!  No!?  Ve hug!”

And so it was that we were on the receiving end of two warm bosomy embraces from two unidentified German frauleins on a remote dock in the middle of nowhere.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Roadwork, dogs, frauleins and fun.  Admittedly simple stuff but it is this kind of stuff that makes it a pretty good place to live.

I am trying to become a better carpenter.  It is not easy.  They are out to sabotage me.  The bastards!

Ommmmmmm….1…..2…..3……4……..

Years ago when I first tried to build something properly, I designed an extension to our house.  It was not quite 200 sft.  Lots of windows.  I didn’t want to have to order ‘custom’ windows so I ordered the standard 3×5’s.  And I framed the openings accordingly.  When the windows arrived, they were 2’10” by 4’10”.  My framing was out.  So, I called to complain…”Hey, what the hell!?”

“Everyone knows 3 x 5’s are not 3×5’s, doofus!”

Which reminded me of the conversation had by the Chinese when they decided to buy Canadian lumber.  They went nuts when the first shipment was ‘short-shipped’.  The 2 x 4 ‘s weren’t two by fours!  And it took months and dollops of international diplomacy to get them ‘hip’ to the language of the lumber industry.

Mind you, a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood is 4 x 8.  And 3-inch screws are 3 inches long.  Guess how much a 55 pound bag of Reddi-Mix weighs?  So, you can understand the confusion.

I ordered 3/4″ plywood sheets for the floor of the studio.  Tongue and groove.  I built the frame (joists) precisely to 12 feet.  When I laid 3 sheets of plywood across, you can imagine my shock and dismay to see that I was 1.5″ out!!!

There then ensued much and great gnashing of teeth, oaths and curses, arm flailing and futile kicking and punching gestures.  Which proved small consolation to me or Sally (who joined me in the primitive dance-expression) Seems ‘everyone knows’ that plywood – when T&G’d – is only 47.5 inches wide.

‘Well, Sal – for one –  didn’t know!’

And so it goes in the Canadian business world.  “Oh, you wanted tires with that car?”

“I am sorry.  There is nothing in the brochure guaranteeing our boats will float!”

“Sorry, we reserve the right to over-book the airplane’s capacity and we did so.  You cannot board the plane sir, it is full!”

The list goes on from cell phone cancellation fees to service charges and CRTC licenses, from shipping and handling to ‘prep’ fees.  I have even been charged ‘transaction’ fees as if the act of transacting was some kind of surprise option or add-on?

And don’t get me started on taxes!  Sales tax on a used car that has changed hands several times?

OK, I am beginning to rant.  Sorry.  The diatribe today was about the misleading language of the construction trades.  How measurements and descriptions are not consistent.  WITH ANYTHING!  And that ‘one can never assume’ that you know even a simple sheet of plywood, Butterfly.  They may look the same.  But they are not the same.   Each one is a little soul, a separate entity all unto itself.  And the sooner we treat them as individuals the better off we will all be. 

Ommmmmmmmmmm…………..1………………2………………….3……………..(kick violently!)………….4………5…………..6……....(scream epithets!)

Now you know the secret of becoming a better !#$%$#% carpenter, Butterfly.