Blog’s been down a couple of days.  I can legitimately blame the weather.

When the cloud cover is as thick as it has been, the satellite signal can’t get through (and the cell is extremely weak as well) and we are then left basically incommunicado.  But, to be honest, I don’t think it was the weather – not directly anyway.  I was just wondering about what to write.

You see, when winter sets in, activities diminish.  Fewer activities means fewer stories.  I don’t hurt myself as much for one thing.  Don’t build much.  Don’t fix much.  Less boating.  Don’t ‘mess’ with logs and wood as much.  And some of the activities we do are strictly indoor exercises. Thus the blog on cooking.

But, honestly, that one stretched the off-the-grid theme somewhat.  I know that. 

I am happy to stay indoors half the time.  I like to write.  I like to surf the net.  I like to read.  And I have a few minor chores that can be done indoors as well.  But Sal needs to be outside 80% of the time.

So, to some extent, we both struggle to stay outside as much as possible – she more than me – but that is easier, of course, when it is pleasant.  November, December, January and February are rarely pleasant and so, Sal, for one, is often outdoors in inclement weather.  It takes a real storm to drive her indoors.  She’s got a serious ‘outdoors’ streak in her.

I suspect her disdain for housework is somewhat related.  But I can’t say that. 

We are not alone.  As I’ve written before, the bulk of the community go into a winter mode.  Winter mode for most is just staying indoors.  H actually claims to hibernate, kinda.  He definitely sleeps more.  He stays in a lot.  He fattens up.

Many others do more socializing.  They go to town more.  Visit relatives.  Shop.

Others fly south.  Literally.  They go like the geese.  Our local yoga guru and his partner leave for points warm every year around now – the end of November, beginning of December.  And most of us will leave every other year at the very least.

The thing I find most interesting about that is that the median income out here is somewhere around $12k a year per person.  And yet, I would estimate that almost 10% of the population leaves for sunnier climes for at least a month each winter.

One fellow I know lives on much less than 12K and he goes south every year, as well.  Minimum: one month.  His thinking goes something like this: “I am poor, anyway.  May as well be poor in Mexico.  Mexicans are poor there and they do OK.  My only real financial challenge is to get there.” 

But he has been to Thailand, New Zealand, Australia, Latin America and most of southern Europe. This year he plans on going to Florida.  Seems money is no object and neither is no money.  Off he goes!

But – get this! – more than just a few neighbours leave every winter to go do ‘good work’ overseas!  These people, themselves, are pretty bloody poor by any N. American standard but they go to India, Africa and even Tibet to help out in orphanages, hospitals and clinics. One self-described but unaffiliated Christian couple save what meagre monies they can every year and then go to the poorest of African countries to help out.  Another woman gathers materials, medicines, goods and money all year and goes to an orphanage in India she practically sustains by herself.

You wouldn’t expect that….would you?  I didn’t.  I have no idea if this ‘syndrome’ is just a subset of Snowbirding or if it is a unique form of charity.  It is not, I have learned, peculiar to just our neighbourhood.  We have some friends up in the north who do the same kind of ‘seasonal charity’ thing.  Poor Canadians being poor but contributing to others in warmer countries in the winter. Who woulda thunk it?

Winterizing, off-the-grid-style.

Sal does the paperwork for one of our local neighbours.  He can read and write, of course.  In fact, the fellow is exceptionally intelligent and extremely well-read.   But he has lived the vast majority of the last 40 years living mostly alone and usually ‘farther out’ than even us.  He is as close to a mountain man as one can be living on the coast not going into the mountains.   Grizzly Adams Goes Sailing.  

He is not a hermit but has been one at times and would have no problem with it all.  He is very comfortable being alone.  In fact, he is a bit like a hermit within this small community.

His socialization skills are more-than-adequate (he’s a great guy and very funny) but they do not extend to the specialty subset of bureaucrat-speak.  He does not fare well when dealing with government in any of it’s forms.  He just doesn’t seem to ‘get it’ when they are speaking to him.  It’s like a deaf-spot.  And they can’t mail anything to him – he has no address.  He is a blind spot, too.  He even has trouble interacting with BC Ferries (something I can relate to).  So, Sal does the paperwork chores for him.

The thing is, we wouldn’t think that anyone would need to do much ‘paperwork’ or government interaction out here.  And they don’t.  But they do have to do some.  Once in awhile.  Even if it is just because they may end up in the hospital now and again.

And, as their years and the role of government continues to grow, more and more of these ‘invisible’ people are being overlooked or, well, marginalized in some kind of way unless they have a ‘person’ who can speak for them.

That is kinda crazy in itself.

One of the guys out here hadn’t done his income taxes for thirty years.  T’wasn’t a problem, really.  He hadn’t made anything.  He literally worked his whole life just for food.  A neighbour did his taxes for him so that, now, at almost 70, he could get Old age security.  How he survived without virtually any regular income whatsoever was a complete mystery.  And he never went to the doctor.  I think that part might change.  He is now 70, after all.

The point?  Well, one tends to think that we are all numbered and tracked.  We tend to think we are all monitored in some sort of way.  Counted and categorized at the very least.  But it is not true.  Some people are missed.  Some people go missing.  And some people actually ‘hide out’.  There are more than just a few people who are ‘off the radar’.  And some of them are out in the woods.

Of course, we all know of the urban ‘homeless’.  We know of the poor ‘crazies’ who were ‘set free’ from the asylums so that they could live on the streets.  We know of the ill and illegal who also share those same shadows.  But there are also some pretty healthy, capable, uber-independent sorts who opted out so long ago and maintained their estrangement that, for all intents and purposes they, too, are no longer ‘in the system’.  They are ‘out’ and not likely to ever get back ‘in’.  They have dropped off the face of the earth.

They may be the new noble savage.

My guess is that we have four or five such ‘invisible’ people out here.  All really old guys living way beyond the margins of what are already considered the margins  – almost like hermits.  All of them (well, maybe one) are sane, pleasant and have significant capabilities.  What they don’t have is a fixed address, a conventional lifestyle or a partner.  They don’t have money.  They don’t have stuff.  They sure as hell don’t have much of a wardrobe.  In fact, they don’t have much of anything except acceptance.

We ‘accept them’ and they are part of us.

Frankly, I see them as kind of noble in an independent, do-no-harm, natural-living kind of way.

I like to think that I am getting better at this off-the-grid-living thing.  You know, fixing outboards, keeping gensets going, living off the land – that kind of thing?  I mean – we all expect that more experience adds up to a deeper pool of strength or something, right?  I am not so sure.

The other day, I must have ‘brushed’ the vent closed on the fuel tank to the genset.  But didn’t notice.  And then I started the engine.  It ran and then stopped after awhile.  I tried again.  Same result.  First thought:  “OH GOD!!  Engine doesn’t work!  Oh God!  Panic stations!”

But then, my deeper-but-still-not-extensive level of experience showed up.  Calm settled in and the second thought was: “OH GOD! Engine doesn’t work!  It will never work again!  Just don’t panic in front of Sal!”

Not such a big improvement, actually.

And so I progressed through more such thoughts until I had gone from fragile and forced calm to ‘slightly ticked’ and inconvenienced.  The thought then changed to: “Oh well.  It’s too cold to work, anyway.  I’ll go have tea.  Maybe take it in to town for an expert to look at.  Or maybe try to fix it tomorrow.  Stay calm, Dave.  Breathe.”

And so it went.  But, after a while, I was calm enough to go back out and get into the carbs, drain them, check the spark, take off a few pieces, clean some filters and do a few things and fiddle about.  All in the dark, of course.  And it was getting colder. Poor me.  

Still, I remained calm as I diligently addressed the problem, talking myself through procedures and generally being way more mature on the outside than I was feeling on the inside.  As you can glean from all that, it didn’t come easily.  It didn’t come naturally.  But I got there.  I looked like off-the-grid-guy, anyway.

Took an hour or so.

I had stripped it all down, cleaned it all up and checked it all out.  It was time to try to start it.  Just as I was about to do that, I noticed the vent to the fuel tank was closed.  I opened it.

It started.

Ran like a charm.

I like to think that it just needed a quick ‘once over’ and that, after the initial panic, I had done all the right things like the off-the-grid-guy, I was trying to be.

The truth: I inadvertently shut my own engine off and it took way too long and way too much anxiety to figure that out.

Pathetic, thy name is Urbanguy Goneferal.  He’s still an infant-student in a different world.

Going off the grid is an adventure.  And good adventurers are good team-mates.  Sal and I are a good team and, as a consequence, we have had good adventures.  It may be just that simple.  Or quite magical.  I dunno………….

Many people live their lives from a secure and happy perspective.  They have what they want and they are who they want to be and, for the most part, their glass is half-full.  I tend to see the world from the opposite view.  I always want something different, I need to change the world around me and I always think I should be better than I am.  For me, the glass is always half-empty.

Fortunately for me, Sally is one of the happy former and, together, our differences tend to balance out.  She makes me happy.  I make her crazy.  It’s a kinda balance, anyway.

And I am only partly joking.  Sally is happy – for the most part – at whatever she is doing.  She lives mostly in the moment and finds what is good in it to find.  She is the embodiment of the old rock and roll song, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with, love the one you’re with.” She can make any place nice and fun.  She brings the light.

I am dark.  Discontent.  I want change.  The moment bugs me.  I wanna mess with the status quo.  “Let’s get the hell out of here!”  I am buzz-kill.

But, because of her ‘lightness’, she is OK with that.  Mostly.  She often says, “Well, all things considered, I have to admit that you bring interest and surprise and humour and growth and more surprise to my life.  Perhaps a bit more than I ever wanted but, all in all, I am happier for the experiences.  Honest.  But, can we stop now?”

Sometimes that movement, that unrest, is non-negotiable.  Sometimes danger threatens.  Sometimes things are getting ugly.  Or boring, anyway.  Sometimes the glass truly is in danger of going empty.  It is then we malcontents come into our own.  That is the neighbourhood I tend to be more familiar with.  She brings the light, I bring the night-vision.

So, we tend to equilibrium by way of each other rather than by way of the situation we are in.

Face it – situations change.  Life can throw you a cake or a curve-ball.  It is really all in how you handle it and we have discovered that, acting as a team, we can keep some balance and moderation in our lives.  Call it rock-hard stale cake, if you want but that’s the way we see it!  She is the Force, I am the dark side.  Yin and yang.  Our glass may be half full, it may be half empty but, either way, we have at least half together.  And we are both happy with that.

See the irony in that last sentence?  I am happy with that!?  Maybe the glass truly is filled to the brim and my cup also runneth over?

Ever wonder where all the hippies went?  All the love-children?  All the back-to-the-landers?  I do.

Was it just a phase?  Was it a fad?  Do all generations simply create a way to get together and this was just one of those?  Like a series of Woodstocks?  Like attending college but not for the degree?  Like a need to join in, but probably mostly just for access to the gene pool?

Well, part of the answer to that question is that some of them found their gene puddle a long way from the city and stayed on the land they migrated to in the 70’s.  The hippies became homesteaders.  It wasn’t easy.  Not in the least.  But some persevered.  So, for them, it was not a fad but a way of life consciously chosen and worked at.  And it worked out for them.  Mostly.  

My guess is that, of 100 people out here today, at least twenty-five would have started with at least one foot in 70’s hippydom. Or a close facsimile thereof.  Maybe a few more.  (Sally and I, for example, immersed our toes enough at the time to buy the property we now have).  The balance of off-the-gridders are old fishermen and loggers, early retirees, later-in-life urban escapees, cottagers who commit more-time-than-summer and a few whack-jobs who simply couldn’t make it anywhere else due to a too-high concentration of so-called normal people.  I’d guess 10% of our community is made up of social outcasts of some sort or another.  Mostly benign, though.  And there is room for them.

The latest arrivals are – as you might expect – mostly baby-boomer retirees but we have also greeted a few young people following the same path as their hippy parents or grandparents.

Back to the old hippies: they are fascinating.  They have kept – to a large degree, anyway – their ideals, their beliefs, their politics.  And their libraries (Ken Kesey, Carlos Castanada, Rachel Carson).  They have also added much-needed and much-varied skills and they have created full and enriching lives complete with varied vocations and healthy families.

Of course, they had to make a few changes to the originally promoted idylic WholeEarth plan but it is still pretty earthy.  They call it Gaia now and it allows for engaging in the commercial world now and then, employing running water and soap, refrigerators (for some) and keeping to a single spouse.  Mostly.

The old hippies are clean, skilled, hard-working and occasionally able to buy new.  Still voting Green – but driving an SUV.  Still walking and talking off-the-grid but employing computers and cell phones when doing it.  And they still think globally and act locally.  They compost, there are still the essential organics, recycled items and funky decor but, all in all, it is an integrated lifestyle that proves healthy and fulfilling with much less of the stress, materialism and debt found in suburbia.

From my limited point of view, the lifestyle has proved largely successful. Especially when compared to the inner-city experiment with mass transit, crime, gangs, exorbitant expense, more and more rules and bleak condominiums.

But it ain’t all bliss even out here.  The hippy life did not, generally, provide much for old age.  Hippies did not contribute much, as a rule, to the pension schemes or RRSPs.  They did not, as a rule, make enough money to save any of it.  Hippydom was largely hardscrabble.

And now they are getting older.

And that won’t be easy, either.  As a generalization, most of them would be like fish out of water if they had to live in the city.  Small-box living does not work for people who have lived in the outdoors most of their lives.

Put another way: I don’t think they can go back.  They are not equipped financially or psychologically.  I can say this, I think, because I have come to much the same place myself.  I do not have the desire or the need but I do not think I have the option either.

Which is fine.  For me, it is like not having the option to join the war in Syria or live in Toronto (which is worse?).  But I am reminded of the old adage turned on it’s head: When God opens a door, he just might close another.

The gates to the city are closed.

Back in the 70’s there was a fork in the road,  Some chose the left one and went as far as they could with it.  They found a garden.  Others chose the right and found the party.  They drank the Kool-Aid and ate the caviar.  Some of the lucky ones (and I count myself amongst them) went down one road and then back-tracked and tried the other.  Maybe a few times.

They and I didn’t get very far down either path, that is for sure, but we did get some perspective.  I think.  And all in all, everything considered, weighing the two choices (but knowing somewhere that there is a better road altogether)……………well…….I think the left one seems to have a bit more going for it.

It is definitely the road less traveled.

Small towns have a way about them.  Hard to explain.  But one of the telltales is being ‘known’ or recognized by clerks and ticket takers.  People you wouldn’t expect would ‘know you’.  Certainly not in the city…….

We pulled into the BC Ferry lot last week.

“Two adults, please.”

“No dogs, today?”

I was stunned.  Here is a woman who works changing shifts and here we are traveling on the ferry but twice a month.  Admittedly, we have been doing that for awhile but she not only recognized us but looked for our two dogs.  Not one dog – which, in itself would have been more expected – but both.  And they only travel with us about three times a year!  She knew us.

When I pull into Save-On, I take plastic totes into the store, pile them and the cooler in a corner and then Sally does the rounds while I race off to do other chores.  Thousands of customers come in every day and we only go in once every two weeks. We do not seek out any one of the six or so cashiers but simply go for the shortest line.

“I know.  You want the cold stuff first right?  And you are likely trying to catch the next ferry, right?  Then it is off in a small boat after that?”

“Unh, yeah”.

“Yeah.  I know.  I have watched you pack.  You are kinda particular.  Guess that’s because of the load for the small boat, eh?”

“Unh, yeah.”

“So, how is it?  Living on the outer islands, like?”

“It is great.  Love it.  How’d you know?”

“Well, you and your wife been coming in for years.  Story gets around, ya know.  There are quite a few islanders who shop here.  We kinda know ém all.  Not names.  Totes and gumboots mostly.  I’m Tricia.”

“Nice to meet you, Tricia.  This is my wife, Sally.”

And so it goes.

We are both known at the sushi place and the Syrian restaurant and they are, of course, less frequented than Save On.  The guys at the marine supply shop know me and that is just plain weird – I hardly ever go in there.  The Rocky Mountain Fudge ladies know me, too.  “Come in for your wife, again?  Chocolate walnut?”   But I don’t like to encourage them very much.  I am convinced they think I am lying and buying fudge for myself.  But it seems pretty lame to argue my aversion to heavy sweets to store clerks when I regularly attend to their fudge shop.  They can think what they want.

The weird thing is I have a doctor in town and the staff are the same bunch year after year.  Every time I go in they quiz me like I am an Arab with a box cutter trying to get on a plane.  You’d think your doctor’s office would know you – but they don’t!

‘Course the main reason we are known at Lordco and machine shops and junkyards is our nearest neighbour out here has been a prominent resident of the town for several decades and we are familiar by association.  In effect, we have instant acquaintances by association.  So that explains a lot.

But not everything.  Small town people are generally a bit more curious about you and typically have the time to engage when going through a minor transaction.  Short, personal conversations ensue.  People connect.  I am not talking about being invited to the cashier’s wedding but I am saying that she will likely tell me about it when I am next in buying spark plugs.  That’s kinda neat.

Funny thing about a small town – it doesn’t feel as small when you are recognized and acknowledged by the inhabitants.  Feels bigger, somehow.

We have ghosts!

Well, not ghosts so much as voices.  We have voices in the night.  Sometimes. 

How can there be voices in the night when there is no one out there?  How is that possible?

No idea.  Makes no sense.  Could be ghosts, I guess.

It should be spooky.

But it is not.  Not so much.  The voices can be heard at any time really but usually and mostly in the late summer and late at night when it is really dark.  They don’t sound threatening.  There is no feeling of danger.  Yes, it could be kayakers but, really, there are too many instances for it to be late-paddling kayakers and, anyway, kayakers come and go.  The voices stay for awhile.  It isn’t kayakers.

Furthermore, when I hear kayakers chatting as they go by, their noises have a cadence to their conversation and paddling.  When we hear the weird ‘ambient’ voices, the whole sound text is different, more conversational, more continuous.  In fact, the voices may even sound, at times, like a monologue.  Like a speech or a sermon.

But I cannot tell you what is being said because, as careful as I am in attempting to hear, I can not pick out a single word clearly.  It just sounds like the background conversation one might hear at a large gathering.  Just a mumble of speech-sounds.

For some bizarre reason, it feels like the conversation or speech of natives.  First Nations.  It feels like I am overhearing a hum of voices from the past.  Weird, eh?

Sally: “Can you hear that?  Can you hear what sounds like voices?”

Me: “Yeah.  It’s that weird sound again.  Can you make out any words?  I can’t.”

And so it goes.  We confirm each other but can’t deduce what the source is or what the sounds are, actually.  Just that it sounds like conversation.

We have other inexplicable noises out here, too.  We have a duck or something small that is out on the water at night (again, usually late summer) that makes sounds exactly like a cougar might make when it is warning off a threat.  Not a growl.  Not a hiss.  More like a feline howl of sorts.

That was pretty freaky the first few times we heard it.  Usually gets the immediate attention and focus of a guest, too.  But now we just accept that the cougar-ducks are out.  No biggie.  We hope!

We get the odd thing that goes ‘bump in the night’, of course.  Everyone does.  And most times the dogs just accept it as such themselves.  But every once in awhile, they will jump up and warn off the mysterious-but-unseen intruder – who or whatever it is.  That, too, has become somewhat normalized.  Sometimes the dogs will go just-plain-nuts.  They will hear something or smell something and start running around and acting like they are seeing ghosts.  And sometimes, it does feel a bit strange.

When the wolves howl, the dogs react but we have come to know a wolf reaction.  If a small mammal like an otter or martin or something is scurrying about, the dogs react in the appropriate small-mammal way.  And we recognize that.  But every once in awhile they just go over the top and the only thing that makes any sense is that it is larger than a pack of wolves and weirder than a strange person approaching at night.  We actually know what those dog responses sound like.  The total-freak-out response is a mystery.

Don’t misunderstand me……….this is not constant.  It is not daily or even weekly.  It is intermittent but regular enough to acknowledge.  Sal hears it more than I do but, generally speaking, we are reminded of our voices more than several times a year.  I’ll approximate ‘six’.

Do I care?  No.  It is curious-making, though.  I like that.  It is kinda nice to have a few small mysteries out there.  Anyway, as I already told you, sometimes you just have to make your own entertainment. 

And sometimes it is made for you…………..doo doooo doo doooooooo

I find it hard to write this……………but…………..geez…………try to understand………….

When you live remote you have to make your own entertainment to some extent.  Learning how to live off the grid is the main interest, of course.  In fact, it is often fascinating and even has the occasional element of adventure or danger involved that serves to spice things up.  Living out here is fun!

But man cannot live by chainsaws alone.  There has to be more.  Yes, we have ‘community’ and gardening, fishing and small motor repair, Blu-ray movies and books by mail.  And I can write my blog when things get a bit slow.  Honestly, our lives are rich.  Really.

Well, OK, sometimes I want a little more.  So sue me.

When we hanker for something different we can always go to the city but, more and more, the city doesn’t seem like something new.  It is not different.  Not different enough, anyway.  Same ol’, same ol’.

Travel is always new……………………..or is it?  Sadly, the excitement of new cultures and new landscapes is waning for me.  It is not them.  It is me.  I still love visiting a new country and all that but, travel is not what it used to be for me.  Not anymore.  I’m experiencing a bit of ambivalence, I am afraid.

Maybe it is seeing a McDonalds in Thailand………I dunno……….?

Actually, I am experiencing fear and loathing if I take time to consider what is happening in such good ol ‘stand-bys’ as Mexico.  But just airports and the ‘schlep’ of it all is enough to put me off nowadays.  It has to be a function of age.  Sort of a ‘been there, done that and now it tires me out too much‘ kinda thing.

Embarrassing but true.

All this is my way of saying (explaining) that I have slipped the bonds of adventure seeking.  I am getting old.  I am turning to convention.  In fact, I am actually looking forward to it.  I think I am gonna learn to cook.

Yes, yes, I know………..I am already pretty famous for my sushi (mostly because I am very generous with the Sake).  And I reckon only Hy’s can do a better steak.  But the truth is: I don’t cook.  Not much.  Not really.  I chop stuff up that Sal says to chop up.  Of course.   And I can make a few things like a cheese sandwich, popcorn and toast.  But that is pretty lame, don’t you think?

So, I have decided that I am going to find my inner Indian.  I got an Indian cookbook.  Mamajee’s Kitchen.  I am gonna make some spicy, weird stuff like green curry, dhal, chicken vindaloo and gulab jamun.  I may even brew some Chai tea.  Oh yeah!  Call me Ganesha!

I admit that I have had this urge for some time.  Ever since I found Indian dance movies so interesting on the ethnic channel.  You really have to watch one.  Lots of dancing and smiling.  Weird off-tempo music.  Almost hallucinogenic.  The movies never appealed to me in the least but the net effect was that I always wanted a curry immediately after.  It was like I was being hypnotized.

Well, whatever.  That’s my story.  And now I am going to learn to make curries.  The dancing part?  Probably not.  But, living remote can change you…………?  So ya never know.

I guess the storm season has officially begun.  We’ve had a few good blows this past week and the ferry service has been suspended twice already.  It can get a little hairy out there.  Tís the season for hunkering down and stayin’ put.  Which is fine by me.

Hunkerin’ down, Sally style is a bit different, tho.  For her, it simply means not going to town unless the weather is going to be clear for the day.  We don’t want to make the effort to get there but not be able to get back because the ferry isn’t running.  Otherwise – weather be damned! – it is business as usual for her.

She’ll head off anywhere in her small boat if she wants to get there.  Being the postmistress now and then, attending book-club and community association meetings, it seems, all waits for no one.  And so Sal shows up.

Yesterday the winds got up to 90kmh in the late evening.  No big deal if you are snuggled up around the fire.  But that kind of thing can be a concern if it had turned earlier and one was caught out in it.  Especially with the light of day becoming shorter and shorter.

But you know the post office motto: “Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”  Sal subscribes to that.  So Sal will go.

If Sally heads to the post office in the morning, she may have more than a bit of a pounding coming home later.

And common sense plays no role in her deliberations.  “Sweetie, the mail plane isn’t flying today, anyway.  And that motto of stoicism is the US Post Office motto.  The Canadian one is ‘Never deliver today what can be lost, spindled or mutilated before tomorrow.  The rates may go up!‘  Honestly, no one needs their Walmart flyer or a Lee Valley catalogue that bad!”

“True.  But sometimes people need to buy stamps!”

But it is not all weather roulette.  Book club does make the effort to do a weather check in the winter months.  Whenever possible.  And community business is conducted more and more by e-mail as the season grows cold. So Flyin’ Sal is somewhat restricted in her recklessness.  But never shut down.  Intrepid is not the word.  Neither is fearless.  Blind, unconscious willfulness comes closest.  Bloody-minded, at the very least.

“What’s the big deal?  No matter how high the waves, my boat floats over them.  I just have to go slower, is all. Anyway, if it is really bad, I’ll take one of the dogs.”

And that, dear reader, is one of my mental crutches.  The dogs ain’t stupid.  They won’t go if it is too dangerous.  Well, not willingly anyway.  They are pretty loyal to Sal but they make it clear that they prefer the warmth and safety of home over the near-death experience she is sometimes offering.  Their take on the situation usually serves to alter Sal’s plans.  “Well, who woulda thunk it?  Dogs are cowering and crawling away.  I guess they are not feeling well.  Maybe we should stay home.”

Trust me: it is easier to teach old dogs new tricks………..Ol’ Puddings just get tougher and tougher.

Sal and I worked on the deck again yesterday.  Finished the foundation level.  Mostly.  A log or two still to place but just an hour or so more work will really finish it up.  The frame is complete.  We can see the big picture now.

We are still working well together altho the strain is showing on the Ol’ Pudding. I may have a crack or two, as well.   It is hard for her to take supervision – especially from someone in whom familiarity has bred contempt. And I sympathize.

“Familiarity breeds contempt.  Absolute familiarity breeds absolute contempt.  And I know you very, very well, sweetie.”  (S. Davies, circa 2012)

Part of the problem is that men and women think differently.  Or, as Sal would put it, “Men think differently!”

To my mind, men make decisions, women make conversation.  And, I mean that in the nicest way possible.

“Please measure that space so that I can cut the board”.

“I get thirteen feet six inches”.

“Good!”  And I then make a step towards cutting the board……..

“WAIT!!  I just think it is 13 feet six inches.  You should check.”

“I don’t need to check.  I trust you.  If you have any doubts, you should just measure it again.”

“No. I think you should check.  In that way, we’ll both be right or we’ll both be wrong.”

“No.  Not really.  If you measure it right then we’ll both be right because you can use a tape measure as well as I can.”

“But, you’ll be mad if it is wrong.”

“Well, that is true.  Especially after all this inane discussion.  But just be careful and do the job right and no one will get mad.  And no one will get hurt.”

“See?  I knew it!  You’ll get mad.  You are already getting mad.  I am not gonna measure the space.  No way!”

And she steps away from the space……………..

Fuming, I leave the chop saw and go down to the space in question.  And I say, “OK.  I’ll measure the space.  But, when I do, you go and take that measurement and you cut the board.”

“No way!  What if I cut it wrong?”

“But Sal, we are supposed to be working together!”

“Exactly.  That is why I want you to measure the board, too.  We measure together.  Maybe we even cut together, ya know?  You see?  Two people cooperating like a team!”

I can’t argue with that kind of logic.  “Fine.  Pass me the tape!”

I hope that partially explains the pace of this project.