Municipal elections are coming up and we want to vote. It’s not easy.

First off, the voting booth is on another island. So you have to travel in the winter in a small boat through the forest on a logging road (if it is not snowed in) to get to a place that is not ‘on your way’ to anything and then get back home again. Say, four hours minimum given good passage. Longer for those who live further out.

Mind you, we chose to live here but, on the other hand, we are voting in our municipality/regional district. You’d think they’d know of the logistical challenges their constituents face.

You’d be wrong.

The Feds do. They set up a voting station out here. So does the Province. But the government most locally oriented doesn’t seem to ‘know from rural’ . They don’t get it.

Well, in theory they do. Seems we can vote by mail. But, of course, the ballots aren’t ready yet ’cause the nominations just closed so the mail-in vote won’t happen for a while. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Voting day is less than a month away.

“Hello? Uh, Mr Elections fella? If we are gonna vote by mail, shouldn’t we get those ballots pretty damn quick-like?”

“Can’t. Gotta wait for the forms to be printed.

“You mean the ballots?”

“No. The forms. Ya gotta ask us to mail out a form and then you fill it in and then, when we get it back, we send out a ballot for you to mark and then you mail that in.”

“Well then, you may as well not bother. The mail plane isn’t reliable in the winter and even when it gets in, the people have to come in from miles around in small boats. If they take their mail home first, they may not get back to the post office for another month.”

“Well, look on our website in a few days. We’ll have a downloadable form that can maybe save that first step.”

“Yeah. Great. Trouble is, half the folks don’t have e-mail or internet. No service up here.”

“Hmm………well, I can maybe send up a bunch of forms to the post office and have that sent out without waiting to be asked? Give me the post office phone number. I’ll have my assistant arrange it.”

“Well, it’s a good idea. But the post office doesn’t have electricity. Not even lights. Or a bathroom. There is no one to phone, ’cause there ain’t no phone. Can we just come in any old time and vote? Most everyone will get into town at least once within the month. That should get the bulk of us.”

“Well, I guess………..but they’ll have to prove their identity. Real proof. And their address. Not just a PO Box. Real proof of address.”


“Well now, that seems fair. ‘Cept no one has a real street address, ya know? We don’t got no streets. No street lights. No stores. No water. No police. No fire protection. No amenities. Only thing we got is “!@&^^$$” taxes. No offense.”

“Well, can’t you just write in a description or something? Like 3rd cardboard box under the bridge or old rotting houseboat on the beach or something?”

“That might work fine for ol’ Bill. He’s the only one living in a hollow tree trunk on the north side. And Tiny and his wife are the only ones living on the top deck of a sunken boat in East bay. But it might not work for the big cheese CEO with his 5000 square feet of marble and beams palace or that reeal purty place of Michelle Pfieffer, the actress. So, I dunno. Can we just address our ballot to that ‘big ol’ government building with all the blood-suckin’ sloths in it? Would they hone in on you pretty quick?”

I made a couple of knives yesterday. Well, the handles, really. The blades were already here. OK, I only really re-handled a couple of knives. No big deal. I know.

But one was re-handled with deer horn. The other with a blank from ‘old growth’ Fir. I putzed about all day making sure the tangs stayed in the handles and that the whole thing – when set up – felt ‘good’ enough to use. Can’t honestly say I did a great job. The deer horn knife is a bit weird.

“But, hey, man! It’s deer horn, eh? Pass the jug!”

Sally had gone to the closest store, while I was handle-a’whittlin’ and all. The seas were flat calm so she took her own boat. The 15 horsepower pushes the little 11 foot Whaler along pretty well but she is a mere speck on the sea. Watching her disappear down channel was like watching a duck fly away. It was gone from the naked eye almost instantly. The little Whaler has a freeboard of only about six inches so a formidable ship she is not. I’ve seen longer surf boards. And I have definitely seen logs floating higher out of the water.

I worried a bit.

To make me feel better, she took one of the dawgs. Fiddich is one goofy doofus but he is strong-like-bull and can swim like an Olympian free-styler. Once, when Sal’s engine conked out, he towed her to shore pulling the boat with the painter in his teeth. He’s good. He’s like a ‘kicker’.

They got back an hour or so later and had only used a gallon and a bit of fuel. So that worked out pretty good. Still, she covered about 16 or so miles on the ocean in a bathtub and it can get nasty out there. I doubt that we’ll make it a habit.

I mention all this not because it is interesting (tho, it may be a bit out of the ordinary for my ‘city slicker’ friends) but because it is healthy. Not just a few of my friends have been writing to tell me of their ailments and things and, while I sympathize and sadly also have to empathize, their burdens seem to have confined them to staying home and taking it easy. And medications.

I am not so sure that is the right remedy. In fact, I recommend trying something different. Getting out in the forest works. It is remarkably healing in a weird, mystical, can’t-explain-it-kinda-way.

Put more bluntly a day in the forest or on the water is worth ten visits to the doctor.

In fact, I am pretty sure going to the doctor these days is just a big, bloody waste of time in most cases. What’s ailing us is aging us. It’s time. We’re just wearing out. Mostly, I think. The doctor gives you five minutes of their time and a piece of paper entitling you to pay too much for a legal drug. You know, like the LCB does only under a different ministry? After ten or so GP attempts prove futile, they might send you to a specialist who, presumably has more knowledge and better drugs.

D’uh, why not go to the ‘smart’ doctor first?

I gotta say, “I don’t have much faith in them fancy-pants doctors. No sirree. Pass the jug!”

I am so tempted to rant.  I have so much political bile to spew.  I feel so strongly about the ‘Occupiers’ and the governments and the system and what role we play in all of it, I can barely restrain myself.  It’s all a giant festering boil in my un-vented spleen.

Ché and Fidel were philosophical pussies compared to how I feel. 

And, man, oh man.  Talk about the temptation to mobilize!  I have an army of 26 loyal followers.  Oh Lord, save us all!  I keep repeating to myself, “Power corrupts and keyboard power corrupts absolutely.  Stay calm.” 

(Just remember, my loyal subjects: they are dropping the gun registry.  ‘Nuff said.)   

I won’t succumb to the preacher/lecturer/philosopher nut-case that is inside me yearning to get out and establish a guerrilla camp for us all or at least a big-enough room and a public lectern.  We will not rise up as the irresistible force we can be when unleashed!  Not yet, anyway.  I am stuffing a sock in it.  I will spare you the invitation to join the rebel forces, Luke (at least until after our winter vacation). 

I am gonna try to restrain myself, anyway.  I am not ‘occupying Surge Narrows’.   I’ve already written a few pages of mass incitement rhetoric and thrown them away (we don’t have any crowds up here).  This is the muted blog.  And Sally put a stop to the mobilizing-the-guerrillas-plans really quickly.  “I am not cooking for 26 people!”. 

So, here is what I am thinking now:  The ‘Occupiers’ are the flavour of the day and that’s good.  Good enough to let it play out as it will without my squeaking in the background.  I am pretty sure they don’t need me.  They haven’t called.  Or left a message. 

And all governments are reeling (as they should) and so that, too, is good.  (Harper does not have enough stature to stand up, let alone reel). 

Mind you, if the ‘King’ should die (and he should), they will reappoint another king and we’ll all chant, “The king is dead.  Long live the King!”  So the damn system is still intact. 

And the system is still holding as well.  However tenuously, it is holding.  Even though the financial world is taking a licking, the basic economy is still grinding along.  Gas still flows.  People still eat.  China is still shipping junk.  This is not the revolution.  Not yet, anyway.

As Sun Tzu said, “Timing is everything!”

He and André Agassi also said, “Image is everything.”

So, who knows?  Image, timing, whatever.

Revolution is harder than it looks.  It is much easier to be revolting than it is to revolt, ya know?          

Last month I opined that the system will adjust and carry on.  I figured ‘same ol’, same ol’ for a while longer.  Not quite enough pain yet, I figured.  And, for the most part, I’m stickin’ with that.  But I must confess that the ‘Occupy’ movement caught me by surprise.  Quite frankly, I thought the sheople would take their beating and keep on bleating for maybe as long as another generation.  My despair ran that deep.  But this ‘occupy’ thing is a smidge more than the usual level of bleating, I think.  If it keeps up, it will become a roar.

God, I hope so. 

Here’s the ‘weird’ thing: the ‘occupy’ movement was started by Canadians!  That’s right!  Our dyed-in-the-wool sheople are the ones who finally stood up.  Bloody amazing.  Seems the braintrust at Adbusters dreamed it up and decided to ‘try it on’ and the ‘Occupy’ movement went viral.  There were over 70 cities participating around the world as of last night. 

Of course, our media-in-a-body-cast CBC reported that 3 cities in Canada had something going on and left it at that to report on hockey and car accidents and Stuart MacLean.  No sense in doing any real reporting.  Not yet, anyway.  “We still have more Peter Gzosky tapes to re-run!”   

Wait until the grant comes in, eh?

Anyway, what could it all mean?……….. (I have to shed this CBC thing.  Sorry.  They are soooooo bad but so is all the media.  I just had higher expectations of them is all.)


You’d think there’d be an answer wouldn’t you but there is no leader and the people in the street can’t articulate what they are railing against!? 

I can’t fathom that! 

You get in your car, drive downtown, meet up with a bunch o’ rebels and yell, “Like, we…..are……..like……not happy………………kinda……and like……………people power, eh?  Down with…………. capitalism…………… maybe……….. some parts, anyway…….. ya know?  And……………like, I hate those bank charges………….. and……like, whatever!”


What kind of revolution is that?  Revenge of the like, Inarticulate?

The cry is simple:  “Save the planet.  Save the people.  Down with Greed.  Down with lies.”

Optional add on:  Down with CBC and DFO!  

Mao suggested governing by constant revolution.  Basically he figured that as soon as things got established, the real good had been done so it was time to de-establish already.  

I tend to agree with that crazy, deceased Communist recluse philosopher who screwed up at almost every turn – on that issue anyway.

“The community got together yesterday. All four of us…..(plus twenty).”

Yesterday was a scheduled work party day and 24 people showed up! The new addition was clad in plywood and papered. Windows were cut and framed in. Debris was collected and burned. Steps were added. And the spindles were put on most of the new front deck (ran out of wood for the last 25%).

The old kitchen and gathering space was also cleaned to a level of hygiene never before experienced. I was afraid to walk in. So were all the guys. It is a good thing we now have a deck on which to stand while someone in stocking feet fetches tea and coffee.

That won’t last long.

So many people showed up that it was not a gathering; it was definitely a community. A nice one. No question.

The community association board members always give up a lot of their time and energy to make something happen.  They are really good.  Sal is one of them.  This was no exception. 

Usually one of the community members also contributes a bit more, gives a bit more and/or stays longer as well.  That, too, is not unusual. There is always someone ‘stepping up’ and seeing the job done right to the very end. The board members and the ‘extra helper’ usually leave at the same time – at the end of the day.  P did it on the road. H did it on the Q-hut. B did it on the stairs.  That role changes hands depending on the project but it was L & R this time that gave a little extra to make it happen. Nice to see.

I don’t wanna do that but I like seeing it.

Our resident ‘Merican showed up, too. M is a nice guy and has been here for a few years. It was bittersweet, tho. He’s leaving. He was just starting to fit right in, if you know what I mean, and now he sold his place and is packing up. Too bad. Nice guy. I am not so sure that Canada did him right, somehow. Lotta red tape. But the local people were good. He made a lot of friends. I think we’ll see him again.

It takes awhile to get a real foot in out here and once you have been embraced, it is a hard to thing to give up. We’ve been here for just coming on seven years now and we’re just startin’ to fit in.  Big picture, anyway.  We’ve got some good friends up here already but we still need to be introduced to someone now and then.  Takes some time to get to know all of the 200 plus people spread over so many islands. 

But we’re getting there.  Even get an embrace or two. ‘Course, no one wants to get overly committed or mushy in any way. Not just yet, anyway. We’ll be fully accepted and no longer newbies by about 2020 if we continue to keep our noses clean, watch our P’s and Q’s and don’t put on any fancy airs. We’re still somewhat on parole.

Well, I am, anyway.

Sometimes I think I set us a back a few paces now and then. Hard to tell. The problem is when I employ some of the old vernacular from my business days.

Talking about land developing, “I’d have to do a proforma. But this one would be pretty unique because there aren’t gonna be too many banks interested in financing this so the equity side would have to be big. ‘Course, that means the prices are lower, too, ’cause the buyer can’t finance either. We may have to self-finance. Wow! That would mean a lot of faith, eh?


“Perform? Faith? You’re gonna perform a faith? What does that mean?”

“Well, this deal would be ‘bite-sized’ for a few sugar-daddies, I know. Not too big.  But there’d hafta be a decent upside, tho.  And that might be hard to achieve without conventional mortgages to facilitate sales. If we can get D to roll his piece in and maybe pre-sell a few units before we actually had ’em or even option the land, then it’s maybe do-able. Less risk equals less required return. It sure would help if we could get part of the soft costs done on the if-come.”

R looked at me like I was speaking Swahili.  “What?”

“You know…no risk, no glory. That kinda thing. But really, man, like what’s there to lose, eh? They’re not workin’ anyway. And it’s not like the land can get boxed up and returned to the factory! Know what I mean?”

“Not a friggin’ clue! What the hell are you talking about, Dave?”

“I am talking about maybe optioning the site, raising some dough and some work-in-kind or get some consultants working on the if-come. You know? Float a real concept. See if there is a market? Ya know?”

Incomprehension turned to resignation.  “Yeah. Well. Whatever. Sounds good. Maybe if you could write that up for me in a few simple sentences. Using English, maybe? And, like, thanks for the tea and whatever. I gotta go.”

“Write what up?! I just explained it. You want some written sentences? Like, ‘tie up land and do a little preliminary work and see if someone will back us’? ‘Cause that’s it. Just said it again.”

Speaking  over his shoulder with just a hint of sarcasm as he was leaving quickly, “Oh yeah, right. NOW I get it. Thanks. Gotta go. See ya.”

So there is still a gap, dammit. I guess I gotta lose the business accent.  It’s the Gordon Gekko in me. But, in the meantime, the community is coming together and we are starting to understand each other.

Kinda.

The community got together yesterday.  All four of us.  There are more community members than four, of course, but all community oriented gatherings begin with a small nucleus and this was no exception.  We gathered to paint the kitchen floor of the community ‘house’ (The Bunkhouse) in preparation for the larger turnout expected Saturday which will, if people turn out, erect the walls to the kitchen.  Right now, we have a great roof.  Three walls are framed.  And that’s it.

And winter is looming. 

Community is a weird concept for me.  I have experienced it before when Sal and I lived on boats (just one at a time, silly).  Those who also lived onboard their vessels are liveabords and there were about a dozen or more in each marina we were in.  That was good.  That was fun.  We still have friends from those times.

Mind you, ‘community’ back then just meant sailing on weekends and meeting for Chinese food on Sunday night.  Easy-peasy.   

Oddly, I never felt a sense of community in any conventional neighbourhood I ever lived in.  But that, I suppose, is to be expected if you attended thirteen different schools before you graduated.

That feeling of ‘not belonging’ continued when Sal and I teamed up as well.  To be fair, we first lived in apartments before we lived on boats and apartments are notorious for creating isolation.  Plus, we weren’t at any one apartment for very long.  And when we moved to a mansion in Shaughnessy, well, we just weren’t of the right caliber to mix with the neighbours.  In fact, we only met one and that was when they sent the health department to investigate us. (We weren’t unhygienic.  They just wanted to know what a young couple with a baby, a nanny, my brother and a live-in gardener were up to).  Mansions, it seems, can isolate as well.

But this community is different at a whole other level.  Firstly, you have to accept that most of those who move out here do so partly to get away from people.  If not ‘people’ then certainly the pressures and obligations of society and/or groups of people.  Islanders are, by nature, more independent than cul-de-sacers.  Some are actual ‘loners’.  Few seek to join anything.  It only stands to reason.  Plus they live so much further apart.  Getting ‘together’ out here requires a bigger commitment of time and travel at the very least.

‘Community’ building is a lot of work at the best of times and especially so out here.  

Paradoxically, there is a tradition of doing just that, however – getting together, anyway. Book Club is famous for twenty or so women gathering every month.  In a way, that is very much a sense of community.  Probably the community event with the longest history is the School Xmas Pageant that is well attended by at least 100+ people every year despite not more than five to ten of the audience members having kids in the school.  That has to be some kind of commitment to community worthy of note.

Then there is the ‘never-ending’ work-party.  It is not so much that the work party doesn’t end.  It does when the designated chore is finished.  It is just that, when you have several community buildings to care for, there is a never-ending series of projects.  There is no better way to insert yourself into the community out here than by arriving at the current project on the right day (trés important!) with tools.  You will be welcome.  If you have the plague and are covered in festering boils, you will simply be given a chore slightly distant from the others but you will be welcomed, nevertheless.

This community manifests itself best, however, when there is a crisis.  If it is real, everyone comes together.  If it is a tempest-in-a-teapot, everyone still comes together – but over coffee.  The only real difference is how long they stay at it.  A fire will be attended to until it is put out and efforts to help the victim will continue until there is a resolution.  If two people are feuding over the BBQ or how so-and-so tied up their boat, everyone will discuss it and offer opinions (to each other).  But it is really only entertainment.  We are egalitarian in our attention to things but quite frugal as to where we spend real energy.     

The real problem, of course, is the real non-problem.  We don’t have enough people in the vicinity for a dynamic, spirit-producing community and we all came out here for usually very personal reasons that didn’t include wanting one.

And yet, we have one.  

It’s an enigma of sorts.      

Air is cool.  Ground is wet.  There is a chill in the air.  Summer is over.  Sally has been tending to the garden mortuary, re-interring the remains of the summer salad fest into the loamy natural cycle of things. She sets to her chore with a grim acceptance that this is the way it has to be. Life.  Death.  “Mufasa is gone.  Circle of Life, Simba.  Let’s get on with it!” 

Occasionally she looks at me in the same way.  Like I am compost-in-waiting.  It makes me nervous.  I have taken to hiding the shovels.

Don’t get me wrong.  Sal isn’t going to kill me.  I know that.  She loves me.  I am sure.  Mostly.  Pretty sure, anyway.  It is just that she is a realist.  Practical to a fault.  And, should I falter, she just may have to put me humanely out of my misery and bury me.    No point in hesitating unnecessarily when the time comes, either.  She wouldn’t drag it out.  (I hope she’ll check for a pulse?). “Let’s get ér done!” She’d say, and I would be worm food still warm.  That is the way it is and I can accept it.

But I wish she’d stop following me around with that same look on her face she has when dispatching the remains of the plants.  It’s spooky.

It’s like Halloweén, kinda.  And I am a pumpkin.

Twenty more days of this.  Living with Morticia.  Sheesh.     

Dead tree came down. Wood shed and old men remained unscathed. Women (a neighbour came by) stood by and said all the right things (they do this to encourage us men to undertake these crazy injury-prone chores).

“Oh, honey! It fell just where you said it would! You are such a lumberjack! My hero!”

Sally has taken her job of supporting and nurturing me seriously and though I know that she is laying it on thick, I always smile and think I am great – for the moment, anyway. Her flattery always works. Even when I know it is false. I am lumberjack!

She once confessed, “I simply can’t understand it. Say anything to a man that indicates he is great and he’ll believe it. You can tell them anything as long as it sounds good and they become putty! It is the craziest thing!”

Seeing the look of horror on my face, she quickly added. “Course, not you, sweetie. You’re way too smart to be fooled like that. That is why I married you – because you are so smart, sweetie-pie. And because you are so handsome.”

And I was glad that she clarified her position on that and that I was exempt from that kind of manipulation.

But I am a bit of a fool now and then, I am afraid. Anytime I undertake anything, Sal comes by at some point and, not understanding what the hell I am doing or how far along I might be she always says, “Wow, honey. It’s really coming along. Looking good!”

And I always beam. Proudly. Fall for it everytime.

She is a master at the slight-of-phrase, too. The one that just serves to re-direct. I walk into the kitchen to get a cookie while she is slaving away over a hot stove and she says, “Oh, sweetie, I am so glad you came to help. The onions are over there. Could you cut them up like you do so well? You know, those cute little cubes that are always just so perfect!?”

Like a doofus, I forget the cookie and start cutting onions.


“Oh, cooking together is so much fun, don’t you think? I just love it!”

And I feel important, loved, valuable and especially skilled with onions.

Twenty minutes later, I remember the cookie deficit. But I forget the web that I accidentally walked into.

I approach the kitchen again. Naive. Unawares. Innocent. Thinking: cookie. And then I am sweetly started on cleaning the dishes.

There is such a thing as self-determination. I know that now. But Sal controls it.

Well, I am not sure and I don’t think many have noticed anyway but we just might be in the beginning stages of a revolution.  Maybe.

Hard to tell.

First off, it isn’t a violent one.  So not noticing is OK.  No parliament buildings are going to be blown up.  No riots (I hope).  Generally speaking it is a soft revolution gently underway and barely visible (which I think is the strategy) but a revolution it is nevertheless.  I think.

Could be me.  You know, projecting?   Let me explain…………

First off, a lot of people everywhere are disgruntled about all-things-government, institutional, the economy, politicians and especially automated phones (just to name a few irritants in this, our modern life).  Rejection of some of this – at the very least – is inevitable.  Witness the run to organic foods.  Witness the growth of alternative medicine, alternative energy and even alternative media (Twitter, etc).  We are rejecting or opting out of a lot of stuff.   

Witness those highly respected members of society especially beloved and respected by thousands hightailing it off to live in the woods!

But, more to the point: witness the millions of people not paying taxes!

It is passive resistance, to be sure, but it is rampant.  Hell, in Greece, it seems, no one has ever paid taxes! (we Canadians still do but balked at the HST.  It is a start).

Add to that the growing number of people who can’t pay taxes!  They’ve lost their homes in the last recession.  Their jobs in the previous decades.  And their pensions and investments to banks, Bernie Maddoffs and bureaucratic bungling over the last few years (locally see BC Hydro, BC Ferries,  BC Rail and the stupid, bloody Olympics!).  There are now more and more bankruptcies every year.  The homeless are all over.  And the only institutions growing unchecked are food banks. 

NOW we have disgruntlement plus disappointment. 

Add to the mix those who were previously doing just fine but find themselves barely able to ‘keep it together’ even when earning as much as $100 K a year.  This is a frustrated group. 

Disgruntlement, disappointment and frustration.  That is the stuff that fertilizes dissent. 

And where it was much worse, we actually had some visible dissent.  We had the Arab Spring – Arabs twittering their anger to the point of actual revolution!  It is happening in the USA, too.  In Bolivia.  Iceland.  Ireland.  Battle in Seattle.  Riot at the Hyatt.  See the ‘Occupiers-of-Wall Street’ and the labour unions join hands.  For that matter, the labour unions and the Greens have joined hands on some issues.  Wow!  See the Salmon Wars!  Hard hats and hippies on the same side!  And the pipeline-Tar Sands battles are coming soon to a theatre near you. 

Or your beaches.   

And get this: China is going through it as well.  China has over 100,000 protests a year and basically sweeps most of them under the carpet.  But, with their version of Twitter, they can’t do that anymore.  Chinese crowds are gathering over just about everything from poorly run hospitals to buildings that fall down to poison in the food.

Corporate-think and Institutional-think are just not garnering the following they used to enjoy previously – albeit, mostly by benign ignorance on the part of the public.  In fact, the RCMP are no longer much respected (tasering) at all.  Not by anyone.  Neither are the courts (years and years of lawyering that get no where and government protected crooks getting away Scott-free with their legal fees paid! Royal Commissions that cost millions and do nothing.  Gordon Campbell being nominated for the Order of BC). 

What is there to respect?

But let’s go back to passive – for a minute, anyway.  Local people are eating local, driving less.  Fewer people fly.  Fewer people are RVing, as well.  And hardly anyone goes boating up this way anymore (unless the yachts are huge).  Not compared to yesteryear, anyway.  Passive resistance, in this case, is taking the form of staying home.  Alternative energy is growing.  And swap and shops and garage sales are proliferating.  So are ‘free stores’.  The people are opting out where they can.  They are voluntarily choosing to find ways around the corporate beast.  And they are succeeding to a point.
  
(Man, being a conventional retailer these days must be hell.  Rampant shop-lifting, Costco on the right of you, a free store on the left, a drug pusher out front and a garage sale in the alley behind you.  No wonder main streets all over are empty!)

I know, I know.   You think that this is just a self-interest movement more than a political one but I suspect that all revolutions are that way.  So something revolutionary just may be afoot.    

Is this a revolution?  Not yet.  Sheeple don’t revolt until they they are actually hungry.  They take a beating and keep on bleating.  Plus they need to know the time and date of the revolution so that it can be scheduled in (it is just so embarrassing to show up for the revolution in a red bandana and heavy boots just to find out that you are a week early!). 
But, in the meantime, this passive resistance thing is good.  This alternative economy is good.  This eating and shopping local thing is good.  And this growing desire to stop feeding the beast is really good.  We could use a few more occupations of Wall Street.  Especially in Canada. That is for sure. 

I recommend starting in BC.

For a real revolution we need another Ghandi but absent that kind of charismatic leader, we can at least passively support alternatives, think differently and perhaps support some of those who are sticking their neck out. 

Alex Morton is one who comes to mind. 

I have a dead tree looming over my wood shed. It’s old, ugly, brittle and ready to fall down at any time. I am sympathetic.

I have an old neighbour. He, too, is old, ugly, brittle and, by living up here, is also vulnerable to – and often in the position of – falling down. I am empathetic.

I introduced the two of them.

“That puppy has to come down!”, he declared. “It is dead and will fall right on your shed! I’ll get my stuff and come over on a sunny day and we’ll take ér down.”

“Well, I agree with everything you said but for the ‘we’ part, Kemosabe. What makes you think I am going to let an old coot like you get in harm’s way?”


“Well, I was a logger when I was young. You weren’t. You don’t know how to do this. I do. I am going to climb up that other tree nearby and swing like a pendulum until I can grab the old, dead one and then I am gonna strap myself in on it and take it down in pieces.”

Yeah, right!

When he left I went about roping that old tree to other trees nearby. I basically ‘hamstrung’ the dead, gnarly widow-maker and put tension on the lines so that, when I cut it, it would fall and swing away from the shed. Seemed like a good plan.

And then I left it for other things.

Yesterday, ‘old coot’ comes by while I was napping and, before I can get up, climbs the tree beside the dead one and drags a bit of equipment with him. I show up to see him thirty feet up a tree tangled in ropes.

” Is that how loggers do it?”

“Loggers don’t do this! In the forest the trees are not near sheds, you big doofus. Here you have to get creative! Now stop being so useless and send me up my equipment!”

Turns out the first thing I sent up was his climbing harness! He’s already up the tree and now I am sending up the climbing harness?! The tree he is on is pretty hard to climb. I have poor eyesight but I assumed that he had on small climbing spurs but I was surprised to see that the harness and girdling rope was being sent up after the fact.

We eventually got a third rope around the dead tree (higher up for better leverage) and he came down. As I watched, I realized that he did not have spurs. This old guy had climbed the tree in sneakers!

C’mon! That is impressive. I don’t care who you are (except a coconut picker in Jamaica, perhaps). An old guy over 65 and stiff enough to have trouble tying his shoes goes up a straight, minimally-limbed tree 30 plus feet without aids of any kind!

Who are these people!?

“Well, thanks for that. I was going to offer you a beer but perhaps you’d prefer a coconut or a bunch o’ bananas?”