We’ve been here seven years! First two were spent in the 12 x 16 boat shed (our accommodation while we built) and the last five years in the BIG house.

All the systems but one are in and working. The lower funicular is still outstanding and is now pressing as well. Gotta get on that. The rest of the infrastructure has been functioning well for at least three of those five years, maybe four. We have even caught up with the woodpile, an inanimate foe that beat us every year until last year and now hasn’t a chance as we are two years to the good already and relentless in our pursuit of more wood.

We are, for the most part, established. And yet, it still feels like yesterday. It is that sense of novelty, I hope, we don’t ever lose.

Part of the reason for that sense of ‘not knowing what’s next’ is that we did not do everything right the first time. So work on the systems – even though they are functioning – continues. The theory was (and still is) we don’t know how to do it right so let’s get it done quickly first and then we’ll ‘do it right’ when we inevitably have to fix it. It was because of that expedient approach to building that we finished in a mere two years of work.

Smart, skilled people who do things right, take longer. A friend of mine who can and does everything and does it well didn’t move in to the real house he was building for 14 or 15 years! Given that he didn’t start until he was almost fifty, it has been a long, hard slog. Still, the place is magnificent. A marvel of off-the-grid living. I just don’t have the patience.

And therein lies the point of today’s entry: are you a builder or a user?

We used to live on sailboats as most of you know. Lived on the water for 11 of the best years of our life. Still have lifelong friends from that time and priceless memories not to mention volumes of stories. It was a good time. But one thing we noticed early on – there were those who lived on boats they were also building (usually in situ) and there were those who lived on boats made by someone else (usually a commercial venture) and who went sailing on the weekends. We were in the latter category.

Those who were builders were not as a rule sailors, although there are some notable exceptions (T&J sailed the South Pacific twice!). And those who were sailors were not usually builders although everyone had to be ‘fixers’ and maintenance people. I would make some convincing arguments for being a buyer/sailor over a builder but, of course, it is a matter of opinion.

Living off the grid is not too dissimilar. There are those who build their own (the vast majority) and those who build big and beautiful and with all the toys using contractors or others to do the actual construction. The time-to-use difference favours the buyer and the financial difference, of course, the builder. Oddly, I would argue in favour of building your own in this case. Building is where the fun is. It is such an interesting learning curve and very satisfying when you get competent (or so I am told by those encouraging me to keep trying).

But I would actually promote a different approach altogether if you are over 55. I think most people over 55 (unless already well experienced in building) will simply have too hard a time or it will take too long to undertake a conventional cabin building. And I think most of us would find it difficult financially to buy a nice place off-the-grid and off-the-shelf, as it were. All systems ‘go’ from the start. I think we need a concept that is somewhere in between.

Kit homes are the first step to addressing that. The design is done for you and so are all the materials supplied. You have to do the cutting and assembling but the first steps are handled and handled properly. That’s good. But I don’t think good enough.

Half-built seems to be the next step some people adopt. They build to lock-up, declare it a work-in-progress and the cabin walls display bare ply and tar paper for awhile. Sometimes a long while. And, for those who are summer dwellers, that works fine. Who cares what it looks like?

But I think the best way would be to employ custom-built (built in the city where the labour and materials are cheaper and plentiful) shipping containers with supplemental yurts, canvas, tarps, arbors and plenty of decks. Then add some more decks.

This pre-fab-plus-summer-infrastructure-style has been enjoyed previously except the resident usually places a semi-retired RV or mobile home in place of the custom-built container. That old plan is perfectly fine but RV/trailer construction is poor. Containers are forever. And, anyway, I would want my own design. For me, shipping containers are the most logical way to go and the further out you are, the more logical they become.

Such a container-based plan is cheaper, easier and quicker to deploy. It would be ‘custom’ to your tastes within obvious restrictions. It is also ‘secure’ and perfect for as long as 8 months of the year. One could even make it comfortable year ’round with a small addition.

If I had to do it again, especially at this age, I would seriously consider that plan-concept.

One of the other main reasons I was motivated to flee the cul de sac was, as suggested in the last blog, sloth. It is not so much that I was or am lazy. In fact, I am not. But neither am I one of those who go zooming around all day and then go for a jog when I got home ‘to relax’. I worked in a chair, drove in a chair and watched TV from a couch. My day from age 35 to 55 was largely spent sitting. There is no denying it.

I was good at it.

I am also disinclined to discomfort. And I hate sweating. Yuck. So, purposefully driving to a gym and sweating for an allotted time just seemed stupid to me and so I didn’t do it. If I am going to sweat, then something useful and necessary must get done. Or, at the very least fondled and petted.

Porcine comes to mind.

This attitude is not conducive to good health. And, by 50, my health was telling me this in no uncertain terms. Again with the porcine….

But what to do?

Conventional, urban, more-sane plans had no appeal for a broader array of reasons than just fitness. And so logic suggested committing fully to a situation where physical work was not only a requirement but a necessity. Committing meant taking a long leap into the largely unknown physical-challenge world and having to deal with what came up.

OK, ‘insane’ might be a better word.

Anyway, part of this ‘plan’ was to remove the option of sloth otherwise it just might take over. Tough love, in a way.

You’ll understand that, by definition, it took awhile to get this plan off the couch…. unh, I mean ground.

Sidebar: I think the PBS series Frontier House pressed some kind of button for me. It definitely left a major impression and I saw it at the right (read: impressionable)time. I still marvel at that show.

Most people don’t need to do anything that extreme. Most people can simply get themselves to a gym and make a routine of it. But I also hate routines. Most people would stay physically active even if they didn’t go the gym route. They would fix things, build things, take up sports or lawncare and otherwise keep the metabolic rate up. Me? Not so much. It seemed making the perfect martini was my main hobby and I had the added benefit of the world’s most active and energetic partner in Sally. So I could often just let Sally do it.

I am not a bad person. Not really. I just tended to think more than I acted. I tended to live in my head, as they say. And I have been largely blessed by an adequate and strong (albeit ugly) body. If I had to do something, I could. I had nothing to prove.

Then I hit 50 and it all began to shift like my waistline. Time for some drastic action. “Hey, Sal, waddya say we throw ourselves into the forest and learn to build a house while we do it with too little money and no other options?”

“Can I have a dog?”

Saturday. Beautiful. Sunny, windy, not too warm. Just perfect. Just might get the ol’ hindquarters in gear and do something. I have some computer work to address but it is such a lovely day, it seems a waste to spend too much time indoors.

I don’t always feel that way. I am generally disinclined to basking/sweating in hot summer days and our house remains cool even when it is hot out. So being inside is not so bad then. Preferable, I think. But lately it also seems prudent. Seems Japan’s Fukushima has been spewing huge amounts of Iodine 131 onto our heads since March.

According to my sources (The Georgia Straight and a few other not-quite-mainstream publications around the world) the radiation levels in Sidney, Vancouver Island (as recorded at the airport) spiked at twice the highest allowable rate. This 2 times thing makes them hundreds of times higher than normal but only 2 times higher than allowable. And this has been going on for while. Encouraging, don’t you think?

Radioactive iodine is at 7.5 MILLION times legal limit in water around Fukushima — Cesium-137 at 1.1 MILLION times limit

One of the strongest influences in our area is the Japanese Current, a Pacific ocean ‘flow’ that comes to us by way of Japan.

Regina Saskatchewan, they tell us, has taken the biggest hit. That’s because of wind currents and such. Probably the jet stream. Toronto is third worst hit.

Given that Canada is huge and that Toronto and Regina and Sidney are miniscule relatively speaking, that means that Canada as a land mass has been liberally doused in fallout. And that means that it will eventually congregate probably in streams and lakes. Who knows? Poisoning the planet on this scale is not often done and never properly measured. Maybe the Tar Sands project will look good by comparison.

Still, doesn’t sound good to me. Some other articles (ENENEWS):

* Member of Parliament: Health Canada “negligent” on Fukushima radiation threats
* Vancouver Paper: Health Canada detected massive amounts of radioactive material from Fukushima — Iodine-131 spiked above maximum allowed limit at 4 of 5 sites
* Radioactive fish found in Connecticut River — State officials trying to determine source of Strontium-90
* “I am shaking with anger” says head of University of Tokyo’s Radioisotope Center before testimony about internal radiation (VIDEO)

What I find equally as distressing is that the mainstream media have not and are not reporting it. Of course, that could mean that the fringe media are sensationalizing or even lying (gasp!) but given the track record of our BIG media these past decades, lying on their part is at least five times more likely.

I guess Harper et al believe we are on a need-to-know basis and no one thinks we – the little people – need to know?

Maybe they are right. Ignorance would have been more blissful.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighbourhood, Mr. Rogers, but you might want to wear your lead-lined trenchcoat anyway. And a Fedora by Reynolds wrap might not be a bad idea either.

If you sit around on your butt all day, not much good comes of it. Trust me, I know. I have definitely given sloth a chance. I have tested it frequently and the results cannot be denied – being sedentary sucks.

I have been especially reminded of that these past few days as my convalescence progressed and my butt became even less attractive (imagine that?!). The only good thing about it is that I am now virtually better and I have to declare that it is also true: healing is a wonder and a joy to behold. I would literally go to bed with twenty or so square inches of burned skin and I would wake up in the morning with only 16. It was almost that rapid. As of this writing, I am almost perfect in a Dave kinda way. (Translation: flawed as hell.)

I don’t want this to suggest that the injuries recently suffered were anything special to blog about except for the fact that blogging was about the only thing I could effectively do (and the jury is still out on that one, eh?). So, I shared the suffering by whining and complaining a bit. So, sue me. I considered it therapy.

But I think it is now over. I am not yet 100% whole again but anyone seeing me now looks at me with the expression on their face of – “what’s all the fuss about?” The answer: Nada. ‘Nothing here of any interest folks, let’s just move along, now.’

But in relation to being off-the-grid, there is something to be observed and learned from this minor incident. And, believe me, I have had some practice at gaining this point of view from numerous and previous incidents as well. This ain’t theory without experience talkin’- this is, instead, experience forming the theory.

First off (not counting the asinine nature of the accident itself) – have a bunch of medical supplies on hand. I am talking a small suitcase worth. Get a significant kit put together right up to and including sutures and ‘strong’ pain killers. Emphasize the burn treatments. Consider T3 as the lightest of the strong pain killers. Bufferin and such are basically ‘candies’ and just too light for the real heavy work that may have to be dealt with.

Don’t go to the doctor for every little thing. Cut your finger badly? Stay home, keep the wound clean. Learn to love the scar. And, as most of my neighbours would add, ‘and shut the hell up about it’! Cut the finger clean off but you have it on ice and it is intact? OK, maybe then go to the hospital but not before phoning ahead to ensure the finger tailor is in that day. Over 60 and lost the little finger? Think twice before deciding to go. It may not be worth the trouble or the ferry fare.

You see, it’s a waste of time when you know what to do yourself and it is really depressing waiting in the patient lounge sucking up other people’s diseases. Hospitals and clinics now are cesspools of germs, some of which are considered ‘super’ bad. Some of them will even eat your leg while you sit there! Try to spend as little time in such buildings as possible. None is about right. Frankly, I think going to a medical service for something that you can do at home is much, much riskier now than ever before.

Something to consider: practice doing appendectomies at home on feral cats. They don’t need their appendix and you could do with the practice.

Just sayin’………….

‘Course, you can always try the other pussy route: don’t ever do anything and, if you do venture out, wear safety crap. You know my take on safety equipment, right? The only thing safe about it is that you don’t use it and nothing happens to the safety equipment because it is sitting on a shelf somewhere when the accident happens. And, if you do load yourself up on such gear, you are bound (100%) to need it because now you can barely move out of harms way when danger looms. All in all, I think safety equipment is an invitation to Fate to ‘give it your best shot!’

The best way to work? In the nude! Maybe a small cup. Reason? You are quicker, nimbler and unencumbered. Plus, nobody will work with you so you don’t have the danger of other amateurs like yourself to worry about. If you get hurt, there is no dirty clothing to infect the wound. By being nude, the attendant can get at the wounds easier and, if you are not wounded and the attendant is cute, you will be otherwise safely engaged in better, more healthy non-lethal activities.

OK, I admit it, the message above is not endorsed by any government institution or professional health association. But I like it.

Three hours. Not too bad. A few misplaced ‘faces’ and ‘shrieks’. They adapted well.

“Did you explain to your clients what you were going through, sweetie?” asked Sal.

“No. Not really. We had work to do. I just wished I had remembered to roll down the leg of the shorts that I had rolled up. Afterwards, I noticed that I conducted the meeting standing in front of everyone with one pant leg very much shorter then the other. Oh well!”

To the query if I had received any ‘paid’ medical attention? No. Tended to it myself. It’s healing. I’m OK. I’m half-way there. And, anyway, while I was healing a friend of mine went into the hospital (Vancouver) for a minor issue and, in the process, contracted the super-bug and had to spend a few horrible days in isolation fighting assaults to her immune system with tons of special anti-biotics.

I dunno. All things considered, I am happy with my treatment path.

I have a bit of a formal business meeting today. You know, with people I don’t see that often over money matters that may be in minor dispute? That kind of thing. Formal, business-like, structured. Polite. Some decorum is required.

But, as it turns out, my leg burn hasn’t healed and I can’t wear pants yet. So I was thinking I may have to hold the meeting in my pajamas. They are more comfortable on the burn. Logical, perhaps, but just a smidge weird, don’t you think? It is much harder to create an air of respect and formality when limping around in your pajamas. Grimacing and shrieking from a sore back every few minutes doesn’t help either. Puts people off.

Well, I have found that in the past, anyway.

I usually reserve my pajamas for entertaining people with whom I am close, ya know? I was thinking of trying to escalate the level of intimacy when they arrived so as to allow for such casual wear but pushing familiarity while in your pajamas can go horribly wrong if not done perfectly. I don’t seem to have ever pulled it off successfully, if you’ll pardon the expression. My alternative to pajama pants is underwear. That, too, is loaded with danger, if you know what I mean (nudge, nudge). Sally vetoed that (and would have vetoed the joke, too, but I didn’t show her).

We compromised on long shorts. I will conduct this meeting in long shorts. It will be punctuated with brief grunts, grimaces and groans. I may employ a hot water bottle. I am probably setting my career back a long way but the show must go on! Where I come from, we call this ‘professionalism’.

Try to picture it.

I just hope it is appreciated.

Writing is an interesting exercise for me not in the least because of the requirement for restraint. One must not offend, after all. Or be gross. Or be too provocative. Or rude. Blah, blah, blah. In fact, when you add up all the ‘do-nots’, one is/I am, effectively, muzzled. Censored. Tethered. Restrained.

I could blame Sally. She is much more decorous than I am and generally less expressive in all matters except nice ones. It is just the way she is. And she does act as an inhibiting factor because of that. You know, like the Queen.

More to the point, however, is that she actually passes judgment on everything I write before it is published and, even tho I insist on ‘saying what I want’, I really don’t want to say anything that upsets her. So she is an effective editor/censor without ever really needing veto powers. An arched eyebrow is like the delete button for me.

Restraint is just marital harmony by yet another name.

It is not so much that I have gross things to say nor am I looking to offend (with a few notable exceptions). It is, rather, the sight of the fence at the end of the field that keeps the horse from getting up a good head of steam. And so it is that my steam is kept in check and I don’t even move my haunches in that direction.

If I was allowed (by my ownself, I know) my freedom-to-spew, I would most definitely paint a few of my neighbours in more vivid hues or some in severe basic blacks and whites. That is in my nature. I am inclined to word-pictures as my Friend Doug says. And painting characters is the most fun.

I would most certainly ream the government over myriad issues and may have to be physically restrained after awhile lest I get arrested. Just thinking about it gets my blood riled (you following the fish-farm/DFO/issues!?). So, in that sense, my restraint is also for my own good.

I would also talk about relationships more. Family. Friends. Neighbours. I like the subject but I understand that it would be a violation of intimacies and so it is taboo. Not everyone wants to read about themselves and especially not in association with me. Hell, I might even write about intimacies but that, too, could cause trouble in paradise.

Most of the good stuff is out of bounds!

I might even write about my own inner demons but, to be frank, they are all pretty lame now. Geriatric demons, if you will. No real spunk. Not any more. M’demons got no mo’ mojo.

And I guess that is the nub of it, eh? No real demons to push me to the brink of offense, rejection or social isolation. Not like the good ol’ days. Now I rely on boring people as my primary offense.

How’m I doin’?

Family and guests. Brian and Emily, Dave and Kate (B&E’s friends). It’s nice. They all packed light but they all brought scotch. Experienced campers. Brownie points to the good from arrival.

I have no idea how I managed to instil in guests the need to bring scotch but it has become a bit of a tradition and I am quite pleased about it. First tradition I have ever liked, actually. Well, I have come to enjoy Thanksgiving but, I am afraid, for much the same reason so we may as well bunch it all into ‘scotch days’.

I mean, really, eaten one turkey, eaten ’em all, eh?

And another tradition manifested as well. One, perhaps, more enduring over time: Brian is Em’s fiancé officially as of last night. Ring, champagne, romantic setting (presented privately at sunset beside the Inukshuk on the point) and the whole thing. He seemed to know what he was doing. (As much as any man ever knows what he is doing with such a radical act!) And Em was pleased. Smiles all around. It was nice. Very nice.

A few toasts. Some pictures. We then, of course, reminisced about our own wedding. Out came the photo album. It was a scene from Father Knows Best or Ozzie and Harriet. Even the dogs were in there wagging their tails! I guess some things never change.

But I must confess that, after a minute or two, their intimate and personal commitment seemed to signify yet another shift in the generational continuum to me. I moved my continental plate one more increment closer to the edge.

Time to close our album and get ready for another.

Time does, indeed, march on.

And I am not sad about the progression. I just felt it. But I don’t feel as if I am losing a daughter. ‘A son is a son til he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter all her life.’ So I am really just gaining a wood splitter. I’m OK with that. All in all not a bad development!

You know how it is…………at a certain point you get bored with your own plight. There was an excitement about the accident at the time but that story has been told ad nauseum. Now it is just scabs. The thrill has gone from the bloodletting, as it were. That adventure is over. Time to move on from self pity and once again throw your body into some other kind of harm’s way, ya know?

Well, even if ya don’t know, I am there. Bored of this. Whinging when I lift a loaf of bread, limping when I walk. Cringing at cleaning the burn. I mean, really, how stupid is all that!? Lots of guys take bullets in the shoulder or even the guts and then come flying out of broken shopping centre windows shooting with two pistols blasting sideways a few minutes later. I see that all the time in movies. Not me. I get a little cut and lie there like a lamb roast. For days!

I need to get the juices flowing again, ya know?

Hmmmm………..bugging Sal is always a dangerous game………hmmmmmmm

“Geez, Sal, I am getting bored”.

“Poor baby”, she says as she packs logs up the hill and starts the laundry after having made breakfast and cleaned the house. “Soon as I am done here, I’ll make you a nice lunch and you can lie down for a little nap!”

“Well, that seems fair. But I am still bored. How you gonna entertain me when you are working so much?”

“You mean like art therapy?”

“Yeah. I’ll get it all out for you and all you have to do is sit and paint.”

“Geez, I dunno. Could be hard on my back. What else you got?”

NOW there’s electricity in the air!

Back is almost 75% healed. Can’t put on my socks or lift and turn with any weight carried but, generally speaking, I could walk a block to the store and bring home a loaf of bread. But, of course, out here that is not an option so I am just talking big. Still, for all intents and purposes the healing is underway and I am gonna be fine.

The leg is still a mess but, it too, is healing. Pretty well, I think. It oozes out of the burned area a kinda honey-coloured resin goo that seems to be like a natural fibreglass and that stiffens up the burn area considerably. With the skin thus stabilized, my leg then tends to try to knit the edges of the damaged area together in some magic and invisible way. The problem is that the leg has to move. Can’t avoid it. And, when that happens, you tend to ‘crack’ the glaze and it feels as if you are tearing duct tape off it. I have to say, the leg is healing but it is making me cry like a little girl in the process.

Unless someone is within earshot in which case I just grimace.

I was lucky. I’ll be fine. Just another stupid-man-thing that didn’t go as bad as it could have. But it hasn’t been easy on the old pudding.

Monday she went to work at the Post Office. Did it again Wednesday. Tuesday she went to Comox for the BIG shop before our next set of guests. She left at 8:00 am and, after stopping at ten stores or more, got home at 8:00 pm arriving by loaded-to-the-gills small boat. Then, while I looked on in pathetic impotence, she schlepped it all into the house and put it away. Having a partner is a good thing. Having a great partner is a gift. Having Sally is no less than a miracle blessing.

And today is all-housework-day for the guests coming.

I am definitely going to wash the dishes more often in future. Probably.