This past week’s weather was largely below zero.  It was cold.  We have been burning through the firewood (duh) and are now half way through the stored supply.  For the previous eleven years, we never got half way through that even by the end of the season. The fire is on 24/7 these days.  And I am OK with that.  That is what it is for, after all.  And I like the uneven radiant heat woodstoves produce versus the ‘false’ mini-climate that central heating provides.  I like the bedroom colder, the living room warmer and the sense of being able to move from one temperature to another. So, it is good.

If there is a downside to this cold-spell it is that we don’t go out much.  Of course, we go to town when we need to, get the wood in every three days or so when the indoor pile runs down and I go out to start the genset now and then but, generally speaking, I have reversed completely the ratio of indoor to outdoor time as compared to even the spring and fall.

“So, what the hell do you do all day, Dave?”

Good question.  Usually, I laugh at that when people ask.  We are usually so busy.  They are wondering what a retired guy does on a remote island without a Starbucks to frequent. But I have answers.  Usually.  Not this time.   It is a fair question and the only honest answer is ‘very little of anything’.

I should be grinding out book #2 but the muse hasn’t hit me.  Don’t know where to go with that yet. We had guests for lunch Tuesday and that was a full afternoon of interesting give and take. I was going to pick up the ‘she-does-house-calls’ doctor (she is the best doctor I have ever experienced) on Wednesday but a heavy snowfall put postponement on that. We putz about on the computer.  We read.  We occasionally cook together.  The day goes by pleasantly enough.  But, make no mistake – we are in some kind of hibernation.  We are definitely at a slow idle.

Well, I am.  Sal is quilting, cooking, making arrangements behind my back for social events and the like (and then pretending that she consulted me).  She goes to book club, the quilting bee and does the odd day at the post office.  As she frequently points out, ‘a woman’s work is never done’.  It is interesting to note that the moment I point out that something is ‘woman’s work’, she won’t do it so that is a mystery there still to be explained.

The really nice thing is that we never argue.  Never bicker.  I enjoy her company and she mine.  People marvel at that but we seem to save common friction for construction matters.  We conflict when building but rarely on anything else. Well, sometimes when cooking but cooking is nano-construction, in my opinion.  Sal likes bland.  I like spicy.  The twain shall never meet.

“Dave, this is not blog-worthy!”

I know.  And that is the point, really.  We are not up to much that IS blog worthy these days.  Our usual winters involve going somewhere warm.  But every few years we stay home and things grind to a peaceful, rhythmic routine that is not uncommon out here.  And that IS part of an off-the-grid blog report.

Just a dull part.

This past year is the first year I have felt old.  I’ve had plenty of aches and pains before and felt fatigue, of course, but feeling old is much more than just all that.  It’s attention grabbing. It gets in your head.  It’s a state of mind.  I am thinking about aging and all that it encompasses much more than ever before. And it is a bit daunting, I must admit.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am NOT old.  Not yet, anyway.  But I have one foot in the ring.  I know that, too.  I feel that.  I have entered the playoffs.  I didn’t think ‘old’ would actually register until I hit the BIG 7-0 but, at 68, I now have the feeling.  A smidge early, I guess, but I am there.

Getting this far was a wild card chance given my history but I made it and I am in.  I figure to get through the quarter finals (my 70’s) and maybe make the semi’s (my eighties).  With luck, I’ll emerge at the end of 2038 in good enough shape to hit the finals with most of my team (body) intact.  I’ll play for the championship cup (urn) in my 90’s.  But I will get there – like all good athletes – one day at a time, giving 110% and relying heavily on the date that brung me.

But, geez…………doesn’t 2038 sound like a long ways off?

So, what has age got to do with it, anyway?  Well, first off, we (I) am not as ‘driven’ as I was.  Not in any way.  Time can pass without me stressing about it much anymore.  I am good with sitting.  I am good with NOT getting things done.  I had no idea I could be so good at that and so quickly, too, but I obviously adjust well.  And I am now comfortably content with sloth.  So, sue me.

And that may actually happen.  I have promised a lot of people a bathroom for the guest cabin by next summer.  And I intend to keep that promise.  Honest.  I also have to finish the greenhouse before I break all the glass and I intend to do that, too.  Plus there are myriad other, minor things that have to be done not the least important of which is cobbling a working 250cc dirt bike from the two ‘parts’ bikes I picked up.  My agenda is full, my expectations are high and my goals are still within grasp.

But I’d be a liar if I didn’t sense their increasing rather than decreasing distance.  That greenhouse feels as far away as it did last spring.  The cabin bathroom is definitely further away.  I am actually a little closer to some of the lesser projects but, overall, I think I am feeling a bit stalled, I feel a bit of slippage, some sliding back….

I gotta get moving again.  Mind you, winter always does this. Spring puts something back. Keep a happy thought, eh?

But – again – what has all that to do with off the grid?  Well, it is weird.  It really is.  The older I get the more I want to do.  Or, rather, wish I could.  The more wonderful some things now seem.  I know that I am not going to do them but I would like to.  Maybe it is the freeing of the mind to dream when you know in your heart that becoming a rock star is finally not an option or becoming the prime minister is pretty much ruled out.

Alright!  COMPLETELY RULED OUT!

Maybe it is being eliminated from so many contests that makes you appreciate them.  I don’t know. But I do appreciate everything much more.  That is for sure.  Getting old is really getting much more appreciative of what life you have left.

And getting off the grid is related.  Most people get off the grid by going to their cabin. They have to retire to do that.  Most retirement means stepping back.  Slowing down.  So most of the off the grid lifestyle change is usually about slowing down.  Typically.

It wasn’t for us.  We retired early and when we did, we cranked it up to build the cabin. We learned and grew and developed and built and we did so with gusto. We retired but we weren’t retiring, if you know what I mean.  Our going off the grid actually sped us up for a bit.  It was an acceleration and intensity set amidst the beauty of nature and at a pace we pretty much determined so it was not just a rustic version of a different rat race.  It was a lifestyle change.  Like it was intended.  But it was not slow.  Not in the beginning.  Not the first three or five years.  But it has been slowing down since I turned 60 or 61…or even 62.

I am probably six years into the slowing.  And only now acknowledging it.   It is a different view from here, I can assure you. Einstein was right: time is relative to the speed of light. What he didn’t tell us was that, if you are sensitive, you can determine that at slower speeds as you get older.

Sal and I used to host a NON New Years eve party.  If you want to have fun, drink, goof around, make noise, kiss each other’s wives and stay til midnight, don’t come.  If you have nowhere else to go, are willing to relax and just chill, promise not to kiss anyone and are in your own home before midnight, you were welcome. Come late, leave early and you’d get invited every year.

But, after a few years with way,way too many people attending, that got too intense, too. We quit that nonsense til this year. So, we have now changed it up to hosting a NON party on the next day. Today. This is basically for those who had no party to go to on New Years Eve and are extra grateful for a second-chance pity party, still willing to go home early and have no expectations whatsoever. If you have expectations, don’t come.  In fact, we are not issuing invitations anymore.

Because tonight, we’ll have eight for dinner. If they stay for dessert, we’ll never do this again.

It must come as no surprise, but I am not a fan of parties.  Never have been. And I feel even more strongly about that as we all get older.  Chit chat has never appealed to me and chit chat with people hard of hearing is hard work.  Really hard work.  I am at that age when everyone I know is hard of hearing and, worse, their voices seem to be getting weaker.

And, is it just me or is background noise getting louder?

I have never understood parties, even when I was young.  I just didn’t get it.  Still don’t. Why gather for meaningless conversation which is interrupted all the time? I only attended now and then to dabble in the gene pool anyway and way too often remained bone-dry…if you’ll pardon the wording.  It was hit and miss at best and I batted poorly, hardly making contact. Mostly striking out.  In fact, I reasoned that I could do much better entering a female beauty contest.  I would lose, of course, probably disqualified early, but at least I would have more fun in the dressing room if I dressed up enough to get in.  Parties were not even that promising.

I always met women by accident, never on purpose, never planned, never by intentional gatherings.  I even met Sally at the PNE.  She was sitting on the steps of the BC building with her girlfriend and looking all of 13 years old.  I was 21 and sat near them just to get out of the sun.  My friend Ted was making a fool of himself  doing what I had suggested would work to pick up chicks (but didn’t) and so I mentioned the silliness that was unfolding in front of us to the young girls nearby.  It was just a quick remark.  I really thought she was just a kid.  I wasn’t even chatting.  It was a total fluke of serendipity that I was chatting up my wife-to-be.

That was close to 47 years ago.

And today feels like day one.  I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

Just an idea….gonna ‘float it’….see what you think…..

Most people running for office are motivated to ‘do good’.  Even the idiot Cons thought they were right and had the answers to what ailed us (despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary).  Harper thought he was GOOD for the country.

Some pursue politics for reasons of ego and a hunger for power but they are rare.  Harper, Mulcair, Trudeau’s back room.  Christy Clark’s back room.  Those people thirst for power so as to push their personal agenda.  The average politician is no good at much of anything else (maybe teaching drama) but likes meeting people, shaking hands and kissing babies.   And they are more than willing to go along to get along.  They believe in the system.  They may be weak-minded and spineless joiners, followers and sycophants but, generally speaking, they are benign and vanilla-nice. Like lap dogs.

There are not a lot of truth-telling, courageous contrarians in politics, that is for sure.

And the reason we have parties and opposition and dirty politics is that these ‘personalities’ feel they can’t ‘do good’ unless they first have the power and that means (in this system) selling out, dirty tricks and telling lies.  And they even need to ‘join’ up’ to do that.  With that sacrifice, they then lose what little personal integrity they might have had. They rationalize that as required for the ‘team’ approach of the party system.  They and we seem to think they have to first do a lot of bending over, suckholing, brown-nosing and being blind to the evil in the background to be able to be in the position to do any good.

What a soul-killing exercise that must be.

I keep thinking about that.  There must be a better way.  I think proportional representation is a much better way but, once you get to thinkin’, you think up other stuff, too.

So….here we go: Imagine that all the candidates really want to do good, represent their community and are not motivated by the money, perks, bonuses and other selfish aspects of the job.  One, say, is the Green candidate, one Liberal candidate and Joe over there is the NDP. All others are welcome to join the local constituency pact, too.  The local pact is an agreement based on the fact that being adversaries is counter productive.  Being in opposition is the opposite of cooperation and their allegiance to the community is more important than subservience to the party that rarely serves anyone all that well.

The local pact plan can work better.

Of course, they run against each other but the two or three top vote getters (minimum votes required to form the pact…..say 25%) commit to cooperating.  And then, when the election is done, one of them is the official MLA but they (those with 25% or better) then split the salary and the perks.  They split the expenses and the per diems. And they work together.

Opinions and votes are decided jointly (deciding vote going to the highest vote-getter). But that means two people representing the community.  Or three. That means two or three bodies making it to meetings.  That means two or three minds being better than one and all the pact members being together are made more able to resist party pressures.

If three vote getters get more than 25% of the vote each then there are three bodies doing the job.  If only two get 25% or more then the pact is made up of two.

Why not?  If you are really running to help your community, then that should work for you in spades.  The average back bencher MLA gets over $105K a year in salary and somewhere around another $50k in expense allowances and such.  For hardly any excuse at all, they give additional pay.  Plus office staff and crap.  And there are plenty of perks.  Most MLAs I have met couldn’t get work at $50k in the real world so they can share what is likely close to $200k and still be way ahead.  Plus they get more done, satisfy more of the voters and have greater independence to vote their conscience.

It also ends the adversarial nature of politics and makes it more cooperative and more democratic.  

This plan is basically proportional representation done at the local level.  You want a candidate that is first past the post, then don’t vote for those who form the local pact.  You want as much bang for your buck as a taxpayer, then vote the local pact.  Easy.

I’ll call this idea the Pact Party.  It is not an official group but a movement, an idea, an exercise in peaceful revolution that should offend no one.

Such an idea is pretty simple, pretty basic and pretty unselfish.  Therefore it will take a lot of explaining and most people just won’t get it.  “Unselfish?  Like, duh, who would do that!?” 

I think a lot would.  I think most politicians start out wanting to do good.  And, I think if they did this good thing, they would revolutionize politics overnight.

What do you think?

Got up early to catch the first breakfast shift at the heritage house B&B we were staying at for day or so while down in Victoria.  Shared a table with a couple from North Carolina, Mary and Chester.  “We have learned that you folks don’t stop for rain, that’s for sure!  People just keep goin’ about their business as usual.”

“What does your average Bubba do when it rains in the Carolina’s?”

“Oh, we-all stay in.  No sense gettin’ wet.  We still go to work and all, but most other things wait til it’s over.  No sense walkin’ around in it or anything.”

They were very pleasant.  Invited us to look ’em up when we get down that way. Black-eyed peas, greens, ribs and cornbread promised. Some of our best adventures have been started on less.

Then up to Costco and the shopping-from-hell exercise that we do twice a year or so.  Car loaded.  And missing.  I am being plagued by the mass-air-flow sensor again.  The major error was in writing a blog about having fixed it.  What a fool!  The only solution now is in selling the car. I exposed hubris to the car-gods in that blog.  They don’t like that.  Golf gods are like that, too.  So are all feminine gods but I tempt fate now perhaps too foolishly by even saying that.  Apologies to all things feminine.

No, really!

Stopped at Spikes auto wreckers on the Malahat for a used sensor.  Spike is like most auto-wreckers; big, mean, dirty, all-business, all-rip-off, all-the-time.  Still, much cheaper than the original manufacturer, he has a legitimate scavenger’s place in the giant scheme of things.  While he turned his back to get my receipt I noticed his window was decorated with Christmas cards. “Say, Spike, do all you wrecker guys send Christmas cards to each other like the ones I see on the window?”  (Happy Holidays from Prince George Auto Wreckers!)

“Sure do.  Every year.  At Christmas.”  And then he added a big smile like he was one of Santa’s little helpers.

The cards.  The observation of Christmas coming every year and Spike’s big smile just appealed to me.  I left laughing.  Spike returned to being, well, Spike.  It was not one of those ‘you had to be there‘ moments because no one has to be there.  But, if you had, you would have laughed.

Sal didn’t get it either.

We drove like hell.  Not because we drove quickly but because the engine sputtered and died for nano-seconds the whole way.  I needed to get close to home to put in the part. But we made the city in time for the last load of perishables and then caught the ferry to the neighbouring island where our boat lay waiting patiently after being left there for us by our (awesome) neighbours.  It was getting dark.  A lot of heavy lifting later, we were bumbling along in the fading light to our our shore for the last and hardest leg of the journey.  Hauling everything up the rocks and ramp.  An hour or so later, we were in the house, with the fire starting to take the chill off.  We had been gone only five days but it felt terminal.  It was a voyage worthy of Sinbad.  Only without much of the sin.

It’s just a phase.  I am getting less inclined to travel these days.

Could be all the terrorists, or the people intending to catch them, but I think it is more that I prefer my own bed.  In fact, I prefer my own everything!  Even MY own cup of tea is better than everyone else’s tea. You know the empire is dead and gone when you can’t get a decent cup of tea anywhere!  Yeah….you can quote me!

Bloody ‘ell!

Gawd, it is good to be home.  GAWD, it is GOOD to be HOME!  GAWD, IT IS GOOD TO BE HOME!!!

She’s a neighbour, if you count being within twenty miles by boat neighbourly.  But we are also friends and we know her.  Quite the woman.  Slim, slightly taller than average.  Strong like bull.  Great attitude.  F is in her late 50’s but she lives the life of a twenty five year old. Hiking in Nepal.  Working crew on a large boat during the summer.  OTG’er.  Keeping a large family close, together and functioning extremely well.  There is not much F can’t do and there is a helluva lot she has done.  The whole family is a real life, modern day Swiss Family Robinson only tougher, more capable and the daughters are prettier.

The other day, she left her house for a short walk through the forest to the narrows near her island to take some photographs of the raging tide flow and rips occurring due to the extremely high tides this time of year. She had a hiking stick, like ski-pole, that she probably used to steady the camera on as much as assist her in hiking.  A good-sized dog, belonging to one of her grown children accompanied her.  When she got to the expected site, she took some pictures and sat for a minute on a rocky ledge.

The dog went nuts.  But dogs do that kind of thing and F ignored it for a second and then, turning to look for the reason found herself face to face with a large male cougar. She was quite amazed by the size of the big cat’s head.  That it was snarling and moving toward her was also somewhat attention-getting and so she got up, pointed her hiking stick and jabbed.  The cat advanced a few steps.  The dog continued it’s canine hysterics – not that the other two bothered to notice – and the cat snarled and hissed and continued forward.

F tried to puff herself up to look larger in her brightly coloured Gore-tex outfit.  No sense in ignoring fashion when confronting cougars, eh? But Gore-tex doesn’t fluff up all that well and F probably does not weigh 120 pounds soaking wet.  She impresses me all to hell but not because she is intimidating. I’m impressed because she is so capable in so many ways.

And, I am right.  It turns out she has a bit of lion tamer in her, as well.  As the big cat slowly advanced, so did F.  They were coming together.  She poked and jabbed, yelled loudly and sounded as aggressive as she could. She puffed up and gave no ground.  The cat snarled but stopped.  And F snarled back.

The big cougar saw something in the unfolding scene that suggested discretion might be the better part of valour and slowly backed down.  That decision was made a little easier by F slowly advancing and not giving an inch.  And the Great Pyrenees-border collie was starting to break the big cat’s concentration.  Time to leave.

The cat turned and ran with the dog nipping and yelping at his heels.  Both disappeared into the bush.  F walked home.  I am guessing rather quickly but knowing F, she may have stopped for a photograph if something beautiful caught her eye.

Half-way home the dog appeared at her side none the worse for wear.

So, just a walk in the park for F.  A brief encounter with danger for the cougar.  Lesson learned; don’t mess with a woman, her dog and her stick.

The guy drinks too much.  Smokes dope on the job and is ‘under the influence’ way more than not.  He’s a bit less than attractive, too.  His work is excellent despite that, and he could drywall a scarecrow to look like a supermodel.  Admittedly, he looks a bit anti-social and, being in such a trade, he is always dusty, unkempt, down at the heels and looks like something the cat wouldn’t even drag in.  I met him a few years ago.  He was a good guy to me and Sally.  And we liked him.

After a shift at a job he was on a few days ago, he left late in the morning.  The reason for that is that he starts very early or sometimes works through the night.  Drywalling work is not compatible with other trades work. Contractors and other subtrades prefer the drywallers to be unseen, unheard and yet do perfect work – somehow magically.  That usually means working weird hours.  Drywallers try to work around the other trades.

His job at this time was in an expensive penthouse in Downtown.  After work, he walked to his car, stayed in it for a few extra minutes, maybe making a call and then, driving less than perfectly, made his way out of the lot.  I know this because his actions were caught on the security tape and also because the security tape was soon being reviewed.

An outraged woman told security that her laptop had been stolen from her car.  She had arrived at the building early and left before noon, shortly after the departure of the drywaller. The cameras showed only him walking in the area during this time.  They did not show that he broke into her car and they did not show him carrying a laptop.  But she concluded that he was the thief.  She called the chair of the strata building, they called the police and they also called the general contractor who had let the drywall contract to the fellow being accused. The two women demanded that the drywaller return the computer and they demanded the contractor fire the guy and that the general also do extra credential checking to ensure that his other tradespeople were not criminals.

The general contractor apologized to the drywaller but said he had no choice but to fire him a few days before Christmas because that was the alleged victim’s and the strata council’s chair’s demand.  The contractor also offered to replace the missing laptop, even though he did not believe his subtrade worker had taken it.  It is worth noting that the owner of the penthouse – the one who hired the contractor – was not involved. The person making the accusation was simply a woman claiming to have been keeping an early appointment in the building. She was supported in that contention by the chair with whom the meeting had occurred.

The drywaller denied the allegation but had no choice but to stop work.  He would lose a large portion of his December income since he had set aside the time to do this job and had no other contract to continue with.  Given his proclivities, he might be excused if he had simply given up on December and was planning on spending even more time less conscious.

After all the running around and firing and the setting of hair-on-fire had played out the woman called the building manager. She called to inform him that she had erred.  She had left her computer at home.

A new drywalling firm had already been hired.  The contractor had spent the day running one way and then the other. The previous drywaller had his reputation impugned.  The building manager was embarrassed and offered the drywaller $100 from his own pocket as an apology. The chair of the strata board was not heard from.  She ducked away. Neither has the woman who made the accusation apologized or made good any type of compensation.

Now imagine this story playing out a bit differently.  In this version it is the drywaller who’s computer is missing from the front seat of his car. In this fantasy version it is the smartly dressed business woman who is caught on the security tape walking to her car and getting into it. In this version the drywaller views the video with the building manager and concludes the woman is a thief.  The police are called. The outraged drywaller insists that this woman’s employer be called and that she be fired on the strength of his allegation. And that her co-workers and boss are informed of this misdeed and their backgrounds are also re-checked.

Do you see that ever happening? Of course not.  So why is it happening here?  Is it the clothes?  Is it the type of work they do?  Could it be a gender bias?  Is it perceived social status?

And, given the example set of ‘trying to do the right thing’ by the general contractor and the building manager, why, if the two women learn of their error are they not falling all over themselves trying to fix it?

Can anyone explain that to me?

We were patrolling the park one night.  The kids were drinking and doing drugs.  We passed a few words.  They invited us to partake.  We declined. They said, “You guys think you are better than us, dontcha?”

“No”, I said, “We do not THINK we are better than you, we KNOW we are better than you.  You guys are total dorks!”

A heated discussion ensued wherein they asked. “So, like, what can we do that is better than this?”  And we answered with a litany of alternatives to wasting their time doing petty crimes and getting high.  One of the options was going to Expo 67 despite it being two years too late.

“We don’t have the money for that kind of thing!”

“Neither did I.  I hitched across Canada, spent 9 months in Europe and hitched back last year and I only spent $275 total with most of that going to airfare from Gander.  You don’t need money to travel.  I can teach you how to go across the country, stay for the summer and come back on $20.00.”

Six kids took me up on the deal.  $10.00 from me to ‘get going’ and then, when they are in Montreal and stayed for at least two months, they could call and I’d send them $10.00 to get home.  Two kids got to Penticton together, bought beer and stayed two weeks with a cousin.  Two kids did much the same as far as Calgary.  One made it to Manitoba.  Only Wayne made it all the way to Montreal.

“Find an older, semi-homely female student or teacher and attend her class.  After class, tell her of your quest.  If she doesn’t take you home, do another class later that day.  Keep it up til you have a place to stay and someone to feed you.  You be the best boyfriend ever. Take care of chores, make dinner, provide any other service she requires and go to classes.   You can audit them.  Don’t pay, just go from class to class until you find something you like.  Come back before school starts here and if you ever say I put you up to this, I’ll deny it!”

Wayne followed the formula and ate well, slept well and learned a lot.  In late August, he called for his ten bucks.  He called collect.  I took the call and informed him that he had just used the money promised to call collect.  Told him I was proud of him and looked forward to seeing him in a week or so.  Then I hung up.

Wayne came back.  He dropped out of the gang.  He enrolled in City College.  And he did well.  I would like to report that Wayne went on to become a professor and wrote books or something but he did not.  He did two years and dropped out to get married.   I saw him a few years later, father of two, driving a Chevy ll and looking happy.  He had a full time, good job and lived not far from the old neighbourhood but he had plans, he had a vision, he had a future.

Travel can do that for a kid.

And that may be the essence of his story, really.  Thug goes bad and OD’s.  But I knew him differently.  I liked him.  Mostly.

And, after our set-to, he came to like me, too.  We were friends in a different-side-of-some-kind-of-line way.  As he became even more delinquent, he got arrested more often.  When that happened, he ended up in Juvy (Juvenile Court) and they kept threatening to do something but, of course, they never did.  Finally, It looked like Jerry was going to be ‘sent up’ to adult court and that would likely mean serious incarceration.  He asked me to speak on his behalf.

I did.

But I didn’t sugarcoat anything.  I told the judge all the bad stuff Jerry was doing and all the bad stuff he had done.  I even threw in the story of the beer bottles when I was asked to explain why I was there in the first place.  The judge said, “So, you beat him up and he asked you to speak for him and this is the best you can do?”

“Pretty much.  Jerry is well on his way to becoming a criminal and the sad part is that he doesn’t really see it.  He is not a bad kid.  Just completely uncontrollable and his mom is an addict and a prostitute, he doesn’t know his father and, basically, the only life he knows is delinquent and bad…soon to get worse, probably.”

“Can you control him?”

“No.  Of course not.  No one can.  I live in a city-park caretaker’s cottage.  I go to school.  All I could do is make sure he is in at night and out the door to school in the morning…if they will take him back.”

Jerry piped up and said, “I’ll live with Dave and Ted and go to school every day.”

The judge looked at me and said, “Are you willing to do that for him?”

When Ted heard that we had a new roommate, he was not happy.  I was not happy.  Even Jerry was not entirely happy after we told him the way things were going to be.  He had to do dishes, sleep on the floor, obey some rules and be in before ten at night or else we’d turn him back in.  And he knew we would.

He did OK for a year or so.  We all did.  No more trouble.  He kept his side of the deal, that is for sure.  But, when we left the park after almost two years, he had no place to go so Ted took him to the house he was living at.  That lasted awhile but, by then, Jerry was a legal adult and Children’s Aid was not helping and Ted was soon to find his wife and I had met Sally and so I was gone.  At 19, Jerry went out to live on his own.

I heard from him now and again and my prediction was right.  He eventually became a ‘collector’ for a loan shark and drug dealer and gained a reputation for using a wrecking bar to make the client pay up. Typically, he just smashed a leg but he once hit a guy so hard on the head that he was pretty sure he killed him.  And that didn’t stop him.

One day, when Sal and I were living on our boat, Jerry showed up in a yellow Corvette with a beautiful but ditzy blond.  After the pleasantries, he told me he wanted to leave a package with me because he was pretty sure he was being followed.

“Why would anyone follow you, Jerry?”

“Well, I am on a weekend pass from Oakalla and I am in for dangerous driving and driving without a license.  Plus I am carrying a few ounces of coke.  I am pretty sure someone is watching.”

“I didn’t know they put people in jail for driving offences like that.  You must have some record.  And I am pretty sure you don’t have a license now.  Of course you are being watched.  Give me the keys and I’ll drive the car to where you want me to.  You’ll have to carry your own dope.”

“Well, I ran over a guy trying to collect a debt but they couldn’t pin that on me so they threw the book at me for dangerous driving.  That’s not right, is it?  Anyway, I am not too concerned about the car.  What are they going to do, send me to jail?  I have to go back on Monday anyway. No, I need you to take the dope.”

“Jerry, I’ll take the dope and flush it down the toilet.  Seriously.  Like within the next minute after you give it to me.  Is that what you want?”

“Whatever, man, I just need to get rid of it.”

I took it.  I flushed it.  And off he went.  Then he really went off the rails.  For over a decade.  Ran with harder criminals.  Moved up the list of the damned-all-to-hell and, last I heard, he had overdosed and was dead.

And, of the 20 or so kids in the gang, that plot-line played out for over a dozen of them…give or take an offense or two or jail-time duration.  I know of a few who escaped the dark side but they are very much in the minority.

I didn’t have a place to live.  Neither did my friend, Ted.  We were both twenty and attending school and, after tuition, didn’t have a cent to our name. In fact, we were living off of student loans and, until recently, I had been living with my live-in-her-apartment-girlfriend, Cheryl. Which is another great story.

Our professor of Something 101 started the class one day by asking if anyone knew of two, huge football players who would consider living rent free in a caretaker’s suite in a city park on the wrong side of town.  Seems Clark Park was the resident stomping ground of a gang of delinquent youth who had been running roughshod for so long the city had closed the caretaker’s suite and was considering selling the land to developers. The last two caretakers had been beaten severely and the cottage had been set on fire more than a few times.

Ted was 5’7″ in his mother’s heels.  Plus he spoke with a lisp and fancied himself a poet. Despite this, Ted was the toughest guy in his and our neighbourhood.  He was legendary after a half hour donnybrook at Wally’s drive-in on Kingsway one night.  He eventually walked away under his own power and his opponent, feared city wide,  had to be carried off.  KD was much older, much bigger than Ted and much more feared prior to his dethronement.  His reputation was such that he remained a major threat even after the loss to everyone except, of course, Ted.

We drove over to the park before saying anything and made a point to go on a Friday night when the gang was said to gather.  We met about a dozen teens in cut-off jean jackets over leather, sporting tattoos before it was fashionable and showing up for the Friday night debauchery in cars just stolen.  There was a lot of beer, a lot of dope and a lot of testosterone.  It was weird in a cheap B horror-cum-slasher flick kind of way but mostly because of the dark, the park setting, the still partially-burned cottage and cars strewn around the park beside trees, water fountains and even on the playing field.  The park was clearly their turf and it showed.  Not a cop in sight.

But, honestly?  Not one of the kids was as tough as I was and they would need six of them to take on Ted and they’d still lose.  After a bit of socializing, we told them that we were considering moving into the cottage, mostly because we had no place to live but, if we did, we’d have to act like caretakers and we might have a problem with them if they objected.  They assured us that there would be no problem.  They could just as easily park their temporary rides on the street for appearances sake and, so long as we didn’t disturb their gatherings, we’d all be fine.

We took the job, the cottage was repaired once again and we had to report monthly to Emery Barnes who was then the director of the community centre a few blocks away. Emery was about 6’6″, black, huge and had hands so big that when holding basketballs they looked like they were holding cantaloupes. He had been a pro football player with the BC Lions and eventually went on to become a member of parliament in Victoria. Emery was a great guy but he said, “Don’t take the job.  It’s too dangerous.  You’ll get hurt.”

That Emery would say that kind of sobered us up but free rent is a seductive concept and we would even be provided with $60 a month for food.  We really had no choice.

After we moved in we discovered that the gang was twice the size of the group we had met that first night.  The older guys only showed up after nine o’clock.  There were maybe a half dozen or so older than we were.  Just about everybody was bigger than Ted.

We patrolled the park every night.  Things seemed to go okay.  Stolen cars were left on the street. Citizens of the area started to walk through the park again, but still only in the daylight hours. We started to get comfortable.

But it was not a walk in the park for us.  Especially in the beginning. Within a few weeks of our arrival a large group came up to the cottage and the biggest, Jerry, called out my name.  Ted was not there.  I went out. “One of your rules is no broken beer bottles, right?”

“Yes, Jerry.  I don’t care that you drink or not. I just don’t want to clean up the mess.”

He looked at me, raised the half sack of bottles he was carrying and, with some drama, smashed the flimsy box and it’s contents onto the asphalt sidewalk he was standing on.

“Geez, Jerry.  Those bottles must have slipped from your hand.  You want a broom?”

“Nope.  And I want to know what you are going to do about it.”

“Jerry, I have no option but to beat you up.  You know that.  I suggest you reconsider and pick it all up.  It would be for the best.”

Jerry just took a battle ready stance and waved two hands at me inviting me to join him.

“OK, Jer, I’ll just be a sec.  I am going to put on my boxing gloves.  They are just so I don’t hurt you.  You don’t need a pair. You can do whatever you want.  Just a minute.”

I put on a pair of 10-12 oz gloves, the size I used when boxing.  We generally used bigger, softer gloves when sparring but the competitive matches were with slightly lighter, faster and harder gloves.  I went out and asked Jerry if he was ready.  He said that he was.  I said, “Now, before this begins, I need you to be absolutely ready not only to get hit but also to pick up the bottles afterwards.  Are you sure you are ready?”

He nodded, said yes and so I hit him.  Hard.  Right on the nose. When you know how to throw a punch and you know exactly the distance you can reach, a fast left jab can take down anyone the size of the person throwing it.  Bigger guys often aren’t affected so much but Jerry was about my weight and a couple of inches taller but he was also a few years younger. He was one of the young toughs.  Not one of the older ones.  He went down like he was dead.

But he wasn’t.  Just stunned.

I rolled him over on his stomach and sat on his shoulders facing the back of his feet.  And I did this like it was the most normal thing in the world.  It wasn’t.  I was making it up as I went along.  I proceeded to punch him on the bum as hard and as often as I could before I thought my arms might fall off.  Jerry got what came to be called by the ‘guys’ an East-side spanking. That was a lot of pummeling and, after the first few punches, Jerry yelled, “What the hell are you doing?  Get off me!”

I just pushed his face back down hard into the ground and kept it up.  He stayed quiet.

When I was done, I helped Jerry up, told him to go home and told a few of the other guys to help their friend out by cleaning up the bottles for him.  They did.

I never planned it.  I really had no idea what I was doing.  I just knew that I couldn’t hurt him.  Not in a bloody or broken way.  But I had to win that challenge or move out and the rest of it just fell into place.  I had no idea how effective it would be.

It turned out to be great.  Seems pounding on his butt, even with gloves on, bruised him considerably. So much so that he could hardly walk except stiff legged for a week and couldn’t sit for several days.  He walked in school and throughout the neighbourhood for a long time with a noticeably stiff-legged gait.  The ‘beating’ became public.  Jerry had been defeated.  The gang saw enforcement meted out fairly.  And everyone knew that Ted was even tougher.

We had very few face-offs after that.  None from the gang.  Occasionally some other idiot would come to the park looking for trouble but no one else ever got hit.  Usually such a confrontation got sorted by simply looking like you were prepared to fight and only once did it come down to me picking up a baseball bat.  And Ted standing beside the lead miscreant lisping warnings at him didn’t hurt the effect either. That little act of bravado proved intimidation enough for one guy and his friends to reconsider their plans for the evening.  They turned their motorcycles around and left the park.

Basically, it was all great for almost two years and Ted and I still have many friends from the old Clark Park gang.   Those that lived, anyway.  More than just a few stories, too.

….there was that time Death showed up at the door…………..