When we arrived at the PWD Kennels a few days later, I got out of the car first and was greeted by a large-ish Spaniel-type, or maybe a very stocky standard-Poodle-ish-type dog with no hesitation or malice in his approach. Good looking dog. I put out my hand in that open, palm-side down, vulnerable way of greeting dogs that basically invited him to ‘bite me’.

And he did!!

I wasn’t sure that I had been bitten at first. I looked at my hand and there were definite tooth marks, like dents on the skin. Sorta-like a taste more than a bite. (PWDs are a ‘mouthy’ breed, it turns out, and they often quasi-bite-without-chomping to get a ‘feel’ of a person. I didn’t know that at the time.).

I looked at him. He looked at me. And I wondered whether I should proceed any further. Still no real threat was being made but, on the other hand, no ground was being given either. He seemed to be saying, “Had enough? Or do you need me to tell you again?”

I stood there undecided for a bit and then his owner showed up. “Bogart! Come here!” He did as he was told and Sal and I went to shake hands and begin the interrogation that would or would not result in our being judged worthy. Bogart was the reigning sire at the kennel and had a vested interest in who came and went. Obviously, I thought, his vote had already been cast. Judging from the scowl on the owners’ face, she was leaning in the same direction.

So, as I always do when meeting strangers, I let Sal go first. I call it ‘putting our best face forward’. People allow her into their space much more readily than they do me and I then get to follow quietly behind. This was definitely one of those times.

We went through the heavy grilling and, of course, I let Sally answer just about everything. It was not hard to do that since the woman barely acknowledged my presence (don’t forget previous phone call mentioned below)and I got the distinct impression that she preferred dogs to people and female people over the male ones. I have experienced that kind of ‘cool’ initial reception before from women.

I wonder if it is me?

While we underwent the being-judged process, the kennel-keeper introduced numerous dogs into the house although she was fairly diligent in keeping it to one at a time. Bogart was kenneled before any of the other dogs were brought in. The one exception was later, when we went outside and she let a few of the females run around fetching balls and things. I remained, for the most part, mute although I confess to tentatively offering up a bit of light charm in the form of self-deprecating humour. If I get anywhere with women like that, I have to deprecate like hell.

It is not that hard, actually I have plenty of material.

But I also noticed that I was not the only mute one. None of the dogs barked. Well, not that I could hear, anyway. Occasionally I would see a dog make a barking-like head gesture but no noise resulted and the dog went about it’s business of ball-chasing so I wasn’t sure.

Seems they had been de-barked. Show-dog breeders de-bark their dogs by having their larynx lasered. It is illegal in some countries. Not Canada. They do this so that the dog shows (and the hotels they frequent) are not a riot of barking dogs. It didn’t seem like a very nice thing to do but, of course, I levied no criticism of the breeder lest she rip me a new orifice and we had to go home dog-less. But I didn’t like it. Neither did Sally.

We were introduced to Megan-the-mute and a love bond formed between her and Sal faster than five-minute epoxy.

“If you want, you can take Megan for awhile, say a month, and see if you get along. If you do, we’ll make it work. If you don’t, she has a home here. And, remember this: she will always have a home here. Do not ever think of getting rid of Megan if your life circumstances should require it. Bring her back!”

It is pretty clear that the breeder loves her dogs, larynx-removing and too much kennel time notwithstanding. They are fed well, treated well and shown as much love and attention as anyone can sanely do with a dozen or so dogs, few of which can be left alone with each other (due to sibling rivalry, unchecked mating, naturally occurring fights that might lead to show-damage, etc.) But being a breeder is not the same thing as being a dog owner. Dog owners make a dog a member of the family.

My worst fear.

We had not gone more than ten minutes down the road with Megan in the back seat when Sally decided that Meg ‘must be lonely back there’ and climbed into the backseat with her so that more snuggling, licking and hugging could take place. Megan even did some of that as well.

It took me a lot longer forty years ago to get Sal snuggling and hugging in the back seat than ten minutes, I can assure you. A year, actually, as I recall. Seemed like an eternity at the time.

About an hour into our trip home Sally said to me (from the backseat) with an authority in her voice that was not to be dismissed, “We are not going to take her back! This is working out just fine. Nothing needs reviewing. Don’t even think about it!”

And so the trial period ended.

As anonymous said: “It’s the dogs turn. So far you have pretty much left them undiscussed. So turn your pen to the dogs.“

I am pretty sure that ‘anonymous’ in this case, is Sally. We have our own computers and she wants the dogs to get more ‘press’. I suspect that she is the one wanting hear about her own dogs. And, of course, should I write the truth, I will pay for it forever so it is pretty much a demand for a glowing PR release promoting Portuguese Water dogs. And ours in particular.

Sheesh.

Megan is the older of the two, about 9 we figure. We got her when she was 4. She had been a reluctant participant in the local PWD breeder’s program and basically lived in the kennel for four years warding off all advances and remaining chaste and, at times, chased by Bogart, the resident stud.

The breeder was disappointed in Meg because, in every other way, Meg was a champion specimen of a PWD with awards and ribbons to prove it. I think she was a Lesbian (not that there is anything wrong with that but it disappoints breeders and studs at the very least). She was also a bona fide, kennel-ized nut case! Sal and her hit it off right away.

I had promised Sal a dog. Any dog. Whatever she wanted. The only proviso was that she quit her job and we go off and have a life. I figured that, if I had to have a dog to get a life, at least I’d get a life! At the time it seemed like a reasonable trade-off. Turns out I got partly a dogs life.

When it was time and Sally’s birthday was coming around, I felt obliged to honour my promise and contacted the BC PWD Association. I spoke with the woman in authority regarding PWDs and who gets ém.

“I understand that you have PWDs for sale and that they cost about $2,000? Could you put me on the waiting list for one?”

“Well, I have to interview you first. You can’t have a dog just like that, you know? Why do you want a PWD?

“Well, to be honest, I don’t. But my wife does and I want my wife. Ergo dog.”

“Hmm…..well, there are no puppies due for at least six months.”

“Thank God!! A reprieve!! Wahoo!! Will you put me on the list. Maybe at the bottom?”

“I am not so sure that you are going to make a good owner…………

“I probably won’t. I’ll be good to the dog and treat it with grudging respect and all. You know, food, water and the odd pat on the head. But Sal will be the Mother Teresa of dogs. She will love her dog to bits. In fact, part of my reluctance is that I’ll come fifth in the love line-up after my son, my daughter and the dog. Yes, I can add. But Sal will leave space number four open just in case. Trust me, I’m fifth in a group of three.

“Well, I still have to interview you both.”

“By the way, do you ever have any discount dogs? You know? Ones with a kink in their tail or pigeon-toed or cross-eyed or something? One ear, perhaps? Maybe cheaper?”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!! I am definitely wondering about you. Our dogs are pedigreed and blah, blah, blah, blah and you’d be lucky if we allow one in your care. Your wife better be as great as you say she is or you don’t have chance!”

“Oh. Sorry. Forgive me. I am just a guy trying to make his wife happy and I’ll do whatever it takes even if that means acting like I want a dog. Honest, I can pull that off. You’ll see.”

“I doubt that but, say………have you ever thought about getting a dog that is grown? You know, the puppy stage is a difficult one and it requires even more patience, tolerance and love than does what I am hearing from you. Would you consider an older dog?”

“That depends……….how long do PWDs live?”

“About 14 years.”

“Got a 13 year old?”

I waited a day to phone back.

I am not a good writer by any stretch. And I can prove it if I haven’t already. But, I rarely lack for topics. Usually I can come up with something to say, however inane it might be. It is not because I am creative so much as it is the unusual-for-us lifestyle that we have chosen just naturally provides a lot of material.

Usually.

But the February blahs, the source of personal conflicts in the community and mild, light-deprived depression in the home is somewhat aggravated by limited activities. I don’t want to gird my loins and venture into DIY land just to get wet and cold and not get anything meaningful accomplished at the end. Or an incident to relate. That just seems masochistic.

Sal is generally more game than me. She is a ‘keener’ for just about anything outside that involves dogs, boats or putting things in order. Get the dogs sitting side by side in the boat while towing a log to the beach is her idea of pure bliss, weather be damned. Me? Not so much.

I need projects. Firstly, we need projects for the burgeoning empire. Kinda like manifest destiny writ small. Secondly, I need projects because I am still enjoying the ‘fruits-of-my-labour’ syndrome that is so often missing from modern, urban employment. I like saying, “Well, sweetie, here’s your new towel rack. A bit crooked and loose but it will hold a towel.”

And I especially like hearing in response, “Oh, sweetie-pie, thanks so much. It looks great. Are you going to remove that bent nail and get rid of the grease or do you want me too? Oh, my big, cuddly handyman. Want some tea after all that hard work?”

But the real motivation to do anything for me is that I generate something to write about. I have spared you all the Chronicles of Blood series (accidents, mishaps, injuries and self-abuse) but, except for that gruesome portion of our lives up here, I have described life as it comes. So, for that to happen, it has to keep coming.

And, in February, it pretty much slows down.

A few of the local people are feuding. They yelled at each other and did petty things. Silly stuff, mostly. It is news but it’s not new. Happens all the time, especially in small communities, but much more often in small communities in February. Winter light may be at it’s lowest in late December but being lighthearted is at it’s lowest ebb in late February.

The locals even have a name for it: ‘bushed’. It is not really being ‘bushed’ in the old, historical sense of the word which described the effects of isolation and seclusion as well as winter. We aren’t really all that isolated nor secluded. Even our winter is mild in that sense. We have cars, ferries and each other should we choose to avail ourselves. But we are still living in the winter bleaks somewhat isolated and remote from the vibrant social activity level we once knew. And winter is winter, after all.

We are ‘bushed’ in a way but it is Bushed-lite, actually.

A large percentage of people deal with it simply by going to Mexico (or China) for a month or so. That works.

Some feuds last awhile. Most ‘blow over’ by spring or summer. But each one nibbles a bit at the relationships of the parties over time if left unaddressed. They grow a bit more easily irritated by each other unless there is a re-bonding experience of some kind.

It’s a healing thing they need. That is why (I think) people all attend the market day and other social gatherings when they can. It is chance to ‘look in the direction’ of your irritant and see if there is still a flame burning. Usually there is but just an ember. By next year, conflict not rekindled, it will pass. And, in that way, the feud fades.

Just for the record: it is also a time for reaffirming good relationships, too.

But the most effective method of healing can’t really be organized or scheduled. It comes by way of a natural occurrence. Someone gets hurt and the ‘bad neighbour’ takes them into the hospital, a fire happens and the feuders show up and work side-by-side, a boat engine fails and the first one passing is ‘that bastard’ who helps out and does all the right things. That is how it heals the quickest.

We can actually create that kind of ‘quick-healing’ but not by way of social events. Not usually, anyway. The community – feuders, too – will unite to fight off a common enemy and, if victorious, the celebration sweeps up all the bad feelings and the slate is clean again.

One of the best things that happened to our area was ‘resisting’ the spraying of a portion of the island by a timber company. Another was the ‘fight’ against privatizing our rivers for General Electric to generate power and control the water. We were all feeling good about one another in those days.

And feel-good projects like fixing the community kitchen or renovating the Q-hut help keep the energies positive. It is not a hard prescription to follow. Not as a rule.

Until February comes along, anyway.

I am starting to like what the BC First party is saying. Chris Delaney is the leader pro tem (they haven’t actually chosen one yet). They officially ‘kick-off’ in April but they are basically a ‘shadow party’ now.

It is also the spawn of the devil, tho, since Vander Zalm played a part in it’s formation. He and Delaney were the ones doing the anti-HST work. Still, he is ‘out of the picture’ now, says Delaney and the party is attracting some pretty sane people.

Like, well, me……….maybe………kinda…………I dunno……

I confess to having been attracted to every party at one time or another. I grew up in an NDP household, liked the image of Pierre Trudeau, liked the blunt truth of John Crosby, thought the Reform Party (under Manning) was at least honest and joined the provincial Liberals when Gordon Wilson was the leader (because my brother was one of his ‘back room boys’ and he wanted me to, mostly).

I thought I found my ‘home-boys’ when the Greens came to the table but, despite trying to influence them in every way I could, they insist on doing things their own way. I hate that. Especially when their own way is just so bloody stupid.

So, BCF could be just another huge disappointment. I hope not. They seem to have most things right by my reckoning. And, to be fair, Delaney has incorporated some of my thoughts into their platform. Want my vote? Play to my ego, not my wallet. And he has. And I am leaning their way.

I have to also confess to wondering if it isn’t a fool’s enterprise, this political ‘system’, this pretense at democracy. It doesn’t seem to work. I’ve met a lot of good people trying their best and coming from every political stripe when doing so. And little changes. We are not very good at managing ourselves and even worse at appointing leaders to do it for us.

I’ve seen proven crooks (convicted ones, even) get re-elected and lead parties. I’ve met sleazy bastards, too, who are very charming and garner votes like poop does flies. I have even met decent people with whom I agree on most things but are so damn ineffectual that voting for them is a waste of time. And I have met dedicated, selfless saints who get ‘lost’ in the system or get lost following their own single-issue cause.

The good, the bad and the ugly can’t seem to put Humpty Dumpty right.

But, far and away, the most obvious-to-me flaw in the system is not the people running but the system itself. What the hell is the point of electing an MLA or MP (good, bad or ugly) who is forced by the system or by circumstance to dance lockstep in line with the leader’s personal wishes? How does that translate into ‘representation of the people?’ Isn’t that simply a process of regularly changing the dictator and his or her accompaniment of puppets?

I didn’t vote for Preston Manning (I would, tho. I like the guy). He ran in Alberta. I didn’t vote for Mike Harcourt (different riding). I like Mike, too. I didn’t vote for Wilson, Adrian Carr or any of those who, if they and their puppets won, would be the de facto despot. I have to vote for people who are in my neighbourhood and that circumstance alone has always translated into voting for a back-bencher who, for all measurable results, ends up accomplishing nothing but learning-by-rote the leader’s ‘speaking points’.

No one likes the system but, when the people were asked if they wanted to fix it (proportional representation vs first-past-the-post), they voted NO. How is that possible? The electorate manifests HUGE apathy based on a deep rejection of the system and they voted NO to changing it? That simply makes no sense to me.

And, ultimately, that is my point – politics no longer makes sense to me.

I don’t know whether to run, hide or vote. Or not to vote at all. I don’t know how to fix the broken system. I don’t like any part of what my vote supports. I like very few politicians except the ones I meet (isn’t that, in itself, a bit of a mystifying coincidence?). I am a fan of Alex Morton but advised her not to run (she asked her readers).

I am as confused as I can be over what is the right thing to do when it comes to supporting the system. I can vote yea or nay on any given issue but I can’t seem to find an unassailable position on the system – only that it is broken, can’t seem to be fixed and that we have no replacement.

And yes, that, too, is part of the reason for dropping out.

Snowing. Wet, cold, silent, beautiful slushy mush. Really cold. Just miserable enough to keep us indoors and at the computer. Good ol’ Sal is baking bread while we also bash away on the keyboards making sentences. That’s kinda neat. She’s making Pita bread, actually. It will go with the hummus she is going to make later. Maybe add some version of guacamole. Maybe not. Damn, it doesn’t get much better except when we add a big dollop of wine to the occasion.

It’s funny, really. I used to go to a Greek restaurant and have the same thing and I can assure you that it was nowhere near as good. Mind you, their dolmathes………..mmmm.

Sal and I have never been what you might call ‘foodies’ (if you ever try to seriously use that word in normal conversation, don’t!) She’s a great cook – amongst the best – but she has never suffered pretensions of trying to be more of a ‘chéf’. Sal is a cook. A damned good one but a cook, not a chef. I am an eater, not a gourmet. But you wouldn`t know that distinction by the tasting. God, she`s good! I swear she could draw customers – even this far out!

Sally is typing out a translation for a Japanese friend of ours who sometimes needs some English ‘polishing’ of her work. I am writing this. Maybe later I’ll go out and fix a broken appliance. Maybe not. The fire is nice, the house is comfy. I sometimes think of taking a nap………ya know?

I was planning on going up to the Q-hut today to add another miniscule effort to the never-ending story but it was simply too wet and cold to go out. Sal, of course, was not letting the weather stop her and she was planning on heading out anyway to get the mail. But the mail plane isn’t coming in this weather either. So, we stay put. We can `push it` in some ways to get something done, I suppose, but eating hummus and pita is enough of an accomplishment for me.

When dinner is over, we`ll watch a movie then do some reading. If it has stopped snowing by then, I`ll try posting this. The satellite transmission doesn’t work in heavy rain, snow, fog, thick cloud cover or whenever it doesn’t feels up to it. We don’t care as a rule.

Describing this lifestyle as slow-paced, relaxed and comfortable still makes it sound more stressed than it is. I am even more laid back than that! Think big giant gummy bear. In a housecoat.

I don’t deserve it, I guess, but I take it. I get special status, special service now and then. Well, mostly whenever I ask for it actually. And I do ask but I limit the requests as much as possible.

As you know, we live remote. We live at least four hours from Campbell River (total elapsed time) and use a small boat, a 4×4 and a ferry to get there. No one knows that, of course, unless I tell them. So sometimes I do.

“I need a piece of glass cut, please. 33 inches by 36.5 inches, single pane, normal thickness.”

“No problem, sir. Pick it up Thursday.”

“OK. But I can’t get back in on Thursday. I live remote and only get in every two weeks or so. Could you hold it for two weeks?”

“Oh, hell. Come back in an hour. I’ll cut it myself at lunch instead of putting it in the system. How’s that?”

And that kind of consideration shows up a lot. If the service thinks you live in town, you are put at the end of a slow line. But, if they know that it is a long trek you made, most people try to make it work for you. This is small-town living at it’s best.

But it is not limited, really, to small towns. Even medium-sized Nanaimo companies will alter their ‘usual ways’ if they know that you are ‘up-island’ and just passing through. They know the logistics and try to accommodate the whole of the North Island and the smaller islands most of the time.

Not so Vancouver. Not so Victoria. And, especially not so the health care system. They couldn’t care less. No pretense even.

I am not complaining. Not really. OK, maybe a smidge. But I chose to be here. I can live with some of the inconveniences that brings. And I usually do so without complaining but that is because usually careful planning makes it all work and, when it doesn’t we seem to receive the kindness of strangers most of the time. I write about the complaints of being de-personalized in the big cities and health care only because it is so.

The smaller the town, the more considerate the people are as a general rule. The health care system – even the local one – is a glaring exception. Our doctors/hospitals/clinics don’t even think of changing their routine even if it is easier or works better for them. They don’t want us to get spoiled into thinking they care, I guess.

Or, maybe, they just refuse to think.

A month ago I had to see the doctor. “I am sorry but on that day the doctor does walk-ins only. No appointments. Come in and wait.”

“Well, I can do that for a couple of hours but I live remote and, if he is late, I have to go home in the dark in a small boat in the winter. If I come in early, will I get in before say, 3:00?”

“Sorry. Walk-in is walk-in. No appointments means no appointments.” The conversation was over. So, I didn’t go.

Last week we were in town on the same day of the week and so I went in to the walk-in. I got there about noon and thought I had a good chance to see this God before three. “Sorry, this is walk-in day and your doctor is on appointments only. Dr. Smith is doing the walk-in today. Wanna see Dr. Smith?”

“Well, you denied me last time because it was walk-in and now you are denying me again because it is a different doctor. Do you have a rule book or something? Or is it just a crap-shoot for health care you have going on here?”

That didn’t sit well with her so she put her head down and then dialed a number on the phone. Security, perhaps. Since I needed to talk with my own God, I chose to leave again.

Is it just me or does the expression, ‘HEALTH CARE SYSTEM’ irritate? Shouldn’t it be called the ‘PHARMACEUTICAL DRIVE-THROUGH’ or ‘THE MEDICINE MONOPOLY’?

We are very fortunate. We enjoy special status amongst most of the local and nearby service providers. And decent human-being status just about everywhere else. We are very thankful. Really. I guess it is the exception that proves the rule and, for that, we have to hand the exceptionally poor service award to the health care system in general and my doctor in particular.

I am stunned. Really. I don’t get it. I just don’t get it……….

You see, I read. I read voraciously. Politics, climate change, social trends, history and, on occasion, how-to stuff (sadly, I find the how-to stuff the hardest to understand).

I read non-fiction only because, well, it is more interesting and I leave my fantasy needs to the movies – better special effects (Tom Clancy leaves me cold but the movies his stories inspired are a lot of fun).

And all this reading has been going on for some time now. Most of my life, actually. The latest: Jared Diamond, Tom Friedman, Naomi Klien, Bill McKibben, Malcolm Gladwell are just the latest amongst the many, most of whom I have since forgotten.

Still my favourites: Harry Brown. Robert L. Hunter. Amory Lovin.

If there is a theme to it all, it is a bleak one. Seems we are either doomed or soon to be. Planet is ending, oil is running out, crooks control everything……..you know the line. Think Michael Moore writ large and often.

At the very least it seems, we are as a species, stupider than hell and likely to win the largest Darwin Award in earth’s history sometime very soon. Very depressing, really.

But once you get past the obvious dark side (and find out there is only the dark side), you can at least plan with the dark side in mind. Think of it as bringing your own little flashlight to the end of the dark tunnel.

And yes, I confess that, to some extent, the move to Read is partially in response to the view that we are all going to hell in a handbasket. NOT entirely but a little.

I even know that such a view is irrational in many ways. For instance, the government now propagandizes its own people by fear mongering on just about everything. “Keep them frightened and keep them in line. Plus we can charge more taxes.” We are bombarded by so-called threats from pandemics to economic collapse, from environmental devastation to series of serial killers. Our health care and educational systems are hopelessly flawed. And our food and water supply are either running out or are poisonous in oh so many ways. Woe is us!

The message that sells is, “you are doomed. Vote for me, pay this fee, tax or levy and buy this product and service to protect yourself.” Pathetic, really. But it works.

And, despite knowing that there is this dooms-day, government-backed industry and that fear sells, I respond, if not fearfully, then at least with concern. Like a Pavlovian dog, they have raised my level of concern to the extreme end of Defcon 1 verging on Defcon 2. I am a bit worried about the future to say the very least.

Put another way: maybe Chicken Little was right?

Anyway the point of all that is this: why are not more people leaving the city? Rats leave a sinking ship, everyone flees a burning building, even Sully Sullenberger crossed himself as he attempted to land on the Hudson river. Indeed, the exodus of millions of Africans to Europe is the theme of many recent doomsday trends. It seems we have a survival instinct and we should be showing it.

But I don’t see it here. Not in the GVRD. To my way of thinking, the boomers are retiring and, bombarded by fear mongering (if not real fears) and having less energy and motivation to run with the rats, are utilizing and enjoying the city less and less while fearing it more and more. But they are staying put.

I didn’t.

I became blasé about the urban smorgaasbord soon after having sampled most of it. And the whole urban thing lost the vast bulk of its lustre from the news broadcasts of the day featuring the likes of Willie Pickton, GW Bush, Gordon Campbell and increasing drug gang wars. It was easy to leave.

In fact, I have concluded that the city’s real attraction of more people was for the young to have access to a larger gene pool but I may be off on a tangent, there. Many people are motivated by making money and would argue that it was lucre not lust that attracted them to the metropolis.

Whatever.

Still, no matter how you cut it – money or marriage or both – you either have it by now (if you are a boomer) or you do not. A lonesome, poor 65 year old is not likely to get lucky downtown these days. Shot, maybe.

So why are more people not seeking refuge in the country? Why is there not a run on cottages? Why are people still commuting an hour or two to go nowhere to shop or drink Starbucks coffee? I don’t get it.

Now, to be fair, habit, comfort, familiarity and family and community ties would make a good argument for staying in the burbs. I understand that complacency. But, what with all the messages I have read and the things I see, it feels like that inertia comes with a huge price.

Like a civilization being taken over by a despot, do the people really need to feel the pain before they see the writing on the wall?

Years ago a friend of mine had his house broken into. Lots of damage and theft. He called a security alarm firm. We had not been broken into and so, seeing what that was like for him, I asked the same firm to install a system in our house. “By the way”, I said, “how many people get an alarm system before they are broken into versus those who need the experience first?”

“I can’t recall ever installing an alarm system before someone has been broken into” said the installer.

The point? Of course rural is not for everyone – I understand that – but shouldn’t I be seeing more people looking for cabins to go to? Shouldn’t more boomers – as the most obvious group – be looking to shed the umbilicals of the ‘plugged-in’ society? Do not the increasing controls, regulations, rules, strata councils, commissions, government officials, bylaws, policies-cast-in-stone, robot-voices, security cameras and other manacles-to-living free make you want to head for the hills?

Or, is it just me?

…….I’m changing. I’m different now. I had no idea that I’d change a lot merely by living where and how I do but, of course, venue counts. So does experience. So does choice. It adds up. We are adaptable and adapting even when we don’t see it. We are changing.

Most of the change is good. Way less stress. Virtually no sense of schedule, timetable or even time most of the well, time. I am not alone in this. I said to Sal, yesterday, “It is Saturday, right?” I was pretty sure it was but I don’t always keep track. “No, silly,” she said. It is Friday. All day. Honestly!”

“OK. Thanks!” I said and put it out of my mind. (I argue with Sal now and again but it is a losing proposition. Even when I am right, I am wrong to have argued. Took me years to learn that lesson. And so it was regarding yesterday. I accepted that it was Friday.)

Today a neighbour told us it was Sunday.

If you think I said, “I told you so.”, you’d be wrong. I know when to let something go.

But the point of that little vignette is that neither of us knew the day. Hell, we sometimes ask each other what month it is (well, I do, anyway). We are simply out of the ‘stream’ of things to the extent that we don’t even notice the stream exists. That change of pace was remarkably easy to get used to. I never achieved it while on vacation in my past life but I have sunk into it like a soft sofa while living here.

I am also more relaxed. And not. I exist at a more relaxed state 95% of the time and that is quite strange for me. Good. But very different. No anxiety. No worry. No pressure. It is good, really good. But when it happens that something is stressful, both Sally and I react so much more sensitively than ever before that we feel like dorks.

We have changed. We have been re-sensitized to the continuous assault on our senses that is modern urban life. And I don’t think we can get back the sensory armor that one needs to successfully get through a modern urban day. I think we have changed too much to get that back even if we wanted to.

We don’t.

I used to drive through the city eating a glop-burger while taking notes in my day-timer from the person on my cell phone and listening to the radio at the same time. I can steer with either knee almost well enough to make a right hand turn. I could do all that without a napkin and come out of it clean. It was, in retrospect, an amazing ability to multi-task.

Can’t do it anymore.

I think I am afraid to try.

Today, I get tense waiting for the ferry to unload (should I start my engine now?!). And I am talking about the Quadra ferry! I feel my stress levels increasing as I approach Nanaimo!

Think about that….merging into traffic on the Lions Gate bridge in the rain, at night, talking to Sally on the cell was done with aplomb. Almost unconsciously. A piece of cake. Now, nearing Nanaimo takes all my focus!

I am definitely changing.

I care even less about appearances than I ever did and I was not known for my high standards even when in my 3-piece suit, work-at-the-bank days.

There are plenty of other changes that have come about because of living remote but, far and away, the most significant is non-materialism.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not anti-materialistic. I still want stuff. Need stuff in some cases. But materialism is also a state of mind and a set of circumstances. If you live amongst consumers, you consume. If you don’t, you don’t. It is really that simple. Need, it seems is secondary to exposure.

Everyone out here wants and needs stuff and, ironically, we often talk about the stuff we need. But like alcoholics who still talk about booze even tho they don’t partake anymore, we talk about purchases but rarely make any.

Let me put this another way………..when Sally and I went shopping the other day, we had a list and walked the aisles. We got what we wanted and, if something caught our eye, we impulsively added it to our purchases. I bought a new saw blade when walking to the checkout at Home Depot. The price was good and I could always use a sharp blade. No need, really. Just impulse. Habit and opportunity. Mind set and circumstance. Pure consumerism.

But we are only exposed to that now for three hours or so every two weeks. Temptations are rare occurrences. That means fewer magazines, fewer ‘treats’, fewer everything actually. Fewer impulses = less consumerism. Less consumerism = different behaviours. We change.

This change was not from learning or experience, nor was it an act of will; it is the result of circumstance.

And, in just that small, almost undetectable way, we have been changed yet again merely by living here.

Bryce is pushing 70. A bachelor. He’s been out ‘this way’ for most of his life. Homesteading, mostly. Working part time forever as the custodian of our lone public building. Now retired. He’s a simple man in the way a river or an orchard is simple.

This guy looks like a small, gnarly tree and he makes about the same amount of noise, he speaks so softly and infrequently. Bryce is also quite deaf. The impression one gets is that of a person who is ‘in the background’ even if he is right in front of you.

But such a description – if left at that – is truly unfair. Bryce can do just about anything and he does. Just not on stage. I won’t go into detail about his gorgeous homestead, garden, orchard and boat. I won’t elaborate on the fact that he keeps house, home and boat together with a quiet confidence that is the manifestation of a history of competence in all things. This guy is an independent in every way.

He single-handedly, and with the perseverance of an epistemologist, recorded every living plant on a special part of the island to ensure that the government designated it a park. And they did! He grows his own garden from ‘local seeds’ and ‘plants’ that he shares with the community. If Bryce gives you seeds, they will sprout and flourish.

But that is not why I am writing about him. I am writing today because of his saws.

We are working on the Q-hut to restore it as a community wood working shop. Bryce comes by and contributes every week. Last week he came with a few of his tools. None of them power tools. He had two hand saws like the ones you used to see…..you know, the wooden handle and the long blade that tapers? I looked at them sitting wrapped protectively in old cardboard stuck vertically in his lunch bucket. Truly a lunch bucket, recycled from a five gallon pail.

“Geez, Bryce”, I yelled at the top of my lungs, “how do you get old saws like this sharp? Surely you don’t sharpen them, do you?”

“Eh?” Hard of hearing – yes, but Bryce is no dope. He knows he didn’t hear me so he interpreted my interest in the saw and answered further……..quietly…….

“I have power tools. Two of them. Never plugged them in. Not yet, anyway. Will someday, I suppose. But I built my house and sheds without them. Three boats, too. In fact, I don’t think I have ever used a power tool to build anything. Maybe I have. Can’t remember. Those saws are pretty good. I keep them sharp with a triangular file…………” and then he went on to describe how to ‘set’ the teeth and how to file them…………

“These saws are about thirty years old. Maybe older. Good steel. They serve me well”.

I went back to my job of replacing a window I had broken earlier (thus describing in a phrase my relative level of competence compared to Bryce) and I thought about the saws………….

Here we were building a workshop, planning the benches, dreaming of the power tools we might get. We are, in fact, using power tools with which to build the shop. And Bryce is helping. He always chips in. But the truth is, he could build a boat from scratch with what he brought in his lunch bucket.

And so could the other guys………………..

They don’t need no stinkin’ power tools.

I am starting to think they are just building this shop to help and encourage me.