Busy, busy.  So much to do.

Some critter got in the garden the other night and vandalized it.  So, Sal had to apply triage-type care on it.  She put in some new plants from a neighbour’s garden donor bank and re-established what she could.  We felt violated.

Oooohhh…….man against nature, eh?  It can get ugly out here.  But we shall prevail!

I am a few planks short of a full load it seems.  Literally.  Can’t get started until I come up with some 16-footers I failed to order first time around.  Only need six.  “A stick!  My studio for a stick!”

Roadway slope at the end of the road was completed.  Finished pictures to follow. We still have some lower (and maybe upper) pathway improvements to do and a small ‘dock/pier’ to build but one day of work should put it right. This is a major improvement.

The locals held a talking stick circle (TC) the other day.  Fashioned after the First Nations tradition, everyone sits in a circle and passes a stick around.  Only the person holding the stick can speak.  But not everyone does.  If they have nothing to say, they just pass the stick on.  And around the stick goes for as long as it takes for all the opinions, thoughts, news and such to get around.  It’s a good idea.

Kinda.

Sal and I didn’t go to this one.  Sal was under the weather and I was dissuaded by our previous experience at the last one (a few talkers went on and on and on…….and on….and on. I seem to recall – just before I passed out – that one of them was performing a very long version of a free-form poem that he had written.) and by the fact that we had so much else to do.  Especially that day.  I really had no time to hear someone ramble on unchecked about something of no interest to me.  And, of course, I have come to learn that, armed with a stick, I can go on and on unchecked about things of no interest to others.

I would modify the traditional proceedings if it was up to me.  I would give everyone a stick but one person.  The person without a stick talks.  If they go on too long, everyone hits them with their stick.  Then the monologues would move along better.

The talking circle was a good idea in its time but forest dwellers mingle more these days and most of us have modern communication devices from radio phones to telephones to internet  We are not so reliant on such quaint or traditional methods anymore.

‘Course, nothing beats face to face communication and so the TC still has a place.  But not for me.  Not now while summer is almost full on, anyway.

Plus – I think we are all getting on and, you see, we older types tend to get set in our ways, get a bit grouchy, grow easily impatient and, quite frankly, are uncomfortable sitting for long periods of time. We have no time anymore for any nonsense.  And even if it is not such nonsense – we tend to think it is.  It is the curmudgeons way.

As a mediator for almost twenty years I also learned that no meeting, no matter how fascinating, can hold the interest of even the most focused person for more than two hours and most of us have mentally checked out after 90 minutes.  It is no accident that movies are the length they are and the last few minutes is where all the action is.

Talking circles don’t have much action.  They are not supposed to.

And, on a beautiful June Day with so much to do, would I willingly sit inside and listen to other people’s opinion’s?  I don’t think so.  Maybe I should but I barely listen to other people’s opinions at the best of times.  And even that would be with those with the best of minds.  I won’t comment on the minds in attendance at our talking circles but, suffice to say, long-winded, free-form poetry is just not an art form I have learned to appreciate.

SOoooooo…………..we have a few squirrels and they are pretty comfortable here.  They have a good time, do what they want to do, go where they want to go and, generally, don’t have a care in the world.  Our two dogs respect them and leave them entirely alone.  Our two dogs seem to respect everything and leave just about everything entirely alone.  Except dinner and a thrown stick.  If we ever get attacked by sticks or rampaging BBQ chicken, we will be able to count on Meg and Fid.

Until then?  Not so much.

We have pacifist Portuguese Water dogs.  Lovers, not fighters.  Well, sleepers, really.  Not even lovers.  And no amount of incitement-to-kill or inter-species-hate-mongering from us can change that.  We used to go “ch-ch-ch-ch-ch” and run at the squirrels pointing and yelling, “Kill, Fid! Kill the squirrel!”  (well, I said kill the squirrel but Sal would only say chase the squirrel) That would get Fid all riled up and he would run with us in the direction of the little tree rat.  As soon as we were all in hot pursuit of the trespassing squirrel, the squirrel would ‘up and stop’ resting on a railing or something, all the better to watch Fid hightail it right on by heading off into the bush pretending to be chasing something.

Sometimes I would rest on the same rail or tree and the squirrel and I would both watch Fid run around.

Some other times when Fid was just lying around being a dog, the squirrel would simply walk by within inches and they would twitch noses at each other.  They had an agreement of some kind, I am sure.  Or Fid is even stupider than I already think.

Hard to imagine.

But this didn’t stop Sal from “ch-ch-ch-ch-ing” and running in the direction of the squirrel when it was perched on her bird feeder.  And that worked for a bit.  I enjoyed the show.  It lasted until the squirrel noted the lack of killer instinct in Sal.  Then I was further entertained while she made futile charges at the squirrel-with-no-fear and would, of course, stop short, shrug and come back in the house mumbling about how stupid that squirrel was.

“I don’t think the squirrel is stupid at all.  You, on the other hand………”

She’d turn on me and chase me.  And I ran.  I saw danger in her even if the squirrel didn’t.

Sal once got a squirt gun and, when the squirrel was Bogarting the bird feeder, she would open the window and ‘spritz’ the squirrel.  After the first such surprise, the squirrel seemed to show up for food and a refreshing shower.  The squirt gun was a nice touch – for the squirrel.

I offered to get a BB gun and shoot the squirrel in the rump.  That suggestion was rejected.  Too mean!

So day-before-yesterday I got out two little 9 volt batteries, joined them to 18 volts and wired in a small swtch.  I then connected the assembly to the metal bird feeder.  ‘Course I had to shoo the squirrel off the feeder to wire it in.  The feeder already had two dark cords holding it from swaying in the wind and Sally had arranged a bundle of small branches that hung around it so the birds could perch more natural-like.  My two wires (both brown) were completely lost in the midst of the feeder surround.

Prior to my wiring in the improvised electronic device (IED) the squirrel was on the feeder like yellow on a banana.  Every day.  Since wiring in the device – which he watched me do – he has not returned.  It has been three days.  No squirrel.

I was thinking of zapping a few birds just to make sure it works but the fact is, it is working like a monitored video surveilance camera.  There may not be a need to for it to actually work if the potential perp thinks it is there and working.  Clearly my squirrel thinks it is there, working, lurking and ready to do some shocking.

How is this possible?  Squirrels understand electricity?  I mean, maybe a squirrel in Vancouver….ya know?……one that has been zapped a few times…………….maybe?  But our squirrels are rubes.  Hicks.  Squirrel bumpkins.  How did the little blighter know that the feeder was now booby trapped?

I am not sure but I am beginning to think that ol’ Mother Nature is planning a retaliatory strike and the squirrels are just part of the much larger force, Luke.

Zap

Sally and I had traveled over to the community dock with one of our dogs, Fiddich, to see the new-and-improved road work being done at the ‘end of the road’.

As readers know, we have a very steep gravel hill to traverse to get from the parking area to where our boats are docked.  It is about 200 feet of trail and slope and the incline is at about 25 degrees.  Getting up and down the hill is an effort and, when carrying heavy loads, a real challenge.  The local road crew was paving that last 100 feet of road so that we can drive our vehicles with heavy loads all the way down to the beach to lift directly into our boats.  It will be a huge improvement.  It has been a long time coming and we wanted to check on the progress.

We’ll still have 15 kms of single-lane, dirt logging road over pretty hilly terrain to help keep the vast mass of civilization at bay but having the last and hardest slope paved will make our bi-weekly trips to town incredibly easier.  We are very pleased with this.

Suddenly, “Iz zat your dok? It is a nice dok!  You haff a very nice dok!”  One of two hikers coming up the trail towards us from the community dock smiled and spoke to Sally and I as we headed back from our look at the road work to our boat.  She was obviously quite German.

Sally smiled back and agreed that we had a nice dock and explained that it was a community dock.

“Äuf! (I have no idea what ‘auf’ means), a community dok!  Very goot!  Everybody’s goot dok?”

“Yes.  Everybody who lives out here uses it.”

“Everybody?  A community dok?  Well, zat’s goot……..goot dok.  Zat dok is much better than my dok!”

“You have a dock?”

“Ya!  Two doks!  Two naughty Jack Russels.  Not goot doks!”

”Oh….dog”!

Sally finally realized they had been talking at cross purposes.

”Yes, dok!” laughed the German woman.

Fiddich had been left in the boat and told to ‘stay’ while we went up the hill to see the road work underway.   Our tourists had obviously just met him while they were down on the dok taking pictures.  And he had, indeed, been a goot dok and had stayed despite their entreaties to get him within patting range.

And so the conversation shifted to dogs and where we lived.  We all chatted nicely and they accompanied us back down to the dock and used their telephoto lens to see across to our island.  Fiddich was released and came off the boat to greet them properly this time.

A nice conversation ensued about Canada and Germany and dogs and nature and then they were about to take their leave.  One of the women extended her hand as a formal gesture of leaving, saying “In Germany we shake hands.”  Sally shook her hand and said, “In Canada we hug.”

Their faces lit up.  “Vell, zen ve hug!  No!?  Ve hug!”

And so it was that we were on the receiving end of two warm bosomy embraces from two unidentified German frauleins on a remote dock in the middle of nowhere.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Roadwork, dogs, frauleins and fun.  Admittedly simple stuff but it is this kind of stuff that makes it a pretty good place to live.

I am trying to become a better carpenter.  It is not easy.  They are out to sabotage me.  The bastards!

Ommmmmmm….1…..2…..3……4……..

Years ago when I first tried to build something properly, I designed an extension to our house.  It was not quite 200 sft.  Lots of windows.  I didn’t want to have to order ‘custom’ windows so I ordered the standard 3×5’s.  And I framed the openings accordingly.  When the windows arrived, they were 2’10” by 4’10”.  My framing was out.  So, I called to complain…”Hey, what the hell!?”

“Everyone knows 3 x 5’s are not 3×5’s, doofus!”

Which reminded me of the conversation had by the Chinese when they decided to buy Canadian lumber.  They went nuts when the first shipment was ‘short-shipped’.  The 2 x 4 ‘s weren’t two by fours!  And it took months and dollops of international diplomacy to get them ‘hip’ to the language of the lumber industry.

Mind you, a 4 x 8 sheet of plywood is 4 x 8.  And 3-inch screws are 3 inches long.  Guess how much a 55 pound bag of Reddi-Mix weighs?  So, you can understand the confusion.

I ordered 3/4″ plywood sheets for the floor of the studio.  Tongue and groove.  I built the frame (joists) precisely to 12 feet.  When I laid 3 sheets of plywood across, you can imagine my shock and dismay to see that I was 1.5″ out!!!

There then ensued much and great gnashing of teeth, oaths and curses, arm flailing and futile kicking and punching gestures.  Which proved small consolation to me or Sally (who joined me in the primitive dance-expression) Seems ‘everyone knows’ that plywood – when T&G’d – is only 47.5 inches wide.

‘Well, Sal – for one –  didn’t know!’

And so it goes in the Canadian business world.  “Oh, you wanted tires with that car?”

“I am sorry.  There is nothing in the brochure guaranteeing our boats will float!”

“Sorry, we reserve the right to over-book the airplane’s capacity and we did so.  You cannot board the plane sir, it is full!”

The list goes on from cell phone cancellation fees to service charges and CRTC licenses, from shipping and handling to ‘prep’ fees.  I have even been charged ‘transaction’ fees as if the act of transacting was some kind of surprise option or add-on?

And don’t get me started on taxes!  Sales tax on a used car that has changed hands several times?

OK, I am beginning to rant.  Sorry.  The diatribe today was about the misleading language of the construction trades.  How measurements and descriptions are not consistent.  WITH ANYTHING!  And that ‘one can never assume’ that you know even a simple sheet of plywood, Butterfly.  They may look the same.  But they are not the same.   Each one is a little soul, a separate entity all unto itself.  And the sooner we treat them as individuals the better off we will all be. 

Ommmmmmmmmmm…………..1………………2………………….3……………..(kick violently!)………….4………5…………..6……....(scream epithets!)

Now you know the secret of becoming a better !#$%$#% carpenter, Butterfly.

It is very quiet out here on the Western Front.  Weird.  The prawn boats left because the prawns never showed and this time of the year is usually busy with boats and planes going about the fishery.  The boats were here, of course, but not for long.

“Nothing from nothing leaves nothing”, after all (Billy Preston).

And DFO does nothing very well.  Bear in mind that DFO was alerted to the absence of the prawns two months before they opened the season.  Actual quote from DFO official: “Well, if there are no prawns then the fishermen will soon determine that and leave.”    

Such is DFO prawn fishery management.  I think they call it the Atlantic Cod Directive. 

We do seem to be getting a lot of government traffic, tho.  Had the usual ‘Sounds of Freedom’ jet fighters fly back and forth a few times.  Methinks it is a shift change from Alaska to Seattle, but I don’t really know.  I just don’t think Canada has any functioning jet fighters.  Musical Rides with horses and Dancing Snowbirds, yes.  Fighters?  No.

We do have some submarines that are high and dry tho.  They are on the hard because they’ll sink if they are put in water.  And not come up.

We also had helicopters, a few coast guard cutters and even a police boat last week.  It is rare that a police boat shows up.  They don’t know how to navigate.  If they show up here, they are lost.  And, if you call them, they don’t show up ’cause they got lost somewhere else.

The following is a true dialogue with a lost policeman out in a magnificently equipped boat while he was also hugely kitted out – basically barely able to move for all the crap he had on plus life-saving gear – on a hot August day a few years back: While sweat was pouring from his face, “This Estoban Bay?”

“No.  Estoban Bay is on the other side of the island.  You are on the west side.  They are on the east.  Where ya headed?”

“Got a distress call from Estoban Resort.”

“Which one?”

“Which one?”

“There are two resorts of the same name.  Same company.  One is in Estoban Bay, the other is on another island.  But it is closer”.

“Can you point me in that direction?”

Imagine the number of trained and experienced police officers assigned to the Mike Duffy and Pamela Wallin case regarding their $300,000 (each) a year senate expenditures on just travel expenses (while residing in Ottawa) and how long it will take those professionals to file charges – if they ever do.  Then imagine the least experienced, least connected and likely dumbest young cop they have on the roster posted to some rural outback like ours.  Give that doofus a gun, a boat and a road map.  Send him out to sea.

If he ever comes back, put him on the BC Rail case.

The mayor of Toronto was allegedly caught on video smoking crack with two drug dealers.  One of them secretly taped the episode, then offered the tape to the media for $200,000.  A week or so later, one of them was shot and killed.  Tape seems to have disappeared.

Meanwhile the dance band on the Titanic plays on………..

Barge came yesterday but it came late because the fuel delivery at the terminal was slow.  Coming late means it missed high tide.  Missing high tide means that the load had to be dumped on the beach and dumping the load on the beach means that Sal and I had to schlep the materials up the beach, up the ramp and onto the deck and then onto the funicular.  Before the tide comes up.

An easy job made hard by a minor late delivery.

Actually, it wasn’t that hard.  In fact, we did it sensibly for once and did it slowly taking a tea break in the middle of it all.  Sal remarked, “The trouble with taking a break is that I don’t think I can get back up and start the second half.”

So, we didn’t.

We’ll finish the second half of schlepping today.  Maybe.  It may not be efficient but it is the pace that we can manage.  But we felt a bit guilty about it.  “We should be better.  I seem to be feeling less than energetic these days.”  Coming from the mini Candu Reactor that is my wife, that is an incredible admission.  I, personally, have no such delusions.  If she is Candu, I am Fukushima.

I should be de-commissioned.

Having said that, we had a delightful encounter with some nice new people the other day – some city folks.  Not as old as us (ten years younger) but, in many ways much, much older.  Decrepit comes to mind.  They already are decommissioned!  They couldn’t walk the ground without difficulty.  They couldn’t lift themselves up unless it was by way of stairs with a handrail.  And they couldn’t carry anything while moving about.  The women wore insensible shoes covered in sparkly rhinestones and one of them carried a small dog (which they handed to me when they had to move).  They waved dismissively in the direction of their car in response to the question ‘Do you need help with your groceries?’

They were very nice but they wouldn’t have lasted a week here if they had to take care of themselves in any kind of non-kitchen-based way.  I sound judgmental and I apologize for that.  I am not.  Not really.  Not of them.  They are simply paying a price for convenience and living a modern lifestyle.  It might be too high a price when you think about it.

I confess that I didn’t think about it until around the time we moved.

In contrast, we had the barge fellows deliver fuel and the aforementioned building supplies.  They did it because we are still too soft and lazy to carry 35 sheets of plywood and a pallet of lumber over by our own means (small boat).

Yes, remnants of a modern lifestyle mindset.  Old bodies, old habits.

Even tho they had a Hiab arm to ‘sling’ the loads, the fellows had to navigate the irregular beach surface and drag heavy fuel hoses up craggy terrain.  One of the crew, ‘M’, is my age.  The guy is as nimble as a goat and as strong as an ox.  His balance is exceptional.  He doesn’t have the figure for Cirque’ de Soleil and his white beard would be a shock for the audience but, other than that, he could put on quite a show.

Dave, what’s the point?

Living out here keeps you fit.  I may be somewhat the exception to that basic rule but even I am more fit than many of my contemporaries in the city.  I am definitely more fit than I would have been had I stayed in the cul-de-sac.  Fitness is somewhat forced upon you out here.  You can’t avoid it.  Trust me.  I try.

Probably the most significant influence on the human body out here is irregular ground.  No two steps are the same pattern as the two previous or the two pending.  Walking is a non-rhythmic dance without repetition.  It is work.  Add some weight to the job like lumber carrying or even a heavy tool and it becomes hard work.  And that is every day.

We have sixty-six stairs from the front door to the beach and we often cover that distance several times a day sometimes carrying as much as 50 pounds.  It is like a football training exercise.

It’s weird tho, Sal just gets stronger.  And I still manage to gain weight!?

The last time (about six years ago) I checked, prawns were selling for around $7.00 to $10.00 a pound.  And two pounds of prawns was a meal (along with other things) for a party of four.  Not today.  Today, prawns are selling for $25.00 a pound!  And offering up $50.00 worth of prawns for just a portion of a meal is a bit steep.

The reasons for this leap in prawns value are multiple.  Prawn fishing is petro-consuming work and there are fewer prawns.  Supply and demand on fuel and prawns.  Basic economics.

Plus, of course, we don’t manage the prawn fishery.  It is one of those fisheries that is simply plundered until it is no more.  Our government has pretty much abandoned many of the fisheries and, if they are not managed by the fishermen themselves, the usual outcome is fishing out the stock until it is non-economic.  And that is what is happening here.

‘Course the rise in price of prawns will be interpreted by government as ‘growing the economy’.

Some fisheries, however, are ‘managed’ by the different associations involved in the harvesting.  Oysters, Geoduck, Sablefish and, to some extent, salmon just to name a few.  And, while the associations themselves are not much on the production side (no one builds hatcheries, etc.) they are pretty good on limiting the harvest to sustainable amounts.  But, bear in mind: this kind of self-imposed discipline comes from the associations, not DFO.

DFO stands idly by doing nothing.  More useless than the senate.  And more expensive.  They are a complete waste of money, time and, in fact, are an exacerbating factor in preservation, conservation and reconstitution.  They should be abolished.

And they will be.  The Federal government continues to slash the DFO budget and, despite many of the staff wanting to do their work and wanting to do the right thing, they are not allowed to.  We have a government policy to kill this natural resource.  This is the same government that is intent on selling tar-sludge and destroying the immediate environment around the tar sands.

This is what they call job creation.

I have come to learn that many people will do a lot of things that are very wrong but many of them sincerely believe in their actions at the time.  They just believe in different things.  In Harper’s case, he is a devout convert to ‘corporatism’ and BIG OIL.  So, basically, he and I just have a difference of opinion.  He thinks Canada gains from his point of view.  I think Canada suffers.

But how can anyone think that the DFO is doing anything good?  Even a rabid sell-out like Harper loses when supporting a huge, inneffective bureaucracy.  He only has to look at the senate debacle to get a glimpse of that.  So, what is the point of keeping thousands of bureaucrats doing nothing in Ottawa while the resources they are supposed to manage die?

OK.  That rant is over.  But, of course, I have a dozen more.  Who doesn’t?  But one other is kinda fun…..Rob Ford, mayor of Toronto.  This is American style politics, this is.  Think Marion Barry.  This is Congressman Weiner sending pictures of himself in just his underwear to internet-met women.  This is muck-raking gossip of the most fascinating kind.  Not only is Ford accused of smoking crack but the two guys who he was video’d with were later shot.  This is not a Jack Nicolson, Matt Damon movie, this is a Tim Robbins, Dan Ackroyd, Mike Meyers movie. It is evil but also darkly amusing.

Christy Clark announced that BC is not happy with the ‘conditions’ she set for the Enbridge sludge pipeline project.  Ergo, NO GO.  BC will not approve.  Not yet, anyway.  “Game is still on, tho.  The fat lady has not yet begun to sing! Keep trying.  We believe in due process.”

Translation: “Like our prawns, the price for selling out our coastline just went up!”

My daughter is in Hong Kong.  Staying at a nice place.  Hong Kong has no wildlife.  Not even bugs.  A few birds, a bunch o’ fish in aquariums and a few domestic dogs.  That’s it.  Maybe a tree.  I wrote her yesterday to see how she was doing.  This was part of her answer:

“The only real ‘news’ was something that just happened, not an hour ago. I was walking up to the house and as I went to head up the metal stairs, I heard a “HISSS” (I was looking at something else) and I whipped my head around, and there was a cobra with it’s head up, hood out, making little mini-lunge movements at me…. Scared the bejesus out of me!!!!!

“I don’t know if we told you about our last cobra story… but there was a big cobra that we could’ve stepped on if Bri didn’t catch a glimpse of it’s tail moving….. and that cobra was a decent size! That was a couple weeks ago…. they caught him and got rid of him… and now there was this little guy today….”

This story kind of revises my take on that city.  Seems there is wildlife there.

I’ll take the wolves!

The silly season has started.  In full.  Social do’s, dinners, visitors up the yin yang.  All of July booked (overbooked, actually.  We have three days with more people than beds).  Plus all the projects have to continue even at a slower-than-usual pace – slower than snail, just a smidge faster than glacial.   And it all starts with a bang tomorrow.

It is truly amazing how the seasons affect my popular standing.  Seems I am a bit of a pariah until the sun shines.  But then, everyone loves me!  I am thinking of relocating to a place where the sun don’t shine but Sal says I am already partially there.  My head is there, anyway.

Barge comes in a few days.  Get stocked up on gas and crap.  Building supplies coming in, too.  Studio gets underway again. That’s good.  I love the smell of sawdust in the morning.  Might get a copy of Ride of the Valkyries to play real loud while I am cutting lumber.  Seems kinda fitting.

Anyway, I’m pretty healthy.  All things considered.  And I must admit, I have a lot of things to consider when I am making that statement.  But, regardless, I am not complaining.  I can move about, carry things, hammer, eat, poop and laugh.  I got the basics covered anyway.  Sleeping is sometimes a bit of a challenge but, all in all, I am good.  Still, one has to go to the doctor.  De rigeur, it seems, when you are 65.  It’s like a hobby. Or the theatre.  You know?  You go do it every few months?

What a racket!

I am getting a procedure.  It is an old-man’s test for crap.  Little probing, little analysis, little crappy junk.  I hate it.  But I hate the system even more.  Seems I have to go in and have a ‘consult’.  “I don’t need a consult, I said,  I have had the procedure before.  I know what it is all about.  I don’t need to talk about it again with someone who doesn’t care anyway.  Just bill the medical services plan, get your money and we’ll just say we had a consult.”

“Can’t do that!”

“Well then, I’ll do it by phone.  You don’t need to see me to consult.  Consulting is talking.  I can talk by phone.”

“The doctor will not consult by phone!”

And they call it Health Care!  I call it MoneyCare.  The symbol for the practice of medicine is two snakes wrapped up a pole.  My daughter has seen two cobras within days.  Coincidence?

I don’t think so.

To an innocent remark I made about the expiration dates on milk, one of our weekend guests added, “Well, some people in our household never put the milk away!”

“Well”, replied the other, “that is because only one person in our household uses milk!”

And for the next minute or so we were hugely entertained by an amateur production of the Bickersons.  Over milk, no less.

I howled.  “I love you guys!” 

Sally and I have always operated on the premise that if we are annoyed or irritated with one another, we express it at the moment.  Given my natural grumpiness, lack of even normal amounts of patience and a quick and nasty tongue and Sal’s unshakable sense of righteousness and total refusal to take crap from anyone, we can flare up at any given moment.  And don’t think for a minute that the presence of others has any bearing on our behaviour whatsoever.  We consider ‘bystanders’ to be collateral damage.

But we ‘flare’ like a match.  In a few seconds it’s over.

Please understand: we get along.  We are at peace with one another 99.99% of the time.  I love Sally with all my heart.  And she has come to accept me as I am (which is the best I can hope for).  We are good.  Really good.  But one of the reasons we are ‘good’ is that nothing is left to fester.  We don’t harbour grudges.  Basically we nip problems in the bud.  In the moment.  And in your face if you are there.

But we are never nasty.  We just might scowl a bit and openly disagree.  It’s all very civil.

We used to make some people squirm a little when we ‘disagreed’ in public.  Now, most of our friends are used to it and some even chime in.  “Oh yeah?  I, have personally seen you leave the milk on the counter!”  

“Oh, great!  Now the guests are adding their two-cents.  Don’t you people have enough domestic issues of your own?  I’ve seen Bob track dirty mud all along the hallway and your cat thinks its butt and my face are friends!  Don’t get me started!”

Frankly, I think it is healthy.  I really do.  People disagree.  It is only natural.  And, of course, some disagreements are serious and should be private.  I get that.  But sometimes the bigger issues are aggravated by the smaller ones and we have taken the position that the smaller ones have no right to infect the bigger ones.  So we dispense with little ones on the spot.  And, surprisingly, that has the effect of keeping the bigger ones at a solvable size.  And we have managed to solve all of them so far.

That’s pretty good.

Sal and I have been together for 42 plus years.  Known each other for 44 years.  I think we have the best marriage I have ever seen.  I give her most of the credit, of course.  Because it is true.  But I also think that we have, together, kept the relationship healthy and one of the ways was not to keep issues bottled up inside.  Our weekend guests seemed to operate on the same premise.

I loved it.

Today, the wife wrote to us and asked, “BTW, pls ask JD how we were not “blog worthy”. None of our antics were enough? Do we really have to up the ante?”

The answer: Nah.  You guys are blog worthy.  You guys bicker a bit and it is good to see.  And I just wrote about it.  See above.

But, do you really want to see more of you in this blog?

First of a gazillion summer guests this year came this weekend. ‘Gridders’.  They were great.  We had a good time, laughed a lot and still got a few things done.  Plus Sal made meals worthy of a Michelin review.  I’d give her four stars.  Five if she regularly read my blog. It was extremely civilized.    

They enjoy coming here (I am assuming since it was their fourth time).  And they marvel at the hummingbirds, lovely weather and, of course, the view.  Coming and going by boat just adds to the picture and the whole experience for them and many others borders on more of an adventure than just a visit.  They feel as if they have gone feral and off-the-grid, too.  Ooooh, it is kinda exciting….

But comfortably so.  Running water, hot showers, plenty of food and wine, nice beds, no real danger, no major discomfort.  This is an easy place to be off-the-grid and, because of that, not always a true ‘feral’ experience. But, still, an experience.

Don’t get me wrong.  I have little interest in a true feral/wild/dangerous experience either but, of course, when you live in the forest all the time, true feral experiences sometimes occur.  Lying with dogs = fleas.  Living with wolves = sometimes a feral experience.

None of this feral adventure is a daily or even weekly occurrence, mind you.  If it was, I’d move back to the city.  No, we get the feral experience in an in-your-frightened-face-kinda way about three times a year.  And trust me, that is more than enough.  You are in a heavily laden small boat and caught out in a storm, you have to chainsaw something that wants to fall on you, a fire breaks out, someone gets injured……..these are the times when living off the grid seems like it might sometimes be a bridge or a logging road too far.  Danger stalks, to be sure, but not that often.

And, typically the danger is of the ‘I can-manage-it’ kind.  Just a bit of a rush is all.

Some loon in Texas just killed a person and wounded five others in a random shooting spree while driving around.  A soldier was beheaded in London by two Islam extremists wielding machetes.  I personally wouldn’t spend any amount of time in Surrey without watching over my shoulder and Langley is getting just as bad. Danger in the city is of the random-shooting type.  I think it is scary.

But here’s the point:  I know that I am likely going to face a dicey situation once, twice or maybe three times a year.  The only part of that danger that gives me comfort is that I know that little of it – if any (barring a hungry cougar) – is intended to hurt me.  The storm may be dangerous but it is not personal.  And my danger rarely, if ever, comes with intent on two feet.

Living in the city is a bit different.  In the city, they have railings and safety lights and alarms and fire-doors and security guards and rules, regulations and cops and authority figures to enforce it all.  In the city they have managed to minimize the benign, natural, impersonal, accidental dangers considerably.  WorkSafe BC actually makes a statement in their propaganda that all accidents are preventable.  The city seems intent on making you safe.

So, why are my survival instincts on ultra-high alert there? 

I mean, seriously……………the city is supposed to be the pinnacle of modern civilization.  It is supposed to be the ‘safe’ place to live.  Urban life is about control and safety and resources and response teams.  You got your ‘first responders’, your ‘medical industry’ and your ‘security industry’ and your ‘enforcement industry’ not to mention insurance and legal and political industries – all intended to keep order and safety and hygiene and management standards.

And kids get snatched with increasing frequency.  People murdered.  Hundreds lost to drugs.  Car accidents that maim and kill.  And, face it, you are likely to catch a dangerous, can’t-get-rid-of-it ‘bug’ if you go to the hospital.  You have to be more and more careful of strangers.  You lock your doors.  You carry ‘passes’ and codes and keys to get from A to B.  In short, city folks have assimilated a level of fear and caution into their every day.  All day.

And it is still not enough.

I have come to the conclusion that it is the city that is the most dangerous by far.  It is the visit to the city that is the extreme adventure.  Out here, in the wilds, in the storms, amongst the cougars and the bears?  With the axe and the chainsaws……?  It’s a piece of cake by comparison.

Go ahead, you take the cul-de-sac, you take public transit, you live amongst the civilized.  Follow those rules.  Take Manhattan.  Take Berlin.

I’ll take the wolves.