H came to visit.  She’s a W’fer from Japan.  About mid twenties.  She’s been in Canada for ten months but has spent all her time in Campbell River.  Recently she decided that she should get out and see a bit more of the area.  So, she applied through the W’Fer organization and came here.

We are glad she did.

Pretty interesting girl.  Seems her desire is to soon go back to Japan and work her grandmother’s rice patch.  She wants to work in the fields.  H has no time for modern malls, fashion, electronics and all the rules, rules, rules of Japanese society.  She’s much more an independent thinker.  She wants to recycle, grow her own food and maybe have a goat.  She opposes nuclear power and corporate Japan. She does not desire money, status nor even full engagement in anything remotely societal.  She’s like a rebel Japanese hippy-chick except that there is no anger and she seems very grounded.  Sensible.  Smart.  Mature.  Very likable.

H, as from so many of our other ‘W’fer encounters, gives us the feeling that there is hope for the world.  Having w’fers is almost always a good experience.

H and I will go to the weekly Wednesday ‘milling about’ later this morning,  maybe do a bit of work on my boat which is up at the Q-hut and then come back later in the day and make sushi, yakisoba and gyoza for dinner.  Sal’s going to town.  She’ll bring back the sake.  Looks like a very good day is in the offing.

Tomorrow, Sal and H will gather seaweed and dirt for the garden.  I will likely drill some holes for a bit of concrete work (if my bashing hard Reddi-mix bags works).  Stick in some re-bar, wire down some mesh.  Make a frame.  The next day we may continue those two tasks or, perhaps get a bit more done on the funicular tracks.  Plus I could use some small boulders gathered and hauled.  H is strong and sturdy.  I’ll delegate the boulder-gathering to her.  And so it will go for her week here.

After her week with us, she heads off to another week somewhere else on the outer islands.  And then H will be home again in October.  And we’ll both be richer for the experience.

I like this WOOFER program.

When you buy cement (Portland cement) with which to make concrete, you buy it in 80 pound bags.  If you buy a bag of concrete mix (Reddi-mix) you get a 55 pound bag of mixed sand, gravel, cement powder and, perhaps some other bits and pieces.  Should you decide to mix Reddi-mix up for a sidewalk or something, it is a good idea to add a shovel or two of cement to the batch because it is the cement powder that is the valuable gluing agent in the Reddi-mix and the companies tend to skimp in their recipe.

If you are buying a bag of Reddi-mix, you rarely buy one.  One bag of Reddi-mix requires the above-mentioned ‘extra’ cement powder at the very least and that bag of Portland cement is enough to supplement at least fourteen more Reddi-mix bags.  So, a typical purchase of Reddi-mix – which is only good for a cubic foot or thereabouts anyway – is ten or more bags.  If I buy more than 15 bags of Reddi-mix, I add another bag of cement powder to the order.  My last purchase was 30 bags of Reddi-mix and I included two bags of Portland cement.  About 1800 pounds in total.

That is 1800 pounds in the truck and trailer, 1800 pounds carried to the boat, 1800 pounds to unload onto the shore and, of course, 1800 pounds to carry up the beach and stack in the boat shed.  At that particular time, I needed only five bags to make the step I wanted and so I kept in dry storage the remaing 25 + 2 bags in the boatshed.

But, after the step was complete, I did not have an immediate requirement for the rest and, lo and behold, a couple of years have passed.  I now have a concrete bunker inside the boatshed.  It weighs – I am guessing – in excess of 2000 pounds.  I am in the unenviable position of having a ton of concrete in my boat shed.

“How is that possible?”

The magic of desiccants.  Desiccants absorb water from the air.  BC has lots of water in the air especially if you live right on the ocean.  Despite the dry shed and the packaging, the Reddi-Mix bags have absorbed enough moisture to become 60-70 pound bricks.  “If you don’t use it you, you lose it!” does not apply here.  If you don’t use it, you may have it forever when it comes to Reddi-Mix.

Actually, the material – so far, anyway – will break up and one can pound the pseudo brick into powder again.  Shades of a stint on a Georgia chain gang, eh?  I’ve done that kind of de-constituting before. And the sweat wants to get in and make it all hard again!

Think about it – you buy, carry, lift, carry, lift, carry and lift and store.  Then after awhile, you pound the crap out of it……..all to make a rock.  And we have lots of rocks already.  So, why do it?

Well, duh, isn’t that the way things are done?  I mean, like, don’t we need concrete and stuff?  Actually NO.

The common thinking (by those who hire others to work with concrete), of course, is that you can make the rock in the shape you want it in the location you want it and concrete rocks have the advantage of sticking to other rocks and other concrete.  But that advantage was not considered enough of a bonus to warrant the labour and expense for some of the earlier ‘homesteader’ types and they dry-stacked natural rocks in such a fashion as to make foundations and such with just the rocks at hand.  No sticky medium like cement or mortar for them.

And homesteader-type people make steps out here in a similar way even today.  Just dry-stack slabs in the right way and you don’t need to cement them together. ‘Course I read handy-dandy Home-depot brochures on easy-concrete instead.  Next time around, I talk to the oldest geezer I can find before buying anything.

At first glance, dry stacking seems like a lot of work.  Not so, little butterfly.  A bit of skill, perhaps, but not as much work as paying, carrying, lifting, ferrying, storing and subsequently bashing when, in fact, you end up dry-stacking the damn things anyway.

The more I learn about living the simple way, the more I wonder how in hell we managed to invent the expensive, modern, complicated way and why.  Almost everything I see in off-the-grid construction can be done two ways – the old fashioned, aesthetically pleasing, skill-requiring cheap or free way vs the expensive, stupid, typically modern way that practically kills you.  We like to think that we are getting so much smarter but it is not apparent from what I am learning.  The old guys knew better.

Me?  Well, perhaps I could teach them thing or two about desiccants!

….how the unusual becomes usual.

When the kids were to return home after a fun and riotous three days with us ‘oldies-but-goodies’, the tide was out. Quite far, actually.  Which is not all that unusual in the summer.

But when the tide is that low, getting on to or off of the beach is tricky at best, often treacherous and nigh on impossible at it’s worst.  Always dangerously slippery, the sloping, irregular beach is covered in kelp, barnacles and algae-slime.  Footing is always precarious and, at a very low tide, non-existent.  There is simply no place to stand or even to get some purchase on a very low tide.

On this particular day of departure the tide was predicted to fall even further than it had already at departure time and so the current going by the front of our house was still running two or three knots.  Current makes it even more difficult.  When you are approaching a rocky, slimy shore in a small boat going slowly, you have less steerage and with a strong current you are virtually out of control.  I am somewhat used to it but still, it is no walk in the park (more like a crab-walk in a river).

Usually when the tide and currents are like this we go around to our neighbour’s dock and depart like civilized people but getting there is a bit of a long schlep especially when you have luggage and a puppy crate to carry.  The battery in my car had died a couple of days ago and so we also had a leaden car battery to get down to the boat on our island and then up the hill on the next island to get to the car.

Because of the aforementioned baggage, we opted to load from the beach despite the tidal-caused, current-exacerbated awkwardness.  I went around and got the boat. The kids came with me.  Sally stayed on the shore-front and awaited our arrival.  She stood on the lowest step of the sea-stairs (itself covered in seaweed) in order to pass us the luggage, the battery and the dog’s kennel.  That was the plan.

I came around the point and nudged the little fifteen-footer close to the intended point of transfer.  Sal hung over as far as she could balancing with a heavy weight (a car battery?!) at the end of one arm and my son stretched over as far as he could to take it from her.  The boat swished by the ‘transfer moment’ at three knots and he managed on the first pass to get the battery.  I went around and made another pass and we got a piece of luggage.

And so it went until, after five or so passes, it was only Sally that needed to be ‘captured’ and, of course, the boat was pretty full, the dog crate was on the bow (only place of access) and we would pass the jumping-off point (literally) and be in a safe position for her leap for less than a second, maybe two.  Sal leaped, landed on the small patch of deck left for her and settled into the boat as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

It is not.  Not many ‘seniors’ are leaping on to moving small boat decks from slimy rocks and passing heavy things with one hand.  It may be ‘normal’ around here but it is also extraordinary in most other places.

It doesn’t end there…………

Today my neighbour and I had to move a fish farm pen across the channel.  His boat is powerful.  It has 150 horsepower.  As Sal had taken my boat to another island to pick raspberries, we went with just the one boat.  We picked slack water (when the current stops as it changes from ebb to flood or vice versa).  Even with lots of horsepower we didn’t want to buck the tide.  But, we miscalculated.  We were off by almost two hours.  The tide was not slack at 11:30 like we expected but ebbing until 2:00!  We felt the current as we left with the pen but, sure in our knowledge that the tide would turn, we continued.

Not good.

As we approached the main channel our neighbour, R, saw our struggle and came out in his small boat to assist.  He tied on and we now had 185 horsepower.  We veered one way.  We veered another.  And all the time the pen and the two towboats were being swept up channel.  We were losing the struggle with the current.

After a couple of hours of trying to make the best of it, it was pretty clear that the right thing would be to stop towing and let the tide change on its own time.  It sure as hell wasn’t changing according to our information!  So we dragged the pen over to the shore and I scrambled over a similar but wilder beach to our own to secure it with a long line to a tree.

We planned to go back and finish the job when Mother Nature is on our side.

The point?  Well, ordinary is not always ordinary.  Whether it is leaping onto moving boats, carrying heavy objects up a hill or simply your everyday, ordinary, tow-boat kinda job with a fish-farm-pen (just your every day, run-of-the-mill stuff, eh?) it can get kinda adventuresome out here.

Also kinda neat, don’t ya think?

Epilogue: Sal came back with the boat and the raspberries and so we all went out together to finish the tow when the tide had well and truly turned.  Three boats this time.  The first pic is of me and our neighbour R.  The third, more powerful boat is tied up at the pen on the bottom pic.  Job completed within an hour – just like Bruno Gerusi and Relic of the Beachcombers. 

I never, in my wildest dreams, thought that I would relate so well to Relic!

History:  I recall standing on the front lawn of the cul-de-sac house we had just bought and a neighbour came over to introduce himself.  Dave ll.

After a bit of chit chat he asked me, “Geez, I have always admired this lawn.  What kind of lawn food do you give it?” I burst out laughing.  “Lawn food?!  I dunno from lawn food!   I just moved in.  Never really had a lawn before….well, not a green one, anyway, ya know, nothing like this little patch of perfection.  Enjoy it while it lasts.  I can kill a lawn from thirty paces and this one’s days are very likely numbered. Hahahah!”

He was shocked at my callous attitude.  His face showed visible worry that such a man had moved into his neighbourhood.  He was clearly concerned. And, with the rhythm of the conversation shattered by such surprising ugliness, he soon moved off.  I stood alone on the lawn with my hands clasped to my chest and cackled hideously while he was still within earshot.

No, I am not exaggerating.  It was fun.  Took that other Dave about three years to accept that I was not all bad but even with that, he kept his distance.  We were never close.

I mention this because, in a minor way, it illustrates my basic lack of interest in so many things normal in city and suburban living.  I don’t hate them so much as I don’t appreciate them.  I don’t care about lawns, for instance.  Not in the least.  To me, they are like any ‘fancy show’ of materialism intended to impress strangers. Like giant stainless steel BBQs.

I have never understood the need to impress others with the notable and completely logical exception of cars, boats and macho-trucks.  And now workshops.  Maybe guns and home theatres (jury is still out).  Those – the vehicles – are true and accurate personal statements about who you really are.  That I understand.

Lawns?  Not so much.  In fact, the rest that makes up the urban ‘imagery’ is mostly just nonsense to me.  Efforts misplaced at best, just plain stupid most of the time.

Apologies to all who love their lawns and/or giant BBQs and treat them as one of their family.  I really do accept that each to their own……………it is just that my own is well, my own. 

I think I value experience more.  The stuff of story-telling.  Of course, I want ice cubes in my martinis and hot showers and to be able to watch cheap B-action movies on my large screen TV but, really, the measures and milestones I use to keep track of my life are mostly experiential, mostly real-life education.  And my friends.  I guess I tend to look at my life as more of a documentary than an oil painting, a story rather than an estate, an ever-changing condition rather than a status or goal to be achieved. For me, it truly is the journey rather than the destination.

I think our society tends to emphasize the other.

Anyway…..all that was in aid of trying to describe the quiet, desperate-but-not-fully-conscious frustration of living and working in a system that rewards one’s  efforts with ‘not-quite-the-right’ reward.  Not for me, anyway.  I liked working but I wanted something other than what I was getting.

I just didn’t know what.

It is hard to imagine a whole other context of life possibilities when you are completely immersed in just one.  To be able to step outside the box almost requires that you first have to bump up against the sides of the box and feel the frustration of that.  Your movement has to feel restricted to know that it is.  And so many people (me included) spend time bumping their foreheads up against walls and not quite knowing that there is another side to the wall that might be more to their liking.

I had not planned for this exit ramp off the highway.  Not really.  Even buying our remote island property 35 years before moving to it is inexplicable.  Pure dumb luck, really.  Just a fluke of timing and circumstance.  We hadn’t a well-established affinity for cabins and forests and such either.  No skills or ‘natural’ interests.  Nothing that even hinted at this kind of lifestyle.  And, even though I was losing interest in the city rapidly, I was still pretty much involved in it if only by way of duty and obligations.  Plus Sally was actually more deeply immersed and interested than I was.  We didn’t plan for this so much as just bumping into the walls.

Thank God for the bumps, eh?  Sometimes they seem a little harsh.  I know that.  Surprising at the very least.  But it is the bumping into obstacles that gets you to change directions.  They can be gifts.  The bumps were gifts for us.

Like some of our friends recently, we had a few bumps to experience and figure out.  And sometimes the bumps hurt us a little.  It isn’t always an easy process.  But we were sent the bumps for a reason.  And we responded.

Responding to bumps.  I think that was another part of the reason for heading off the grid.

My son and his partner came to visit.  Brought scotch and fudge.  Brought a new puppy, too.  Fiddich and Megan were not amused.  Not in the least.  The puppy had a few boundaries and definitions explained by them in ways peculiar to dogs, not humans. 

Human boundaries and definitions were ignored totally as the puppy chewed, bit and explored everything possible innumerable times.  Including my toes!

Cute puppy.

Great Scotch.

I always love it when my kids come to visit but this time was special.  I really needed my son to help me get moving on the funicular again.  He and I got on the lower funicular job first thing.  It was good.  I’d say something like, “We’re going to need all that stuff down on the beach.  There are two saw horses and a sheet of plywood under the boatshed with which to make a temporary table.  I’ll get the rest of the tools.”

If there was a response, it was a grunt as he turned to get that first chore done.  There were no questions as to “Why are we doing this?”, “What’s the plan?”, “What thickness of plywood?”, “Do I really need that tool”?, “Shouldn’t we get some whatchamacllits?”,”Have you read the instructions?”, “Have you discussed all the issues with our neighbour?” (Who isn’t there, anyway.) And other such things as my usual helper would ask while throwing a stick for the dogs and wondering aloud if she should get a hat on and some sunscreen.  “Hey, look!  Was that a bluejay?!”

Working with men is so much easier.

Yes, I know that is sexist.  Kinda.  But it is true.  Well, it is true for men working with men, anyway.  Working with women may be so much easier too if the person expressing such an opinion is of the female persuasion.  Who knows?  It is a completely different work culture.  I think both genders have weird gender-based languages and habits peculiar to themselves.  Sally’s is definitely peculiar.

For one thing: men don’t talk as much but when they do it is pertinent to the job at hand.  “Seen the hammer?”  Women seem to talk the whole time they are working together and when they do, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the job at hand.  “Did you hear?  Sarah had that mole removed?”

C’mon, you know it’s true!

Anyway, we got to work and, of course, we worked on the lower portion of the track system while the tide was out and that section was exposed.  And we did good.  But it was hot and we had been at it for a bit when Sal called and offered tea and turkey sandwiches.  My son is a good worker but there is little that will get between him and a turkey sandwich.  The tools were still rattling on the ground as he raced up the steps to claim his prize.  So, we took a break.

He’s also good at taking breaks.  I don’t blame him.  He doesn’t have to work with the tide every day and is not aware of the speed at which it can claim your work area.  And any tools left too low on the beach.  I put off the decision to head back to work until I thought we had no choice and, leaving him with half a turkey sandwich to still devour, I went back at it.  He followed and we barely got the bolts on before the water washed over that section.  In fact, we got the last two bolts on under water.  Cut it pretty close but we got it done.

And so it went.  Haven’t worked with him in a few years and we didn’t miss a beat.  Complete harmony.  Conversation would consist of, “Got a bolt?” and I would hand him one.  Five minutes later…“Which holes next?”  And I’d point.  Five minutes later…….“Got another bolt?”

It was a gift.

The wheel nuts came off.  So did the flat tire.  And then, of course, the spare  tire went on and so did the wheel nuts again.  Easy.

My neighbour did it.

He read in my blog how the matter was posing a challenge for me and offered ever-so-graciously to help, “Ya stupid git!  How come you can’t take a tire off when you can build a house?  Ya daft?

“Well, it seems a bit foolish but, like, I snapped my ratchet extension in the process and that kinda suggests the nuts have been put on too tight, don’t you think?”

“No such thing.  Never met a nut I couldn’t loosen. Well, there’s you, I suppose.  Come on, let’s do it.”

I grabbed my ratchet and a few sockets, some WD40 and the little car jack.  “I’m ready!”

“What the hell are those things!?  Toys?  Zat a 3/8″ drive?  Ya need 1/2″ drive and a longer handle, fer God’s sake, man!  No wonder you didn’t get it.  This is a real vehicle, we are talkin’.  Not some damn bicycle repair!?” 

He goes into his shop, gets a ratchet that could double as a baseball bat and one socket, a 3/4.

“Uhn, J, I don’t think it”s a 3/4″ nut.  I worked a 5/8″ socket on the wheel nuts and it gripped up pretty tight.  That was the socket that snapped my extension.  It was definitely on!”

“Nope.  It’s 3/4.  I saw it once as you drove by.  Last year.  Over in Campbell River.  It’s 3/4.  I have no idea how in hell you got a 5/8″ on”. 

And so, with me shakin’ my head and him as confident as ever, we went over to the other island.

J popped the 3/4 socket on, attached the official ratchet of the NBA and, with a deft hand, undid all the nuts as if they were bedded in butter.  It was embarrassing.

“I have to tell em'” 

“Tell who?”

“Blog readers.  They need to know.  And I gotta tell ’em.  Damn.  This will be embarrasing.”

“Don’t tell ’em.  This can be on a need-to-know basis.  I won’t tell.  Well, I probably won’t tell them but only ’cause I don’t have a blog.  I am afraid I can’t be trusted beyond that.  I mean, c’mon……..!”

“Never mind.  I’ll tell ém.  Sheesh.  Man can’t loosen his own nuts.  Sounds bad.  Real bad.  Still, it’s in keeping with the basic theme, ya know?  Screwing up twice before getting it done right.  Life off the grid without money, skill or fully functioning brain?  Maybe I can work this…..?” 

“Dave, little girls can change flat tires.  You can’t make this work in any way except to look like an imbecile.  Honest.  I read the blog now and then and, if I were you, I’d just leave this episode of incompetence off the record.  Really.  Your reputation is in enough trouble.  Ya don’t need this.  Mind you, I will have to tell all my friends so it will get out one way or the other”. 

“One way or the other?!  There is only one way and that is you!”

“Yeah.  Probably.  Well, they say confession is good for the soul.  Hell on one’s image, tho.  But you go for it.  ‘Cause if you don’t, I may have to start a blog”.

TOMMY DOUGLAS  by Vincent Lam  (Penguin Books)

The Liberal Party in Saskatchewan in 1944, after decades of rampant corruption and constant scandal, asked the Federal government to give them permission to extend their rule for an extra year ‘….because, like, you know, the war happened and all?’

The real reason was that they did not want the fast-rising CCF/NDP party to take over.  The Prime Minister (McKenzie King. Liberal Party, of course) was not happy with the prospect of the CCF/NDP either and so turned a blind eye to what he said was ‘a violation of Democracy’ and allowed the provincial Liberals to stretch their mandate illegally.  In response, the then leader of the CCF/NDP said, “(when) a people is governed without their consent, we have moved from a Democracy to Fascism.”

History repeats itself.

The Conservative Party currently holds power with less than 40% of voter support and even those who voted for them are showing their displeasure with such things as the proroguing of Parliament, promoting the Enbridge pipeline without due process, promising to buy F-35 fighter jets and lying about it, ramming through bundles of legislation without debate with the Omnibus Bill and the ongoing and tragic farce of the mismanagement of DFO, Indian Affairs and the Health Care system.

Just to mention a few.

Back in 1944 the Liberal Party campaigned on the slogan, “Please, Give Us Another Chance!”  As brilliant a slogan as it was, it was not enough.  Christy Clark may add a few extra ‘please’s‘ and maybe even garnish that ‘with a cherry on top!’ but I doubt that she’ll get another chance either.  Seems they can lie and cheat their way into power (see: Robocalls) but they cannot beg!

The CCF/NDP won 47 of 52 seats and the party went on to do enough good in the next twenty years to raise the standard of living of the people from last in the country to first.  The reason: ‘Unlike the mainstream parties, we owe no one any debts or favours.  We can work for the good of the people rather than for the wallets of the corporations.’

What a concept, eh?

Another line from those days was repeated by a prominent former Liberal who had switched sides.  After every speech he said, “You are born into the old parties.  You have to think your way into the CCF.”

Lest anyone read the above as an argument to vote NDP, you have missed the point.  The point is:  NDP, Liberal, Conservative……. whatever………..the voter ‘has to think’!  We are born into a way of thinking, we have to think our way to something better.

In those admittedly old-days the CCF/NDP were the ‘good guys’ and perhaps they still are in some ways.  Especially by comparison.  But the point I am trying to make is this: how is it that people vote in to power those parties who are not only corrupt and criminal but who have long established histories of same?  How the hell does that happen?  Is it habit?  Is it misplaced loyalty?  Is it a form of transference – are we showing our love for our parents by voting they way they did?

I mean, the Liberals have a long, long history of corruption and graft outdone only by the Conservatives (who also have an ex-prime minister who sued the Canadian people for $2.0 million dollars even tho he was guilty of the charges.  And he won! We have a prime minister who sued us!).

The NDP are slowly building a reputation of incompetence, a quality also long held by the Liberals and the Conservatives.  I mean – it is hard to find anything good from all those previous crooks and idiots.  Why would we even consider voting for them?  Ever again!?

Just for the record – most of those things that Canadians are most proud of in this country were introduced by the 1940’s CCF from immigration, personal rights and freedoms, universal medicare and tax revenues directed to benefit the people.  And much more.  So, we have all adopted and accepted progressive, for-the-people legislation when the opportunity arose.

And we have rejected corruption and criminality, scandal and stupidity whenever we woke up from our stupor to notice it.

Currently the common voter is agreeing with that previous sentence by staying away from the ballot box in droves.  We are choosing stupor!  “I am not voting!  They are all crooks!”

But that is not good enough.  NOT voting is voting for the status quo.  That is how the Conservatives won with less than 40% of the votes.  To make a protest, one has to vote.  And to make a protest that counts, one has to think before  voting.  We are long overdue in our protest.  I think.  Time to vote out the old and vote in the new!

“But, Dave?!  Who’s new?  Even the relatively new NDP are as old as the hills.  They are well over 60.  Who’s new?

Well, the Greens are new…………

“But they won’t win!”

Not the point.  The Liberals and the Conservatives took the populist platform of the CCF whenever they needed votes.  But they only did that when they knew that the platform would work.  Voting for the Greens shows the ‘born-to-rule’ (read: well-financed) parties where the voters interests are.  Voting Green makes the greedy pig-faces put on green lipstick at the very least.  We can actually change the corrupt, rotten bastards of the Liberals and the Conservatives by voting Green.  They are corrupt, greedy and evil – but NOT stupid.

“You mean, use my vote as a way of expressing my values rather than my allegiance?” 

Yeah.  Radical, eh?

I am coming to the end of an era.  The Buildocine.  All the signs are there but the biggest sign just yesterday hit me in the face like a fish!  Dave’s hardware store’s inventory is beginning to touch bottom.  The well is pumping brown.  I am running out of things.  I can hardly believe it.

When we began this project, I gathered up supplies in advance of even knowing what we were going to build.  When we started the actual building, I bought all the required supplies I thought I could possibly need for each stage and I never skimped.  Why buy one pound of screws for ten bucks when I could buy 10 pounds for $35.00?  It was basically just good math.  But at first Sal didn’t get it.

“Sweetie, why are we buying 50 pounds of 3 inch galvanized casing nails.  You said we just needed a few?”

“Yeah, well, we do.  Just a couple of pounds actually.  But the math is good and one always needs 3 inch galvanized casing nails, eh?”

“We’ve never needed even one before.  You sure?”

We’d get the nails and, for good measure a box of four-inch and 2-inch plus a bucket o’ screws.  Sal just shook her head.

She had good reason.  I didn’t really know what I was talking about.  I didn’t really know anything except that going shopping was such an incredible drag.  I decided that if I had to buy one, I’d buy a dozen and, with that simple extravagance, I’d have a replacement for the one I dropped and lost, the one I ruined by cutting it too short and the two I lent my neighbour.  Simple logic: I’d still have 7 left that would likely suffice to save me from having to ever shop for them again.  I’d save the money back by never having to buy them again.  Just think of the fuel savings alone.

And Dave’s local hardware store was born.

This mad way of stocking inventory has stood me in good stead.  Whenever we needed something, we had it.  Always.  100%.  And, over the years, my reputation grew.  As we were building Sal beamed at me frequently in ever-growing appreciation for my foresightedness.  I was golden.

But all good things come to an end.  Even Mike Tyson eventually lost.  And it was a shock when it happened!  I wasn’t prepared.  I didn’t see it coming.  I was caught flat-footed and empty-handed.  And that feels bad when you are standing amongst three buckets of extra nails (yes, we still have 40 pounds of 3-inch galvanized casing nails!).  I thought I was covered.  It is hard to describe the feeling of not being covered.  Naked, perhaps?

I had a hint a few days before:  “Dave?  G here.  I need a dozen or so one-inch, fine-threaded bolts with a flat head.  For drawer pulls, ya know?  You got ém?”

“Probably.  I’ll check.  Get back to you in a few minutes.”

And I searched high and low.  Searching is always done in a mild panic.  There is no system, really.  Well, in a way there is – there are two systems actually: the vague, imprecise, running tally I have in my head that starts with ‘Hmmmm, I am thinking that they would be somewhere near the end of the lower level bench………….maybe near the carriage head bolts……………possibly….if I have any……..’

And then there is the more reliable system: “Hey, Sal!  Ya know where the little bolts are?  The ones that you might use for drawer handles??!!”

“Have you tried the tote labelled drawer handles?“

And that system sufficed for the last eight years.  It is a great system if Sal is home or if she is nearby and has turned on the walkie-talkie (such an occurrence is extremely unlikely.  She doesn’t like to turn on communication devices, ya know?  Our gal Sal likes to leave them turned off and left at the bottom of her purse.  It is quieter that way, she says). Still, all in all, it was a good system.  We usually had the goods.

Until yesterday.  Not only had I discovered that we were out of small bolts for drawer pulls but yesterday I had to use some silicone bronze two-inch ring nails instead of the cheaper galvanized kind.  We were out of the 2-inch galvanized nails as well!

I ‘got by’ by using silicone bronze – a material both rare and expensive.  I only used about twenty nails but they were at least twenty times more expensive than their galvanized counterparts.  My inventory had let me down again!  I felt inadequate.  A feeling I am familiar enough with to know when it is upon me.  Yep, it was inadequacy alright – inventory dysfunction.  Came up short, if you know what I mean?

This puts me in some kind of weird dilemma: do I replenish the inventory?  Would doing so just be for reasons of ego or am I going to maybe build another house?  The Pfizer Conundrum.  And, if I am not going to build large again, what about the smaller projects?  Don’t they need inventory, too?  And what about my standing with the neighbours?  Is my basic personality attractive enough to keep my friends without my stock of supplies?  Do I dare risk finding out?

And, worse, where to start?  There are quite a few depleted items.  Many half-filled jars, tins and boxes, tubes o’goo and various things and length of things I have forgotten about.  What do I have?  What should I get?

I dunno……..maybe I’ll just get out of the business altogether, ya know?  Retire from discount wholesale hardware supplies and get into something where the basic supply is guaranteed to be there and grow itself.  Maybe carving wooden ducks or something?  I got trees up the ying yang.

We had dinner last night at a neighbor’s.  She is almost finished building her new cabin and we discussed building, batteries, off-the-grid electrics, propane fridges and the like across the table for most of the time – the end of the world as we know it (TEOTWAWKI) for the balance of the time.   All in all, a very nice evening was had by all.

She, of course, was regaling us with typical-of-the-new-builder anecdotes of ‘discovering’ the complications and mysteries of building.  We all do that.  In fact, because we all build our own places and it is usually for the first time, construction, off-the-grid appliances and logistical, skill and financial challenges and our inevitable screw-ups dominate most dinner time conversations at most social gatherings.

We have all been at that stage at one time or another.  Doesn’t matter what stage it is. And, as the years wear on, so do the stages…….we seem to be in one or another all the time.

Evening entertainment, however, is simple and easily engaged.  If we are invited to someone’s home a lot of time is spent looking at drywall joints and plumbing fixtures.  How do the railings match up?  Woodstove installations and propane appliance installations are right up there with roofing, decking, flooring and how much food storage one has in mind.

Where, in the city, guests might marvel at the view, praise an object of art or comment at length on the home theatre system, country folk might crawl under the house to see the new water tank installation or turn the fridge upside down in an effort  to get it working again (it sometimes works for propane powered fridges, never electrical.  File that away or you can look foolish).

Entertaining guests is different out here.

Probably batteries and their unique personalities (they are supposed to be inanimate but we have our suspicions) is the top topic but the list changes as the host’s work-on-the-cabin progresses so we – those who have gone before – tend to go with the conversational flow most of the time.  It’s not hard.  I could talk about chopping wood for hours.  Give me plumbing as a topic and a secretary and I could write a book (not one that anyone would read- but I could).  Hell, just getting water would be half the book and getting rid of it would be a lot of the second half!

But last night also included a little TEOTWAWKI.  Comes with the territory.  I mean think about:  if you are thinking that the world as we know it might end and you are in the process of building your new cabin, it only makes sense to discuss ways of surviving the end of days and, perhaps, what design changes might suit the new situation, right?  So we talk about water storage, food storage and, of course, power, fuel and a smidge of self-defense.

Now don’t go misunderstanding me; there are plenty of design tangents that cover paint colour, capturing the afternoon light, where to place the bed and throw-cushions.  We aren’t barabarians!

But, if TEOTWAWKI is raised, we have to address the fundamentals.  We get back to the basics.  No more Mr. Nice-design Guy! 

“Look, forget about having an armory.  Your basic protection from the starving, half-mad ravaging hordes is the water between you.  If a guy wants to attack you and take your carrots, he has to have a boat, fuel, arms and a lot of time just to get here.  It is much easier for the panicked killer to pillage his own cul-de-sac first.  Why would he bother to travel for days to get your carrots? 

“Of course, there will be a few, so you need a shotgun at the very least, but it is too hard to move hordes around with the price of fuel being what it is.  Tough logistics.  That kind of expertise went out with Ghengis Khan.  We don’t know from horde management nowadays.  Maybe the Bedouins….or, perhaps, the gypsies…I don’t know, really…….but we think we are pretty safe from hordes.”

“But hoarding is another matter altogether.  One has to hoard.  De rigeur.  We figure three months good-eating food storage, six months of tins, beans and rice.  It is simply not possible to store enough scotch so there is no limit on that.  Just try your best.  And you may need a lot more bullets.”

“But you just said that I didn’t have to worry about the hordes!?”

“True!  But you need a currency, don’t you?  You need to be able to ‘trade’ or ‘buy’ stuff even when it is TEOTWAWKI.  Paper money won’t do anyone any good and very few have silver and gold so that fact alone restricts the use of those two.  No, you’ll barter mostly. Your carrots for their chicken – that sort of thing.  But, where you need to ‘balance out’ the barter, bullets will always be valued.  I recommend a stock-pile of .22s.  You see, push comes to shove, you can also shoot the bullet and take the chicken.  Either way, you come out ahead.”

“Wow!  Good thinking.  What else you got?”

“You got a home surgery kit?”

Got a flat tire.  On my little utility trailer that I park on the other island.  No big deal.  Go to island, remove wheel, replace with spare, take wheel and tire into tire repair shop.  Simple remedial plan.  No problem. 

Hah!

The first time I go over, I can’t remove the bolts that hold the wheel on.  Tools don’t quite fit right.  But, that’s OK.  I’ll just bring more tools next time I come.  Wisdom.  Patience.  Attitude.  Ommmmmmmmmmmm………………….zen descends on quiet mind……………..

Go back another day with enough tools to fix a D-9 Cat.  Remaining calm, I get a wrench and extension and apply my Incredible Hulk Bulk to the effort and snap the tool.  Now I know why they are called Snap-ON.  The other choice was Snap-OFF. Marketing consultants advised the former.

Quick: get to back to zen, do not pass go………………..ommmmmmmm………..(ignore blood on knuckles as it is not a positive element to have one’s life force leaving the building)………………..

Consider options.  There is another way.  Of course.  Take chainsaw and heavy sledge.  Beat the crap out of the trailer and push remains into the bush.  Simple remedial plan.  No problem.

Smidge un-zen-like.

A mature person would simply go back a third time and ‘try something else’.

And so I will do that as soon as I get mature enough to be able to think of something else.  As of this writing, the sledge and chainsaw option are still in the running.

But, really.   It is not about the trailer, is it?  Not really.  No, it is about me.  It is always about me.  “What did I do to deserve this!?”

No, seriously. it is not about me nor is it about the trailer.  It is really just another small vignette in the life of one who lives off the grid.  Living off the grid also means that your car (or, in this case, your trailer) lives off the grid, too.  And it is never very close to home.  It lives remote from you on the other island – off on another grid.  Leave a cellphone in the car?  Forgot to lock it?  Need a thingy from the glove compartment?  Well, no quick thing, that.  You are an hour and a boat ride and a steep hike away from doing that.

Take the wrong tool?  Well, that is two hours now, isn’t it?

That doesn’t work?  Poor baby!  Lookin’ at three hours, three hikes and three boat rides now, aren’t we?

Breathe.  Think Zen thoughts.  Ommmmmm………….push chainsaw image from mind…………“these things are sent to challenge us, butterfly.  Be one with the wheel nuts.  It will come.”

So, I look for Butterfly Towing in the yellow pages…………….