Wednesday October 30, 2013

I’m in Evolene tonight.

Have been tumbling versions of that line around in my head all day, trying not to giggle like a grade school boy at the double entendre.  Failed.

Truth is I’m in Evolene, Switzerland, the town after which Evolene, my new reporter was named.  Beautiful place set about 20 kilometers up the Herens Valley from Sion.    This is the end of our hectic road trip which started in Budapest, ran through Vienna, and wended its way through Austria and Northern Italy before landing here.  Tomorrow morning, early, it’s up before dawn to begin the journey home.  The whole trip will begin with dropping the car off at the Sion rail station, taking Swiss Tail to the Geneva airport, then a connecting flight through Amsterdam, and ending up with the ferry ride home.  Whole thing should take about a day and half to complete and about a week to get over.

Been an amazing three weeks, and the team at home has done an outstanding job of keeping the ship upright and steaming ahead.  Email reports tell me that Evolene has put out several editions of The Shoreline that have people talking and advertisers lining up.  If she keeps that up, I’ll be able to do a lot of sailing next summer.  Butkus is fine, of course.  He has this thing where he uses my absence to get fed two or three times as much as he would normally.  All in all, seems like I’m missing them more than their missing me.

Have learned some things while here, and hope to set them down in these posts over the next little while. 

For example, I learned how incredibly fortunate I’ve been.  Despite my whining about sometimes feeling trapped by my life and business in Midden Harbour, I’m well aware of my blessings.  Was particularly struck by the contrast between the course of my life and that of a Hungarian my age. 

On this date in 1956, a boy my age would have been surrounded by hope and growing enthusiasm.  His parents and neighbours were living a revolutionary dream, and the Hungarian people believed that freedom and self-determination were within their grasp.  Just five days later, that optimism was crushed beneath the treads of Soviet tanks as the Kremlin deposed Hungary’s democratically elected government, and imposed martial law. 

That boy, instead of growing up in a country where he was free to choose his government and his life course, grew up in a Communist dystopia, steeped in fear and stripped of hope.   The disparities between his life and mine are glaring and tragic, and it’s important to me that I never lose sight of just how fortunate I’ve been to have never had to go to war to promote and idea, never had to be silent out of fear of reprisal, and never had to compromise what I believe in.

Standing in Hero’s Square, looking up at monuments to those who sacrificed their lives to create a future for others, I was in awe.  All I’ve had to do is find a job and pay my bills.

Monday October 14 2013

There are lessons everywhere.  There is, I assume, one or more of life’s nasty lessons around the topics of greed and loyalty waiting for me when I get home to Midden Harbour  But in the meantime, I have been fortunate enough to glean a set of uplifting ones here in Budapest.

The first is about expectations.  Went to a performance of Verdi’s La Traviata My expectations were not high.  Having paid the equivalent of $2.50 online including processing fee for a ticket I had no illusions about what I would encounter.  At that price, a high school production with cardboard sets in a church basement would have been a bargain.  As it turned out, the venue was the Hungarian State Opera House which is a spectacular 19^th century building of stone, frescos and fluted columns.  As you might imagine, the seats were not luxurious, but rather in what we would term the “Nose bleed” section tucked under the edges of the ceiling with a limited view of half of the stage. 

But what I did have was a bird’s eye view of the magnificent chandelier that dangles from the building’s central  dome, an up close and personal perspective on the hand-painted ceiling, and, thanks to binoculars, a swell view of the diva’s cleavage—men are teenaged boys all their lives--denied those on the orchestra level.   

Then there was the sound.  Regardless of where you sit in an edifice like this—this is not some part time hockey arena with the acoustics of a quanset hut—you can hear everything.  It was an afternoon to remember.   The voices and instruments were magical, a treat for everyone in the building, even those of us who had to enter through a back door and climb a set of well-worn stone steps whose treads had been patched with an indifferent pastiche of available rock over the years.

And this brings me to my second lesson which was about equality.  Certainly, my $2.50 ticket did not gain me access to the kind of comfort enjoyed by those at the more prestigious levels.  But it did give me and all those around me access to the same sights and sounds as those below.  The patrons with whom I shared this lofty perch included the elderly, who had initiated their assault on the three flights of stairs as soon as the doors opened and managed to gain their seats just before the curtain rose.  And there were families, young working class couples with grade school aged children—boys in pressed pants and tidy shirts, girls in pretty dresses and bows in their hair—who seemed not to mind an afternoon with their mothers and fathers, away from video games and cell phones. This could never happen in the city at home because the majority of young couples there could never afford tickets to a concert for the family.  But they can here.

My experience included one other example of the importance Hungarians seem to place on making this experience accessible to all.  During the intermissions, in the dazzling mahogany and marble bar room, people openly took from their pockets and purses brown bags containing sandwiches and containers of wine, and enjoyed their refreshments.  Instead of having to buy $8 beer or a $12 cold hamburger, they were free to BYOV—Bring Your Own Vittles.

Imagine that.

Suday October 13 2013

 

If the global economy, and especially the European economy, is struggling you’d have a difficult time proving it here in Budapest. 

Walked for 10 miles from the Centra to the zoo, back to cross the Chain Bridge and funicular up Castle Hill Everywhere there is laughter and crowds.  On Castle Hill the line of tour buses ran out of sight, and the groups which they had disgorged onto the cobblestones merged to form one contiguous mob, each defined from all the others by some guide holding high an purple umbrella or an arbitrary number stapled to a stick or, in the case of the most prepared, identically tee shirts of a colour no one would wear by choice.

And as usual in Europe, the hum of the crowd was a collage of languages all being spoken at their idiosyncratic cultural volume and with no one taking notice.  Well, no one but the unilingual English speakers, who seem to become disoriented when they are in the minority.  But even here, where the local language bears little resemblance to the Queen’s tongue, many locals are comfortable in English, and virtually all are willing to make some effort to understand and respond to requests for directions or queries about one of the thousands of monuments which dot the city.

There are other sights and sounds here that are seldom if ever found at home. 

A tall strikingly handsome man with dreadlocks and a deep tan is dressed in what I, in my ignorance, can only describe as a 16^th century jester’s getup, but which is probably an ethnic costume with centuries of history behind it.  On his arm is a Golden Eagle which, for 2000 forints (about $10), he will let you hold and have your photo taken. This calls up images of similar operations at home years ago where a roadside tourist attractions would sometimes have a bear on a chain which you could feed junk food or stand beside—just outside the range of the chain of course, because it was a bear, and letting it attach itself to your arm would result in losing it—to have your photograph taken.  We have thankfully stopped that practice because of its inherent brutality.  But what was going on here with this man and this eagle was more in the way of poetry than captivity.

Then there was the Ostre Aker Musikkorps, a military band belting out polished versions of rousing classics.  Not a marching band, although it might once have been, but a seated, grey haired group with a lively young woman and her perky baton at the front.  They played the whole time I was within hearing distance, bouncing from one song to the next and never missing a beat or a note for that matter.  I thought about how they came to be there, in a single-tree square on top of a hill in Budapest, a tuneful oasis in an ocean of atonal conversation.  There was no open cello case into which passing tourists could drop coins.  I wondered if the Hungarian market is so vibrant that government can afford to pay musicians to serenade tourists by the hour.  If that’s the case, then the European Union would be wise to reconsider its reluctance to admit this country for economic reasons.

Then it was a zigzag walk on small, quiet streets back down the hill and on to Vorosmarty Square for a pleasant lunch at the 155 year old Gerbeaud Café.  We were treated to more music, this time classical violin, which judging by the open instrument case on the ground, was apparently not subsidized by government.  The music was lovely, the food and wine and beer were very good but, I thought, did not justify the prices charged.  I stewed a little about this, yet as I sat there the shroud that was my funk was lifted by the laughter and sunshine, and I came to the conclusion that any restaurant which has provided value for money for a century and a half probably has the right to charge whatever they want.  

Saturday October 12, 2013

Budapest after 15 hours of travel. 

Long distance travel whether by car or plane is usually the same sort of mind and body numbing experience.  Yesterday’s was no different.  Some sleep on nine hour flight to Amsterdam made more tolerable by a seat in an exit row and the exceptional service and amenities provided by KLM.  Everyone has their own experiences with these things and am sure there are people out there with horror stories about the Dutch airline, however, I am now, officially a fan.

Arrived at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam only to conclude that we had spent all that time flying in a circle.  The weather was doing a bang-on imitation of a Vancouver fall day—grey, pissing down rain, and cold enhanced by a blustery wind.  Fortunately, didn’t have to go outside, and there was a sprinkling of ubiquitous Starbucks throughout.  Not a fan of chains of any kind—the only time I allow myself into a McDonalds either in the city or in Europe is to use the bathroom—however, a good old medium (refuse to use “Coffee-speak” that Starbucks and other barista bullies insist on calling sizes.  What the hell is wrong with “Small, medium and large?”) mocha with half the chocolate (none of this “Half sweet” crap) hits the spot in the middle of a 34 hour travel day. 

Never been to The Netherlands before but could have guessed where I was by simply counting the number of six foot blondes in the crowds.

Another delightful KLM flight to Ferihegy Airport.  No blondes here.  And no rain; 70 degrees and sparkling sunshine.  Cab ride into the city came with a wonderfully lucid history lesson that castigated the Soviets and gypsies, and enthused about the Hungarian people’s courage and wine.

No Starbucks either, “Hooray!” thought I.  Should have known better.  In a city famous for its classic cafes—look up Alexandra Bookstore—these insidious bastards have gained a beachhead.  But they won’t lure this cowboy in with their tasty mocha frappucinnos© and orange lemon scones.  Its white tablecloths and aproned waiters for me.

Out for a walk last night along the Liszt Franz Ference where it was possible to snuggle in amongst some locals at a little restaurant.  Hungarian wine with characteristic full body and hearty colour, along with a paprika and sausage stew. 

Staying in the lovely, old Corinthia Hotel where in 1956 the Soviet army laid siege to the rebel fighters and massacred them by shelling this building.  Amazing job done of restoring it.

Wonder how Evolene is coping?  And have not been able to figure out what is behind Jason’s surprising and sudden interest in The Shoreline.

Thursday October 10 2013

At the gate waiting for our KLM flight to Amsterdam then on to Budapest.  Finally getting to sit down after a long and interesting day. 

Had managed to get most of my packing done last night, and all I had to do this morning was take Butkus round to a neighbour’s along with a couple of large bags of food.  This has happened often enough now that he knows the drill, but he’s not happy about it.  Every time I leave on one of these trips--and he seems to sense the difference between my getting on the ferry to go to the city and getting on the ferry to go away—my last image of Midden Harbour is Butkus standing at the edge of the ferry dock staring at me.  And each time I half expect his Newfoundland instincts to kick in and he’ll dive in and start swimming after the boat.  He doesn’t of course.

Anyway, the quiet, predictable day I had imagined didn’t come to fruition. 

This morning, not long after I’d climbed out of bed and before it was light or I’d had my first cup of coffee, there was a knock at the door.  Not unprecedented but certainly unusual.  My cabin is down a lane—a short, sandy set of tracks through a sparse stand of ponderosa pine—running west from Beecher and ending at my door.  If I hear a knock or even a vehicle, I know someone’s coming to see me.  This time I didn’t hear a vehicle.

When I opened the door, Jason Snow was standing there.  My first thought was for Bertie.  The only reason my caffeine-deprived brain could come up with for Jason being on my doorstep at 5:30 in the morning was that something had happened to his mother.  This was not the case, he assured me.  He had come to talk about business, and he was here so early because he would rather not have the town aware that he had come. 

As I moved around making us some coffee, Jason began, “Duncan, everyone knows that over the past few years you’ve become less and less enthusiastic with the task of putting out The Shoreline every week.  That is entirely understandable, it has to be a grind and you’ve been doing it for decades now.  On top of that, you—or me for that matter—are not getting any younger.”

At this point, at least part of my mind had stopped listening and was frantically trying to figure out where he was going with this line of reasoning.  Reporter instincts kicking in and looking for a way to take control of the conversation.  Questions began forming.

As Jason continued to create a case for how miserable I must be, a theme began to emerge.  “I am confident that you have put feelers out to test the market for a buyer for The Shoreline.  I am also confident, given the lack of rumours about the impending sale of the paper, that those feelers were unproductive.   My visit here to see you this morning is based on those two assumptions.  Let me be succinct:  Duncan, how would feel about selling me The Shoreline?”

My immediate response to the unexpected and extraordinary offer was silence.  I sat there, mouth agape, staring into Jason’s eyes trying to figure out what the hell was going on. 

“Duncan?”

“Yes, Jason.  Guess I’m so stunned by the question that I’m speechless.”  By this time the reporter in me was in full flight and the questions were rolling through my mind at a pace I couldn’t follow.  So, I did the sensible thing and deferred.  “Look, Jason.  This is so sudden, I’m still half asleep, and I’m supposed to be on a plane to Budapest in a few hours.  Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your interest, and I’ll certainly give it some careful thought, but I can’t do it right now.  When I get back in a couple of weeks, we can sit down and have a long conversation about this.  I’d be happy to come into the city to see you if you’d rather keep this out of The Harbour rumour mill for the time being.  How’s that?”

“To be truthful, Duncan, it’s a little disappointing because I had wanted to move quite quickly on this.  But if that’s the best you can do, so be it.”  Jason rose and went to the door.  “But call me as soon as you return.”

I shut the door behind him and stood watching him through the glass walk back up the lane.  “What the fuck do you think that was all about?”  I asked Butkus.  He didn’t seem to know either. 

Flight’s up and on time.  Damn the Dutch are efficient.

Wednesday October 9 2013

 

Finished up the editorial and layout for this week’s edition.  Didn’t really do much.  Evolene took care of the majority of the writing given that the second installment of her Trek to Midden Harbour serial runs this week.  Thomas came in to do a layout while I looked over his shoulder.  Everything got done on deadline and brilliantly.  Guess I shouldn’t be so thrilled at being proven replaceable, but in this case I couldn’t be happier.  Budapest—oh, and Vienna, and Switzerland I’ve been told—here I come.

But before I log off and start packing, I really have to get some thoughts off my chest about the current insanity in Washington.

Luckily, we in Midden Harbour are far enough removed and sufficiently self-sufficient that we seldom have to think about what a government thousands of miles away is doing.  However, in this case, there seems to be so much damage being inflicted on so many innocent people unnecessarily that it deserves a rant.

The Republicans in the American House of Representatives are holding the country hostage in a final, desperate effort to expunge the Affordable Care Act.  They have already shut down a lot of government operations, including veterans affairs, by refusing to pass a funding bill.  The effects of this on hundreds of thousands if not millions of families cannot be exaggerated.  People who work for departments that have been denied funding have been furloughed—that means laid off without pay.  And they have no recourse.  In addition to the harm to these families, there is the damage that is being inflicted on individuals who rely on government services.  So, for instance, hundreds of thousands of children are being denied access to the Head Start program that “promotes the school readiness of children ages birth to 5…for children ages birth to 5.” 

Just to be absolutely clear, the Republicans are denying services to needy children under 5 and to the men and women who have put on a uniform and put their lives at risk to defend American interests, because they want to eliminate a program that was established to provide healthcare to 26 million Americans who cannot otherwise get health insurance.

On top of this bit of ideological lunacy, the Republican members of the House are threatening to refuse to support raising the government debt ceiling on or before October 17^th, the date upon which the United States of American will no longer be able to meet its obligations.  The consequences of this event are so scary as to be incalculable.  But at very least, it will mean that interest payments on government bonds will not be made.  Imagine how happy this will make the Chinese who own, according to some estimates, as much as a quarter of current U.S. debt.

What could possibly go wrong?

I could go on, but won’t.  Hopefully all this will be settled by the time I get home, otherwise I may not come back.  That’s not true, of course, I will be back.  But once home I think its past time that I revived my Free Midden Harbour campaign.  Several years back myself and a group of friends started looking into the feasibility of making our community as self-reliant as possible.  The idea was to try to source everything we could locally, and to reduce our dependence on the city and other outside entities to an absolute minimum.  I think it’s time to bring that group together again and launch a real campaign to make this a reality.

What could possibly go wrong? 

Tuesday, October 8 2013

I’m going to Budapest.

It has been crazy since I got home from Crystal Falls on Sunday.  In fact, the craziness started as soon as I got back into range of a cell signal, and my phone started binging.  I pulled over—if driving in the city while using your phone is unsafe, driving down a mountain logging road while doing it has to be suicidal—and discovered that I had a long list of missed calls and voice mails all from the same number.  I knew the number, it belongs to a good friend, and I had a pretty good idea why he was calling.

Dan is a pilot for one of the big airlines.  He started coming here for summers as a child, and inherited his parent’s cottage when they could no longer take care of it.  He came here all during his children’s growing up and still came with Marjorie, his wife, after the kids set out on their own. 

We got to know each other a little over that time, but only became friends a few years ago when Marjorie passed away from a fast developing tumour, and Dan retreated to Midden Harbour to deal with his grief.  He started dropping into the office and then I invited him to go out on the boat.  During that summer while he regained his footing, we spent days on end sailing and fishing and drinking countless bottles of good single malt—we compromise, he’s a Laphroaig aficionado, I’m a Tomintoul man.

Then, after he had gone back to work, I got a call from him one day asking if I could make the afternoon commuter shuttle.  It was Thursday  and the paper had been put to bed, so I said “Sure, as long as you get me back to the ferry in the morning so I could do distribution of The Shoreline.” 

“Not a chance, Dunc.  We’ll be in San Francisco.”

“What?”

“Get someone to deliver the papers for you.  Doesn’t take a genius to deliver papers.  We’ll be back by Monday, plenty of time to put together next week’s rag”

So, I went to San Francisco.  That turned out to be the first of many trips I’ve been able to make with Dan using his “Friends” fares.  Costs me nothing because he won’t let me pay—says it would be the same as him paying me to go out on my boat.  This time, looks like it’s going to be Budapest.  Took significant more fiddling to make arrangements to get The Shoreline out, but what the heck, I had three days.  Ev is going to do the editorial. Thomas, who used to do layout for me, has agreed to come in from the reservation for a couple of weeks and do the setup and follow through on printing day.  And Ev has even conceded to doing the distribution.  After all, she did want to learn all the ropes.

I never have to worry about Butkus.  Half the town fights over having him stay even though it means a huge jump in the household grocery bill.

So, tomorrow will be spent getting out this week’s edition with Thomas at my elbow.  Then, on Thursday I’ll go into the city, and by Friday I’ll be on the ground in Hungary.

 I’ve promised Evolene I’ll send back some foreign correspondence/travelogue type stuff.

Sunday October 6 2013

There are times, not infrequent, when I love my life.  On the other hand, there are times when I wish I had made different choices.  Right now I love my life.

Didn’t stay long at the tailgate visit yesterday; wasn’t where I wanted to be just then.  Drove several more miles up the valley, then north on a feeder road to an old staging area.  From there it’s a two hour walk to a place where a snow melt creek drops through a small saddle.  That spot is special for several reasons, not the least of which is that I found evidence here that humans have been coming to this spot for a very long time. 

I was brought here for the first time—it would be virtually impossible to find your way here without some help—I was brought here for the first time by a Coast Salish friend.  She told me that the people of her nation had used this as a purification site forever.  The traditional healing circles of many North American aboriginal peoples use a physical and mental cleansing process that involves meditation and a sauna.  The structure used for this is called a sweat lodge; not as sexy a name as sauna perhaps, but the principal is the same.  In this case, the sweat lodge is a small, temporary hut constructed by pushing twigs--usually alder here on the coast—into the mud beside a creek or river, and bending them over to form woven arches.  The idea is to keep doing this until you have a rudimentary framework that is then covered with cedar boughs.  The size is determined by the number of people expected. 

I have been here many times since that initial invitation, sometimes with friends, and sometimes, like today, on my own.  I can even manage a crude sweat lodge.  Last night and again this morning, I carried out my own version of the cleansing.   The ceremony involves a type of mindful meditation that helps keep me grounded in an increasingly complex and discouraging world.  By immersing my mind and body in the four elements of Earth—ground I sit on inside the lodge, Air—what I breathe, Fire—source of heat and light inside the lodge, and Water—life giving moisture, I feel at first overwhelmed, then gradually I can feel myself becoming less and less tense.  It’s not for everyone, but is works for me. 

Seems to work for Butkus as well even though he refuses to enter the lodge.  While we were walking back to the truck this morning, we came out of the woods into a meadow that was full of mountain sheep and white tail deer.  We both stopped, expecting the animals to run, but they didn’t.  Instead they kept grazing.  Since they were between us and where we were headed, there was no alternative to but to move slowly across the open ground.  Amazingly, neither the wildlife nor Butkus seemed agitated by each other’s presence, and we were within 20 yards of the closest animals before they moved.  When they did, the flight was spectacular.  The two groups—sheep and deer—had been grazing intermingled, but when the ran, they created two distinct sets, each fleeing in a different direction.   It was like watching two mountain streams flow into one another.  And even though they did this at a full gallop, there were no collisions.  Amazing.

The rest of my was pale by comparison.

Saturday October 5 2013

Saturday October 5, 2013

A day of highs and lows and everything in between.

Evolene’s first installment of her bicycle trek to Midden Harbour has created two camps.  One peopled by those who think her a fool, and the other consisting of those who feel sorry for her.  From a personal perspective, Evolene isn’t thrilled by either of those opinions.  But as a newswoman she’s ecstatic that her writing is being read and talked about.  She can’t wait for next week’s Shoreline to publish the second part of her story.

Can’t say that I’m unhappy either.  It’s been a while since the community has had a story that has engaged the readership like this.  Not that the sale of a few extra copies is going to make much difference in my revenue by itself, there aren’t that many full time local residents.  But apparently Ev’s story has spread beyond The Harbour, through word of mouth, and we’re starting to get email requests for copies.  What we’re actually getting are questions about whether this week’s edition can be viewed online.  It can’t. 

I have email of course, but have never felt the need to set up a Shoreline web page.  Truth be told, it didn’t occur to me that anyone who didn’t live here, at least as a summer resident, would be interested in local news.  It’s nice that we’re seeing this spike in interests because of Ev’s story, but I can’t see it lasting or having an effect more than a spike in advertising for a few weeks. 

Still, I decided to get another one of my spare distribution boxes out of the shed and get the ferry operator to take it over to the city-side wharf, and set it up.  Can’t hurt to have those extra copies available, besides it’s something I can add to my sales pitch to local businesses.  And of course Ev’s is pleased.

It was another one of those beautiful fall afternoons.  Getting too cold to be out on the boat even on a sunny day, so Butkus and I hopped in the truck, stopped by the office to pick up my camera, and headed up through the bench to one of our favorite hikes.  Waylaid for a while when we came across some neighbours sitting on the side of the road.  Tailgate parties may have become the big thing at football games in recent times, but  rural parts of the country have been having the original tailgate parties for as long as there have been tailgates, truck or wagon. 

A rural tailgate consists of two neighbours bumping into each other on a back road like the one Butkus and I were on this afternoon.  If neither person is in a hurry--and people who live in the back country rarely are—the expectation is that both will stop and get out to chat, and at least one of them will reach behind the seat in the cab of their truck and pull out a couple of beers.   Should explain that these beers are what we refer to as “Cowboy cool.”  This means that they are whatever temperature the cab of the truck is.  Might not sound appealing to those who favour their suds chilled, but it works for us.

Now, no one thinks drinking and driving is a good thing, so the days when these tailgates would go on for hours is long gone.  Having said that, most of us around here don’t think a beer or two over an hour or two is a problem.  It’s not that these informal get togethers are brief.  I’ve seen times when they’ve gone on pretty well all day and into the night.  But when this happens the composition of the group evolves as the hours pass.  Someone who lives in the bush might stop by to say hi in the morning on their way into town, then rejoin the group, usually with a case of cold ones,  several hours later when they’re on their way home. 

If someone has too much to drink, a friend or neighbour will drive them home.  If it gets too dark and there’s no moon, someone usually has a lantern.

Good times, and happy memories. 

Reminds me of a story someone once told me about an experience they had on a trip to India.  But this is enough for today. 

Friday October 4 2013

Friday October 4 2013

Delivered the October 4 2013 edition of The Shoreline Weekly just the same as I’ve delivered hundreds of other editions over the years.   I like the familiarity of the routine, and I always like seeing my week’s work come to fruition.  Every week I get to see my words and pictures on the front page of a newspaper.  It never grows old.

So, this week was a little different because the lead story on the front page—what we used to call “above the fold” in the old broadsheet days before we changed The Shoreline to a tabloid format.  This week, the lead story was Evolene’s account of her adventure in getting to Midden Harbour.

Here is her first installment.

I had decided to ride my bike to my new job here at The Shoreline Weekly because I thought it would be a great way to immerse myself in the west coast environment that was about to become my home. 

When I stood in my pedals and pushed off, it was into the bright light of a spectacular early fall morning.  By seven o’clock I was across the bridge and was climbing the road north. I could look back across the bay to see the city, a gem in an azure setting. I can remember getting this big grin on my face.  Things couldn’t be any more perfect.

Two hours later, I was still smiling even though I hadn’t gotten as far as I thought I would.  Friends had warned her about this:  “You know, Clem.  The hills out west aren't like the hills we have around here.  Those are mountains!“  I was sure I could prove them wrong, and the memory motivated me to pedal harder.  I could feel it in my thighs.

Unfortunately, all the extra pushing wasn’t enough to get me back on schedule.  When I rode into the parking lot of Dot’s Diner I was already two hours behind schedule.  I had been thrilled to find Dot’s on Google Earth.  In the Street View, Dot’s looked exactly like the earthy cafe/truck stop where I’d be able to get major body fuel before leaving the pavement to tackle the gravel road portion of my ride. 

But the image I’d had of a leisurely lunch was displaced by an awareness that I was late.  This triggered two, unfortunate impulses-- I gulped down the food, and I was less than polite to my server.  I paid the price for both.  The hurried meal that consisted of gulping down large bites of scarcely chewed food had me struggling with cramps before I’d gone more than a few miles.  My rudeness, apparently, resulted in me missing out on a conversation with the very pleasant woman who took my order and brought my food.  This had much greater consequences.  Instead of having a nice conversation, I got a deserved serving of attitude.  I did not learn, for example, that the gravel road I intended to ride was far too dangerous for bicycles.  I did not learn that the signs I started to see almost as soon as I started—signs like ”CAUTION” and “Mile 1”, “Mile 2” etc.--had critical meaning.  And, most importantly,  I would have learned to listen.

Wednesday October 2 2013

Production day. 

This is a process that involves putting the paper together.  It used to be a literal process that involved photocopying and typesetting and lots of rubber cement.  If you don’t know what rubber cement is, here’s a primer.  First off, it has nothing to do with concrete.  In fact, it’s the opposite to the stuff we construct buildings out of.  Rubber cement is soft and elastic and it sticks to anything it’s applied to.   Artists and newspapers and advertising layout people (think Mad Men) would use it to paste together bits and pieces into a coherent collage that made up an ad or a page in the newspaper—actually two pages because the layouts were in two page spreads.

Rubber cement was magic stuff because you could place and replace a piece of a layout (photo or block of type) time and again without damaging the piece being moved or the background.  It also made swell fake scars if you applied it to your skin then folded the skin over.  A rite of passage for newbies in a newspaper office was to have someone they hadn’t met yet show up at their desk with a large jagged scar slashed across their cheek, then engage in a conversation and watch the newcomer squirm as he or she tried desperately not to look at the disfigurement.  Another, less subtle hazing stunt involved getting an apprentice printer to hover his hand over a roller covered in black ink by telling him to feel how hot it was.  The journeyman would then slap the rookie’s hand down onto the roller.  Black printer’s ink does not was off, it only wears off so the apprentice wore the evidence of his gullibility for a long time.  Guess that sort of thing would be seen as harassment nowadays. 

The other part of putting together a newspaper layout in the BD (before digital) age was the complicated and time consuming business of creating photographs.  Sometimes I find myself mesmerized by how fast and easy the new processes are.  Would go so far as to say that I long for the old ways and days, but there was a connection to a skill set then that just isn’t there now. 

I can remember running from the office just before press time to try and get some pictures of a house fire.  As I ran up the lane behind the house, two volunteer firemen ran out of the house carrying a little boy.  As they hurried him into the ambulance, I had one chance for a  shot of the face of the fireman who was giving the boy mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as he ran towards a waiting ambulance.  I had to run back to the office, lock myself in the darkroom,  feed the raw film onto a developing spool, develop the film, find the negative I wanted, put it in a lamp enlarger, then print an image of publishable quality, all in about 15 minutes in order to meet the deadline. 

If that same incident happened now, taking, processing and producing a printable image with a digital camera would be a snap.

Anyway… all this reminiscing is simply to say that my Wednesday job is a lot more easy now.

With internet links to news streams, layout software and programs like Photoshop I can put the paper together in an hour or so.  I can also slot in additional advertising that shows up at the last minute, or insert breaking news anytime up until a couple of minutes before the presses start running. 

And all this technology saves me hours of driving every week because I can send the finished layout to the printer, a couple of hundred miles away, with the click of a mouse.

Busy day, so that’s enough of that.

Tuesday October 1 2013

Climbed out of my bunk to a wet dog lying on my floor.  Actually, my nose had crept out from under the blankets first, so I had good warning that Butkus had already ventured out this morning, and that the rain that had been hammering at my hatches all night was still on.

Time to move.   Luckily I was farsighted enough to make yesterday’s socializing into an ad sales campaign, so The Shoreline will have enough paid column inches to pay for this week’s edition.  Result:  I don’t have to go out in the rain today and sell ads.  Instead, I can start my annual mudskipper-like migration from the sea to land. 

This fall tradition, unlike its spring counterpart, is a pain in the ass.  In spring, the move from cabin to boat is usually done in sunshine and imbued with a spirit of hope.  After all, I’m getting to move out of dingy winter lodgings which are shrouded in shadowy darkness, assaulted by rain and tree drippings, and battered by incessant winds, onto a floating, 35 foot palace.  Well, maybe not everybody’s idea of a palace, but certainly mine. 

By contrast, what I’m doing today feels like a retreat.  And it is, kind of. 

I have this fantasy that one day, one fall, instead of packing up my life and dragging it down Beecher Street behind a borrowed ATV,   instead of the spectacle of Duncan’s pitiful parade, there will be a grand exit.  There I’ll be standing at the tiller of my boat waving goodbye to all and sailing south—maybe Mexico, maybe Guatemala or El Salvadore—but somewhere sunny and warm boat friendly.  Mark my words, it will happen.

However, for the nonce, it’s black plastic garbage bags and a cooler and away I go, prepared to fend off taunts from the sadistic denizens of The Bean and The Dance.  By late afternoon, I had settled into the cabin.  The reliable Fisher Papa Bear, which I cleverly made a special trip to light before starting to pack up this morning, had heated the logs and the two rooms to a toasty warmth.  It has also boiled the first of hundreds of kettles of water for tea.  By the time I had to turn on the lights, I was feeling at home.  Always happens this way:  Sadness and resentment at having to leave the boat, followed by a sense of ambiguity toward the whole thing, then a feeling of being resigned to the inevitability.  Finally, with Butkus curled up on his rug behind the stove, me with my feet up on a ratty, old ottoman that mice steal stuffing from, my floor lamp lighting my lap, and the spine cracked on a new book, I feel once again at home. 

But I miss the boat, and will for several days.  When I tell people it has a heartbeat, I’m referring to the regular, pulse-like rhythm in the way it rolls with the swells.  It’s reassuring and calming, and there’s nothing comparable in the cabin.   

I’ll go back down to the marina through the winter.  We’re fortunate enough here that the water never freezes solid.  There are times when it feels colder than ice, but the action of the waves prevents it from forming a sheet.  As a consequence, no one has to take their boat out of the water in winter.  Saves a lots of expense and hassle, and I’m grateful for it.  But the boats still have to be checked from time to time.  More than one mariner has neglected to do this and found his vessel gunwale deep in water when they finally showed up.  For me, it’s reassuring to see my boat. 

Beyond that the only thing that needs to be done during winter is to shovel and sweep off the snow, if and when we get any.  I learned this lesson the hard way.   My first winter in Midden Harbour I decided I needed a break, and flew off to Mexico for a couple of weeks.  During that time there was major snowstorm.  It fell so heavy and fast and long that it was every man for himself.  There was no time to look after anyone else’s boat because everyone was kept at it trying to protect his own.  The result was predictable, I later learned.  The snow built up and up and up and inexorably piled higher on the side of the boat facing into the wind.  You don’t need to be a physics expert to figure out what happen to a floating object if you overload one side.  Yup, it tips!  My boat did just that.  Had to get a new boat.

A final word.  Last night the U. S. congress fumbled its way into a government shutdown.  The shining light on the hill has become a Halloween lantern.  Trick or Treat?!

Monday September 30 2013

 

Rain again this morning and all day according to the radar.  Amazing technology that’s far more reliable than the instincts of sailors that we used to rely on.  The old salts were good at reading the sky—“Red sky at night sailor’s delight, Red sky in the morning sailor’s warning.” was almost always accurate, but limited.  There’s nothing like having a real time image of that the weather is doing to base decisions on. 

Had a look at the long term satellite image as well this morning, and looks like we’re in for an early version of a heavy fall system.  Not much fun being on the boat in these conditions;  cold, damp, and damn difficult to keep a pot on the stove when the swells are constant and large.  May be time to move into the cabin for the winter, although hate to do that before I have to.  Sort of like my attitude to shorts:  I put them on once the days are warm enough and the nights not too cold.  And having made the switch, I refuse to retreat to long pants even in the face of late spring storms that drive both the temperature and the barometer down.  It’s the same with the spring and fall moves.  Dragging all my essentials from the boat to cabin in the fall or cabin to boat in the spring is an irreversible process. 

Today was ad day.  Began the morning at the Bean Down with a large meaty breakfast and the usual serving of gossip.  Was particularly interested to see if anyone would say something about the business with Mrs. Snow and Jason.  No mention of that, but word had gotten round about Jason’s car being up at the Snow house at the end of last week, and there were some snide comments about “God Damned time he showed up to visit his mother.”

Naturally, I kept my mouth shut about my conversation with Bertie.  She wouldn’t have wanted me to say anything, and besides, nothing had really happened yet.  It was all hypothetical at this point.  I sure hope it stays that way.  Would be a shame to see the town overrun  by even more tourists.  Have to admit that it would be good for some people, especially the young, to have employment options other than the mill  Guess the construction jobs would be a boon to lots of residents; lots of hours and good money.  But I’ll bet the resort jobs, if that’s what they end up building, won’t pay squat.  Minimum wage, seasonal work changing sheets and carrying luggage will be most of it. 

However, nothing about that here this morning.  Besides, Bertie would never let anyone, even her own son, change this community that way. 

Main topic of conversation at the Bean Down this morning was Evolene.  Seems she’s been making the rounds of all the social hot spots in town—The Bean in the mornings, The Last Dance of an evening or two, The Coop on Fridays, and she’s even taken the commuter ferry a couple of times just to experience it.  The locals have taken to her.  And it seems that during her introduction tour she managed to do a bit of self-promotion by talking up her series of articles that is scheduled to start this week on her overland bike adventure.  People are keen to read all about it.  Don’t know whether it’s because they’re dying to find out how anyone could be such a fool, or whether they just want to read the details of how a tiny, city girl like Ev managed to keep her wits and her body warmth about her for two days in the bush. 

Guess they’ll find out on Friday.  Me too.  She wouldn’t even let me read her drafts.  Said she didn’t want it varnished, and that it would be a better story if it was in her own words and phrasing, exactly as she put it down.  Didn’t like the idea, but had to respect her intention.

Sunday September 29 2013

Sunday September 29 2013

Feeling close to normal.  Nice to have a slow weekend to regain my bearings and catch up on things.  Have also been able to spend some time properly digesting my conversation with Bertie (Mrs. Snow).

Here’s what she told me.

Jason is Bertie’s son.  He grew up in Midden Harbour and even took the ferry to high school like everyone else.  But unlike most of the other young people in the town, Jason didn’t go to work in the mill after graduation.  Of course, with his family owning the mill and a lot of the rest of The Harbour, Jason wouldn’t have been pulling two-by-fours on the green chain or driving a loader, he would have started in management.  Everyone expected that to happen, but Jason had other ideas.

His going away to university was expected.  People thought he’d get a business degree or maybe forestry management, then come back and gradually take over the mill and other properties.  Didn’t happen quite like that because John Snow, his father, was diagnosed with cancer when Jason was in his late 20s.  The result was that Jason had to take over some of the business quicker than expected.  The key word here is “some.”  Unbeknownst to almost everyone, John had over the years involved Bertie in their company’s affairs much more than anyone knew. 

As John’s role diminished, the visibility of Bertie’s role grew.  So when John finally passed, it was his wife and not his son who took over as CEO.  This came as a shock more to no one than Jason who thought he had been groomed for the post.  The result was some difficult times for the family and those who depended on them as Jason challenged his mother’s control.  Not that he ever did it formally with lawyers and such, but there was an obvious resentment that underlay day-to-day operations. 

Finally, about 15 years ago, when Jason came to accept that he would never displace his mother before she was ready to go—he started calling her Elizabeth behind her back.  A reference to the Queen and her refusal to pass along the crown to her son Charles.  Jason’s went back to the city with a large seed cheque from his family’s business.  He used the money and his business education to build a successful property management company.

But according to Bertie, he wants to come back. 

Since learning of his mother’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, Jason has been coming home more frequently.  It would be nice to think it a generous gesture by a prodigal son, and it would be unkind not to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Nonetheless, he obviously has more on his mind than comforting his mother.  What Bertie told me is that Jason wants her to give him control of the real estate arm of Snow Industries.  He has talked to her about the possibility of developing some of the company owned land in Midden Harbour;  possibly a hotel and maybe some condos.  She’s not thrilled with the idea, and has told him so.  But as she said to me the other day, “At this point, with my capacities slipping away, it’s only a matter of time before I am no longer competent, and he will have control. I’ve tried to talk to him about the intrinsic value of keeping the community as it is, in preserving a way of life and a generations’ long set of relationships.  It seems, though, that he will not be dissuaded.  I  fear for the village and people.  I fear for the ways in which the changes he wants to make will impact their lives.”

I fear too.

Saturday September 28 2013

Been a tough week. 

Started out with me lingering a little too long in one of my favorite bays.  There’s a feeling to the end of summer when the daytime temperatures still invite shorts but nightfall insists on a sweater.  In this part of the world a sweater is a particular kind of knitted garment, more like the British jumper.  The wool is thick and oily and tightly woven.  A good west coast sweater is as rain repellent as a slicker, and whether dry or wet it is as warm as any down jacket.

The qualities of a sweater set my week off on the wrong course.  Sitting on deck after a large steak and a bottle of red or two, I fell asleep.  Amazing!  The sleep was sound enough, apparently, to keep me from being roused by a gentle rain or by the accompanying gentle roll of the waters of the bay.  By the time I was roused I was wet and cold and Butkus, much more alert after his steak that I after mine, had retired to the warm dry floor of the cabin. 

Despite my ritual of diving into the Pacific every morning is neither as unpleasant nor as debilitating as waking unexpectedly, wet and cold.  The phrase “wet and cold” reminds me that the first installment of Evolene’s serialized story of her trek to get to Midden Harbour starts next week.  I’ve read the draft, and made some suggestions, but overall, it’s quite an epic journey.  Not in terms of time or length, but certainly in terms of struggle.  I’ll reprint it here once it comes out in The Shoreline.

But the “wet and cold” in my meandering prose today has to do with me getting drenched after falling into a deep, wine-induced sleep on deck in the rain.  By the time I was below, stripped and had poured a hot pot of tea into myself I realized that this was one of those times when only time was going to warm me up. 

As it turned out, I needed three days to get out of bed.  The weather, leaping headlong into fall, was a big part of the problem.  It rained and blew without letup through to Monday evening.  Given my tenuous condition, climbing out of my cozy bunk to fight with sails and a tiller hardly seemed appealing.  So I used my marine radio to contact the marina so they wouldn’t send out a rescue party, and stayed put. 

Funny how an experience like that effects different people differently.  Some might be frightened or even panicky.  Some might revel in the adventure.  I tend to sink into it and the writer in me takes note of as much of the event as possible.  As I lay there earlier this week, rolling in my bunk and trying desperately to get warm, I was reminded of a time when me and my childhood friend Norman decided it would be a good idea to hitchhike up to his parent’s summer cottage.  In February at 20 below. 

We took the city bus as far as it went, then stood on the side of the highway in the dark until a couple in a pickup stopped for us.  I am here to tell you that riding in the back of an open truck at those temperatures is not to be recommended.   By the time we got out of the truck and walked the three miles up the side road to Norman’s parent’s cottage, the only thing that prevented us from succumbing to hypothermia was our ignorance.  Then, with all the brilliance of 12 year old boys, we decided it would be a good idea to break a window to get in—because the rock under which the key was hidden was covered by several feet of snow and frozen to the ground.  There was, you will not be surprised to learn, no firewood in the house. So, wearing every piece of clothing we had brought, we climbed under every blanket we could find, and tried to sleep.  We failed.

The benefit of this sleeplessness was that we were at the ready when the sun, bright as a summer’s day and emitting less heat than a firefly, slid slivers of light into the room.  Elated that we could get out of our frozen cocoon, Norman and I scurried off to the small store that served full time residents,  and bought cans of beans.  These we heated up with a wood fire built of twigs in the cottage stove.

Well, that ate up some time.  Still haven’t gotten around to writing about my conversation with Mrs. Snow, or explaining why it sent me off for a quiet weekend to do some thinking.  Wasn’t as peaceful or promoting of careful consideration as I had hoped, but it gave me time away, and that helped.  One of those situations where there’s lots to think about but, fortunately or unfortunately, not much to be done. 

Saturday September 21 2013

I made it up to the Snow place late yesterday.  I love going up there, the bench affords a panoramic view of the grey Pacific and the scattering of islands that shelter this part of the coast.  The Snow house sits at the top edge of the plateau with acres of stone fences fields and pastures running down a gentle slope before the land falls off a rift created millennia ago during one of the great earthquakes that regularly visit this coast. 

The Snow house is grand in a soft, organic way that makes it part of the landscape despite its imposing dimensions and features.  The gables and stone chimneys—there are seven—make it look like an illustration out of an child’s book of fairy tales.  There is a wraparound porch, covered of course so it can be used even when the rainy season sets in.  One of the Snow patriarchs, John Snow’s grandfather I’m told, designed it and supervised local carpenters to build it.  They were all ship builders, but they knew how to shape and fasten wood well enough to create boats that could withstand Pacific storms, so they could certainly build a solid house.  It is a house that has sheltered Mrs. Snow and her husband and their family for 70 years. 

I should tell you a little about Mrs. Snow…Bertie to all of Midden Harbour.  Her first name is Bertha but she insists that people call her Bertie.

She was the wife-now widow--of John Snow, the grandson of the Snow family patriarch who built the first fish processing plant in Midden Harbour.  Bertie had met John while they were both in college back east.   The two had  a college mixer organized by her school to allow their sophomores to meet appropriate young men from the nearby university in a chaperoned setting.  The attraction was apparently immediate and mutual.  However, when Bertie found out she was expected to move away from the comfortable life she had known, and set up house in a fishing village thousands of miles away, her ardor cooled.  But John was a persuasive man and passionate about his life and home in Midden Harbour.  He won the day and Bertie’s hand.

They had two children—Sheila and Jason.  Sheila was the older of the two, but sadly died in a boating accident as a young woman.  Jason had been on that boat as well, but through blind luck had managed to survive by clinging to the very half submerged log that had sunk the boat.  He had tried to hold onto his sister but he was too small and the water too cold.

Jason left Midden Harbour soon after, enrolled in an exclusive, residential boys school by parents who understood his need to get away.  He has gone on to become successful in business, something to do with real estate.

Bertie integrated into the community like she’d lived in a village all her life.  She became known for her welcoming smile and her strong will and for befriending everyone she met.

For decades, she wrote the Good Neighbour column for the Shoreline.  It was a column comprised of newsy gossip about who had their in-laws visiting from Boston, or who had just returned from a holiday abroad, or who had just gotten a promotion at the mill, or whose son was marrying a girl from the city, or which family was struggling with the passing of a loved one.  It was a must read for locals and a glimpse into the soul of the community for visitors.

Bertie is a walker, or at least had been until the last few years when she had become more frail.  Used to walk down from the bench every day, no matter the weather, to do her business in the shops and chat with the people she bumped into.  “Bumped into” is an ironic phrase in this case. 

One of the great pleasures for Bertie was commiserating with young mothers out walking with their children.  She especially loved babies, and was drawn to strollers like Butkus to Tom’s butcher shop.  The irony is that Bertie’s walkabouts—and almost her life--were brought to an end by a mother pushing a stroller.  A new mother, running behind one of those hi-tech, mega-wheeled, all terrain jogging behemoths had come round a corner at speed and crashed into Bertie at full speed.   The broken leg was bad enough for a woman in her late 80s, but it was the concussion that had us all really worried.  

But being Bertie, she pulled through with her spirit undiminished.  Her mobility, however, was extremely limited, and it seemed her mind was never quite the same.  The Doctor told me confidentially that she had given Bertie a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s a year earlier, and that the slowness was probably going to have happened anyway, but still, the accident didn’t help.

 Anyway…

Have run out of time to write about my conversation with Bertie.  And I won’t be able to do it tomorrow either.  Am heading out in the boat to catch as much of this fading summer weather as I can before it’s gone and the rain sets in.  Tomorrow I’ll be catching rays and salmon and not thinking about writing.