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. 

Friday September 20 2013

Friday is distribution day.  Not much to it, and sometimes where the weather is suitable I’ll do the deliveries on foot.  I like the exercise and the opportunity this gives me for chew the fat with neighbours.  I can manage to get the whole thing done in two trips by stacking the papers onto a small hand trailer I use to take supplies down to the boat.

My biggest drop off is at the Coop store where I put a large pile at the end of the two checkout lines.  The Coop is a combination grocery/hardware/sports/clothing store that is the second largest business in town next to the mill.  It’s been here since the town was founded though the building had to be replaced after a fire just after the Second World War.  This kind of operation has been a feature in most small towns in the west forever.  They’re sort of a commune type of deal.  Initially, people got together and bought memberships to raise the money to erect the building and set up the first inventory.  In Midden Harbour, the store had been built by volunteer labour with materials that were mostly donated.  To me it has always represented the best of community life, an example of cooperation (thus the name) and shared support.  When I want to get a dig in at one of my redneck friends, I’ll start to praise how the Coop is a shining example of the socialism at work.  Never fails to get a reaction.

My route winds up at the ferry dock at the end of Beecher.  Got a weatherproof box here to serve the commuters.  Usually empty every week, and the coin box is full.   Never had to worry about the money until a few years ago when one morning I got a call from the ferry captain:  “Say Dunc, did you move your paper box?   I had a couple of riders this morning tell me that they hadn’t been able to get their Shoreline ‘cause the box wasn’t there.” 

I went down to the dock, and there it was, gone!  We looked over the edge to see if somehow it had gotten knocked into the water.  Sure enough it had.  Water is pretty clear around here with the tides flushing out the bay twice a day, so we were able to see the orange shape.  With some helping hands, a couple of grappling hooks and the winch on a friend’s pickup, we were able to hoist the box back onto the dock.  It was all bent and the salt water would certainly have ruined the coin mechanism.  Not a big loss because I had a spare.  But the surprise was that the coin box was missing.  Didn’t take a genius to figure out that someone had pried it open and taken the cash, then pushed the box into the water.  After that I had come brackets welded onto the replacement and bolted it to the dock.   

There’s no home delivery of The Shoreline Weekly, but when we get a spectacular early fall day like this one, I like to take copies around to the homes of some of the older residents.  Gives me a chance to catch up with people we don’t see around town as much now that they’re less mobile, and I think they appreciate the visit.  Butkus is the big winner, though.  There isn’t a home we stop at where he doesn’t get fussed over and fed. 

My last delivery is always to Mrs. Snow.  Butkus and I jump in the truck and take her paper up to her.  Often, because she knows I’ll be coming on Fridays, she’ll get me to pick up a few things at the Coop.  I always enjoy these Friday visits, but I’m especially looking forward to it today.  Interested in seeing if I can learn more about the comments she made about her son Jason the other day. 

Thursday September 19 2013

Had to go into the city today for a doctor’s appointment.  Because it’s Thursday and printing day for the paper I decided to drive so that I could bring the finished edition back with me, and save a couple of bucks on shipping charges. 

Day went pretty much as usual, starting with almost two hours on gravel road where every hill has been turned into a washboard by overuse.  Then there was the usual delightful experience of cresting that last big ridge on the coast road and plunging down into the haze of pollution that defines the boundaries of civilization.  Funny how I can feel that urban environment in my body.  Every muscle tenses up, and my stress level, normally at zero, jumps dramatically.  Just as amazing is how all this automatically reverses itself when I leave the city and am driving home.  Suddenly I’m relaxed and energized, and even breathing seems easier.

Got away from the printers earlier than planned so had time to stop at the truck stop that sits just where the gravel road from The Harbour intersects with the paved highway.  That was where my day got interesting.

 I should describe this place for you because if you’re thinking of “Truck Stop” as a place on a freeway with food franchises and stores and acres of paved parking lot filled with 18 wheelers, you’ve got the wrong idea.  In fact, you’ve got the wrong era.  Think more of a 1950s kind of truckers’ restaurant with a name like Dot’s Diner—this one really is called Dot’s after the original owner, the great aunt of the current operator. 

This place, like it’s modern counterparts, also has acres of parking, but the surface is gravel and dust/mud (depending on the weather).  The vehicles are different too.  Instead of big rigs carrying shipping containers, this lot is full of logging trucks and dumpers with pup trailers.  

And while the new operator isn’t Dot, neither is she an 18 year old high school dropout with an attitude.  Oh, there’s plenty of attitude all right, but it’s dished out by a middle age charmer by the name of Marla.

Marla told me an interesting story today.  We were chatting about this and that and I happened to mention Evolene and her bicycle odyssey.  Marla took more interest in this bit of information than I expected, and wondered if Evolene was in her early 20s, about 5 foot six, with red hair.  When I said yes, she laughed and launched into her encounter with Ev.

Note: My reporter instinct kicked in when I realized Marla was going to give me a full account, so I whipped out my notebook and took it down, word for word.  The following is verbatim from those notes.

“Well,” said Marla settling in across from me in the booth.  “I saw her ride up on that bike, and didn’t think much of it.  We get fitness freaks and trekkers riding by here all the time on their way up the coast.  Can’t see the sense of it myself, but to each her own.  But this one was different, she stopped and came in and even ordered a normal meal—the meatloaf lunch special. 

She seemed nice enough, so after I’d taken her order I did what I like to do and tried to strike up a conversation.  But she wasn’t interested. She just got this look on her face, sort of a forced smile, and said she was in a hurry and would I mind hurrying up with her food.  That was the end of that.  Brought her food then took her money after she’d wolfed it down.  Didn’t see her leave, and didn’t know she was going to take the Midden Harbour road.  Every fool knows not to go on that road between 6 in the morning and 4 in the afternoon, but obviously she’s no ordinary fool, Dunc.  Even though she pulled a bit of a princess act, I still would have warned her.  She’s damn lucky that she wasn’t squished.”

I thanked Marla, and drove all the way back to The Harbour with a huge smile stretching my face.  Can’t wait for a chance to use this little tidbit.

Wednesday September 18 2013

This is production day.  Have to put the paper together for tomorrow’s printing deadline.  This is always a tense day—well, not always.  There are times when the paper almost writes and assembles itself.  Today was not one of those days.  Today we had several issues to juggle.

First was the fact that this was Evolene’s first real reporting for The Shoreline.  I think she did very well.  Nice front page piece of several  columns about the end of the summer season and the transition that The Harbour goes through during the week after Labour Day.  Some lively interviews with local business owners about their summer season sales and what that means for the future.  Seems most of the retail stores here did very well this summer, helped by an unbelievable stretch of hot, sunny weather, and an influx of visitors who had room on their credit cards.  She did a great job of eliciting quotes, and capturing the mostly upbeat mood. 

Ev also produced a solid half page article that is a reworked version of her chicken little—the lumber sky is falling draft—that I vetoed.  I’m impressed that she took my criticism as a professional, and transformed a doomsday interpretation into something that locals can read without either being terrified or flying into a rage.  She’s managed to get across the critical need for the mill to transform itself to compete in the current market, without creating the impression that it’s current state is unsalvageable.

Very happy with all of this.  Looks like she’ll be a real asset to the Shoreline and the community.

However, despite all of this upbeat stuff, I’m left at the end of this day with a niggling concern precipitated by a short conversation I had this afternoon while I was up at Ev’s cabin, picking her up so she didn’t have to ride her bike down to the office in the rain.  

Sitting in my pickup, I noticed that Mrs. Snow was sitting on her porch.  This is a wonderful woman, the matriarch of our community, who has over the years be more than supportive and generous to virtually everyone who lives here. I got out of the truck and ran through the rain to say hello.  Mrs. Snow was gracious as ever, and asked after the paper Butkus.   We chatted for a few minutes about the weather and the coming winter.  It was then that I asked how Jason was doing.  Jason is Mrs. Snow’s son.  He left The Harbour almost 15 years ago to attend university, and went on to a successful career in finance and property development.  When I asked about Jason, Mrs. Snow’s face changed; took on a darkness.  All she said was “I wish Jason had stayed here.  I wish he understood the importance of the mill to this community.  I wish he would listen to me.”

Just then Evolene came out of her cabin.  I bid Mrs. Snow a good afternoon, and left.  But for the rest of the day, I couldn’t stop he words from running through my mind.  What is her disagreement with Jason?  What might her concern mean for Midden Harbour?

Tuesday September 17 2013

Quiet day.  Ev is working on a couple of local stories and her bike trip diary.  I went for a walkabout to The Bean Down, the marina office, and all the way down Beecher to the ferry landing to watch the early commuters coming home.  Occurred to me as I chatted with people in these places and on the street while I was walking from one to the other that I was walking through a familiar script.  And I was. 

The faces, the voices, the conversation—both topics and tenor—were all predictable.    The attitudes were also static.  The majority those I talked to had opinions on just about everything, but they were the same attitudes they had ten and twenty years ago.  Remarkably, if they had changed at all, it was inevitably to a more extreme version of the old position. 

This was especially the case when it came to some long standing areas of public debate—government healthcare, immigrants, and gun rights.  The only exception was on the topic of gay rights, where all buy a few curmudgeons have bought into the idea of equal rights for all.

But the main topic today, of course, was the shooting in DC yesterday.  And the main debate was over gun laws.  With this being a rural community, almost every household has guns, usually several including rifles and shotguns and in some cases handguns, although much fewer of the latter.  What has always been interesting to me is that the line of separation between those who favour free access to guns an those who oppose it does not fall along the Gun Owner/Non Gun Owner divide. 

While virtually all of the people who don’t own guns are against free access, there is a sizeable contingent of gun owners who are on this side as well.  Problem that arises is that the positions of the two sides are absolutely ridged. 

So when there is a mass killing like the one yesterday or the one at Sandy Hook Elementary the debate over gun control flares up, burns brightly for a few days or weeks, then dies away with no one’s mind being changed.  It is a frustrating situation for both sides, but especially for the pro gun control group because they are the ones aware of and terrified by the prospect of a similar mass shooting taking place at some point in the not to distant future. 

While walking today, I struggled with the intransigence of the anti gun control people.  Just couldn’t get my head around how anyone could possibly refuse to see or acknowledge the benefits and reasonable-ness of background checks. 

Then I had another thought:   Maybe it wasn’t the content of the debate that was important, but rather, the debate itself.  Maybe what was important was that the public discourse remain focused on this, and other, insoluble issues.  Maybe those who fund lobby groups want the media and public to be focused on this instead of other things. 

Things like the growing wealth and income inequality.  Maybe if the public debate is locked on arguing about the logic of 100 round magazines, there will be no ability nor aptitude to pay attention to the fact that 95% of the gains in income over the last five years have gone to the top 1% of the population.  Maybe divisions created over guns or healthcare or abortion were useful in their own right as a way to distracting the masses from paying attention to the fact that the middle class has been getting screwed for the past 30 years, since Reagan.  Maybe it’s all some twisted game of Three Card Monty, all smoke and mirrors.

Maybe.

Monday September 16 2013

Evolene seems to have settled into The Harbour nicely.  Aside from our chats, she spent her first week strolling around town introducing herself and asking lots of questions.  She learned pretty quickly that our coffee shop, Bean Down So Long…, is the best place to start your day if you want to get the pulse of the community. 

The Bean Down (named either after the Doors song or the Richard Farina book, depending who you talk to) opens at 5:30 so that it can catch the stream of loggers, mill workers and fishermen who start their day early.  For the first hour it’s a steady flow of men and women in steel toed boots and…

Sorry.  Have to default to rant mode here and shout at the TV that sits in the corner of my Shoreline office:  What the fuck is wrong with you people!!!  Talking heads droning on about how the shooting this morning at the U.S. Navy shipyard in DC is such a “Tragedy.”  When something keeps happening over and over and over and over, is predictable and preventable, and nobody does anything to stop it from happening again, at some point it goes beyond  being a tragedy and becomes insanity.

Anyway, back to the Bean.  By 5:45 the shop is full of workers standing around waiting their turn at the coffee station, grabbing donuts and picking up lunches ordered last night.  This madness goes on for a predictable hour, gradually tapering off.  By the time the last mill manager leaves, the shop is being repopulated by its second wave of regulars.  This group is older, and is an exclusively male club comprised of retired mill workers and loggers.  The fishermen who belong to this group don’t like to be referred to as retired because they still go out on their boats and bring in fish.  Difference is that now they are what purists call “Fair weather bobbers” meaning they only go out when it sun is shining and the swells are below three feet. 

This collection of baby boomers and the last few Great Generation members still alive around here, spend more time and less money at the Bean Down than any other group.  Over a couple of cups of what they call “Joe” and a bagel or two, they rummage through and solve the problems of the world.  Whether it’s terrorism or tea parties or the name of somebody’s boat, it all qualifies for serious consideration, debate, and resolution.  And they’re pretty good at it.  Would be an interesting exercise to try out some of the solutions they’ve come up with for the Middle East or bank malfeasance.

When the last member of this contingent shuffles his way out the door he almost invariably has to squeeze past the first lunch hour arrivals.   This influx is the retail and office people who work in businesses up and down Beecher Street.  After they clear out, The Bean Down tidies up does some prep work for the next day.  By 2 o’clock the lights are out and the doors locked, and The Harbour’s social life moves to Billie’s tavern overlooking the marina.

Ev has tested the water’s at Billie’s, but nothing beyond a glass of cider, and never past 7.  She’ll have to stick it out a little later and try something a little stronger to become part of the conversation there.   Worth it though.  The evening stories told over a pint of ale late in the evening can be very different that the ones that come out over coffee in the morning.

Sunday September 15 2013

Fall is here.  After two months of unusually hot and humid weather the last two days, forecast to be a continuation of that pattern, were not.  Woke yesterday to marine fog, a kind of grey damp morning that happens when the ground is warmer than the air or water.  Same again today.  Not that it’s terrible, just not pleasant to be in because everything gets wet and cool, and there is nowhere—at least not on a small boat—to get it warm and dry again.

This is the annual signal that time is coming for me to make the fall move into my cabin.  What’s unsettling about the signal this year is that is it has come so abruptly.  Usually the temperature cools gradually as we move through September, but we still get short periods of warmer weather.  This year seems different.

There are lots of advantages to living in a small, rural community---quiet, safety, relatively low priced real estate, a feeling of community and more.  There are also, not surprisingly some drawbacks—lack of privacy, limited access to entertainment, lack of options for your children and more.  Part of this “More” is what I describe, with some hesitation, as small town small mindedness.

It’s not that people living in communities like Midden Harbour are any less intelligent than those living in cities.  Indeed, on some issues, residents of rural areas are far more enlightened.  I can honestly say that in the 20 years I’ve lived here, I have never seen the community reject anyone based on their religion or sexual orientation or skin colour.  Now, having said that, every population has its share of assholes.  Difference here is that it’s the newcomers who get embraced.

On the other side of the plus/minus coin, Midden Harbour is unabashedly committed to its own self-interest.  Nowhere can this be seen more clearly than when the topic of climate change comes up.  Thirty years ago, the Department of Fisheries and Oceans, severely restricted the local inshore fishery.   Studies had shown that returning salmon runs were getting smaller for over a decade, and that they were in danger of collapsing all together if drastic measures were not taken.

The new regulations meant had huge implications for Midden Harbour.  First, the fish processing plant was no longer viable, so 100 jobs disappeared.  Then, there was a glut of vessels and fishing licences that could no longer be used, and had no sale value.  Not surprisingly, everyone in town was outraged at how the government—not overfishing, but the government—had ruined the lives of so many people.

The antipathy that emerged from that experience has, over time, shifted its focus to include anything associated with environmental protection.  In the minds of lots of people here, global warming is a hoax and environmentalists are jack-booted thugs trying to ruin lives.  The heroes in all this are the corporations that continue to fight against over reaching regulations.

I love my neighbours, but they’re wrong on this one.

Thursday September 12 2013

hursday September 12 2013

Thursday is printing day, but as I’ve said before, since the advent of computers and the internet, the whole process of putting out a newspaper has gone from grueling to gravy.  Once the electronic version is done, the paper is done. 

My friend Ken, who studies techie things and is the only resident of Midden Harbour with a 3D printer, has tried (unsuccessfully) to get me to understand the new wave of technological innovation by explaining it in jargon-less language.  I don’t get most of it.  But what I have come to understand is that Ken’s claim that “If you can imagine it, it can exist.” Is absolutely valid.  On Wednesdays I imagine a newspaper—stories, ads, layout, headlines, photographs—and on Thursday, that paper starts rolling off presses a hundred miles away without me ever having to leave my desk.  Amazing!

This was Evolene’s first week at the Shoreline, and I had let her know that there was no expectation for her to develop anything on her own.  Instead, during our pleasant hours on the boat on Saturday, we chatted about the town and the people and both our expectations.   Turns out her expectations aren’t quite the same as mine, but fortunately, she’s a good listener.

Seems she had this image of launching herself onto the Midden Harbour scene with a bang.  Being the motivated go getter that she is, her prep for coming here had involved lots of research.  She had read through all the back issues I’d sent, looked at the town history online, and studied the demographics and evolution of the community.  When she pedalled over that last rise and down into Midden Harbour, she had our number.

She knew, for example, that the softwood lumber industry was still reeling from the housing downturn that began in 2008.  She knew that the Snow mill hadn’t been able to afford upgrades in a decade, and that the machinery being used had none of the newest technological benefits.  None of the most recent improvements in precision processing that allowed for increased production.  The mill, in her words “It’s a dinosaur.  The productivity sucks both in terms of return on investment and in terms of workforce productivity.  The only electronics in the place are the light bulbs. “  End of story.

After this pronouncement, while we were sitting on the aft deck of the boat in a quiet bay drinking chilled white wine as the sun set, she dug into her backpack and pulled out a sheaf of computer printout pages, and, with a self-satisfied smile, said “Here.”  At the top of the first page, in headline bold, was Midden Mill on Notice.  The story was a 500 word screed on how the mill had been left behind by the competition, forgotten by the market, and had the last nail put in its coffin by a crippling union agreement.  She had all her facts right, and all her sources cited, and the thrust of the article was true.  What she didn’t have, however, was any sense of what a piece like this would do to the community in general, and my neck in particular.

My measured response began with “This is a masterful piece of journalism, Ev.  However, you have to be out of your fucking mind if you think this is ever going to get published!  This was followed by lot of yelling on both sides, and ultimately, by a lecture by me on life in a small town.  She was hurt and embarrassed and I was pissed and embarrassed.  In the end, we drank more wine and acknowledged each others’ points. 

By the end of it all, I was too drunk to pilot the boat.  She slept in my bunk, after I had changed the sheets.  I slept on deck under a tarp.  Butkus paced.  In the morning, we were all grumpy, but friends.

Wednesday September 11 2013

 

Production day for the Shoreline doesn’t leave much time but feel I’ve been procrastinating about posting, so this is a compromise.  Here are a few more details about Midden Harbour that might help.

As I said earlier, the road into the town comes down out of the coastal mountains as a gravel road used mostly by logging trucks bringing wood to the mill.  The road comes out of the bush at the far northern end of the bench where the Snow property is,  and runs diagonally across it before turning in a broad sweeping curve down the hill, and finally becoming a paved street heading due west, just after passing Cannery Road on the right.

The first bit of Midden Harbour you encounter is the International Woodworkers’ Union hall on the northwest corner of Cannery and Beecher.  The building is typical of town halls of a certain era.  It is a broad shouldered wooden structure with a large balcony jutting out over Geoduck Bay.  Notes on a couple of things:  First, I don’t think I’ve mentioned previously that the bay framed by the curve of the Midden Harbour spit and the mainland.  Second, the bay is called Geoduck (pronounced Gooey-duck) because it is—or at least was at one time—a prime breeding area for these weird looking clams.

Back to the union hall... It has a cavernous interior that is regularly used for meetings, dances, weddings and anything else that involves a large group getting together indoors.  At one end is a bar with a volunteer-run kitchen tucked in behind it.  At the other is a stage large enough to fit a dance orchestra or a Christmas pageant.  The hall was built by mill workers who donated their time using materials donated by the Snow family.  Serving the hall, and directly to the west of it, is a large gravel parking lot.

At the other end of the parking lot, just before the road turns north and becomes Beecher Street, the Midden Harbour Garage is located.  This business, with its pumps out front, two bays with hydraulic lifts inside, and fuel dock for boats out behind,

On the left side of Beecher Road, starting across from the Union Hall is a residential neighbourhood that was started by the cannery owners, and then expanded once the sawmill came into full operation.  In the early days, the houses were owned by the Snow family business.  But after the Second World War,  the workers were given an option to buy and most of them did.  There are five streets running north to south with a couple of cross streets;  about 600 homes in all.  Most of them are small.  All of them are wood framed.  There are a few larger ones that were built for managers, and others that summer residents built after tearing down the old houses.  These are at the west end of the neighbourhood, closest to town and the ocean waterfront.

On the inside of the curve of Beecher is our elementary school with its playing field and parking lot.  The children of The Harbour can go to school locally until grade 7, but once they’re high school age they have to make the ferry run into town.

Across from the school, where Beecher begins its run north, is the town cenotaph, out memorial to the men and women who died in various wars over the past 100 years.  Every time the country gets involved in a new “conflict”, a new plaque is cast and names added.  It’s a sad reminder that our isolated community is not removed enough from the dangers of the outside world. 

Beside the cenotaph is the Shoreline office.  The building, amazingly, had always been a newspaper office.  In its initial form it was a company publication intended to bring news and company propaganda to the workers.  The propaganda included ads for items carried by the company store.

Sorry, that’s all I have time for today.  More on the town and the company store to come.

Tuesday September 10 2013

Busy few days.  Lots going on here in the Harbour, and it seems like there’s more to come. 

Had a chance to spend more time with Evolene Sunday and yesterday.  Seems like she’ll do just fine here, although I haven’t told her that.  She’s definitely an independent spirit and will put up a fight if she disagrees with me or anyone else.  Will probably make her as many enemies as friends around here, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. 

Gave her a chance to explain her late arrival, and it’s quite a story.  Still going to have her write about it as a special piece for the paper, but have decided there’s so much there that we’ll make it a series;  maybe four or five weeks.  Amazing stuff, and don’t know whether to think her an idiot or a hero—heroine.  First off, she apparently turned down a job offer in the city that would have paid her three times what she’s going to make here.  Then, she made her second genius choice of the week by deciding to forego an easy ferry ride, and instead, ride her bicycle over a range of mountains using a map she’d printed off Google Earth.  Anyway, I’ve given her a week to prepare an overall outline and two weeks to submit 30 column inches.  Should make fascinating reading.

Would have asked her to start the series this week—would have been a tough slog, but she would have pulled it off—but since 2001 there’s only been one story during the second week of September.  Midden Harbour is nowhere near New York or DC or Pennsylvania, but doesn’t much matter, the events of September 11 cast a long shadow.

It’s amazing what you can find in a small town.  Often reminds me of that Seven Degrees of Kevin Bacon fad that was going around a few years ago where you could link Kevin Bacon to every star in film in seven steps.  Turns out the idea is a solid one based on science and research.  And this applies to The Harbour how??  Like I was saying, it’s amazing how many world events you can find a link to, some pretty convoluted, in a little community. 

John Davies was one of those stories.  John was a fixture here long before I arrived; ran a small engine repair business.  Got to know John really well but not as well as I thought.  Wasn’t until his son brought in the text for his obituary that I found out that John was a Titanic survivor.  Never told me or his neighbours or his buddies, just his family.  And he swore them to keep the secret.

That wasn’t so much Seven Degrees as One Degree, but you get the idea.  With regards to 9/11, a couple of people in town have connections through relatives or high school or a friend’s brother’s sister-in-laws hairdresser.  Doesn’t matter how distant the connection, it’s still powerful.

So this week’s Shoreline will be about 9/11.   It will always be a sad, emotional story, made even sadder by its legacy.

Saturday September 7 2013

 

Woken this morning by three noises: knocking, barking, screaming.  The knocking, it turned out, was someone rapping knuckles against a porthole.  The barking, obviously, was Butkus reacting to the knocking.  The scream, probably just as obviously, was someone reacting to a big, black, barking mass lunging up from below decks.

This all happened, of course, in seconds.  I was in bed, naked, and still half asleep, so my response time probably was not what it might have been under ideal circumstances.  By the time I rolled out of my bunk all three noises had stopped—no knocking, barking or screaming.  There was however a new noise, yelling.

“Duncan, you idiot, get up here and control your stupid dog.”  The voice was loud but impressively calm.  It was, despite my having heard it only briefly the day before yesterday, unmistakeably Evolene’s. 

Now clad in shorts, I climbed  out on deck, and greeted my visitor.  Turns out Ev was feeling a little sheepish about missing another day of work, and was looking for a key to get into the office to begin her career in journalism. 

It took a while, but I finally convinced her that spending the day with me, chatting and learning about Midden Harbour, would be far more valuable than whatever it was she planned to do at a desk in the office.  So, she came aboard and we cast off and I spent the next six hours trying to familiarize her with the town, its people, politics, and economy.  It all went well, and when she climbed back on her bike for the ride back up the hill, we were on good terms;  maybe not friends yet, but on our way.  I think.

Friday September 6 2013

Lots to tell, so won’t get through it all tonight.

Helped Ev—turns out Evolene wants to be called Ev—put her stuff into the back of my pickup, and drove her to the cabin that’s going to be her Midden Harbour home.

Several things about the information needed to set a context for that last sentence.

First, Ev’s “stuff” consisted of a very large backpack, a rolled up sleeping bag, a collapsible tent, and…wait for it…a bicycle.  Yes, a bicycle!  The reason our budding reporter showed up two days late, and failed to answer any of the messages left on her cell phone is that she had been riding her bike over the last ridge of the coast mountains.  Needless to say, she had underestimated the difficulty and time of her route, and didn’t discover until it was too late that it had no cell phone coverage either.  When I tried to get some details out of her about the experience, she responded with an exasperated look that let me know it was not a good time to ask. 

But I’m not going to let it go.  Have had this brilliant idea: Going to make her first assignment for The Shoreline a recounting of her adventure in getting here.  Matter of fact, I think that story—with its young heroine, wilderness dangers, and folly of youth—has enough substance to make a series out of it.  

Only trick will be to convince Ev to share the details with our readership, who are, not inconsequentially, her new neighbours.  She may be more than a little reluctant to tell the world how foolish she’s been.  I’ll work on it.

The second bit of context I need to provide here is about Ev’s new home, her cabin.  The small, log three room structure was built over 100 years ago as a temporary shelter by the homesteading Snow family.  The family, which initially was comprised of  John and Emma Snow and John’s brother, expanded quickly with the regular addition of a child every year.  Once the Snow’s proper home was constructed—after the barn and outbuildings, of course—the cabin served a number of purposes, everything from a tool shed to a winter home for pigs.  The building was rehabilitated decades ago when the youngest member of the Snow clan, Jason, decided he would rather live there than under the same roof as his parents.

Jason is long gone, university education and a job in the city, with the result that his mother, Dorothy, was alone on the family property.  With Dorothy getting on in years, and even more problematic, having been recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, it was less than idea for her to be alone in a house that was over a mile from town.  So when I had to find a place for Evolene to live, it seemed an obvious solution to two problems to have her move into the Snow cabin.  Dorothy was thrilled with the idea.

That’s where Ev is now.  She had said she’d be back to the office—No, she didn’t need to be picked up, she’d ride her bike—in a couple of hours.  Didn’t happen.  Suspect she had her shower and collapsed into bed.  She’ll show up in the morning.  What’s one more day when she’s already missed two?

Thursday September 5 2013

Well, she’s here.

Didn’t get much sleep last night.  Rain drummed on the deck and the wind kept the boat banging against her bumpers just hard enough to keep me lurching in my bunk.  Finally decided I wasn’t going to get any sleep on board, threw on rain gear, and trudged to the office in the downpour.  Tried to coax Butkus into coming along, but he’s smarter than that.

Managed to get a few hours sleep on the couch in my office, and was still there with my face buried in the cushions when banging shattered it again.  First thought was that the rain had increased, but was the wrong kind of banging.  Took a couple of minutes for me to remember that I was in the office, and realize that the noise was someone knocking on the glass of the front door.

Managing to rise off the couch took no small effort, making it to the front door was accomplished by pinballing off several pieces of furniture.  I pulled the blind aside, ready to yell at whatever face was on the other side.  But my annoyance dissipated immediately when I was confronted with a sad looking, young female face framed by rain-slicked hair and supported by a tiny body clothed in sopping gear.  I smiled and opened the door.

“You must be Evo-line.” Says I.

“Evoleeene” came back with the firm weariness of someone practiced in making the correction.

“Eeeenter”

Being the galoot I am, I launched into a lecture about her being late and not picking up her phone and making everyone worry and representing a lazy, the world-owes-me, non-committed generation.  I even managed to sustain the rant for several minutes despite the expression of astonishment on her face.  Then, gently and in slow motion, she too my hand and placed it on top of her head.  She left it there treating it like a detached appendage, until finally her message got through.

Damn, your head is wet.”

Evoline’s response was to roll her eyes and tilt her head to one side. But she still didn’t say anything.

It was at this point that I noticed the puddle growing at her feet.  “You’re wet all over!”

“No shit Sherlock.”  She said calmly.

 “How did you get wet?”

“Rain.”

I looked past her to the window, and out at the sunlit street.  “But…”

“Last night.”

Frown

“In the forest.”

Deeper frown

“I slept in the forest last night.”

“Ahhh.”  A nod-turned-frown.  “Why did…” 

At this point she held up one hand, like a traffic cop, “I need a hot shower and some food.”

And that took care of the rest of my day.

Wednesday September 4 2013

Still no sign of or word from Clementine.  Have concluded she’s backed out and too embarrassed to call and tell me.  Not the first time this has happened, although it’s the first time someone has walked away from the job without seeing Midden Harbour.  Seems small town life is a lot more appealing in the abstract than it is face to face.  Not surprised about Clementine, she seemed a bright bulb on the phone and through email; far too ambitious to be satisfied with a backwater job at The Shoreline.  Still, she did insist she wanted the direct experience of a small operation.  Sounded convincing at the time.

Anyway…

Wednesday is a working day.  The one day in the week when I have a regular job.  The Shoreline has only two other employees, Bessie and Karl.  Bessie Laskey is my office manager.  Truth be told, she’s my office—receptionist, bookkeeper, account executive, public relations officer, and too many more positions to name.  She runs The Shoreline weekly, and is it’s only fulltime employee.  Karl Bjorklund helps with production.  Used to be that Karl and I would move large layout sheets around while we cut and pasted an edition together.  When hardcopy layouts were made redundant by computers, old Karl spent a month in the city taking a course on how to do them electronically. 

On Wednesdays, the day of the week when the newspaper gets put together, I like to get in early, before them.  Usually there by 5:30 give or take.  A little earlier in summer when the walk from the boat at that time of day coincides with the sunrise, and a little later in winter when the walk from my cabin is shorter, but more difficult because of the darkness.

I like to arrive early because this is when I write best.  Gives me the luxury of sorting out all the bits of notes I’ve made over the week.  Write the front page stories first,  This edition will have a photo of Beecher Street jammed with Labour Day visitors, and a story of how each year local businesses make less money from visitors who succumb to the siren song of Walmart and Costco before they get here.  Near the bottom of the page are two pieces.  One, about a young boy who drowned after falling off his grandparents’ boat in rough water.  The other, an ongoing story about the uncertain lumber market and the tenuous status of the local sawmill.  Aside from the money brought in by tourists, the mill is the only source of income in Midden Harbour.  If anything ever happened to the mill, the town, says common wisdom, would die.

Rest of my day was pretty mundane:  Finished by stories, fleshed out the spaces between ads with wirecopy and photos, Karl tidied up the layout, Bessie gave it a final look, and with a click of a mouse it was off to the printer.

Have done this countless times over the last 20 odd years, but it still brings a great feeling of satisfaction to do it one more time.  The three of us, Bessies, Karl and I, and Butkus who spends Wednesdays wandering up and down Beecher getting treats from shop owners, have a tradition of going down to The Last Dance Saloon, the local pub, and having a pint.  It’s a nice tradition.