LIKE A PHOENIX - A NEW BARN WILL SOON BE REBORN

Fireball's Last Load of Glenn McLean's Old Barn

          Two weeks later, after Garry Clark and I first leaned a ladder up against Glenn McLean's little old dilapidated barn and started dismantling it board by board and finally pulling all the nails out of the lumber, we loaded "Fireball" up to the gunwales and trucked the last load off to Golden Unicorn Farm.  The reason we took so long ripping the old barn apart wasn't because we didn't work hard but because the weather was very uncooperative; we hardly got two good days in a row - either the rain was pounding so hard, we considered building an ark or the snow was blowing with such a vengeance, we could hardly see the road on the way home. 

          Garry and I left quite a mess behind in our wake; splintered boards, busted bales of hay, broken windows, pieces of tar paper, ripped apart duroids and a kizillion nails of various sizes but it couldn't be helped - there's just no neat way of dismantling a barn that was already precariously leaning towards the ground waiting for a good wind storm to blow it over.  Glenn was going to bulldoze the old barn into a heap and then strike a match to it until he heard I could use whatever I could scrounge together to build a smaller barn here at Golden Unicorn Farm.  After being a good home to cows, pigs, sheep and uninvited varmints, I like to think that the old barn will be happy to be reborn and once again be a home to a couple of milking goats, fifty chickens and a Great Pyrenees dog.  

          In this age when a great many folks, because we live in a vast country where still plenty of trees exist, think they will be here forever, only have to look at many of the European countries and see there's no such thing as forests any longer - like Joni Mitchell sang - "They took all the trees And put them in a tree museum And they charged all the people A dollar and a half just to see 'em." - this could happen.  So I'm a firm believer in reusing whatever I can, even if it means a lot more work; besides, I've barely got two nickles to rub together and when I hear the words "free, just come and get it", I'm knocking at their door quicker than it takes for Clark Kent to find a phone booth and don a pair of tights and a cape.  

          Once the barn is totally removed, Glenn is planning to grow a garden in its place.  Should make a wonderful garden - 75 years of piss and shit seeping into the earth will definitely help produce a magnificent garden.  The only thing I'd be a little worrisome about is that unless he purchases or rents a huge magnet, besides the cucumbers, watermelons, pumpkins and whatever else he plans growing, he could have one hell of a crop of nails.

 

Glenn's Old Barn Under Tarps - Like A Caterpillar

In A Cocoon Waiting to Become a Butterfly

          It's hard to believe that the majority of the old barn fit on a small trailer and a half ton truck but there it sits near the place the new barn is going to be erected.  My plans for the new barn keep changing from building a separate barn or attaching it to the existing garage where my studio space is located.  After spending a winter here at the base of Green Mountain, almost every weekend bringing another snow storm, I have to think about shoveling snow, hauling grain, hay and straw, packing water, installing electricity, milking goats and collecting eggs.  Being almost 70 and aging faster than a speeding skateboard, I also have to contend with slowing down and my strength ebbing as the years go by.  No use kidding myself; what I think I can do and what I can actually do are growing further and further apart.  Besides the barn's location; its size is another consideration.  We'll soon have a huge dog, a couple of goats and quite a few chickens but my wife Sarah is wondering if there will be room for more goats and an alpaca - and what about the unicorn that's been poking around the place recently?  If there's a whole family of them in the lower 40 acres, they'll most likely be eying up the barn too - make a good home, especially when they don't have to forage around in the belly-deep snow come next winter.  Oh to be young again!  

     

SERGEANT MAJOR ROOSTER RED HEAD - "COCK OF THE WALK"

Sergeant Major Rooster Red Head Crowing Orders

          While Garry Clark and I have been dismantling Glenn McLean's little old barn, duroid by duroid, board by board and nail by nail, we were constantly on our guard, looking over our shoulders, between our legs and in between the boards concerning the whereabouts of Glenn's rooster; he is definitely the "cock of the walk".  I don't know who came up with the expression, "don't be a chicken", the definition being: a coward; someone who is not daring or willing to take risks; a person with little self-confidence; because that doesn't describe Glenn's pesky little rooster at all.  He doesn't have any of those traits; just the opposite.  He's fearless as he struts around the barnyard with a John Wayne swagger, barks orders like a Sergeant Major, meticulously preens his feathers and sticks out his chest as if expecting to have a medal pinned on it at any moment.  Since Glenn served in the military for many years, I wouldn't doubt for a minute if he gets up in the morning before the crack of dawn and blows "reveille" with a shiny bugle while the Canadian flag is hoisted skyward; awakening and assembling his troops - the next in command being Sergeant Major Rooster Red Head.  I can see them now - Glenn McLean standing at attention as he salutes the rooster and his troop of Rode Island Reds as they march in an orderly fashion past the flag pole, "Hup two, three, four - arms high, three, four!  You there, fourteenth from the end; straighten those wings and stick out your chest - hup two, three, four!"

          Rooster Red Head definitely wasn't too pleased as the barn became smaller and smaller and that's probably the reason he attacked me - deduced that I was the enemy; most likely parachuted in during the dead of night and began destroying his barracks.  Even though he attacked me from behind when I wasn't looking, I wouldn't say he was cowardly - it was good military strategy on his part - I mean who in thier right mind, in comparison, would attack face to face a monolithic giant holding a steel crowbar in one hand and a huge hammer in the other, when all they have for weapons is two large spurs attached to their legs - hand to hand combat is out of the question.
          Remembering back to a time when I owned a small acreage in Nanaimo, BC, I once had a rooster similar to Glenns; the exception being, he was all black and if memory serves me right, so was his heart.  I don't know why, but that rooster constantly and relentlessly attacked me and it didn't matter if my back was turned or not.  He'd sometimes fly off his roost; long spurs aimed right at my jugular; I expect he aimed to kill me.  And for the life of me, I don't know why he hated me so because I always gave him and his wee horde of hens lots of room, fed and watered them daily, cleaned out their coop and always made sure they were safe from any sneaky predators that prowled around at night.  Deciding I'd show the cocky little black-hearted rooster who the real "cock of the walk" of the barnyard was, I walked towards him one day.  As expected he flew at me with his long spurs aimed with venom and I grabbed him in midair by his neck.  Not wanting to break his neck, only teach him a wee lesson, I spun him inside my hand for a turn or two like a ferris wheel and then flicked him onto the ground with a thump.  I can still see that dizzy old rooster as it reeled and staggered around the yard like I'd pumped him full of rum but can you believe it, as soon as he regained his stature and confidence, he attacked me again.  Like some people I know who have a major learning disability; just seem to keep bumping their heads, never learning to duck, that old black-hearted rooster had the same problem.  I won't eloborate on his demise, let's just keep it military, Colonel Saunders would have been proud of me - let's just say he was finger-licking good.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN UNICORNS - WELL I DO

I'm not sure how many people believe in unicorns but I'm a believer.  Some people may think I'm crazy or perhaps I'm somewhat demented but like the little boy in the story you are about to read, which I believe is a Plains Indian's belief that has been passed down from one generation to the next, I tend to think the legend or myth is absolutely true.  
          Golden Unicorn Farm didn't derive its name just because we thought it would make a nice name for our new farm.  Here where we live at the base of Green Mountain, I not only just saw a unicorn, I took a photograph of one.  Just as the leaves started turning different colours last fall, after I had enjoyed a long walk to the nearby lake and was heading towards the driveway, I thought I saw a beautiful white horse peeking around the side of my studio.  I was of course curious about the horse and thought it must have escaped from someone's corral as I took its picture, so you can imagine how surprised I was when I blew the photo up on the computer monitor and saw a horn growing out of its forehead.  I know, I know what you're thinking, I photoshopped it - except unfortunately - I don't have Adobe Photoshop on my computer.  

I've always thought unicorns were just a lot of mythical hogwash, some harry-ferry concoction from the medieval days or beyond but when I checked out the photo I took and then went online and came across The Legend of the Unicorn by Nell Namrehs (full blooded Plains Indian) I can't help believing in unicorns.  What the hell, people believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Boogieman, so why not a unicorn?

 

White Unicorn Peeking Around My Studio

Legend of the Unicorn

 by Nell Namrehs

Hundreds of years ago on a warm spring evening, an old man sat on an old weathered log with a long stick pushing large glowing embers towards the centre of a campfire sending myriad of bright red sparks flying skyward.  The young boy sitting quietly beside him watched with delight, while the horde of sparks playfully flitted like cheerful fireflies amongst the starry sky.  Besides the crackling fire, the occasional mournful howl of a lone wolf in the distance could be heard.  A slight breeze was blowing but even though the old man and the boy were scantily attired, wearing only soft leather breeches and moccasins, they felt very warm, not just from the campfire but from the nearby surrounding rocks, which were still radiating heat caused by the hot sun earlier that day.

The old man’s ebony eyes, set deep beneath his prominent brow, glittered and danced in the evening firelight.  His leathered skin stretched tight across his high cheek bones, his long pointed nose and prominent chin made him look as fierce as a eagle.  However, he was anything but fierce; in fact, he was a very gentle man.  As he rubbed the back of his neck, then ran his fingers through his long silvery hair and toyed for a moment with a feather attached by a tiny braid, he looked down at the boy seated beside him.  Smiling to himself, he thought back to a time when it had been his son sitting next to him instead of his grandson and wondered if he would one day be fortunate enough to have the pleasure of sharing a campfire with a great grandson. 

Resting the long stick against the log, its end still smoking from the fire, he folded his arms across his chest and said, “Before we go to sleep, there is a story I would like to tell you, which has been passed down through the ages from one generation to the next.  Some say the tale is a myth, others a legend and some even believe its nothing but foolish nonsense.  However, I like to believe the tale is true; after all, just because a person is unable to actually see something, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist.  Take for instance the wind: when it’s raging; we see tall trees bending, leaves sailing through the air and when it’s barely blowing, we feel its gentle caress against our cheek; yet the wind itself cannot be seen.”

The boy looked up at his grandfather and smiled.  He loved listening to the old man’s stories of which there were many.  However, this one, from what he could tell by the sound of his grandfather’s voice, would be a story really worth hearing.

Placing his arm around his grandson’s shoulders, he pulled him closer and continued, “A long time ago, a very, very long time ago when the Earth was much younger than what it is now, there once lived a herd of wild horses upon these grassy plains, rolling hills and rugged mountains.  They were led by a bold, black stallion with a white blaze that zigzagged up the entire length of his forehead and ended in a sliver of white mane hanging over his shoulder.  It’s believed the stallion was born during a violent thunder storm and a lightning bolt shot out of the sky, causing his unusual mark.

One summer day, while the herd was relaxing beneath some shady trees, the stallion noticed a beautiful mare, her coppery coloured coat, white mane and tail shining in the sunlight.  She was grazing alone by a creek, which was meandering through a lush green meadow.  Like a big, brown bear to honey, he was immediately drawn to her.  Although many mares existed within his herd, she soon became his favourite and they were often seen together a short distance away from the other horses.

Before long, the mare was in foal, every day her belly growing larger and larger.  The black stallion, because of her condition, became more and more protective.  However, even though the two of them could often be seen nuzzling each other with their soft, velvety muzzles, he still remained alert for anything dangerous that might harm one of  his herd, such as a hungry prowling bear or a sneaky mountain lion.

When the foal was born, the whole herd gathered around.  The coppery mare and black stallion were very proud as the foal struggled to take his first steps.  He was gangly, awkward and all legs, but finally, with a little nudge from his mother, he was standing by himself.  His coat was the same coppery colour as his mother’s, except his mane and tail were black instead of white.  However, even though a thunderstorm hadn’t occurred the day of his birth, the foal had the same markings as his sire; a white blaze zigzagged up the entire length of his forehead and ended in a streak of sliver white mane, which because he was so young, barely hung over his shoulder.

It wasn’t long after the foal was able to stand properly; he was running and playing with the other colts and fillies.  Even at such an early age, the herd sensed that he was born to be a leader because an aura of strength, fortitude, courage and determination emanated from his very being.  He was admired by the other young colts and many a filly already had their eye on him, such was his demeanor.  However, as time passed by, when he wasn’t cavorting with the other colts, he could often be seen with a pretty, cream-coloured filly with long, dazzling white mane and tail. 

When the colt with the lightning blaze on his forehead became a yearling, he began complaining about having a headache to his mother.  Although she couldn’t see anything wrong, suspecting that he may have fallen down or been kicked during a playful session with the other young horses, she gently massaged and nuzzled his forehead.  When he suddenly quit frolicking and having mock battles with the other colts and spent most of his time with his mother and pretty filly friend, they began to see it as a weakness, even resorting to name-calling such as “sissy and mama’s boy”.

As the days proceeded into weeks and months, the young colt’s throbbing headaches became worse and worse; to the point that it tore his mother’s heart out to see him in such pain; especially when  tears welled up and began flowing down his cheeks.  And then, one morning, while she was gently nuzzling his forehead with her muzzle, she noticed a small lump under his forelock.  She began massaging his forehead daily, hoping it would go away.  However, instead of shrinking in size, the lump continued growing, which became a great concern to his mother.  Within a very short time, the lump grew until it looked like a single horn or antler growing out of his forehead, which made him feel ashamed.  He tried breaking it off by charging headfirst into boulders and trees but this only made his headaches worse.  When the other young horses saw how long and pointed the bump had become, they began teasing, ridiculing and bullying him more than before.  However, the bullies, despite his severe headaches, soon learned the hard way that he wasn’t a coward, nor a mama’s boy, but a colt to be wary of and reckoned with.

When the young horses finally stopped making fun of him, he still kept to himself, the exceptions being his family and the pretty, cream-coloured filly.  Although he considered himself a freak of nature, he was more than a little bewildered by the filly since she still regarded him to be the most handsome and bravest horse of all.  It seemed the only good thing that eventually resulted from all the name-calling and battles was that his headache had finally ceased.

No longer a spindly colt but a strong full grown horse; like his father, if he had the desire, he would one day become the herd’s leader.  However, since he sometimes heard the occasional snicker behind his back and because he was still a little sensitive about the strange object protruding from his forehead, he still remained somewhat reclusive and aloof.  Days would often go by when he wasn’t seen and during those times, even his father would worry.  Although his son was very strong and courageous, he knew that if confronted by a ravenous grizzly bear or a pack of roving wolves, he would be no match.

Winters had always been harsh, but one winter the cold was so fierce, everything froze solid, including all the ponds and smaller lakes.  The snow was so deep, the horses could barely walk or find anything to eat; many of them freezing and starving to death.  Besides the horses, other wild animals living within the same area met a similar fate.  After the severe winter storms that had continually rumbled down the mountainsides and across the plains finally quit; spring arrived. 

Only the strongest of the herd had survived the cruel winter and they were very weak.  Although they were once again able to find ample grass to graze on, because of their weakened condition, many of them became prey to the wild carnivores that continually stalked them.  One of the worst predators was a grizzly bear, which kept the stallion with the white lightning blaze on his forehead constantly alert – he wasn’t strong enough to tackle a bear – let alone a huge, hungry grizzly bear.

The vicious bear was constantly following the herd of horses, preying on the stragglers, until they were eventually forced into a series of hills and gullies they had never been before.  The black stallion valiantly tried to lead them away from the grizzly but his luck ran out when they arrived at the top of a steep cliff – a dead end.  The stallion had no choice now but to defend the herd by confronting the bear.  He paced to and fro in front of the herd as the big grizzly approached on his hind legs, growling, snarling and flashing his enormous sharp claws and teeth.  When the grizzly bear was almost upon him, the stallion quickly spun and kicked out with both back feet.  When his hooves struck the bear solidly in the chest, the blows only caused the bear to become more angry.  Again the enormous bear waded in for the kill, only this time the stallion reared up on his hind legs and smashed one of his hooves on top of the bear’s gigantic head.  The grizzly, somewhat dazed from the blow, shook its head and continued padding towards the stallion, which was now backed right up into the other horses with hardly any room to move, much less fight a raging bear.  The stallion was about to try one last attack, which he knew to be futile, but might give the herd a chance to escape, when he heard a loud neigh from behind the bear. 

The grizzly bear began turning its head when he heard hooves thundering towards him but not quite fast enough. The stallion’s son reared, lashing out with his sharp hooves and struck the bear on the shoulder almost knocking it to the ground.  Before the bear could recover from the attack, he spun around and brutally kicked it in the head with both back hooves.  Although injured from the attack, blood gushing down its hairy head, the bear was able to retaliate.  Before the stallion’s son was able to get clear, the grizzly swung one of its powerful arms, the deadly paw clawing a deep wound into his rear end.  The stallion’s son barely escaped the wounded grizzly, which was now totally enraged.  The bear, froth foaming from its mouth, ran towards the stallion’s son at full speed on all fours, attacking him with a blur of fangs and claws.  Chunks of hide flew through the air and the blood soon poured from the horse's wounds.  Barely able to escape the frenzied attack, the stallion’s son retreated a short distance and then turned to once again to face the bear.   

The huge grizzly bear, confident that the horse would be his next meal, stood on its hind legs and began its final but cautious approach.  The stallion’s son, fatally wounded but not giving up the fight, hobbled forward, blood dripping from his gaping wounds; his head hung low and gasping for breath.  When the bear was very close, the stallion’s son suddenly raised his head to the heavens then looked the grizzly directly in the eye and charged.  The bear instinctively dropped downwards so it could grab and maul the charging horse to death but it was unprepared for the strength and power within the stallion’s son or his horn when it stabbed through its chest, piercing the grizzly's heart.  The force of the charge carried the bear and the horse, which many of the herd had ridiculed and called cowardly to the edge of the cliff, where they hung momentarily almost suspended in time, before toppling into the rocky canyon below."

The old man felt his grandson shudder and glanced at him just in time to see a tear slide down the young boy’s face.  He hugged him against his chest until the lad was able to speak.

“Grandfather” he said, “That’s the saddest story you ever told me.  Why did the horse with the strange horn growing out of his head have to die, couldn’t he have just killed the bear and lived?”

The old man gently raised his grandson’s face with his finger tips and looked into his big brown teary eyes and said, “Well, that’s one of the endings some people believe but I much prefer the other.”

“Did the horse live” the little boy hopefully asked?

He shook his head, “No.  But many have said the cream coloured filly had a colt who looked exactly like him and I tend to believe that story, because I’m certain that one day when I was a younger man out hunting on the plains, I saw in the distance a horse that had a white lightning blaze and appeared to have a single horn sticking out of its forehead.”

 The young boy wiped the tears from his eyes, smiled and looked up at his grandfather, "I like that ending better and maybe if I'm lucky one day, I too will see the wonderful stallion with the jagged white blaze and the horn growing out of his forehead."

OLD BARNS, OLD MEN and COLD BREWS

Sarah's Crocuses or Croci

    
          A heavy mist meandering across our lower meadow and through the naked trees blurs the distant ridge; dense grey clouds pressing down from above promises more rain today; which is good because winter seems to have finally resigned its all too lengthy term in favour of spring.  Since almost all of the snow has disappeared, the land, the lakes and the forests are alive with returning birds and animals; mating season is in the air.   Despite the frost still lingering within the soil and the occasional snow fall, brave little flowers are poking up all over.
          After a quick trip to Danforth, ME and back, at the border crossing, a tiny bridge separating Canada from the United States, I noticed a small flock of Canadian geese wandering and honking in merriment along the shoreline and a little further out in the lake, where the thick ice had melted, a single mallard and his harem of eight females were gaily paddling away.  While crossing the bridge, a short burst of sunlight glittered through the clouds and danced across the lake as happily as the ducks and geese anticipating the nesting season and the birth of their little ducklings and goslings.  As Sarah and I passed a farmer's field, I noticed another glint of sun shining on a gathering of robin's red breasts, while they poked through the dead leaves and grasses of last fall, searching for a tasty meal - no doubt a big, fat humongous worm!  And in the sky overhead, I also noticed three turkey vultures adjusting their long wings to the flow of the breeze as they glided beneath the clouds.  I expect the high-flying, feathered scavengers have not only returned to clean up the dead creatures that didn't survive the winter but were also in search of a hollow tree, small cave or a dense thicket to nest and raise their fledglings.  Upon arriving home, we were greeted by the sounds of cheerful songsters as they flitted through the budding branches.  Spring and the rebirth of the land is indeed a joyous occasion, and for us, who live at Golden Unicorn Farm, it is no different.

Garry Clark Dismantling the Last Wall 

          Glenn McLean's little old barn, I feel, rather than finally been ripped apart and torn down, is almost completely harvested.  Except for still pulling a kijillion remaining nails, most of the boards have been loaded on a trailer and hauled to Golden Unicorn Farm via Garry's Fireball Express; soon to be recycled into another but smaller barn.  If only the weather was a little more cooperative; can't seem to get two good days in a row to finish the job.  It's supposed to rain pretty much the remainder of the week, so rather than work on cleaning up the rest of the barn, Garry and I should concentrate on building a fence.  At the moment, the earth is soft; ideal for digging a hole and ramming a cedar post into it.  If we wait too long, the soil will be as hard as clay and it will be more than twice as difficult to build a fence.     

   "Fireball-Express"          

          I recently measured off the fence line and the new mini-barn's location on the backside of my studio.  Now that Glenn McLean's barn has been totally flattened, most of the salvageable lumber towed home, despite the hard work ahead of me, I'm itching to get started erecting the new fence and barn.  Sarah, the girls and I are anxiously awaiting the arrival of two milking-goats, 25 chickens (or is it 50), one Great Pyrenees, possibly several ducks and an gelded alpaca but that won't happen until the barn is built and the fence is up.  So much work to do - so little time - wish I was about 20 years younger - even 10 would be helpful - now I know what that 80 year old guy I met in a bar at Lumby, BC years ago meant when he said, "When I was a young man about 50 or so..."   And did I mention, that by the time the long May weekend arrives, I need to revamp the enclosed porch leading into the kitchen so it can be used as a small gathering place for the Lake people when they arrive for the summer and fall - like us - I'm sure they'll enjoy Sarah's baking and fresh coffee.
          Like I mentioned to Glenn the other day while knocking back one of his cold home-brews, "If anyone had said a year ago that I'd be ripping down a barn, building a new one, then gathering livestock and putting in a large garden, I'd have told them they were out of their mind."  I guess the laugh is on me.  However, despite the hard work that it takes to bring an old place back to life, there's no place better that I'd like to be other than right here on Golden Unicorn Farm at the base of Green Mountain in Fosterville, NB.

Glenn McLean and me - Cheers - eh!

EASTER SUNDAY

          It's Easter and my feet have walked down many a different path but seldom have they led me into a church.  My father wasn't a religious man as far as I know, or if he was, he kept it just between himself and God.  Now my stepmother was of the religious variety and when I was a boy, she made certain that my two stepsisters and I went to church every Sunday.  It wasn't until my sisters ratted on me about skipping out and spending the collection money that my church going days ended - guess I should have shared my bubble gum and chocolate bars with them.  I've never been baptised, never had some water sprinkled on my tiny face and blessed; perhaps not beginning life in the proper manner is partially to blame for some of my misdeeds but I don't really belive so.  I'm a firm believer that eventually, even if one isn't the quickest learner, at some point, a person has to be accountable for their own actions.
          Today, my footsteps led me to the little Baptist Church down the road.  I went, not so much because it's Easter and to worship the good Lord Jesus, who was brutally crucified on a cross and then resurrected after three days but because our youngest daughter Jessica and a couple of her friends sang "Jesus Loves Me", which was very cute.  Not belonging to any particular religious denomination, I have, over the years, attended quite a few different churches and listened to the sermons, some of them rather unusual, and I have to say, I found the casual atmosphere at this church to be most friendly and casual, the pastor actually making the odd joke during his sermon.  However, I'm not sure if the politician sitting near the back of the church found one of his jokes to be that comical.
          Now, I don't know if the good Lord is God or the Son of God but I do know that he was a Man and a very good Man; definitely a Man everyone could look up to and behave in a likewise manner.  In these times where catastrophic calamities seem to be occurring at a rather steady pace and the weather patterns have changed dramatically; a time when our beliefs are being shaken from us one by one and left to wither and die at our feet, I feel it's important to believe in such a Man.   A lot of people say believing in the good Lord distinguishes us from the animals but I like to think that it keeps us human and even though most of us are dastardly sinners, it's the goodness within our hearts that keeps the darkness and  evil from overpowering and ruling us and it also allows the good side to triumph. 
          I used to gamble a lot; can't recall how many times because I bet my last buck that my wristwatch hit the table during a poker game.  I can't remember if one of my gambling buddies told me this or if it was a man singing some cowboy song on the radio but whoever it was he said, "I believe in God and I go to church on Sundays; a fellow needs all the luck he can get.  Some things just aren't worth risking a chance on."  I also have a good friend Winston Bushnell who doesn't belong to any particular church but because his wife is a devout Catholic and goes to church faithfully every Sunday; he tags along.  When I sailed with him through the Northwest Passage, if we weren't at sea or stuck in the ice somewhere, when Sunday rolled around, he went to church.  When I asked him why, he replied much like the gambler, "It doesn't hurt to give thanks for safe passage" and he wasn't just talking about our sailing voyage; it was safe passage through life's storms.  The church I attended this morning with my family reminded me of the church I went to in Clyde River on Baffin Island with Winston - the one difference being, they spoke Inuktitut; I couldn't understand a word except when a group of little kids got up and sang, "Jesus Loves Me" in English.
          A lot of wars are happening at various places in the world at the moment and the only reason to me that they ever really escalate, get right out of hand, is when religion becomes the reasoning.  Wealthy business people, politicians and royalty can't convince ordinary men to pick up a gun because there's a buck in it for them but by gosh, convince them it's a war against God and the blood will flow; make the tsunami that just hit Japan look like a wee ripple on a puddle.  God, Jesus, Allah, The Great Spirit or Whomever, as far as I can see, the word "slaughtering" of innocents isn't in their vocabulary.
          Anyway, before I begin sermonizing, I'd just like to mention that going to church on Easter or any other day is probably a good thing - who better than Jesus Christ to have for a mentor - beats the hell out of emulating some actor or singer the media have blown up so huge, in comparison, the Firestone blimp looks like a balloon at a children's birthday party - cheers - eh!
     

BARN RAZING

Glenn's Little Old Barn

          Glenn McLean's little old barn has withstood wind storms hard enough to blow off Superman's cape, torrential rains, not quite enough of a deluge to start considering building an ark, summer heat, hot enough to fry a hungryman's breakfast on the metal roof and snow so deep, a ladder wasn't needed to reach the top of the roof.  However, over the past 50 years, like anything else in this world, it's grown old and weary and as it leans into the wind at a somewhat precarious angle, like an ancient soldier unable to stand at attention any longer, Glenn graciously gave it to me when he heard I was looking for materials to build a new barn at Golden Unicorn Farm.

          Glenn's barn has been a home and shelter for many animals over the years.  It's housed pink, curly-tailed pigs, udder-bulging cows and kinky, wooly-sheep that gives a whole new meaning to a Jamaican's dread-locks.  And then of course, there's the uninvited critters that move in to share the warmth, dryness, protection and the food within the barn - like cats, rats, mice, squirrels and birds, to name a few.  Three cats still used the barn for their home and once the door was opened, Glenn's chickens decided to move in as well, clucking their approval at the abundance of loose hay and straw available to make soft, comfortable nests to lay their eggs.  I guess the rooster took a dislike to me when I entered the barn, causing his harem of chicks to scatter out of my way because when I went back outside, he attacked the back of my left leg.  As I stood hovering like a giant over the pesky little rooster, he ruffled up his feathers and tried to dig his spurs into my leg once again.  At first, I thought the little pesky-critter was comical but when he continued to strike me as I walked away, I finally had to turn around and give him a wee boot.  I didn't hurt the little guy, except maybe his pride - obviously he was never told that in pretty much any confrontation, whether it's right or wrong, "might is right".

          On Monday morning, April 18th, with help from a neighbour, Garry Clark, who lives at the top of Green Mountain, we began dismantling Glenn's old dilapidated barn, sheets of steel corrugated-metal, decomposing duroids, rough-hewn boards, oily tar paper and rusty nails - enough to fill the muzzle of a large cannon and drop every sword-weilding, lance-toting cavalryman and horse in the Charge of the Light Brigade with a single blast.  Using crow-bars, hammers and a nail-puller, we could feel the old barn shudder, sway and tremble like an old man trying to kick up his heels at a rock concert as we worked our way down from the top of the roof.  On the third morning, with only the sides, rafters and small inside stalls remaining intact, winter once again came storming through the forests and across the open fields turning everything white and icy.

Garry Clark Dismantling Glen's Barn

          The storm had been predicted - 17 centimeters of snow expected.  When the first flakes of the storm began flurrying about the old barn and us, Garry and I retreated to his black half-ton truck (vinyl flame-job adorning its sides and "Fireball" lettered on the hood) for a bite of lunch and a hot cup of tea.  We were hoping the snow would let up but as the landscape began turning white with each gust of icy wind, decided it was best we call it a day.  Fortunately, only a few centimeters of snow fell before it turned to icy-rain and the weatherman predicts Friday, April 21, to be sunny and warm, hopefully enough time to melt whatever has gathered upon and inside Glenn's old barn; time for Garry and I to resume the final dismantling and cart away a trailer full of good lumber and other little goodies Glenn said I could have.

          On returning home, I discovered about a dozen small cedar logs lying in the yard.  Apparently, a friend of mine who lives at the edge of North Lake, Gary Stairs had dropped them off.  When he returned a little later in the day and we were enjoying a cold beer in the warmth of my studio, he told me he was going to supply me with enough cedar posts to fence off a large area around the new barn and garden.  Like Glenn McLean; what a great guy.  Also, when I mentioned Sarah thought we should have an old time barn raising like the Amish he said, "You can count me in." 

          Hopefully, weather permitting, Glenn's little old barn will be completely razed and anything that is useable will be lying in the yard at Golden Unicorn Farm by the end of the weekend waiting to be built into a brand new barn. A barn raising like the days of old should be a fun time for all to get together - work hard for awhile - then sit back, have a few cold beers and fill our bellies with good nutritious food.

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BLUES

The Green Mountain blues almost sounds like the title of a song.  I can almost picture Willie Nelson, pigtail poking out from under his polka dot bandana that's wrapped around his brow as he sits on a tall wooden stool with a guitar in his hands singing, "I get the blues now and then, especially when, when I think of Green, Green Mountain.  Yonder she lies, beneath the blue skies, as blue, as blue, as blue as my baby's blue eyes."  But Green Mountain isn't a song; it's the place where me and my family and some of our friends live.  The mountain itself is a small place, and yet, it's heart, the size of the Rocky Mountains is so big, if you lay your ear to the ground, you can hear it thumping away as it stretches to reach the blue sky.  We've only lived here a short time but we've felt happiness and sorrow when someone we know will no longer walk or ever get to walk upon Green Mountain.

Our farm house, which is situated at the base of Green Mountain is very old and quite a few generations of people have lived within it. When the frost is upon the ground and the silence is almost unbearable, you can hear the grass trying to grow.  At night, in the darkest hour, if you stretch out on the floor in the corner of a room, it's possible to hear the voices of yesteryear; their jubilations and sadness whispering quietly in your ears.  I feel both sad and happy to hear their voices; to feel their long ago pains, their elations, their dreams, their accomplishments and their failures.  Regret for living on Green Mountain does not exist, although each in turn, as they passed from this world into the next, looked over thier shoulder one last time with fondness to see the forest, the meadows and the old house on the hill fade from their view.  Inevitably, like those who have lived before me, my turn will come and hopefully, whoever takes the time will hear my voice, which holds no regrets, within the corners of this old farm house at the base of Green Mountain.

From the first generation of people who cleared the land and built this old farm house, to the others that have placed their signatures to its frame and surrounding landscape; I hope that when I leave this place at the base of Green Mountain that my labours will be appreciated and enjoyed by my followers; the same as I'm reaping the benefits of those before me.  My family and I have found a sense of freedom here. Although the remains of fences can be seen rusting, twisted and entangled within the forest and I too shall build some fences to keep some animals in and other animals out, plenty of space for the moose, deer, bear and other critters that live on the mountail will still remain.  Like our domestic animals, we cherish their presence and the enrichness they bring to our lives.  Although the world has visible and invisible borders criss-crossing everywhere and all sorts of regulations and view points have been applied unmercilessly, I feel the animals, which live on the mountain,  have as much right to live here as we do.

My family and I left a bustling and growing city; the rules, regulations and fences were endless.  If I would have waved or smiled at a stranger in passing, I most likely would have been considered to be very odd, someone to avoid but here on Green Mountain, to do such a thing is to be expected and the reverse may ensue if a wave or a smile is not returned.  Unfortunately, although we are quite a distance from any large cities, we still can't escape that part of the population, which has embraced the lower chambers of life.  Because of their lowly substance habits, which are needed as badly as the air they breathe; their lying, cheating and robbing extends even to the surrounding area of Green Mountain.  It's not that I haven't wallowed within those lower chambers during parts of my life as well but I was fortunate because while I was advancing toward the epitome of that mire, having touched for a short time the wholesome values of an almost forgotten era, I managed to pull myself together.  I may not live in a log house high on a hill overlooking my grandfolk's farm in Woodpecker, BC but this place on Green Mountain feels very familiar; the forest, meadows, lakes and streams abounding with wild animals is very much the same.

I guess if I'm feeling the Green Mountain Blues, it's not because of what I left behind, it's because I took so long in reaching this destination.  I'm an old man now and the dreams which rattle around and echo within the chambers of my mind are usually those of younger men with more ambition, physical strength and vigor.  But perhaps one of the main reasons of longevity or the meaning of life is not to give in; one should work hard at attaining those dreams even if it kills them - it's the not trying, the holding back, thinking the impossible isn't possible, the building past regrets that makes a person truly old and die before their time.  My heart is in tune with Green Mountain and although the mountain's heart will beat a millenium longer than mine, I'll be happy to have been allowed to share a very tiny segment of its life.

HOW TO OR HOW NOT TO TEAR DOWN A BARN

When I stepped out the door this morning, the cheerful chirrupping of a robin in the nearby forest could be heard.  I'm not sure if it's delightful cry was to attract a mate or it was just incredibly happy to get through last night's thunder storm and torrential downpour. Regardless, at least the snow is rapidly disappearing; the bare earth beginning to take domain over the surface.  Like the robin, soon to be building a nest for it's family, I am busy as well; worked all day renovating the upstair bedrooms yesterday and I've got the pains to prove it - oh this getting old - wasn't that long ago, I could have worked from when the sun first popped up in the morning until it set in the evening.  Mind you, I drank a lot more beer in those days; perhaps it numbed the pain.

I have some major physical work ahead of me and yesterday's cutting boards and pounding nails was sort of a gentle rehearsal for what's to come.  After being rather sedentary over the winter, mostly sitting at the computer writing short stories, the time has come to attempt getting myself into some sort of workable physical condition; the abs and pecs will never be tight again I know, but if it's possible to keep them from flopping up and down on my gut; that would be a bonus.  About the only part of me that doesn't hurt this morning is my hair - just can't find a way for it to help out with the work load because if I could, I'd work every little strand real hard - make those hairs muscle-up; stand at attention - might even help with the hair loss if each of them became slightly thicker.

Any day now, I'll be taking a large barn apart and at my age, although the desire is often burning brightly, the body is somewhat burnt out.  I just hope when I'm on top of the barn unfastening the metal roof, I don't lose my mind, have dementia set in, and wonder what the hell I'm doing up there.  The possibility exists that I might think I'm a kid again in a park; the roof is a giant slide and I've decided to take a ride down.  I'm not too concerned about ripping the ass out of my jeans on the nail heads but the drop off at the end of roof isn't exactly a short distance to the ground.  The force of my bony ass hitting the ground would most likely not only break every bone in my body but it would take three men and a boy to dislodge it from the earth.  My eye sight isn't too good either but then again, since age 12, without a pair of glasses, everything looks blurry.  Not being able to see properly may prove to be an asset when I've climbed to the top of the roof; I'm hardly the mountain-climbing type; not too fond of heights and if I can't see the ground - this could be a good thing.

Some people have already asked, "What the hell are you doing tearing down a barn at your age?"  The answer is simple - money - or rather the lack of money.  Since I can't afford the materials, let alone hire someone to build a barn here at Golden Unicorn Farm, I have to consider other avenues to make this happen.  Not sure if my kids know how I tore down a huge chicken barn when I was about 40 years old and since a couple of them read my blog, I'd like to assure them that I won't be taking this barn down the same way - I don't run so fast anymore!

And that's what bringing down the chicken barn was all about - running real fast!

In those days I drank a fair amount, actually, thinking back, I was drunk a lot of the time - my life was somewhat chaotic and out of control.  Anyway, I'd bought this small acreage, which was once the largest chicken farm in Nanaimo on Vancouver Island.  The old farm house was in good shape but the barn,  about 60-75 feet long and about 25' wide, was in a sad state of repair.  I gave up the idea of converting it into a large art studio since it was practically falling down and bought a chain saw.  I'm not quite sure in which order I cut all the corner posts and the other posts which were holding up the structure but I do know I was real careful about cutting the centre post almost all the way through because that's what was basically holding the building up - a light wind would have blown the chicken barn flat at this point.  Now, I've never won a foot race in my life, except when I was running away from someone who was determined to beat the hell out of me - fear gives a whole new reason for running fast and maybe that's how I managed to get through that old building - I was scared my beer at the other end of the barn was getting too warm under the summer sun.  There was a large opening at each end of the building with a 4-5 foot drop off at one end.  If you can believe this, like a certified idiot, I charged into that building like a bull looking for a matador and when I reached the centre post, I gave it a good hard butt and continued on.  I could see the building swaying like it was dancing to a waltz tune and could hear it creaking and groaning as I neared the opening at the other end.  Just as I leaped clear, the old chicken barn came down with a whoosh, a clatter and a bang and I was covered with billowing clouds of years of powdered chicken shit dust - it was enough to make a man thirsty and time to have a cold beer.

And on that note, I think I'll reconsider how I'll take down my friend's barn in Canterbury - looks like a good day to go for a jog - build up those old leg muscles, pump some air into my deflated lungs, maybe press a little iron for the withered biceps and then pace off that old barn - see how fast it would take me to run through it.  Just kidding; just kidding - my running days are over...cheers - eh!

MUSINGS OF A SIMPLE MIND

Like stiff branches that creak and groan when freezing winds blow a wintery gale, my bones do likewise.  The sap has begun flowing, nourishing pregnant buds that will soon give birth to leaves, is unlike my old blood that crawls through my ancient veins.  Winter is melting into spring and unlike the winter days of my life, once ended, will return.

Although my younger strength and vitality has waned and the image in a mirror ascertains that I am indeed old, still my mind dreams the dreams of younger men.  I may not be able to bound over tall bar stools any longer, entice beautiful young maidens to my bed chambers or work like there's no tomorrow any longer but my mind still soars with eagles to lofty places only dreamers can attain.  My goals, unless my mortal plug is suddenly pulled unexpectedly, are attainable because I've made certain that they are within the grasp of this old man's reach.  Actually, when I think back to younger times, many of my goals, which seemed silly, frustrating and inane to others, I kept within my natural powers so they could be attained - that's not to say the goals were worthwhile and never failed later on becomes some weren't and some did.  For monetary riches lost, some men deliberately casting their lives away for less, although knocked to my knees with punches of momentary depression, I picked myself up, brushed my self off and continued on - when is money ever worth more than life?

Some of the goals and dreams I have today are ones of days gone by; they are goals and dreams that I never let go of and most likely never will.  Placed on a backburner to simmer within my mind, every now and then a boiling hot droplet bubbles over, reminding me that perhaps the time is drawing near to put a certain past goal or dream into motion.  When I was but a young lad visiting my grandfolks who lived at the edge of the powerfully flowing Fraser River near the small community of Woodpecker, BC, I told my grandmother one day when we were on a high hill overlooking their two-story log house they had built with their own two hands, "When I get older, I'm going to build my house right here."  My grandmother of course laughed but I could tell by the twinkle of her deep blue eyes that she wasn't laughing at me like I was just a silly city boy, because she herself and my grandfather had once had the same dream many years before and they had traveled far and worked intensely hard to attain their dream.

Our planet Earth is literally withering and slowly dying right before my eyes because of the epitome of human egotistical foolishness.  When I look across our 50 acres of mostly wildnerness, I can't help but wonder if it will die the same time that I do.  There was a time when the odds were rediculously against the Earth and the human race expiring at the same time, but now, it's something many people the world around are considering.  Catastrophic floods, tsunamis and earthquakes could be definite signs that the Earth is attempting to rid itself of the greedy parasitical pests that are clinging to its topsides with their sharp finger nails, still trying to grab as much as they can before they can't hold on any longer.  What gets me is, no matter how much wealth a person can grab and hold onto as tightly as possible, when we die, we can't take anything with us.  Perhaps that's our reasoning, realizing almost from the instance we come into this world that we are doomed and we do whatever seems necessary to us to try and cheat death; stay alive at all costs; if we are to die, what difference does it make if we take the Earth with us.

Our holy men; doesn't matter which denomination you've been born or indoctrinated into, have led us to believe there is a better place than Earth that we go to once we die.  How many of us truly believe, if there is a God, Allah or Whoever, that if we are His children, would He have situated us in such a horrible place?  Do we not attempt to bring our children up in the correct enviornment?  Even a gardener when he plants a seed, makes sure that it is covered with the richest soil, there no lack of moisture and the sun warms its heart; so why would God put us on a place that wouldn't comfortably sustain us; not just us but everything else that lives here? The only conclusions I can come up with, is if there isn't a God, then we deserve to die, but if there is a God, the Earth is a testing ground to see how we behave and looking at the results so far, if I were Him; very few people would be getting to this so called better kingdom.

Like the Universe, the spiritual stuff is way beyond my perception as well.  What gets me is how some goofus dressed in a white robe and another goofus peering through a telescope get off telling us there is a heaven and that the Universe was created by a "Big Bang"; I mean who the hell are these people; where are they getting their special information from?  I can't discount or disprove any of their theories any more than they can prove their beliefs - and yet, we're expected to go along with their bullshit.

I've led several different lives during my lifetime thus far; been married twice; have six kids - have no idea how many animals, birds, fish and other creatures that have been a part of my own little domain but I do know that I, like so many others have been led down the garden path on many occasions.  I mean, I'm not very bright and I'm quite weak, which makes me susceptible to many other's schemes, dreams and beliefs, especially when a great deal of them have been driven into my head by people that I looked up to since I was an infant.  We all need help to get us through the day, someone to love and cherish, be loved and cherished in return; bodily nourishment and shelter from the undaunting weather.  No one is owed a living or has the right to take anything just because they are here; our one and only true gift ever given to us was the first breath of life when we entered this world; and what a gift it was to many of us!  For me, I don't have a problem leaving this world as empty-handed as I was when I entered.  I don't care how talented, intelligent I've became or how much wealth I accumulated over the years; I would be happy to depart with nothing, as though I didn't leave so much as a feint foot print behind but that's not going to happen.  The true meaning of a man or perhaps the true meaning of life (which I have actually attempted searching for) may be, to truly leave this world without leaving even a footstep behind; nothing for my offspring to acquire, nothing for lawyers and such to grovel over - but absolutely nothing - nothing at all left behind; except whatever resources I had taught to whoever was following in my footsteps to help them continue on with their lives.

Although there is snow on the ground and a bit of a chill in the air; it almost feels like summer outside.  It's Sunday today, but I won't be going to church.  Instead, I've walked around a very small portion of our 50 acres here at the base of Green Mountain - been measuring off a barnyard for the arrival of a dog, two goats and 50 chickens and plotting out the garden area.  Whether a tsunami, earthquake, tornado or some other natural or man-made catastrophy wipes it away or not; I am planning for the future despite my age.  While alive, I still have to eat, piss, shit, have sex and be sheltered just like any other creature that resides on this planet and since it's a most beautiful day; we have friends arriving for dinner; I best get started - cheers - eh!            

ON GOLDEN UNICORN FARM

Here near the base of Green Mountain, now that the sun and the temperature are rising earlier over the ridge, the landscape is shedding its winter cloak once again.  I've noticed the arrival of several spieces of birds over the past few weeks and just before the last snowfall, hopefully winter's last, I saw a flock of robins, one of nature's harbingers of spring, cheerfully chirrupping admist the remaining clots of snow in a farmer's field.  Although I have a labor intensive spring ahead of me, ripping down a neighbour's barn and then using the lumber to build a small goat shed, chicken coop for 50 chickens, a fence, not to mention planting a large garden here on Golden Unicorn Farm, I'm ready for a renaissance, if you will, a new beginning for this old sailorman.

The last snowfall, which dumped a foot of snow in what seemed an inch per minute caught us by surprise as Sarah and I returned from the Woodstock Farmer's Market via Houlton, Maine, last Friday afternoon.  Old Buddy, our big-assed 3/4 ton diesel truck, without the aid of its 4-wheel drive (broken) did its best to get us home; the depth of the snow almost too much.  We went off the road, much to Buddy's dismay, while turning off the US highway and were pulled out of the ditch by a passing motorist.  On almost every hill, before reaching the US/Canada border, I had to get out and push on the back corner of the truck to keep it from sliding into the deep ditches; I'd swear old Buddy was part crab as it climbed the hills almost sideways.  This has been our first year in Fosterville, New Brunswick and from what I've heard, the snowfall has been one of the heaviest within the last 20 years.  Besides the harsh winter conditions making it difficult for Buddy to get around, the forest creatures, many of which are seen quite often on the wild portion of our land or even strolling through our yard, has taken a heavy toll.   Apparently the deer population has been hit very hard; 40% having succumbed to the brutality of winter.  Before deer season arrives this year, I'll be putting up some no hunting signs around the property - don't want the hunters blasting the deer or our livestock, the goats and the unicorns grazing in the field.

I probably shouldn't have mentioned the unicorns; now we'll most likely start getting us a passle of camera-toting tourists here at Golden Unicorn Farm.  I used to think they were just mythical creatures from a long past era, but by gosh, last summer when I was wandering through our goldenrod in the top field; if I didn't come across one!  I always thought they were large animals but this one didn't stand much higher than the top of the goldenrod.  For a moment, like we'd both been gob-slapped, we stood gaping at one another and then, what sounded like a horse's nicker, it suddenly reared up, spun around, and trotted off into the forest, glancing over its shoulder a few times, most likely making certain I wasn't following.  After it had disappeared into the verdant forest, I had to give my head a shake to see if I'd been asleep and dreaming - but no - I was wide awake!  I would have understood, if the animal had been a deer with a misshaped antler, but it's glistening golden coat wasn't even the same color.  I haven't seen the unicorn since and there's a possibiltiy it's been one of winter's fatalities.  However, I've got a good feeling that when the goldenrod is glowing under the coming warm summer sun; the unicorn will return.

The sun is shining brightly this morning and I can already hear the snow melting; telling me to get off this computer and begin my day.  Tomorrow morning, Sarah and I will climb into old Buddy and head off to the Farmer's Market to hopefully sell a load of her Green Mountain-fresh, good-tasting bakery goods.  The drive and the market place make a nice break; made some new friends there, who, like us, are trying to sell their farm goods and crafts.  Yup, I feel a renaissance on the horizon for this old sailorman - looking forward to feeling the warm earth in my hands, smelling the fresh air and hearing the livestock.

Cheers - eh!

  

    

THE MERMAID AND THE BOATMAN - Last Episode

"Your name has been staring directly at me since the moment I first laid eyes on you.  Greed is what that villainous spellbinder counted on.  He believed anyone trying to guess your name would only be interested in how much your spectacles are worth since they're very valuable.  If perchance they managed to capture you, as soon as they tired of putting you on display like some sort of freak and charging money for people to see a real live mermaid, they'd do whatever was necessary to remove your glasses.  It’s true, you're wearing the magician's clue on your face and it's cleverly disguised amongst the gold, silver, diamonds and other precious gems.  The two big red jewels imbedded in the tips of your spectacles are the clue!  Hold me tightly my beauty, I want to feel you transform into a whole woman, feel your joy and your completeness when I tell you your name."

Holding each other in their arms, the sailorman watched as the two big red rubies fastened at the tips of the spectacles began brightly glowing when he whispered into the mermaids ear, "Your name is Ruby." 

It wasn't necessary for the sailorman or the mermaid to look down, to know that instead of a large fish tail, she once again had legs.  As much as she was enjoying lying on the deck with her boatman she said, “I’ve got to stand, it seems like an eternity since I stood.” 

            The sailorman was speechless when he looked at her standing in the fading sunlight; she was utterly beautiful and utterly complete, a woman in every way.  Stepping towards her, he lifted the glasses from her face and as he held them in his hand, the blood red rubies glittering their enchantment, he looked into her eyes and said, “You won’t be needing these anymore Priscilla.”  And having said that, pitched them into the sea.

THE MERMAID AND THE BOATMAN - Part 6

WIN a $25.00 VISA Card by guessing the name that the magician gave the mermaid.  Only people subscribing to my Newsletter or "followers" are allowed to enter.  Only one guess per person allowed.   Email your guess to dreaminsailorman@hotmail.com  Should there be more than one correct answer, the winner's names  will be put into a hat and the first name drawn is the winner.  Family members are allowed to guess a name too but they are not elegible to win the prize - sorry.
The evening was passing by very quickly, yet the mermaid and the boatman had hardly said a word.  The sailorman felt her eyes more than saw her looking at him and he knew what was coming before she even uttered the words, “I suppose the time has arrived once again.  You told me last night that you had already decided on another name.  Have you changed your mind about that one, or chosen another name?”

The mermaid felt the boatman grow tense as he said, “No.  It’s the same name.  I wasn't able to think of a better one.”

“Well, what is it?” she anxiously prodded. 

Seeing no way out of not telling her the name he'd chosen, he reluctantly answered, “According to ancient Germanic legend, there once lived a very beautiful mermaid.  She had a sweet, alluring voice, which often caused  sailors to run their ships up on the rocks attempting to reach her.  Her name was Lorelei and that's my choice tonight.  My sweet mermaid, is your name Lorelei?” 

As she shook her head in the moonlight and whispered, “No,” the sailorman noticed the two beautiful red gems on the tips of her gaudy spectacles slightly flickering once again.

Disheartened by his choice, since the woman he loved still remained half a fish, the sailorman implored, “Please don’t ask me to guess again.  I don’t care what your name is or what you look like.  So you're half fish; so what – I love you regardless!  It hasn’t made a difference so far – I can live with it – why can’t you?”

Waiting for his emotional outburst to subside, still holding his hands tightly, the mermaid quietly replied, “I've waited for you longer than you have been alive my boatman.  You're my only chance to be a whole woman.  I love you even though I am half fish, but I long to love you like a whole woman; my entire being, body, mind and soul.  You do understand don’t you?  Although I've been somewhat happy with my seagoing friends, the dolphins, whales and fishes, I'm often times overwhelmed with loneliness, something I'm sure you can understand.  So cheer up, smile and think positive – tomorrow night – tell me the right name.  You're not going to let an old magician get the best of you, are you?”

“You ask a lot from me, but I guess that’s a big part about being in love.  Everything isn't always fun and good times; it's getting through the difficult times that life throws at a person that makes a relationship between two people stronger,” replied the sad sailorman.

Although the next morning was bright and sunshiny, the sailorman was as blue as the sky.  He went through his morning ritual, enjoying a cup of hot jasmine tea before taking Misty to the island.  His actions seemed almost hypnotic, as if he had no control of the day and it’s eventual outcome.  For once in his life, he dreaded the approach of nightfall, the responsibility he had to face and perhaps the most overwhelming loss to ever befall him. As he sat in the sailboat's cockpit sipping his tea, Misty curled alongside him like the first curious day he met the mermaid, the mermaid suddenly appeared and playfully splashed them with her large tail.  When her smiling face appeared from below the surface of the sea, he was glad that she could not see the tears intermingled with the saltwater streaming down his face.  The last thing he wanted was to have a sad day with her; he wanted to fill it with happiness and continue the good memories of their time together.

Stripping the clothes from his body, the sailorman dove off the bow, slicing the water with barely a ripple.  When he emerged from beneath the sea, he was face to face with the mermaid.  Taking her in his arms, they kissed; their feelings joyous and uninhibited.  She was his woman and he was her man.  No matter what the outcome of the evening's guess would bring, the feelings they shared was something no one could take away from them, not even that dastardly spell-caster.

The sailorman and his mermaid laughed and played together in the sea, frolicking like two kids.  They held each other close at times, floating up and down with the waves, licking the salty water from each other’s face, splashing, blowing bubbles and kissing beneath the happy sun.  It was a beautiful day and they had decided nothing was going to destroy their happiness. 

Clambering aboard the sailboat, they lay on the deck, exhausted from their playfulness.  Touching one another with their fingertips, hugging and kissing as if there was no tomorrow.  What was in the past has gone forever - in the future – who knows, but now, now is life itself; each thought, each breath, each blink of the eye is what really matters.  Nothing lasts forever, take the moment, steal the moment, grab it anyway you can is what was passing through their minds as they held each other close, each becoming the other until they were one. 

Cupping the mermaid’s chin in his hands, the sailorman looked into her eyes and smiled, saying, “I've never experinced such happiness in my entire life until this very moment.”  He looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time, taking in every little hair, the slight flare of her nostrils, thin brown eyebrows, soft pink lips, playful freckles speckled across her nose and those eyes, the colours forever changing with the light.  The light!  It was as if a light had been switched on inside his head.

The mermaid sensing his excitement, exclaimed, “Is it time to…”

Before she could finish her sentence, the sailorman pressed his finger lightly against her lips.  “Shh!" he exclaimed.  "Yes, it’s time, time for me to tell you your name.  That sorcerer, wizard, destroyer of dreams, envious of other’s loving schemes; what does he know about real power; he’s only a trickster, a magician, a sideshow operator, a ruse with a bag full of cheap tricks, probably a figment of his own imagination.  You and I are real; we feel, we love, we have compassion and honesty; we shed real tears.

The last episode of THE MERMAID AND THE MAGICIAN will be posted on Monday.  You have until then to email me your answer to the magician's name he gave the mermaid.  Remember,  only people who have joined the Newsletter or a "follower" are eligible to win the prize!