MOSQUITOES, THE LONE WOLF AND BUDDY

          The sun is finally shining and hopefully we won't be bombarded with another downpour, which happened yesterday, complete with loud bursts of thunder and flashes of lightning right above our house; I believe the racket and light show that occurred aroused our ghost, who could be heard dancing spiritedly away in the attic.  The warmth and the sunlight feels good, even though the damp humidity makes one feel as though they've taken up residence in a greenhouse.  I noticed the mosquitoes as large as hummingbirds, which are gathered around the muddy puddles, ponds and lakes dressed in their finest bathing attire and wearing sunglasses are still overly friendly - as soon as I come near them, thinking I must be a tender, juicy steak to be washed back with a glass of red blood, they flock to me like squadrons of kamikaze zeros, hell-bent on destruction.  My arms have been flapping so hard at times trying to swat them out of the air, I'm sure, with just a little more effort, I probably could have flew away to a place that mosquitoes don't exist.

Lone Wolf  - Unfinished 11"x14" Painting           

          Our 3/4 ton diesel truck "Buddy" decided to break down yesterday after we left the Woodstock Farmer's Market; because of the clicking sounds emitting from the engine, whenever the ignition key was turned on, even though I know almost absolutely nothing about engines, my money (quite literally) is on the starter having a huge hissy-fit while complaining, "Enough is enough!  I aint gonna start no more!"  

           Just getting Buddy towed to a mechanic in Canterbury was $125.00, so I can't imagine how much the repair bill will be; almost every time beforehand when the truck broke down, we were looking at a grand - a thousand little shiny loonies pirouetting out of our pockets and into someone else's piggy bank  Unfortunately, since I was unable to pick up some more building materials for my baby-barn project, I may not get much further on it this coming week.  However, if that's the case, perhaps I can finish the "Lone Wolf" painting and perhaps a few more - would be great to have some new paintings for our Arts Festival, which will be happening here on August 19th.  (Incidentally, we're still looking for a few more artisans to sign up and reserve their spaces - should be just as good a time as last year.)
          One thing about the hordes of mosquitoes and Buddy breaking down, the time should be well-spent indoors; a time for healing some of my aches and pains.  Haven't been sleeping that good either, so the rest should be good as well for this old guy, who sometimes still thinks he's got the energy of a young man and often over does it - drives meself beyond me limits.  Like the mosquitoes basking around all the mud puddles, ponds and lakes located near the base of Green Mountain, me thinks I'll break out me paints and brushes, pop the lid off a cold one, kick me legs out and enjoy its golden amber flavour as I paint away - cheers, eh! 

THOUGHTS OF A DOODLER-DABBLER

          It's been almost two years since we moved to New Brunswick from BC to a nice home on 50 acres that we can afford and sadly, I'm beginning to have serious doubts as to why I came.  I think I imagined things would be quite a bit different from living in a small city and as far as country living goes, it is so.  Unlike city life, the lifestyle here in Fosterville is a lot more laid back, the neighbours definitely more friendly and helpful; quite similar to a camaraderie that I experienced and enjoyed immensely while living on my sail boat for 25 years in Nanaimo and several other places.  As old as I am, I mean being almost 71, suffering from well-deserved aches and pains because of not looking after myself in my younger years, is definitely a deterrent but as odd as it may seem, I am up for that challenge; I've never turned my back on hard work and having a goal is still important to me; searching for a comfortable retirement home or taking a vacation when the weather becomes inclement is not the least bit appealing.  I've always been a high-energy sort of person, often, when most people become tired and packing it in; I'm just beginning.  And in some ways, I'm still the same although admittedly, I'm slower now; my strength and stamina somewhat waned.  So, why do I have serious doubts about living here at the base of Green Mountain in the semi-wilderness?  I'm not totally sure and even if I am, this is not the place to actually gripe about it.
          Dreamer II, my sail boat, almost seemed like an island  but instead of being stationary, I could move it to a new location whenever I desired.  Now that  I am definitely land-locked and firmly anchored to 50 acres, instead of the sail boat, I have become the island or perhaps a castaway like Robinson Crusoe.  And, like Robby boy, instead of a man Friday, I have a woman Friday and I suppose realistically, since she has two daughters, I could say I have a Little Friday and a Littler Friday as well.  But even with all these people in my life, I guess what I find somewhat strange and I suspect Mr. Robinson may have found this as well on his small island regarding his man Friday, although he had company, he most likely felt quite lonely.  I may have to reread Daniel Defoe's novel Robinson Crusoe; I wouldn't be surprised if we have quite a lot in common.  
          I've been accused of not letting people into my head or allowing them to get close to me and to some extent, it's quite likely true.  I remember a house party I once attended, sitting somewhat alone and sipping a cold beer, a good looking blonde woman sat down next to me and pointed her finger in my face, demanding, "You look like an interesting man; I want to get into your head.  Talk to me!"  Since I wasn't in a very cheerful or perhaps sociable mood that evening and looking back, it must have been terribly rude of me, I simply stood up and replied, "Nobody gets into my head." and walked away.  Just thinking back to the house party has reminded me about another woman, who for some reason or another took a distinct dislike to me.  I was working with a couple of friends near a small town in Saskatchewan called Bengough in the middle of winter, when at -35, with a wind chill of -70 degrees, we were forced to spend some time at our hotel in the beer parlour.  While I was shooting pool and had an unlikely winning streak, a big, fat, obese, loud-mouthed woman sitting near the pool table got on my case.  Finally, trying my best to ignore her, she blurted out, "Why don't you kiss my big fat ass!"  An opportunity like that I just couldn't let go; I just couldn't keep my mouth shut.  I never in all my life saw a fat lady move so fast or me either for that fact after I said, "Lady, no matter where I kissed you, it wouldn't matter because you're all ass!"  I could hear people roaring with laughter, whether at me for what I said or because they had never seen a woman as fat as her come rushing at a skinny guy, namely me as I hot-footed out the bar room door with her close on my heels.  We scooted into the hotel lobby and beyond.  She was like a snorting, raging bull, except the only red I could see was her fat bulging face as I scampered down the hallway towards the hotel room my friends and I had reserved for a few days.  Losing her around a corner, I quickly let myself in and locked the door.  Although it was difficult to suppress the laughter building up inside me, I knew that if she heard me, she most likely would have busted into the room and crushed me to death with her fat billowing body, so I contained myself until my friends arrived. 
          The rain has been more than substantial the past week or so, the Sahara Desert, if it were to receive this much rain would most likely be the land of orchards and vineyards instead of a vast wasteland.  It's odd isn't it; we put so much value in oil, which has been polluting our planet - just think - if our so called scientists, politicians and businessmen had put as much money, thoughtfulness and effort into the reclamation of land and using the existing fresh water supplies - how much better our world would be - and fuck - there would even be a profit in it - cheers, eh!  

ON THE EDGE - WE MAY BE LIVING CLOSER TO IT THAN WE THINK

On the Edge

          It's a rainy Sunday; the downpour so heavy, denizens of the deep could quite possibly be packing their scaly bags and considering moving to our 50 acres at the base of Green Mountain.  Actually, since the Arctic ice is melting so rapidly, it wouldn't surprise me if sea life were to become a probability a lot further inland before too long; many small islands and atolls already having disappeared with the rising of the oceans.  I quite often go visit my friends George and Margaret Probst on Sundays, but because of the pouring rain I decided against it.  So, it was a nice surprise that George came here for a short visit; I really enjoy our conversations, even though I do most of the listening; even at this late age in life, I am still open to learning something new.  We have like thoughts on many of the issues that are threatening the well-being of our planet and our lives; many of which we are labelled cynical and are considered negative thinking - I prefer to think of our views as realistic.

          Many people think that Vincent Van Gough cut off his ear because he was jilted by a woman of the night, a red-light-siren or because he was angry with a fellow artist by the name of Paul Gauguin.  In a fit of rage, unable to find his friend and perhaps stab him to death, he cut off his own ear instead; or so the story goes.  I painted this self-portrait of old Vinny boy and since he had yet to cut off his ear; I cut it off for him; much less painful and no blood either; he must of bled like a stuck pig and most likely squealed like one as well.  While looking at the painting hanging in my studio, George and I decided that he hadn't cut his ear off for either of those two reasons.  No, like many of us, we have an ear for only listening to good things and an ear for listening to bad things, so Vincent, very troubled man in his own right, decided to sever the ear that could only hear bad things.  Although most of the population have two good ears, both George and I firmly believe that the majority of us only listen to the good things and that the unholy mess, being created and which already been created, will be miraculously cleaned up and put into order by our brilliant scientists or some religious god - perhaps the god of garbage; he may have a brilliant recycling scheme for the good of mankind.  

          One of the most important resources, if not the most important resource the Earth has to offer is water and can you believe our illustrious leaders are happily and purposely creating gigantic pools of toxic water for  the god of economy.  It's not that long ago that water was considered very valuable and there was an unwritten law, that nobody messed around with it - anyone caught poisoning water was pretty much done away with; often times without even a trial - just hung the sons-bitches from the nearest tree.  Why is it that our prime minister, like many other leaders, are allowed to get away with promoting the extraction of precious ores and fossil fuels with no regard for destroying valuable water resources?  Is it we, the general populace that's incompetent or is it our leaders?  Why are governments allowed to promote big business instead of doing what is morally right for our planet and its inhabitants?  Unfortunately, I have a lot of questions but I don't have any answers.  Perhaps one of the things we human beings is cursed with is knowing that we die, many of us actually believing that when it happens, we are privileged to go to some marvellous Eden in the sky; an eternal Shang-La.  For those of you who believe this; ask yourself this question; why would any god in their right mind allow such self-indulging, self-righteous, self-destructing people to inhabit another kingdom, after they've destroyed the one in the whole frickin' Universe that appears to be habitable.  To me, if such a place does actually exist; it's most likely very small and for those who have truly led an outstanding selfless life.

          I admit I'm not a very smart man but even as dumb as I am, it's not difficult for me to see the signs that something is drastically and seriously wrong with our planet; our Earth; our home and that my life, my kid's lives, their children's lives are in dire straits; our very existence is jeopardized, threatened to the point where we might all die together even though none of us are residing in close proximity - now how sad is that?  Studies have shown that the average Canadian and American are using up 6 times more of the resources that we need for our existence; we are consuming far too much; buying useless crap made from unsustainable resources.  Even if we were to cut back to only 2 times the amount; it would not be enough.  In simple terminology, if the inhabitants of the Earth want to survive, we have to cut back even less than the full 6 times.

          Alas, I have no solutions; only gripes and no idea what I would do to alleviate the problems if I were one of the world's leaders; except perhaps, to make certain that my actions were for the good of all living creatures and not for powerful business ventures - what good are jobs if they are destructive to the planet and kill its creatures; not just humans but everything that has a right to live here.  And then again, like Van Gough, I could cut off the ear that only hears good things or failing that, I suppose I could don a pair or rose-coloured glasses - cheers, eh!

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY DAD

My Dad

          I took this photo of my dad many years ago at Lansdowne Park (which later became Lansdowne Shopping Mall) in Richmond, BC.  Almost every photo of my dad has a cigarette, a "roll-your-own", hanging from the corner of his mouth.  Even photos I took of him when he fell asleep in his living room chair, there would be a cigarette butt in the corner of his mouth.  Besides being a trainer of racehorses, a fantastic chef, an excellent baker and one hell of a card player, he was a very intelligent man with very little education - Grade 9, which as odd as it seems to me now, was most likely more than the equivalent of my Grade 12.  He was a quiet man and very strong as I recall, even at the age of about 60, which he is in the photo, he was still able to lift a bale of three-wired, Washington state, Timothy hay and stack it over his head.  I only felt his hand deal out punishment to me twice and I have to say, it was well-deserved.  The first time was when a friend of  mine and I stole 20 dollars from his mom's purse and the last time was when I said something about my step mom.  Waiting for my first licking, I think was actually worse than the actual spanking I received.  The second time, he was so fast, one moment I was sitting at the kitchen table and the next, I found myself across the room on the floor sitting against the cupboards.  I never really got to know my dad until I worked with him at the racetrack on pretty much a daily basis for many years because his jobs often took him away from home for many weeks or he worked the night shifts as a baker.  When I married at the age, just under 29, in Lethbridge, Alta, my new wife Doreen and I honeymooned in Vancouver.for a week and it was the last time I saw him alive - he died Christmas day of that year.  I was lucky to have such a father and although I see specks of him within me, I wish overall that I was more like him.          

          Although I'm not certain the jockey's name is Arnold Johnson, I definitely know that the horse's name is Rough Road, one of dad's favourites and mine as well.  The high spirited gelding was what a person might call a "working man's" horse; he almost always brought home a pay check at the end of a race.  "Roughy" as we affectionately called him was a chestnut, with a desire to win his races on any kind of rated track - from fast to muddy, you would always see him make his move for the front when the horses were rounding the final turn and heading into the home stretch.  There were many photo finishes taken with his nose barely ahead of the second horse when he reached the finish wire.  In a way, even when the odds were stacked against him, like my dad, you could always count on him to give his very best and I thank you dad on this Father's Day for all that you gave me over the years. 

THE FARMY LIFE

Finnegan Rules the Chicken Coop

          Funny thing about farming, although realistically, this is hardly a farm, but for lack of a better word, we  do have have about 50 chickens, 1 goat, 1 cat and 1dog that we tend to - now if I could figure out a way to control and discover a monetary use for black flies, mosquitoes, gnats and every other blood sucking thing that abounds by the millions and lives in our direct vicinity - an insect farm might just become a viable enterprise.  There is also a garden of sorts if you call potted veggies around our well a garden - it's more what a person would expect to see on the 175th floor of an apartment building in a major city but still it will be nice to have a few fresh tomatoes, lettuce and whatever else survives the onslaught of other insects that prefer vegetation to flesh.  But then Rome wasn't built in a day and oddly enough, when it was finally finished, you can be sure it was built by slaves, the sounds of whips flaying flesh not too unlike the sounds of horns in a busy metropolis as the masses scurry about to their jobs, however, instead of a lash, they receive a pay cheque.  

          Unfortunately, life has changed, the majority of the people have turned their backs on Nature and opened their arms to cement, glass, plastic, shiny objects, machinery, computers, etc. etc. and as a result, we have become less of a species and truly missed the glory of what could have been a remarkable feat for mankind in general - a real garden of Eden to bequeath each generation.  Ah, the cynic is coming out in me once again, but I think it's better to be somewhat cynical than go through life with my head in a hole or up my arse and thinking the messes I've created will sort themselves out in the long run and everything will be beautiful.  True beauty cannot be found without thorns - besides a little pain makes one more appreciative of what they have.  Sweat rolling down my face, shoulders, my belly and dripping off my knees is actually a good feeling - I just don't want to stand still too long or I might get stuck in the sweaty mud puddle I've created.  I don't begrudge my aches and pains either when I see the results of my accomplishments and when I think about it, just living to what we deem as old age is also an accomplishment of sorts - did I really think I'd wind up sitting by a pool, sipping a pina calada, drooling over some young honey-coloured babe - now how f---king boring would that be, when the only thing I was looking forward to was the buffet, so I could stuff my face with the rest of porkers surrounding the abundant trough.

          Perhaps Finnegan has the right idea - taking a snooze under the nesting boxes. But don't let the photo fool you, although it was taken some time ago and he looks like a lazy old cat, he had just performed a job for me during the night.  As it turned out, one of the hens had been actually attacked by a weasel (a blood sucking rodent) in the chicken coop so I'd locked him in overnight to take care of the little varmint, should it decide to return.  I never saw the weasel again and whether it was the cat that deterred its presence, I shall never know.  But Finnegan, even though he is well fed, not to the extent he'll turn into a Garfield, he is hell on four furry paws - mice, weasels, squirrels, moles and other wily rodents are his game and unfortunately so is the odd bird.  I like to prefer to Finnigan as our watch-cat - he does a job, which isn't much different than the dog's duties.  Like the other morning for instance, instead of taking the dog for a walk about a mile distance, the cat took it upon itself to follow me.  I was glad to see the feisty little feline was street smart too because whenever a vehicle came near, he ducked into the bushes and wouldn't come out until it had passed.  I wish I could say the same for our feathery raptors; one of the hens got whacked by a car a few days ago; expect some varmints are feeding on its carcass still.

          The sun is shining this fine June morning, and although the chickens were let out of the coop quite some time ago, I still have a few farmy chores to attend to before continuing work on the baby-barn.  I'm hoping my friend Lyndon Canam from on top of Green Mountain drops by today to give me a hand to finish off my electric wiring.  My hair is already curly enough without giving myself any more shocks while I try figuring out how to attach the wires to the light switch.  The wiring diagrams make it all look so easy but my body is still vibrating from my lack of achievement concerning the actual wiring at hand.  It's almost 7:30am - time to get on with the remainder of the day; let the sweat drip and the aches begin - cheers, eh!         

SIGNS OF THE TIME

Hand-Lettered Sign

          I don't know why I keep getting signs to letter way out here in the boonies at the base of Green Mountain but I'm grateful for the work.  It's odd, even though I have a computerized size machine, which actually makes the jobs easier, I'm glad to be going back to my roots as a sign painter, when I taught myself how to handle a lettering-brush about 50 years ago.  In comparison to the first signs I lettered around 1960, which took me so long to complete, I just pretty much bang them out now.  This "Mason 66" sign is a take off on Route 66 (although there is an actual Route 66 in the US) which was made famous by an old television program.  It's about 2' square in size and in the beginning, I was just going to letter it on a square board but I think it looks better cut out in the shape of a cop's badge.

                                               Baby-Barn - Soon to be my new Art Studio

          The baby-barn I've been renovating seems to be coming along just fine - managed to get a couple of windows in place and two of the walls are partially completed, along with some of the electrical wiring.  I have to admit, not being much of a carpenter and my electrical abilities are even less than satisfactory, I'm still making some headway.  Today, I hot-wired the baby-barn to an outside outlet on the garage  - of course, I blew a breaker and received a wee shock.  However, after a wee bit of fiddling around, I tried it again - the electrical plug-ins work just fine but the lighting system doesn't - I think I double-backed the wrong wires so, like a lot of things in life, will have to try a little reverse psychology.  There's still a lot of work to do in the inside such as take out a large rear window (as much as I would like to keep it) so I can build a loft inside - give me quite a bit more room to work.  The roof still needs to be insulated and then of course, the remainder of the walls and ceiling need to be boarded in - lot of work for an old guy - no wonder I'm tired or is it partially due to Sarah's daughter, Rachel phoning downstairs in the middle of the night asking her to come upstairs to talk to her - probably a combination me thinks.

          Due to another rainfall that's supposed to occur tomorrow, I mowed the lawn amidst a load of mosquitoes that were hell-bent on sucking my blood - not quite sure which of us won the battle - received quite a few bites as I swatted at the little kamikaze insects left and right like King Kong as they were circling around my head.   One thing I've noticed about the mosquitoes - as much as they like me - they like Freya, the goat, even more.  Her little tail just keeps flicking like crazy while I milk her and since she sometimes flicks the side of my head with it - she keeps the little beggars off me.   I should have gave the barn and chicken coop another good cleaning today too but am thinking that Saturday will be best - I want to buy a sanitizing solution to wash down the place - hopefully rid the place of any wee critters that like to cause havoc with the chickens and other livestock.  

          And speaking of chickens, those fine-feathered raptors, which somehow have adapted rather well from the dinosaur era, I'm beginning to think they are smarter than us humans.  Occasionally, just before dark, when there is a couple of lingering chickens outside and I'm trying to herd them into the chicken coop and they go every direction other than I want, I angrily call them "stupid".  However, upon saying that, in the big picture so to speak, the human race to my way of thinking is stupid.  The raptors of old didn't cause the environment to change but we sure as hell are doing a good job of it at the moment and not in a good way.  The future to me is looking more than a little bleak as I watch Alberta becoming a toxic wasteland and I hear our own New Brunswick premier, David Alward and his followers pushing for fracking.  Also, when whole islands are disappearing because of the rising oceans, I would say the writing is on the wall, something that not even a Noah's ark will be able to rectify - no animals two by two walking aboard his vessel - shoot - most of them are now extinct or are on the endangered list.  Some scientists believe that we may destroy the planet and it will become like many of the other lifeless planets in our solar system.  It's hard to believe that we're actually destroying our home, especially since there's no place else to go.  I know, I know, many people think I'm cynical because I don't put much faith in hope - it's not like I've lost hope, I just don't seem to be able to see us humans changing our ways in the very near future - cheers, eh!      

THE MOTH, THE BUTTERFLY AND THE HOOKERS

 Luna Moth on My Art Studio Door

          Imagine my surprise, utter astonishment yesterday morning, when, after letting the chickens out of the coop, I was about to push the door open to go back into my studio.  At first glance, I thought that a large green leaf had somehow attached itself to the corner of the window and when I realized what I was looking at, a Luna Moth, it was a little unnerving to see an insect that was almost as large as my hand.  After doing a little research on the web, I discovered, because of its tail shape, this particular Luna Moth is a male.  Since the life span is so short; only about a week to live, I'd have thought this brilliant lime green, nocturnal lover would have been on a quest last night to woo a mate, which is his sole purpose for living (Luna Moths don't even eat).  But no, he wasn't long gone, he was still attached to the back door, just in a slightly different place.  

          I had an interesting encounter with a very large flying insect one hot summer day, when a friend of mine, Rex Smith and I went camping at Shuswap Lake, which is located in central BC.  As we were walking on a path beside the lake, my peripheral vision caught sight of something very large flitting alongside my head.  I was so startled, since I knew mosquitoes in some parts of BC could grow to the size of miniature dive bombers, I immediately began to flee the area as fast as my lily white legs could carry me.  However, much to my dismay, whatever it was, kept up with me.  Since I was wearing a bright fuscia coloured shirt and I thought it might be attracting the mystery flying object, perhaps a tiny UFO, still at top speed, I immediately ripped it off and tossed it onto the ground.  Rex, at this point, was laughing so hard, no doubt at my flailing arms and legs as I high-tailed it down the path, knowing whatever was chasing me couldn't be life threatening, I stopped running and turned around.  To my amazement, sitting on my shirt, gracefully opening and closing its wings, was the largest and most beautiful butterfly I've ever seen.  I imagine the butterfly had similar thoughts; I was the largest and most beautiful flower it had ever seen.  

          And while I'm on the subject of butterflies, when I first moved to Nanaimo from Calgary in the late 70's, a friend of mine, Gary Ritchie, a fellow artist and I went to one of the local bars for a few cold ones and a bite of supper.  While we were enjoying ourselves, a couple of gorgeous blondes started giving us the eye, which I thought was rather unusual, since neither of us were handsome hunks and he was wearing a cast on his right leg, which he had accidentally busted a short time before.  I didn't pay much attention to them and for some reason or another, can't remember what, inspiration overtook me to write a poem about a butterfly.  As I jotted down the poem with a felt pen on a paper plate, Gary started chatting up the blondes and before I knew it, they had joined us.  I don't know why, maybe because they weren't used to being ignored by men, the tallest blonde suddenly grabbed the paper plate off the table and began taunting me as she read the poem.  When I told her the poem wasn't quite finished and tried to grab the plate out of her hand, she suddenly stuck it inside her blue blouse and in those days, hippy times still thriving, many of the young women didn't wear bras and it was obvious she didn't.  When I demanded it back, I guess since the bar was full of people, she didn't really think anything would happen when she said, "You know where it is; come and get it."  

          I can still kind of see the look on her face, big blue eyes flashing like lights on a speeding cop car, as I reached into her blouse and grabbed hold of - bet you thought I was going to say her tits - but nope - the paper plate; didn't so much as touch her skin.  Although she was surprised how quick I was, I think she was a little disappointed, especially since they later put the hustle on Gary, actually had him up dancing with a cast on his leg.  They turned out to be just as I had sort of expected - the two gorgeous blondes were fun-lovin' hookers.  I don't know what became of Gary and the two blondes that night, but I left the bar while the music was still playing and the beers were still flowing - climbed on my motorcycle and road off home - cheers, eh!            

DO YOU EVER DOUBT WHAT YOU'RE DOING?

          As much as I like it here in New Brunswick, it's mornings like this, or perhaps I should say days, when that old feeling called doubt comes creeping around my doorstep like a stray cat and starts meowing or screeching questions like, "What the hell am I doing here?"  I've lived in quite a few places over the years like Vancouver, Prince George, Victoria, Lethbridge, Calgary, Gibsons, Comox, Cumberland and Nanaimo - I won't get into the houses and apartments where I've resided, and oh yeah, even lived on a sail boat for many years (the place I liked the most) - not sure why - maybe the sense of freedom that I could just haul up the anchor or untie the mooring lines and set sail to wherever I had a hankering to drop the anchor again.  Although I've lived a wee bit of a nomadic life, perhaps always searching for the greener grass on the other side of the mountain, these 50 acres or as I call it at times, 50 achers, in a sense has brought me back to my roots, to my grand-folks pioneering days when they travelled by stage coach and on foot from North Carolina to the wilds of BC, a place called Woodpecker and there, with the use of work horses and oxen cleared a chunk of land alongside the Fraser River and built themselves a fine log house.  As a young boy and later in my teens I once told my grandmother after we had climbed a high hill overlooking their home that when I became a man, I was going to come back and build me a fine house there.  I can still see my grandmother's wonderful smile and sparkling blue eyes (which never dulled until she was found outside on the ground at the bottom of the backstairs still clutching her broom) and if I try real hard, even after all these years gone by, I can almost hear her voice when she said, most likely knowing that it would never happen, "That would be nice Leonard, sure has a good view."
          I don't mind some of the hard work I've been doing here at the base of Green Mountain, like building a wee barn, an art studio and now renovating a baby barn I had skidded onto the property because my studio is too cramped, the workable part only about 5' wide and 8' long, so when I get 4'x8' signs to letter, it's tighter than a polka dot bikini scotch-taped to a 300 pound vixen.  When we first arrived, I also renovated the upstairs bedrooms and landings to a certain degree becauseour money ran a wee bit low - hoping to get back to that as soon as we can afford a new floor; maybe this winter if I'm lucky.  But then I'm not too concerned about getting the upstairs finished since I know it takes about 5 years after moving into a place, everything that a person wanted to do then, should be mostly completed.  Besides, I'm not a carpenter, electrician or a plumber, so it's more difficult for me, a rank amateur, and being in my 70's, as expected, it takes me longer to do a job.  Dang; some days my aching muscles and bones just scream, "Not today!  Enough is enough!  Take a break you crazy old coot!"  And I do, I mean I don't want to do any permanent damage to my already somewhat decrepit body and hell, what's the rush - living here at the base of Green Mountain where seldom a vehicle goes by, it makes little or no-never-mind that I put deadlines on my work load.
          Sometimes my body craves the westcoast of BC; the winters weren't so long and the black flies, mosquitoes and no-seeums didn't exist and spring and summer were longer than 3 months.  I also didn't have to work so hard but oddly as that seems, that part doesn't bother me because I'm learning new things and it's helping to keep me somewhat fit; the sedimentary lifestyle doesn't appeal to me in the least - sure, using my brains is a good thing but what's the sense in that if the body doesn't respond.  At this age, it's still great to have a few dreams and I've learned over the years not to shoot too high - better to reach the odd goal than never reach any of them and on that note (besides the goat needs milking and all the barnyard critters need tending to and I have to resume insulating the baby barn) - winter aint that far off) I do believe I'll end this blog - cheers, eh!          

STORMS, INSECTS AND A NUDE

          It's Sunday, supposedly by Biblical terminology, the day of rest.  The way I'm feeling this morning, especially after working pretty hard for an old guy, the last six days, I'm all in favour for taking the day off, kinda just sit around after the barnyard chores are tended to; chickens need to be fed and watered, same as the dog, cat and the goat, which of course, also needs to be milked.  Apparently, according to the good book, those are the only chores that are allowed to be done.  I often hike up Green Monday on a Sunday morning after the chores are tended to, and as much as I feel like visiting my friend George Probst, I just know the black flies, the mosquitoes and the little bastardly no-see-ums will just be a swarming all around me, thinking I'm their Sunday meal.  Which brings to mind, since our lawn needed a good mowing a few days ago, I got out the old electric mower and began cutting the grass during a heavy mist.  Then much to my chagrin, above the clanging and hum of the mower, I detected thunder rumbling in the distance and a heavier drizzle began to fall.  And, before too long, large drops of rain began to pummel down like the beginning of Noah's deluge.  Now, most folk would have high-tailed to a dry place, but me, I just looked up at the flashing lightning, listened to the roaring thunder and licked the rain from my lips, smiled and thought, aint no damned pesky flying insects gonna sting the crap and suck the blood out of me in this downpour.  Not sure if I was just a fool to have been mowing the lawn under those inclement conditions and I have to admit it was a bit worrying as I mowed the grass under the tall trees; lightning has a discriminate way of searching out tall objects; could have got myself lit up like an electric bulb on a dark night.

5 Stages of 4'x8' Hand-Lettered Sign

          Besides dodging blood-suckin' black flies and other man-eatin' flying insects, I locked myself away in my almost air-tight little studio and made a few bucks manufacturing signs.  I hand-lettered a sign for Laura in Canterbury that will soon be on the northern wall of her store.  During these times of one of the few people on the globe, trying to avoid to leave my big oily, greasy befouled footprint behind when I'm gone, I'm attempting to return to some of the old ways of lettering signs; mainly with the use of brushes, paints and a wee bit of paint-thinner; really cuts down on the wastage.  Hell, when I do computer-generated vinyl letters, I toss out as much vinyl as I use for the letters, if not more.  At least with paint, even if I spill a bit of it on myself, which occasionally happens, probably 90% of the paint is used.  Also, there's a lot more satisfaction in deftly swishing, twisting and dabbing a brushing to create letters than just sitting at a keyboard, then just pushing some buttons and letting some machine take over.  I may be an old-fashioned son-of-a- bitch at times but to my way of thinking, sometimes the old ways are often times a better way to go - falling in love with machines is like turning our backs on nature and we can all see where that's heading now - to hell in a hand basket or whatever that saying is.

Laura's Finished Sign

         Just before Sarah and I motored off to the Farmer's Market in Woodstock on Friday, I took a photo of the sign as it sat on the ass end of our truck "Buddy".  Now I don't know about you or whoever else reads this sign but I think I might be a touch hesitant about eating the food that was prepared in that cafe - almost seems that after a person has ate their fill, they might be a bit more than plugged, especially if they need plumbing supplies to relieve their indigestion - Laura and I actually had a pretty good laugh over it; that gal certainly does have a good sense of humour.  I lettered 11 other signs but they're rather generic; nothing as fancy as the General Store sign.  But since there were 8 identical signs, I have to admit the lick and stick computer- generated vinyl signs were somewhat more satisfyingly executed - boring comes to mind when I have to hand-paint 8 signs that all have the same message.  Almost forgot to mention that I actually hand-lettered another sign too.  It was on a plastic bug deflector for one of those new boxy looking cube vans, which said The "Cubicle" - silver letters to match the colour of the van.  Money wise, here on Golden Unicorn Farm, it was a good week, even sold a wee painting, depicting a nude torso of a woman.  Hardly ever sell a nude painting; they're not for everyone but I sure as hell like painting them - there's just something beautiful and natural about a nude woman and it's timeless too when they shuck their duds and strut their stuff - cheers, eh!