THE MESSENGER - 3RD EDITION

          I haven't posted a Blog for some time because I've been so busy writing articles for The Messenger, including illustrating the cover and designing most of the ads.  This month's issue has full colour on the back and front cover, which I think adds quality and interest to the publication.  I'm not sure if this small publication will still be operating after the September issue because the population in the area drops off quite dramatically.  I've considered expanding the distributing area of The Messenger into parts of Woodstock but the production and distribution of this mini-newspaper would be so costly, I'm not sure the advertisers would pay the sharp increase for the cost of an ad.  However, I may give it a test run in the future if I can get more advertisers within Woodstock and the outlying regions - it is, after all - very new, and a work in progress.

          Being the Editor and flunky as well, I am open to any ideas for the success of this publication on a monthly basis.  Also, I would appreciate any output, negative or positive about the article I wrote New Brunswick - Then and Now".  There is a Letters to the Editor column and I am always looking for comments regarding any of the articles, plus whatever a reader may find interesting and informative.  We enjoy working with the different communities helping to get out their events and learning about possible local content that people would enjoy reading, so let me know what is going on in your part of the woods - cheers, eh! 

THE MESSENGER - ISSUE 2

          The second issue of The Messenger has since gone to press and has now been delivered to almost 400 rural homes from Canterbury to Forest City, NB and appears to be enjoyed by many.  Since the recent slayings of three RCMP officers in Moncton, an event that quickly went nation-wide, I drew a pen and ink sketch of a mountie holding a flag at half-mast for the cover.  I also wrote a short article as a tribute to the RCMP, which is as follows:

          On June 4th, 2014, three RCMP constables were killed in Moncton, NB, when they answered their call to duty.  Two other officers were injured by the same lone gunman.

          I can remember, when just as a boy, incidents of this nature, if they even existed, were very rare - tragically - now it seems, they are almost everyday occurrences. 

          LIke many people in positions of authority, there are good ones and bad ones, which is too bad because I believe all police officers should be revered and respected - remember - when they are asked to respond to a call for help or just happen to be there when trouble breaks out, they often put their very lives at risk, which the three RCNP Constables, Gevaudan, Ross and Larche did and doing so, they lost their lives.  Also, their families and friends will be tragically affected by their untimely deaths.

          The times they are troublin', may possibly even get worse, and if so, it's still good to know that in these perilous times, maybe a Mountie just might show up on your doorstep.  He won't be wearin' a crimson-red jacket or ridin' a fine horse like in the olden days, but he'll be there - and that's what counts!

          Production of the third publication of The Messenge,r for the month of August, is already in the works.  Since New Brunswick Day falls on the first Monday of every August, I've just finished writing a short article called New Brunswick - Then and Now and sketched another illustration for the cover.  In the last issue, my wife Sarah wrote an article about Gladys Foster, a long time resident of Fosterville and in the upcoming issue she is already writing about another interesting person.  We look forward to other people writing articles as well and are always on the lookout for photos, poetry or anything else readers may like to submit.  We were amazed by many people who read the ads, which were submitted from the State of Maine and have shown a great interest in what is happening there, such as the CLIC Free Island Picnic, Woodie Wheaton Land Trust events and the delicious meals at First Settler,s Lodge.

          I realize nobody wants to think about winter, especially since last winter was so harsh - my back still aches from shoveling so much snow - but I have to turn my thoughts towards that direction where The Messenger is concerned because I'd like to keep it a monthly publication.  As much as people don't like advertisements, it's an essential segment of The Messenger because the printing and postal costs are constant.  However, that being said, we are still trying to incorporate a good portion of the publication to content that our readers will find interesting and hopefully enjoy, whether their views are the same as others or not. 

          We already have some outlets in Woodstock where The Messenger can be picked up or just read while you enjoy a cup of coffee - mainly the Celtic Fox (O'Toole's Gallery) in Grafton or at the Woodstock Farmer's Market downtown.  If there are any other businesses in the Woodstock area or other areas that would like to be an outlet for The Messenger or perhaps run an advertisement, please feel free to get in touch with us by either sending an email to goldenunicornpublishing@gmail.com or lenwsherman@gmail.com or phoning (506-894-2420).  

          To see the whole pdf file of The Messenger click on goldenunicornpublishing       

THE MESSENGER

          At this age, in the sunset of my years, one would think that I would take more time to relax and enjoy my rocking chair (yes, I actually have a rocky chair and it is the most comfortable place to sit in the whole house).  But no, I must have pushed the wrong button on my personal time machine and time warped into a part of my life, when I was consumed with earning a living as a commercial artist.  Although I now paint and write, hobbies of sorts, for a great deal of enjoyment, I've always been fascinated by puzzles, like crosswords for instance, something for my wee brain to play with, like a dog and its bone.  Besides self-publishing a couple of books recently, on a two day whim, I put an 8 page mini-newspaper of sorts together called The Messenger and had it directly distributed by Canada Post to approximately 400 homes.  Of course, to publish such an endeavour does cost money and I was prepared to fund the first edition entirely on my own.  But hey, before I knew it, 10 advertisers paid for spots and I had to increase the number of pages to 12.  Besides the fact that over the years, I always enjoyed designing ads, posters and brochures, etc., since my wife Sarah wanted to let people know about her wee, little cafe out in the boonies of Fosterville and we were going to distribute some posters to let people know about it, I thought a little monthly periodical just might be the ticket, and so far, it's been a good idea.  Not only are we able to let people know what we are up to, they are able to do the same for not very much money.

          Since June is notable for celebrating fathers on Father's Day, and not really having anything to promote that day, I quickly wrote an article about my dad.  I wrote the short article (about 400 words), not to just advertise the fact that Father's Day is in June but also as an example of a memorable person that someone else might know and would think it would be interesting enough for other people to read about.  As editor, I'm looking to fill a certain amount of the pages with interesting content; short stories, poetry, photos, artwork, recipes and community events etc., not just advertising, because then just like many other advertising flyers, unless I am searching for a certain thing to purchase; it immediately becomes a source of starting a fire in the winter to keep us warm.  One person already told me that she read the entire Messenger and really enjoyed it, so with that response and others, I feel this little periodical could become a good thing, which people will look forward to receiving once a month. 

         My wife Sarah is also a big part of The Messenger and without her help, especially in the advertising department, I doubt that I could keep this little periodical going on a monthly basis.  Like me, she is an avid writer and especially enjoys writing poetry.  Like I said earlier, The Messenger was put together in a rush, so to help fill some of the content, she wrote this short poem, also as an example for what other people might like to submit.  

          The photo on the front page was submitted by Mike Saunders, a well known retired photographer who resides with his wife Judy, an avid artist, on the shores of East Grand Lake during the summer months.  Because the population in the Fosterville vicinity drops quite dramatically when the harsh winter storms begin approaching, I'm considering only publishing The Messenger bi-monthly during the winter time-period.  However, that being said, we may still continue to keep it a monthly source of reading because we are considering establishing a larger distributing route into Meductic and possibly Debec.  Also, The Messenger can be found in different locations in Woodstock, such as the Woodstock Farmer's Market and O'Toole's Gallery in Grafton. 

           We look forward to hearing any comments about The Messenger and receiving submissions for publication.  To see the complete first issue of The Messenger, just click on this link - cheers, eh!  

       

BLUE MOON OR TWINKLE-TWINKLE - 1st STAINED GLASS PROJECT

Blue Moon or Twinkle-Twinkle?

          Over the past many years, I had a few girlfriends and friends that were into stained glass creations, which I sometimes designed but never did any of the actual work of putting it all together like they did.  That being the case, when Sarah, Jessica and I went to visit my daughter Brandi last fall, who lives in Toronto, I visited one of the local stained glass shops and purchased some equipment and supplies; thought I'd give it a try from start to finish.  Any craft looks easy when you watch someone who has been doing it for a long period of time but since I paint and write and am somewhat of a perfectionist when I get creative, I realized that before I would be any good at doing stained glass projects, I would have some problems, which of course I did.  And the funny thing about attempting to do something for the first time is that there is a certain amount of apprehension about whether it will turn out properly and if possibly someone might even like it enough to buy.  Stained glass projects are not exactly inexpensive, so if one is going to continue with that craft, selling some of the pieces is a must as it allows one to purchase more materials; sheets of stained glass, even smaller pieces are quite expensive, depending on the particular type of glass one buys. 

               I haven't decided what the title of my first start to finish stained glass project should be; Blue Moon or Twinkle-Twinkle but either way, it was fun to do.  I got the idea for this stained glass piece from a friend of mine who used to carve small wooden half moons and then hang a small prism from the half-moon's lower point.  Since my friend Sandy Boyd has since died, killed in an auto accident about 10 years ago, I'm leaning more towards Blue Moon and then again, he was a very vibrant artistic man, so perhaps Twinkle-Twinkle is more appropriate.  

          The size of the half-moon stained glass creation is approximately 6" and the star hanging from the upper point on a thin piece of fishing line is a 1" crystal glass prism containing a pinkish tone that was made in Switzerland.   The blue glass is transparent and the whitish glass for the eye and mouth are not so transparent and a patina wasn't applied on the copper foil, everyone seemed to like the silvery look, which I believe is more fitting for this particular piece since the moon mostly appears to be a shiny orb in the night sky.  It's for sale in Sarah's wee coffee shop here at Golden Unicorn Farm and if anyone reading this blog is interested in purchasing it, the price is $50.00 and depending where you live, there could be a shipping charge.  I'm going to start making another one soon, except this one will be a little larger, around 8"in size and it will include a 1" prism star as well (it's actually very beautiful on it's own).

          It's Sunday morning and the sun is shining brightly;small birds singing joyfully can be heard as well - hopefully spring has finally arrived.  I see the wife is up now and the coffee should just be about finished percolating, so it's time for me to head into the house, pour a shot of elephant balls into the hot brew, swirl it around with a spoon and knock it back - cheers, eh!    

A MINI-MIRACLE

          I'm just turning 73 and depending upon one's view of age; to some, I'm utterly old, aged and decrepit and to others, if they're 90 years of age or older, I'm still on the young side of dying.  As for the way I'm feeling, there are days when I still think I'm just a spry young buck and days when I figure my time has almost run out.  Yesterday, was one of those days when I still felt sort of spry and my time upon this glorious Earth almost came to an end - I suspect elderly old men like myself should refrain from climbing ladders.  

          After arriving home yesterday afternoon, from the Woodstock Farm Market, where Sarah has taken over the little Market Cafe, I decided I had better get the garage door opened before my friend Gerry Ingraham arrived with a load of wood-shavings that I use after I've cleaned out the chicken coop - 72 chickens and one rooster can certainly poop a lot.  Remembering that the remote control door no longer worked properly, it would only go up and down a couple of feet every time I pressed the little button, I knew it would have to be lifted manually. I didn't think it would be much of a problem to remedy; just a matter of attaching a long piece of rope to a metal latch and then pulling the heavy door up and tying it off, so the dang thing wouldn't come down on our heads.  Since the latch is located at the top of the door, I had to climb up about 4' on an 6' ladder to reach it.  However, unsure that just tying a piece of rope to the latch was going to work, I decided to try pulling down on the latch, which had a very short, thin yellow, polyester rope was already attached to it. Steadying myself on the ladder, I applied some pressure to the rope and it looked like it just might work but it would need 2 hands.  So, the ladder seemed to be sturdy enough when I grabbed hold of the rope but what I didn't realize was that the rope hadn't been tied securely to itself, forming a loop, it had only been taped together with some black electrical tape and the glue had dried up, so that short piece of polyester rope was just an accident waiting to happen.  

          If I'd known I was to become a one-man, slap-stick comedy act when I pulled down hard on that blasted hunk of polyester rope, especially with no one watching my antics, I would have just sat down with a cold bottle of beer and waited for my friend Gerry to arrive.  As imagined, when I hauled down with all my strength, the black electrical tape pulled off the end of the rope and as I began to lift off the ladder like Superman doing a backflip off a tall building, I tried to grab hold of the top of the ladder to steady myself.  However, the law of physics being what it is, me and the ladder took to flight.  It all happened so quickly and I was flying to the ground backwards, without any way of breaking my fall, I suddenly felt and heard a loud smack to the backside of my head when I landed in a heap on the floor.  Everything went black for a second or two and I was afraid to move.  Falling 4' feet is not a great height but when the garage is filled with work tables, feed barrels, a snow-blower and other dangerous paraphernalia when one is in flight looking up, rather than looking down, I was a little fearful about getting up.  So, while I was laying on my back, my head ringing like a church bell on Sunday morning, I checked to make sure my legs, arms and neck were still able to move properly.  Except for the growing bump on the back of the head, everything else seemed to be in proper order.

          What I really found amazing was just how comfortable it was laying on the garage dirt floor.  And what was really amazing was when I stood up and looked down to where I'd fallen; the location momentarily took my breath away.  I had landed between a metal work bench and the snow-blower on a bunch of empty feed bags I'd stuffed between them.  When I was flying through the air ass-backwards, my head just missed by mere inches, the steel corner of the table on one side and on the other side, another steel corner of the snow-blower.  The smack I received to the back of the head was from the handle of a snow-shovel, which had been leaning against the snow-blower; how lucky was that?  To me, it was like a mini-miracle, a couple of inches either way and I would have been critically injured or killed.  My wife Sarah was upset with me because she said it most likely would have been a long time before anyone found me and she wasn't too happy either when I said, "But Gerry arrived about 3 minutes after it happened, so I wouldn't have laid there very long and if I was dead, it wouldn't make any difference."

          Amusing or not, after Gerry and I unloaded his half-ton truck, which consisted of 2 huge bags of wood-shavings, I decided it was time for a cold beer - actually, being so grateful that everything ended so well, no trip to the Emergency Room at the hospital, no broken bones and no undertaker needed, I toasted to my good health by knocking back 6 cold beers - cheers, eh!

        

ELEPHANT BALLS (AMARULA) AND OTHER CREATIVE JUICES

          It seems that some of the people who read this blog were somewhat curious what I meant when I wrote about "elephant balls".  Well, let me tell you, there's just nothing like a hot mug of coffee on a Sunday morning, especially when it's fortified with a double shot of Amarula Cream.  I was first introduced to this delicious tasting liquor at my brother's 60th birthday party, which lasted for 3 days, about 4 years ago.  A mutual friend of ours (Mark) invited me into his motor home for a good-morning-coffee, which he called "elephant balls".   He apparently likes this drink so much, he buys it by the case, so lucky for me, I spent quite a lot of time visiting Mark; there just wasn't enough coffee-breaks in the day.  From what I understand, elephants have been known to get drunk munching on the marula fruit, once it becomes fermented.  I have an idea how much I would have to consume in order to become somewhat tipsy -, but an elephant - I suspect a 45 gal. drum filled with Amarula Cream might suffice and then again, maybe not.  Hard to imagine a drunken elephant staggering around the African plains and leaning against trees would not be a good idea either; more than likely knock them down.  Can you imagine the hangover an elephant would have the next morning; talk about a mind boggling headache - makes my head throb just thinking about it.  Unfortunately, this Sunday morning (today) when I went to the liquor cupboard to accent my coffee, I discovered the bottle was empty - maybe like my friend Mark, I should consider buying it by the case - I wonder if it costs a little less then?

           Sarah opened up our little coffee shop in Fosterville this long rainy weekend, which was odd because we kept hearing on the radio, how sunny it was but it must have been somewhere else in New Brunswick.  Quite a few people came in over the past two days but I expect the weather was somewhat of a detriment because not as many showed up as they did this time last year.  However, the Community Centre held a bacon and eggs breakfast by donation yesterday, so I'm sure that would be another reason for the lack of customers.  But that's the way it goes here, one never really knows how many people will grace our doorstep on any given day; some days there's hardly a soul and others, there's sometimes a line.  

          I had a couple of black flies buzzing around my face a couple evenings ago; must be scouts reconnoitering for the impending hoard that will soon be attacking in full force.  Time to don the mosquito netting and arm myself with a fly-swatter or wear a turbocharged fan on my head to blow the pesty insects away.  Oh well, not too much I can do about them and at least it's basically warm again; there isn't any snow to shovel. 

          Tomorrow is a holiday but to me, it just seems like any other day.  Although I don't have a regular job, it doesn't mean I don't have jobs to do.  However, that being said, if it's still pouring rain, instead of doing some of the outside chores, I do believe I'll do some spring cleaning in my studio, like put a lot of stuff away and washing the floor, including the stairway - tramped in a lot of chicken shit and mud over the course of the winter.  I'm so pleased that I'm able to let the chickens out now; their coop stays so much cleaner and drier too, so I don't have to clean it quite as often as during the winter and, they are laying a lot more eggs.  

          Lately, I've had a real itch; an itching to get a little creative once again.  It's been almost a year since my painting juices were flowing with ideas and it will be good to pick up a brush once again.  Although, that being said, my wife Sarah and daughter Jessica have just put dibs on my last two blank canvases; seems the creative mood is catchy; but that's a good thing isn't it?  However, I have a large painting that I started several years back that I should finish.  I've put a helluva lot of time into it and I'd hate to die before it's done and have someone else attempt to complete it - I have a hard time rolling over now and I expect it's even harder when I'm lying 6' under, if I didn't like the way they finished painting it.  Guess it's time to attempt to sidestep the raindrops and head into the house - I can't enjoy my "elephant balls" but I do believe a Caesar is in order - cheers, eh!           

SUNDAY SERMONS AND WITCHES

          Sunday morning is here once again.  At this age and having been a long time since I had a job-job, you know the kind I mean; 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, Sunday just seems like any other day of the week.  There was a time, so long ago now, but I still remember those Sundays, when my stepmother would make me scrub myself squeaky-clean, put on my best clothes, give me a dime for the collection plate and send me off with my two sisters to church.  As I sit here, just closing my eyes and feeling the warm sun shining through the window and thinking back to those times, I can almost see the United Church minister dressed in black, wearing a white clerical collar as he leans over the altar looking down at a row of us little boys and girls saying, "It's time to sing, "Jesus loves me!" and hear the soft rumble of people beginning to stand.  In those early years, Sunday School was a must and even then, I had doubt and questions concerning whether there was really a God or not?  My eyes still shut, I drift a little further ahead to when I was about 12 or 13 and my sisters and I went to stay with their grandfolks at New Sarepta, Alberta for our summer holidays. I really enjoyed that summer on their large farm, filling my belly with Saskatoons, riding large workhorses and playing Huckleberry Finn on a small raft I discovered floating at the edge of a large pond.  

          My mother's parents had come from Germany and still had very heavy accents, at times, difficult to understand, especially when they got mad at me.  One day, not sure if it was a Sunday or not, while poling my way across the tea-coloured pond on the dilapidated raft, I noticed a huge black cloud approaching from the west.  Filled with lightning and roaring its discontent, realizing I would most likely soon be caught in a deluge of pelting rain or perhaps even hail, I leaped off the raft and ran towards the safety of the huge barn that was situated a short distance from the house.  Just barely missing the rain, I raced inside the large open doorway and quickly clambered up a wooden ladder to the hay loft.  As I lay in the soft broken bales of hay, looking out a small doorway used for loading the loft with bales of hay and straw, at the almost black sky punctuated with slashes of lightning, listening to the cracks of thunder and pounding rain overhead, I heard a strange moaning sound below me.  After quietly creeping to the edge of the loft, I carefully peered over to see what was making the eerie noises.  Being an inquisitive boy with an imaginative mind, expecting to perhaps see some sort of a monster or wild animal below, I was more than a little taken aback when I saw our grandmother kneeling on the ground, her hands tightly clasped together and pointing towards the heavens.  For someone who believed in God so much, I couldn't and still don't understand why she looked so frightened and frightening at the same time.  However, probably because she was soaking wet, her extremely long black hair containing streaks of grey, which was pasted to her tiny, skinny body and the tears that were streaming down her deeply lined face while she writhed around on the dirt floor, to me, she looked like a witch screaming incantations in German.  The storm blew away in a very short time and as much as I wanted to immediately return to the raft, I waited until I knew I was completely alone.  I never mentioned what I had witnessed to anyone, especially not my sisters, because the last thing they wanted to believe was that their grandmother was a wicked witch. 

          To this day, I'm not sure what I believe about God and have on occasion gone to church to sing the hymns and pray the prayers.  I usually have a good feeling when I come away from a church after mingling with the people; there's something about family that comes to mind.  And speaking of family, this fine Sunday morning, it's time to go into the house and greet my wife, who I'm sure by now has a a hot pot of coffee percolating on the stove.  Yes, there's nothing quite like the aroma of coffee in the morning and adding some "elephant balls" to it, gives coffee a whole new meaning - time to chug one back - cheers, eh!

EXTRACTING TEETH AND PORCUPINE QUILLS - NO FUN

          Last Wednesday was sort of a painful day for me, and in the early morning, very painful for our dog Duncan.  I had two upper teeth extracted and the remainder cleaned and the dog had a rear leg and paw shot full of porcupine quills.  I of course moaned a wee bit afterwards since the upper partial plate doesn't quite fit correctly, so eating is somewhat difficult when I can't chew properly.  At first, I attributed the pain to the swelling around the injured area but since that is no longer the case, it looks as if I will have to make another appointment to get the plate readjusted or slightly reshaped.  Hopefully, although I would like to make the appointment on a much earlier day, since it is a long way into Woodstock from our home and we go to town on Fridays to the Farm Market; that would be satisfactory (the price of fuel these days tends to make a person think twice about traveling any distance).  My visit to the dentist was somewhat when I had to say goodbye to my teeth; we've been on a rather intimate basis for over 50 years and especially since I only have 5 remaining living upstairs, which still makes the partial plate a possibility.  And I still have a problem with a couple of wobbly teeth in the front lower portion of my mouth; appears as if I will have to say good-bye to one of them or maybe both, come next visit in 3 months time.  I'm a little concerned about them because I have 2 speaking engagements coming up regarding my Limited Edition book Arctic Odyssey and I'll have a rather large gap, unless I can get a snug-fitting partial plate that won't float around in my mouth.  Hmm, I wonder if I'll have an accurate spitting range with the gap; just might come in handy should there be any hecklers in the audience.  But enough about this old man and his old broken down falling out teeth; let me tell you about Duncan; it's a lot more interesting.

My Pal Duncan

          Lately, because of a lot of aches and pains and then having my teeth hauled out, I haven't been sleeping too well.  So about 2am on Wednesday, I'm awakened after just falling into a sound sleep by loud yelping noises just outside our upstairs bedroom window and my wife saying, I think there's something wrong with Duncan.  Since the weather is a lot warmer these days, I've been letting Duncan stay outside rather inside my studio and I'm hoping his yowling is more complaining because he's outside and wants inside the studio but I sense there is a much bigger problem with him and of course, since he didn't yelp when he got stunk up by a skunk; the only other time when I finally discovered him trapped in a trapper's snare, I knew it was serious.  And rightfully so, I expected a confrontation with a porcupine or a hungry bear.  

Approx. 40 Porcupine Quills Extracted from Duncan

          Since Duncan is a very playful, fun-loving and friendly dog, I expect he found the slow porcupine a great animal to play with.  He was probably running circles around it, perhaps even leaping over it in merriment because instead of having a snout full of quills, they were imbedded in his hind leg.  I pulled out 40 of the blasted things with a pair of pliers until the pain was so unbearable, he began snapping at me.  Realizing, that I could still see a least a dozen more quills and there were probably others stuck within his long dark hair that weren't visible, I decided he would just have to suffer it out for the remainder of the night until we could get him to a vet.  

          Like extracting my teeth, extracting the last remaining quills from Duncan's back paw and knee was painless because he had been mercifully put into dog dreamland.  The vet pulled about another 20 quills out of Duncan and several were completely embedded out of sight, deep in the flesh that I never would have been able to get out with a pair of pliers.  As we were about to leave the vet's office with our still unconscious dog, after paying almost 300 bucks for services rendered, the vet mentioned that we shouldn't be surprised if a few more quills started working their way out.  This morning Duncan is his happy, happy self once again and is running, albeit with a slight limp, but running just the same.  Do I think that Duncan has learned his lesson after his painful frolic with the porcupine, the answer is no,  Knowing Duncan, he most likely thinks that his unplayful companion was probably just cranky and the next one will be a whole lot more fun - cheers, eh!

CLOUDY SKIES, SLY LIES AND ELEPHANT BALLS

          People I haven't seen too much over the winter are like spring flowers beginning to pop up all around; their smiles as warm as the first breath of summer.  They ask what I've been doing over the winter; have I been doing any painting to which I reply, "Nothing creative, just the walls and cupboards in the upstairs bathroom/bedroom renovations."  For the balance of this year, I'm planning and hoping to finish off the major construction jobs such as the upstairs and the new extension on Sarah's little coffee shop; I just aint getting any younger and the old joints and muscles appear to be complaining more than usual.  And then, after that, hopefully next winter, I'll pick up the artsy-fartsy brushes and splash a little paint around - attempt to do something a little more creative - maybe even publish a book or two or at least write some more stories that seem to continually spin a yarn inside my head.  I hate to say it, but my old body is in a downright rebellious state; just keeps on complaining and complaining and I'm getting rather tired of it.  

          So here I sit this slightly breezy May morning, looking out my studio window at the nearby ridge where soon the greyness of winter will turn to green; at least our stand of forest hides the hideous large clear-cut portion, a giant scar across Green Mountain (I expect its name could change in the not too distant future since most of the trees have been axed).  I try to look at the bright side of life with a goodly portion of positive thinking in my stride but after hearing what our no-brain Premier Aldred who just cut a deal with Irving, giving them the go ahead to level the forests until they deem it's not profitable anymore, which will be when the last tree standing has fallen, it's difficult not to be cynical.  I generally don't complain too much or get overly upset but the events that are taking place across our country to help perhaps the dumbest government I've ever experienced since I began voting over 50 years ago to cover their blatant ineptness and total disregard and respect for the people and the creatures abiding here, an abomination of our planet, it's difficult to have a bright and bushy-tailed demeanor and attitude for our future, especially the younger generations'.

          We still have a 12 year old daughter at home and the education, in comparison to what I experienced when I was her age, is downright disgraceful - she's at least 3 to 4 years behind.  I sometimes wonder, since China is the huge manufacturer of asinine crap for slave wages and conditions if the corporations here in the west have a conspiracy against education, so that the younger generations will only have enough brains to sit at a long assembly line for 6 days a week for 16 hours a day for a mere pittance of a wage.  It appears to me that the world began a huge digression at the time of the Industrial Revolution, and never before in history, has it been more rapidly descending.  The planet is running out of resources, which has been largely used for destruction and the mind-set hasn't changed.  The armies continually keep blowing everything up and the infantile junk that's lined up on shelves built to the ceilings in dollar-stores is a huge source of our diminishing resources - it's as if our planet is becoming a gargantuan junk yard, where soon the whole of civilization will be living like rats and gnawing on each other's bones for sustenance.

          It's impossible to blame one individual or a handful of individuals for the state of our world; we are all, every last one of us to blame, including myself.  I've wasted forest products, metal objects and have purchased useless ornamentations and when I drove during my younger and careless years, took meaningless rides on my motorcycle just for the shear pleasure of feeling the wind flowing through my hair and the excitement of the speed and now, I'm paying like the rest of us for our own pleasurable indulgences; we're down to squeezing fuel out of sand.  And all this crap we've (the more so called well-off individuals) have bought into at a certain age, that we've actually earned the right to a large pension that affords us to jump on jets, gigantic cruise ships to sit our fat asses down at some resort pool, with unlimited margaritas to knockback and be waited on hand and foot by people who are most likely living in hovels with a family to feed - how ludicrous is that?  

          Well, it's Sunday morning; the sky is cloudy and I wouldn't be surprised if it rains soon but I hear many birds singing in the forest and even though they no doubt know the weather better than I, their cheery melodic notes tell me that there's nothing we can do about it but enjoy the fact that the rain slakes not just our own thirst but every other living thing's thirst.  And speaking of thirst, at least my own, I do believe it's time for me to head inside the house and have a hot cup of coffee with my wife; a good shot of "elephant balls" tossed in to give it that added flavour and medicinal benefit will be much appreciated as well - cheers, eh!  

A TOUCH OF MELANCHOLY

          There's still a few clots of snow hanging around our place, reminding me that this was one of the longest winters I've ever experienced - my shoulders still ache from shovelling the massive amounts of snow that kept on filling our driveway and walkways.  Spring must have been hidden under the snow because very close to our shallow well, built of large stones, in the front yard, the daffodils appear to be emerging, since the majority of the snow has disappeared.  Also, I notice a lot of birds have returned, their beautiful voices singing melodically to attract a mate - there's just something about the music of birds that warms my heart - even the chickens seem to have a happier cluck and the big old Barred Rock rooster is certainly doing his best to service his harem.  However, I'm a little worried that the bats won't return, I understand they're rapidly dying off due to a terrible white-nose fungus epidemic.  When we moved to New Brunswick, not knowing anything about bats and discovering we had probably hundreds of them living between the double roofs of our house and garage, I went on a mission to try to get them to leave, that is, until I learned that they are actually great to have around, especially since we live where blackflies and mosquitoes are not just abundant, but have a universe of their own.
           I awoke a little earlier than usual this morning, a touch of melancholy and sadness, with Chelsea on my mind - no, not a woman - a boat.  When I lived at the end of the dock at Newcastle Marina in Nanaimo, BC for many years, aboard my cutter-rigged ketch Dreamer II, we shared the slip with Chelsea II, an old mission boat that used to motor up and down the BC coast bringing the word of God to small villages and people cut off from the mainstream of civilization.  I don't know how many times I hand-lettered Chelsea II on the stern for my friend Nils (he always kept his boat in pristine condition, especially since he used it for charters in those days and still does) but it was something I always enjoyed doing.  I have a great many good memories of what I call my boat-life and sometimes feel somewhat saddened that it came to an end - it was a wonderful era and a special interlude in my life that I'll never forget.
          There are five distinct eras to my life.  The first is the childhood and teen era where I basically did as I was told or didn't; definitely a learning time and building of my character.  The second (20-30 age) is still a discovery era, trying to figure out what I would like to do and not do with my life - my racetrack and art school era - very wild times.  The third is the steady employment and business era (30-45) - essentially buying into the All-American-Dream of becoming a millionaire - good move and a bad move - being monetarily well-off doesn't really mean being well-off.  The fourth is the boating era (45-65) - turning my back on what I'm expected to be by "society's standards" - what a brilliant move that move was - the weight I tossed off my back and into the sea was the best thing I had ever done.  The fifth is a restoring of many of the values I either just carelessly threw aside or inadvertently lost (65-72 and growing older) - getting back to a more basic and meaningful life.  (From age 30 on to 72, there have been two marriages, six kids and I lost count of girlfriends and other kids - not enough fingers and toes to keep in order even though they've all played a significant roll in my life - some good and some not so good.)  I realize there is a sixth era on the horizon (72-?) and I have no idea how it will end for me - maybe good or maybe not so good - and sure, I have regrets and that's just fine because someone who hasn't, has most likely led somewhat of a boring life and mine has been anything but boring.
          Overall, as I look out my studio window at the distant ridge (somewhat bare now, since my neighbours clear-cut their property), I find there is a contentment within me.  I think it may have something to do with simplicity and getting back in touch to some degree with the natural order of things and Nature itself.  Rather than listen to classical, rock n' roll', country and western and any other genre of music, no matter how beautiful or toe-tapping it may be, I have always been mesmerized by the trill of a bird, the buzz of a bee, the croak of a frog, etc. - their orchestration is completely pleasing and wondrous to my ear.
          The touch of melancholy, when I awoke, is still within me but I don't mind - feeling a bit sad does not mean I'm depressed - I'm quite looking forward to the day - matter of fact, it's coffee time and I'm now going to head inside, give my wife Sarah a hug and a kiss and pour a little something extra into my coffee, which I call Elephant Balls - thanks to my friend Mark who introduced it to me when my brother turned 60 years old - cheers, eh!

       Oh yeah, before I forget; thanks for the response and kind reviews from those who bought my hard-cover Limited Edition book Arctic Odyssey.  I still have quite a few copies still for sale and the book comes with a soft-cover edition and an approximate 45 min. video of the Northwest Passage voyage of Dove III.  The price is $75.00 plus $$20.00 for shipping and handling.  Makes a great gift too!

ARCTIC ODYSSEY - THE LIMITED EDITION IS NOW FOR SALE

          Hello fun-seekers and blog-readers - welcome to my blog, just in case you are a newcomer.  Life here at the base of Green Mountain in sunny Fosterville, NB is exceptional - must be because only remnants of one of the longest winters I've experienced since moving here has finally ended.  Yeah, winter has finally packed it's giant sized suitcases filled with snow and headed off to where the snow doesn't melt, wherever that is, since due to climate changes the world over, even Antarctica and the North Pole appear to be losing a substantial amount of ice. 

          During the winter, I finally published a book, the way I wanted it to look; a book I had written about 20 years ago.  It's called Arctic Odyssey and it's about my voyage with skipper, Winston Bushnell and mate, George Hone through the Northwest Passage aboard Dove III, perhaps the smallest sailboat to ever do so in a single season from west to east.  It was first published by an American publishing company, Fine Edge Productions, in Anacortes, WA.  Since I've owned the total rights to my book for quite awhile now, I decided to re-publish it myself, the way in which I was hoping Fine Edge would have produced it the first time.  When I presented my hand-lettered manuscript and pen and ink sketches to them, the beginnings of a great coffee-table book, they decided in their wisdom to produce the book in a more inexpensive manner.  However, despite the book not looking the way I expected, I still liked their rendition of Arctic Odyssey and was pleased that they had published it - a first book is always very special.  But for 20 years, I've had this original manuscript sitting in a drawer and have kept looking at it over and over again, until very recently, I decided to turn Arctic Odyssey into a Limited Edition (only 250 copies available).
       
           The Limited Edition copy of Arctic Odyssey (8.5x11" hard bound cover, 186 pages) comes in a sturdy box to help preserve its condition, which includes a soft bound (6x9") Arctic Odyssey book and a 45 min. DVD of our sailing voyage.  The first page in the book has a Certificate of Authenticity, which I have signed and numbered.  There are also 10 artist's proofs, which brings the total of the Limited Edition to 260 copies.  The two black and white pages shown here are a good example of what the book looks like inside.  The book contains approximately 80 sketches and maps which I drew to illustrate our voyage.  The price of this Limited Edition, historical adventure book is $75.00 plus $20.00 handling and shipping fees.  This historical adventure book is sure to become a collectible item over the years and would make a great gift for the avid sailor or adventurer at heart.  For additional info on purchasing a copy, please go to goldenunicornpublishing.com/book or you can order a copy from me by PayPal, cheque, cash or bank transfer - my address is 115 Forest City Rd., Fosterville, NB  E6H 2A1 or email me lenwsherman@gmail.com  Thank you so much everyone for expressing so much interest in my book!

REVIEWS: 

Hi Len! I was JUST about to write to you. YES, the package arrived yesterday...thank you! It's absolutely beautiful and we opened it together with my girlfriend like it was Christmas Eve. Eric Saczuk
           
WOW!!   What a great package Len.  It all came out really nice good footage  Best of luck selling thru your stock.   What memories!   George Hone
          

I HAVE A CONFESSION TO READ

          I't's blog time...it's blog time...it's time to write a blog...time - musical little ditty that just came to mind.  Doesn't look like anything when you read it but when I wrote it, I was singin' those words, stompin' my feet and bangin' on the keyboard to an old rag-time beat that was just a thumpin' through my mind.  I'm settled down now, just little old normal me sittin' here, gazin' out my window at the meltin' snow - did I say meltin' snow?  Yup, looks like, and I'm hopin' that good old winter has finally blown its last blast of freezin' wind this way.  Went to the Farmers' Market in Woodstock yesterday and I could scarce believe me eyes, all along the curvy and bone-joltin' (frost-heave paradise) country road, an abundance of red-breasted robins could be seen - true harbingers of approachin' spring.  That in itself is on the comical side, since spring officially arrived three weeks ago in most places.  Here it is, dang near the middle of April and we've still got about 3' feet of snow in the yard.  If there's any daffodils under the snow, I'd be mighty surprised.  For those of you in the more temperate regions, you know the places I mean, where the inhabitants have nothing better to do than count blossoms, I'd like you to know that our snow flakes far out numbered your blossoms - so there - and hey, they are just as beautiful in their own way!

          Writing a blog, I would imagine is very egotistical but I wouldn't know, my head has become so enlarged I can't see my body any longer - just the tip of my toes sticking out past my chin can be seen by these big old brown eyes.  I've had all kind of remarks like your blogs "always put a smile on my face", "sometimes they're interesting" to "what kind of disgusting tripe is this?" - the thing to remember about me writing anything at all and actually having a few books published, is the fact that I had the worst English marks during my highschool years - one of my teachers was actually so frustrated with me that he crushed a hunk of chalk on my back and cracked me across the ass with a wooden yardstick in front of the whole class.  So what do I know about dangling participles today - absolutely nothing and as long as they're not dangling in my way, I'm okay with that.  Needless to say I flunked English and because of that, I never graduated, which was fine with me because I quit school just before prom - being the shortest guy in Grade 12 and covered with pimples wouldn't have made for any decent photos anyway and the poor girl who would have been forced to be my date for the evening would have cried so hard she most likely would have ruined her expensive gown. 

   And speaking of books being published - Golden Unicorn Publishing - http://www.goldenunicornpublishing.com/book-store.html just published one of my books titled: The Confession and Other Short Stories.  When my first book Arctic Odyssey was published by Fine Edge Productions, the publisher Don Douglass told me to sell my book shamelessly.  Needless to say, I never took his advice - the book was so over-priced when it hit the book stores, it was a downright bloody shame to ask strangers, let alone my family and friends to purchase one, although I did do that - had a wine and cheese book signing - wasn't so bad after everyone was three sheets to the wind and would have bought anything just to keep the party going.
          The short stories I wrote, probably like many other imaginative authors write, is often based on personal events that actually occurred during our lives and The Confession is such a story.  While reading this highly interesting, sometimes violent and occasionally a love story (pushing the selling aspect of the book) to my wife Sarah after we went to bed one evening, I would sometimes ask her if the part I had just read was true or not.  By the end of the story, she was most likely wondering what sort of man I was and if it had been a good idea marrying me 7 years ago.  Yeah, there's a lot of truth in that story but then again, there is also a whole lot of bullshit in it too - but regardless - I feel it's a good tale and most people will enjoy the read.  The other five stories are of course completely fictional, straight out of this old guy's imaginative cranium; stories that I wrote, along with 23 others, 3 years ago, during my first long winter in Fosterville, New Brunswick - bloody winters just never seem to end.  If you've read this far, I must have your attention so...guess what...I'm going to try and sell you my new book - what a bargain!  Only 15 bucks + a small shipping charge if you don't live in Fosterville - and there's not much chance of that.  Yep, only $15. and you can receive this wonderful book (Makes a Great Gift Too!) along with my autograph, or not, the choice is yours.  To buy this book, what could be considered a BESTSELLER in Fosterville since the population is only around 50 people in the winter, you can either click on the Golden Unicorn Publishing link (above) or send an email to lenwsherman@gmail.com  I take cash, cheques, PayPal and sometimes even trade.  How was this for shameless selling Don Douglass - it must make you proud that I've finally taken your advice?                              

          Time to go in the house now; the coffee should be ready and if nothing else, it's time to let some of the air out of my inflated ego - what can I say, at this age, I seem to pass a lot more more wind - cheers, eh!

WINTER CAN END NOW - PLEASE!!!!!!

           It's been feeling a little bit like spring lately but I keep wondering why the snow keeps falling.  The snow and ice finally slid off the roof over our front door; even with the extended snow-rake, because of the way the snow is funneled on to this roof by three other roofs, makes it impossible to pull it off.  Next winter, I'll have to figure something else out because not only is the snow and ice very heavy, it is also very dangerous.  I was standing pretty close to the doorway when it all finally slid off but I wasn't too worried because I was very aware of what was eventually going to happen.  I didn't waste any time going in and out of the house before that; even slammed the door behind me on quite a few occasions in hope of jarring it loose.  The snow is still attached to the roof and I'm hoping, because of its extreme weight, the snow and ice drove itself deep enough into the snow bank so it's not going to shift once it completely detaches from the roof, because if it does, I think it will come right through the window.  

          This winter, since we moved from sunny Vancouver Island four years ago, has been the worst for snow.  I should have a build like Schwarzenegger from shoveling all the cussed white stuff but all I've got to show for it is aching muscles and a very sore back and shoulders.  Although today is sunny and warm, I wouldn't be surprised if, like last night, it snows again.  On average, I would say that the snow in our yard, where it hasn't been piled up, is approximately 4-5' deep and in places, where it's frozen quite solid, I'm able to walk on the top.  However, saying that, when the snow was fresh, it wasn't unusual to step into a soft spot and be up to my waste in the stuff.  And, when that occurs, it's quite difficult to claw myself out.  At one point, I was pretty much exhausted from shoveling and pushing myself through the snow that I just laid down and watched the snowflakes drift down on me.  Duncan, our dog, must have thought I was dying because he laid down beside me and put his head on my chest and of course that's when Sarah looked out the window.  She looked very worried when she stood in the open doorway and asked if I was OK; she thought I'd had a heart attack.  As strange as it may seem, I don't think that would be a bad way to go - have a jammer while shoveling snow - but not have some mini-stroke that paralyzed me, so I'm not able to do anything properly again.  But enough about all the negative things that can go wrong - I still enjoy seeing the snow arrive and will be looking forward to its return next winter; there's just something so beautiful and serene about a fresh snowfall, especially if one is inside where it's warm and cozy - and oh yeah - a hot bubbly drink with a generous splash of alcohol tossed into it, gives it all an added pleasure - cheers, eh!   

SNOW, HOT COFFEE AND BIKINI-CLAD BABES

          I dragged my scrawny butt off to bed around 11pm last night and as luck would have it, like other similar nights, my big old brown eyes didn't start squinting into my own personal dreamworld until around 2am.  And then of course, one of the maladies of being my age, especially if one drinks some water or a few cold beers before bedtime, I had to cross my legs occasionally to keep from firing off a stream of water of my own as I slowly made my way down a flight of stairs in the dark and into the bathroom a couple of times.  At least the return trip to the bedroom isn't as bad, just have to be careful I don't bang into anything or stumble and fall; a tumble down the stairs would most likely do this old man in.  Due to the lack of sleep, I woke up on the late side of 7:30am and was about to shut my eyes since it's Sunday; I try not to do a whole lot of work on this day; it's my healing day, give my aching joints and saggy muscles a break.  But then I heard the howling wind and I remembered last night's weather forecast; we were in for a dump of snow today.  And yup, when I put on my spectacles and peered out the window, I could see a lot of snow swirling around outside.  I didn't waste any time in getting up because if I miss the snowplow coming by, besides the snow that is already piling up in the driveway, it piles a whole lot more on top and it's usually compacted pretty solid, which makes clearing the snow away a lot more difficult.

          I was looking forward to a relaxing and delightful mug of coffee fortified with my wife's own concoction of Bailey's this morning, but I just didn't have time.  The wind was howling like a strangled Banshee and I could see it was fierce; snow generally falls in a vertical direction, but this morning, it was right horizontal, except where in spots where it was swirling like an out of control tornado.  The snowdrifts and where I've shoveled the walkways is so high, our yard looks like a miniature Himalayas; wouldn't surprise me one little bit if a Yeti didn't pop out and start grilling me about our Bigfoot.  They have a lot of common; their feet are so big, our Bigfoot uses them to stamp out forest fires and the Yeti uses his like a pair of skis to zip down Mt. Everest.  

          I'm not sure about any other people who reside in my vicinity, but I tellya, winter could just plumb come to a drastic end for me; just up and stop.  I'd like to wake up tomorrow morning and instead of peering out the Jack Frost bedroom window at a huge dump of snow, I'd like to see a load of pink cherry blossoms, an abundance of yellow dandelions and green, green grass, greener than a Yankee dollar bill.  I want to see friendly blue skies and feel the hot sun on my naked back; enjoy a cold glass of beer in the luxurious shade of our spreading willow tree and perhaps give these old brown eyes a special treat of seeing a smiling bikini-clad young woman coming to buy a giant ice cream cone from my wife.  A guy can dream can't he?  They say once you stop dreaming and looking ahead you might as well be dead and I have no intentions of doing that yet.  However, on the downside of that remark, looking out the window and watching the snow accumulate as I write this blog, I can see if the snow keeps a falling like it is, it could well be the cause of my undoing; have me a big jammer, fall down and flick around like a dying fish until I just became another lump of white snow out in the driveway  And then of course on the brighter side, the one I'm leaning towards; as soon as I get my behind out the door and start clearing away the snow once again, the sooner I can get back inside the warm house and pour myself another mug of hot coffee, only this time I'll be making sure there is more than a good slug of my wife's special brew heaped in - cheers, eh!.   

STORMY WEATHER - DYIN' AND LIVIN' - MAKE THE BEST OUT OF IT

          Quite possibly the worst approaching winter storm we've had so far is going to hit with a fury and wouldn't you know it; when I got up this morning to pile in some more logs, the danged thing fell apart.  And, since I'm waiting for the stove to cool off so it's possible to take a better look, see if I can fix it, thought I'd take the time and write a few words - I see I haven't written a blog for awhile now. Although the sun is shining, it's -20 outside and as I wait for the stove to cool, I can already feel the cold seeping through the cracks - like a good shot of hemlock - I can already feel my feet and legs getting cold.

          I've been home alone now for about a week and still have over a week to go before Sarah returns from Lethbridge, Alta.  She's visiting her mom and dad and there's a good possibility that it will be the last time she will see her dad alive again - yup - he's basically on death's doorstep, ready to say his last sayonara, adios, adieu before that old scythe-wielder knocks on his door for the last time.  The way he is, at the moment, feels pretty close to home (no pun intended) because he's only a couple of years older than me.  Can you believe I'm only one year older than Sarah's mom?  Yeah, I'm a cradle-robber, at least that's what I've been told but hey, Sarah's pushing almost 50 - long way from the cradle aint it?  But getting back to dying, doesn't matter who they are or what their age is, death always puts us in touch with our own mortality.  Like it or not, we're all gamblers in life's big crap game; especially when death roll the dice pretty close to home base; we thank our stars that we're still looking down at the flowers than up at the ones placed on top of our casket.  Dang, since I haven't exactly lived my life in a shy manner, to tell the truth, I guess I never really expected to grow old; to live this long.  But geesh, here I am; a wrinkled up old geesher that even a gallon of black hair dye and a hot iron couldn't make me younger again.  Oh yeah, all that fake stuff can probably make me look younger but hell, my old rundown body would still say otherwise; aches and pains, stiff joints and out of breath on a short downhill walk, like it or not, still tells the truth about my age - lookin' young doesn't make me young.

          There are some folks who don't like computers and everything they entail but to me, rather than just being a social media, where every 2 minutes I post what I'm doing with a "selfie" photo, as if people actually give a shit about me that much, I find it is quite a good learning tool - lot of good information out there.  However, that being said, the internet is still a good way of locating someone; a good friend of mine that I'd lost touch with when we moved to NB just sent an email to my art website - a very pleasant surprise.  Although he's 20 years younger, it was good to hear from him since the ruts that his motorcycle has traveled and encountered are much the same as mine.  Yeah, the wide and straight easy-going roads have never been for us or if they were, we just din't drive them very often; there's a lot more excitement leaning into a hard curve at a high speed, the foot peg scraping along the pavement creating a shower of sparks.  But don't get me wrong, it's still great to be alive even if I'm old and somewhat crotchety and revvin' up the rocking chair doesn't make it go any faster and I sure don't lean into it either or I'd find myself trying to pick myself up off the floor if I was still able to.  Yeah, fast bikes, fast women, cold beers, a roll of the dice, a turn of the card, I wouldn't say doesn't interest me, it's just that I'm unable to play that game anymore - let's say I've just outgrown it - the good young days of summer have gone forever.  Oops, almost forgot, I may be old but I aint half dead yet - still got me a good woman and it's time for a cold beer but not before I hopefully put the old wood stove back together - cheers, eh!        

SELF-PUBLISHED A BOOK - THE CONFESSION AND 5 OTHER SHORT STORIES

          February flew away for another year and March is just marchin' along - time just doesn't sit still for a moment; won't be long before April is upon us.  Seems like the snow and coldness has let up a bit the past while, which is just fine for this old man's arthritic bones.  As much as I'd been looking forward to working on the bathroom renos the past week, I spent some time self-publishing a book of short stories - bloody hell but it costs a goodly amount to do such a thing, even when a person does all the work themselves.  Also, my wife Sarah self-published a book of poetry as well; can hardly wait to see the results and read it.  

          During my first winter living here and not being used to so much snow and freezing weather, I wrote 27 short stories, 5 of which are in this new book.  I had a lot of fun writing these stories; really let my imagination flow.  Besides the two illustrations in the book, I had fun doing the covers, trying to depict the meanings of the other individual stories  I was hoping to keep the price down to around 10 bucks but as it turned out with printing, shipping and taxes, looks like I have to sell it for 15 bucks.  But hey, what can a person buy for 20 bucks or less these days unless you're a devout Dollar Store shopper - 20 bucks worth of gas barely gets a car out of the driveway.

          If I can break a bit even selling this book, perhaps I'll consider putting another book of short stories together and I've got scads of poetry and also several children's stories that I wrote.  It would be great to find a publisher instead of having to do all the work myself, even though I don't mind doing all the mechanical stuff for putting a book together - editing is certainly time consuming.  Since I've got a couple of speaking engagements coming up this summer in regards to a sailing trip and a book (Arctic Odyssey) that I wrote about the voyage, I just may put another short story book together, just might be able to sell a few to a captured and hopefully captivated audience.

          It's getting close to supper time and I'm going to make sushi; the wife and I having an evening alone together - Jessica has gone for a sleepover for a couple of days with a two of her friends.  I do believe we're going to watch The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (foreign film with subtitles) since we really enjoyed reading the book  There are two sequels to this book and I'm very much looking forward to reading them as well.  Should be a great evening and tomorrow I believe we are going for supper at First Settler's Lodge in Maine - the food is sumptuously delicious.  Well, the rice should be cool now and since I've looked after the chickens for the day, I do believe I'll head into the house and make us some sushi; pour myself a cold beer too - cheers, eh!   

THE MEANING OF LIFE

          It's odd how things turn out.  It wasn't that long ago that my wife Sarah, her two girls and I moved from the bustling, small city, Nanaimo (pop. approx. 100,000) on Vancouver Island to Fosterville, New Brunswick (pop. approx. 50 in the winter).  I'm not sure if we were worn out from the pressures of city-life, especially the costs of just daily living but we found moving to the edge of a semi-wilderness area quite refreshing, as if we had stepped out of a heavy coat of armour.  At first, we may have been suffering from "culture-shock" but as we embraced this quieter and more subdued lifestyle, we were happy to have done so.  Moving from the city to the country, especially when I had been raised and eventually earned a very successful living as a "big-city-boy", one would think that I'd have remained in the city.  However, having a taste of country living and spending 10 years on a racetrack working with thoroughbreds during my younger years, my heart always leaned towards a more quiet lifestyle.
          I can remember, shortly after getting married in Lethbridge and moving to Calgary, walking downtown surrounded by bustling traffic and towering buildings, actually looking up and at them and yelling, "It's so good to be home!"  And, for me at that time in my life, it was a good place to be since I was full of "big-city" ambitions, obsessed like so many others of becoming a millionaire.  It took a lot of hard smacks, knock-down-crawl-around events to finally realize the dreams I had chosen, although attainable, really hadn't been worth the effort.  There's a price to pay for everything - like the old hippy adage, "Ass, gas or grass; nobody rides for free!" As the years went by, on pieces of paper, cold as a corpse's shroud, I became a millionaire by the age of 41, but being out of control from reaching the heady-heights, suffering from a plaguing ego-vertigo, I toppled like a house built from a deck of cards.  Believe it or not, basically looking at my life at that point after losing everything, was the best thing that could have happened.
          Like many disillusioned young men, after their dreams have been broken into countless shards and never being able to put all the pieces back together again, especially when their soul is battered and bruised, I went in search for the "meaning of life".  I'm 72 now, over 30 years of searching and I have yet to discover the full meaning.  However, that being said, I did discover many things that were not the "meaning of life" - gobs of money and richly possessions being two of them.  And as odd as it may seem, I'm not so sure if the hard lessons I received and my journey of searching for the meaning of my existence has been achieved - I may not have much money now but I live in a huge house with two other people, have a separate studio, garage, barn and hen house on 50 acres of land, a truck and a car are in the driveway, a wheeler parked out back as well as a dinghy from my sailing life and the possessions keep accumulating.  The hole in the ground is beckoning but there's no room of any of those things that I've accumulated, it's just a large enough space to hold this old, worn out body, a place for it to rot and eventually become part of the earth.  Ashes to ashes and dust to dust - perhaps that's enough and perhaps the true "meaning of life".
          Sarah and I went to Fredericton a few days back.  It's about the same size of Nanaimo, maybe a little larger.  Since she is going to visit her mom and dad in Lethbridge and her daughter Rachel in Vancouver for a couple of weeks, we went shopping for some clothes for the occasion.  After returning to the car and heading down the highway, we both looked at each other and mentioned how weird we had felt walking up and down the aisles in the different stores looking at all the clothing for sale - it was as if we had stepped into another world and it didn't feel genuine or real - we were glad to be going home to where we could count the cars going by in a day on two hands.  I realize this lifestyle isn't for everyone, actually hardly anyone, otherwise cities wouldn't be overflowing with millions of people but for me, I like the feel of gentle snowflakes on my face when I look up at the black sky overhead and see the countless shining stars, the feel of a biting, bitter wind as it turns my nose blue with the cold and then the warmth of a wood fire as I throw another log on - a house filled with the scent of baking and the feel of my wife sitting beside me - comfort and love - perhaps other true "meanings of life" the genuine and real "meaning of life" - cheers, eh!      

THE SNOW GOD - MR. WHITEY

          There was a time that many people, and some still do, believed there was more than one god and if that's the case then a god for winter must have existed.  And, if such a god still exists, I would think it's most likely a he-god rather than a she-god because winter isn't exactly a fair-weather season - nothing cuddly and warm about winter unless, like myself, you've got a very fluffy and soft woman to cuddle up to on those freezing cold days when the temperature drops so low, you have to add some more minus numbers to the bottom of the thermometer.  A lot of gods of yesteryear had unpronounceable names and since the god of winter most likely hangs out in the arctic and antarctic regions of the world, especially the northern hemisphere, which is actually populated, I expect unless you can roll a lot of letters off your tongue and make a lot of clicking noises at the same time while doing so, like me, you just won't be able to pronounce his name.  So, since that's the case, I've given the winter-god that hangs about New Brunswick a name that's easy to pronounce: I call him Mr. Whitey.  And yesterday, Mr. Whitey must have had a very bad day (most likely never received any Valentine cards) or he was having a very bad hair day because our barnyard was covered with loads of white, fluffy dandruff - it took me about 8 hours of steady plowing and shoveling to keep two roof-tops, driveway and walkways clear of the stuff.  

          Mr. Whitey has apparently taken today off, which is a good thing; gives my old achy bones and muscles a chance to recuperate.  Funny thing about yesterday's snowfall, the snowflakes, although not one was identical - they were all heart-shaped - I guess it being valentine's day and all.  The snow was up over my knees, approximately 2' deep and if that wasn't bad enough, it was wet and heavy, getting heavier as the day went by, most likely because I was getting weaker - old men like me need our naps.  The sun is shining now but like the eye of a hurricane, the lull before the storm, Mr. Whitey is returning tomorrow - geesh, he must still be PO'ed because the snowfall is expected to be about another foot deep.  

          Perhaps, instead of being angry yesterday, Mr. Whitey was wooing a prospective she-god, because the snow he sprinkled everywhere, like fairy dust, is so beautiful; the landscape everywhere sparkles like glittering diamonds; colours of the prism continually enchanting one's eyes.  However, the snowflakes, like authentic jewels, although they tantalizingly shimmer and shine in the light, there's still a coldness, a stigma attached to their beauty.  Maybe Mr. Whitey, like a single rose, if he had lavished one enormous snowflake on the she-god of his lecherous eye, it may have made a better impression - seduction by the unusual, not the quantity often sways the heart.   Also, if he created a huge single snowflake and deposited it in an unpopulated area, it would have saved me and a lot of others heaping loads of hard work - rather unthoughtful of him I would say.

          I moved from Vancouver Island to the base of Green Mountain, New Brunswick about 4 years ago and if I still lived there, I would soon be counting spring blossoms instead of standing almost waist deep in snow.  But you know, as nice as all that sounds, if I still resided in Nanaimo, I wouldn't be able to take the time to count blossoms, I'd be waist deep in debt.  I'm not looking forward to this evening's snowfall but I do relish my lifestyle now and, Mr. Whitey will soon be seduced by spring's charms and just melt into her arms - cheers, eh!

          

                       

MY VIEWS ON EDUCATION

          Well, today is my dad's birthday and if he were still alive, he would be 111 years old.  He died Christmas day, 1969 - and as long as he's been gone and as old as I am now, I still miss my dad.  I realize everyone who's had a decent father thinks their father was just the best old man there ever was and my feelings fall along that line as well.
          I don't particularly want to discuss my life with my dad but I thought it might be worth while writing about his education in comparison to mine and to my kids and their kids.  He didn't have much education - Grade 9 as a recall, and from what he knew, I wouldn't be surprised if his education was equivalent to my Grade 12.  And sadly, from what I've seen of our recent education system, education or the lack of education is definitely sliding down hill - wouldn't be the least surprised if my grade 9 or lower is equal to the graduation classes of today.  My daughter has a little boy who will be starting school in a couple of years and I told her, if she could afford it, to send him to private school.  There was a time when the private school and the public school's education standard wasn't so different but I have a feeling, there is a large gap between the two now.  And, when a person thinks about the costs, parents today, I do believe spend more cash out of their pockets for just a basic education and I mean basic - they aren't even taught how to write anymore.  It appears to me, that upon graduation, kids today, just in order to get the equivalent of my education, now have to take a couple of years of college, which usually requires student loans and it aint cheap.  Isn't that just wonderful - for a rather basic education, the kids are now in debt to the government - a loan that never goes away until it's paid.  As soon as they begin working, the government is taking a chunk of their paycheck for the loan - it's right up there with credit cards - it's called usury.  But hey, I don't think anyone is surprised; isn't the government, banks and corporations all in the same business - it's pretty certain they don't give a rat's ass about the people who pay their fat wages?
          When I went to school, granted it's a long time ago now, and times have certainly changed but my parents weren't being asked for more money out of their pockets by the schools we attended.  Also, when I attended art school for four years, the cost, which was paid by myself or my parents wasn't unreasonable - neither of us owed a cent for that education when I graduated.  When I finally found a job, the government wasn't grabbing any of my wages; well maybe some of it; I had to pay taxes.
          I feel sorry for the kids of today as far as the education system goes - they're not even taught by highly educated teachers.  Also, the time they're taught at school, what with all the Pro D days (I think they're called), Christmas Break, Easter Break, Spring Break and any other Break the unions can work out for the teachers; the kids don't even sit at a desk as much as we used to when I was their age.  And from what I understand, education doesn't have much to do with the marking system either; it seems as long as a kid shows up for school, he or she is automatically passed.  Any place with no standards or very little standards are going to produce mediocrity on a huge level - I wouldn't be too surprised if the future population of our country is heading towards that of a third world country.  I find it rather strange that the arts programs are being reduced quite rapidly, especially since a civilization is often regarded by their culture - of course culture, which is mostly developed by the artistic variety and free-thinkers - \the ones who are outspoken and make definite changes in a society - Big Brother is their enemy.
          Now, I know I've written a dialogue on the education system and I'm hardly an authority on that subject but I don't think a person has to be highly educated to see that it's not working properly - when you think a country's future is based on upcoming generations - education would be a number one priority.  In my view, I think education should be free to students that show good academic and hands-on traits - and I don't mean for making a better economy so the fat cats can just get fatter but for making the world a better and healthy place to live - a world of respect, dignity, honesty - a future to look forward to - cheers, eh!
       
                 

NEW LOOK FOR AN OLD GUY

          I thought I'd change the look of my blog a wee bit; not sure if it's an improvement or not, especially with the photo, which was taken by a friend of mine, Gary Stairs last winter.  I don't think I've aged too much since then and even if I have, there isn't a dang thing I can do about it - although maybe if I ironed my face and had a dye job, it just might improve my appearance.  I suppose I could have posted a much younger photo of myself, back in the day when the hair on my head wasn't grey but then anyone I actually know today who reads this blog, probably wouldn't recognize me. This winter is just as blasted cold as the preceding winters I've spent in New Brunswick at the foot of Green Mountain in Fosterville and since I'm not what anyone would call a fashion statement, I'm wearing the same clothes now that I'm wearing in last year's photo - a fur hat with the ear flaps up and a heavy-duty Cowichan sweater - warmth is what this old man is all about these days and especially since 72 winters have taken their toll - my hot blood just aint so hot anymore - some of the arteries most likely dammed up with fatty substances of every description.  However, with my daily medication being a cold Moose Head Pale Ale, I try to keep the blood thinned so it keeps flowing - the further extremities still receiving the least of whatever heat my old heart generates.

          There's nothing worse than getting cornered by a man as old as I am because us old men can just rattle your ear off about how it was in the past - a lot of years have gone by that I can jabber about, so look out - and I guess if you've read this far, it's too late - you've been captured.  However, I do believe your keyboard has an escape key and a delete key, not to mention the little x in the top right hand corner of this page, so hey, if you're not liking what you've read thus far, just send this rambling old man's blog into the bottomless abyss of cyberspace.  

          I've no idea if anyone read the last comment and only comment I received regarding the last post, The Giant Snail.  The commenter wrote that I seem to have a fixation or fetish about a person's ass and of course, especially since I receive so few comments regarding my blogs; I replied to his comment - I think it's only polite to write something back, especially since they took the time to write some "constructive criticism" about this old man's ramblings.  I remember, a long way back when I was just a young, aspiring artist attending art school, when one of my sketches was used as a full page advertisement in regards to a ballet concert starring Rudolf Nureyev that was being held in Vancouver, BC at the theatre.  A reader took offence to my artwork and wrote into the paper about how bad my sketch was - it's funny - at the time I felt a little offended but after some thought and consideration, I was actually glad because to me, it showed that someone actually noticed my artistic endeavour - it was right up there with the time someone stole one of my sketches off the wall during an art school exhibition.  Like the comment I received, I know it's not a compliment, but at least I know someone actually took the time to read this old man's ramblings and I appreciate that.  Although, yes, the snail that I wrote about was certainly disgusting, I realize my vocabulary at times coming right out of the gutter but then I've been there too and if it's that offensive, well then just hit the little x at the top of the page - that's what I do when I lose interest in what I'm seeing or reading.  What I mean is, I'm just going to keep on writing whatever I please and use any old descriptive words that pop into this old  man's brain because I know that as many people who find my rantings offensive, there are just as many or maybe more who actually get a kick out of what I write - actually put a smile on their faces - and in these times when our fragile world is reeling on the edge of chaos, the population is growing at a hideous rate, the environment is collapsing - in other words our asses are almost grass - if I can spread a grin across someone's face, make happy dimples appear, even get a good guffaw - then that's what I'm all about - cheers, eh!