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!    

THE GIANT SNAIL

          It's just amazing; the tripe, nonsensical, unmeaningful, and should be forgotten crap that rolls around inside this old man's head; stuff that should never come to the forefront, should be left far behind like a lingering fart that just slides out of the great toothless orifice and clings to my butt like a Spandex body suit.  And then again, some things just never leave the mind and so it is as I look back in time to my very early teenage years when boys will be boys and girls, well girls, they were still just aliens; they lived in an entirely different dimension.  It's a time when I was a paperboy delivering the Vancouver Sun, swam in a lake that turned me green (luckily, not toxic waste green) clouds were still magical and my friends were carefree; one such friend, being Danny T. - a cohort of many joint mischievous deeds.
          Danny and I, since our first meeting at the paper-shack, where we bagged our Vancouver Sun newspapers before heading out to our various routes to deliver them; just hit it off; we were almost like brothers.  But make no mistake about it, Danny was a troublemaker, he had already stolen his first car at age 13 and smashed it up.  Basically a straight-A student, a policeman for a father, you'd think he'd become a prominent person when he grew up but I guess that doesn't mean anything because when I met him years later while I was going to art school, he had just been released from prison for robbery; what appeared to be his chosen career and it would not be the last time he went to prison.  But this isn't what I want to write about, I want to stay with that time when we were still boys and the best of friends.
          Sleep-overs were as rare as first kisses in those days but somehow or another I managed to stay overnight at his house.  He shared his bedroom with his younger brother Ronnie and that evening, after we were all told to quiet down several times and get to sleep, he showed me his special tin can that he kept on the floor beside his bed.  Now what's so special about a tin can; well nothing really; it was the contents.  Every night and like tonight, Danny dragged up all the phlegm and snot out of his lungs and nose and hucked  it into his big tin can.  When he showed me the contents, I have to admit I was in awe; I'd never seen anything quite so vile and yet it was wondrous at the same time.  How many times he had hucked a gooey mouthful of guck into that big old tin can that seems to just collect in all of us, I have no idea but it was almost up to the brim; it looked like a giant snail.  And in the morning when we woke up, the sun just cresting the neighbours' houses, Danny set his giant snail free!
          Danny and his brother's bedroom was located above the living room overlooking a small veranda that covered the front porch.  I have no idea the length of time that had passed since Danny first hucked into his big old tin can but when he tipped it upside down outside on the window sill, like a snail, it was not in a hurry to leave.  However, after banging the tin several time, the yellowish-grey glob began to ooze its way out of the tin can.  Like drool, creeping out of the side of someone's mouth, it just seemed to hover suspended in mid air until gravity finally took hold and it plopped on the veranda, which was covered in shingles.  Slowly and slowly, ever so slowly, it oozed its way down the slope of the veranda from shingle to shingle until it reached the edge of the roof.  The contents of the tin can were close to being empty by now, so not until Danny scooped the remaining gob of congested snot and phlegm out of the tin can with his finger and added it to the edge of the widow sill, did the gob of goo collected at the edge of the roof finally start its long descent to the ground below.
          Not wanting to miss the conclusion of this exciting event, barely able to contain our laughter and not wake up his mom and dad, we hightailed it down the stairs and out the front door as fast as we could.  One would think, the gigantic snot ball would have separated at this point and just dripped to the ground, but like a snail trail, the goo still held together.  We looked at each other in amazement when the disgusting blob eventually touched the ground unbroken - Spiderman had nothing on Danny's gooey gob - he could have probably swung from the top of the tallest building to the street below with that strange concoction that could have put a witch's brew to shame.
          It's been at least 30 years since I last met Danny walking along a downtown street in Nanaimo, BC - he was on the run then, not from the police or a prison escape but from some real bad people.  From what he told me, he'd spent much of his life behind bars, mostly for violent robberies.  He also told m, his brother had been found at his home in the basement by his young daughter; he'd been killed by a shot gun blast at very close range.  I don't know if what happened to his brother had anything to do with Danny; it didn't sound like it but he did mention seeking revenge.
          Danny would be as old as I am now and I sometimes wonder whatever became of him - the last time I heard from him, it was by telephone and that he was living up island with a woman.  I don't know if he had settled down by then or if he was hiding out from the law or bad guys but it's the last I ever heard from my boyhood friend and like his giant snot-ball, I guess the memories of our good times will always cling to me - cheers, eh!