DOWN FOR THE COUNT

Herod Boy, Me and My Dad

          A comment I received on the last post I wrote, about a pirate named One-Eye, kind of stirred these old bones, put a bit of a hop in my step because although the blog gets quite a few hits, I'm never really certain anyone reads it. Lately, because of my not so great physical condition, even my vision giving me a problem and managing to tire myself out while lying in a prone position watching Netflix programs, it gives me great pleasure to let my imagination roam as freely as a mustang running across the plains, the thunder of his hooves echoing under a purple sky. And, speaking of horses, just pour yourself a hot cup of coffee or tea or maybe something with more of a kick (might want to have a few tissues handy too) just in case this tale smacks you in the heart while you're sitting in your comfy chair and reading about Herod Boy (nothing to do with Herod the Great).

          It's summer time in Vancouver, BC a long time ago, my voice has hardly changed and I've barely taken up shaving; still leaning more towards a boy than a man. The evening is warm, the sun's last rays still hitting the mountains rearing up over the north shore like stallions on parade and I'm at Exhibition Park waiting for the starting-gate bell to ring. It's the eighth and final race of the day and a hush has fallen like the first snowfall of winter over the crowd of racehorse-bettors as they clutch their tickets, all eyes on the gate. Suddenly the bell shrills, the gates burst open and Jack Short loudly announces, "And they're off...!", above the din of wildly shouting crowd cheering their horses on.

          I don't have any money on Herod Boy but I'm just as excited if not more excited than anyone who has placed a bet on this fine gelding. My eyes are not on the horses in the lead, hugging the rail as close as a mom holding her first new born in her arms because I know he's not there, he's running further behind in the pack, the jockey almost standing up in the stirrups in order to tightly hold him in position. At this point, you might think this race is fixed but it's not the way Herod runs. He's not a front runner, he's one of those horses that looks like he's a loser at the beginning of the race up until he reaches the final turn heading into the homestretch. Then, and I can still see him to this day as the jockey settled down into the saddle, his ass level with his head and lets the reins loose. A few taps with the crop on Herod's ass end to let him know that running and running as fast as possible is the name of the game - the race is on! 

          There are ten horses in the race and Herod Boy was about in seventh position when he began his move, passing tiring horses and ones that were trying to keep up to his pounding hooves. Breaking into the homestretch, Herod Boy is running fifth and gaining with every stride to overtake the horses in front. The jockey is in tandem with Herod's every move, swiftly flowing together in a singular manner towards the finish wire. Rider and horse, horse and rider breaking loose from the tiring pack and on the heels of the front horses, Herod Boy is gaining with every stride. The crowd of bettors have gone berserk, leaping into the air and screaming their horse's names as Herod Boy and two other horses are vying for the lead neck and neck. Flecks of foam and sweat from their sweaty bodies are flying through the air when the horses reach the finish wire and Jack Short yells, "It's a photo finish! Don't throw away your tickets until the winner is announced!" I didn't have to wait to know which horse had won because I had been standing almost directly even with the finish wire to see that Herod Boy was half a head in front of the second horse. 

          I don't really know if a racehorse knows when they win a race or if they even care but I do know that after they've been running their hearts out, it takes a while to cool them out and that was my job. After the race, my dad and I washed Herod Boy off with soapy hot water, then threw a horse blanket over his body before I started walking him round and round the barn, allowing him sips of water each time we came to his pail. When a horse wins a race, its urine has to be tested for drugs and so it was with Herod. Sometimes it takes hours for a horse to take a piss, but not Herod, as soon as the empty little bottle was put in place under his lengthy ding-dong, he filled it to the brim.

          Everything seemed very normal as I cooled out Herod Boy, the nearby horses in the stalls could be heard munching on hay or  be seen simply standing with their heads out of the doors. It was peaceful as usual and my dad was smiling each time we came by, I knew he needed the purse money. And that was the thing about Herod Boy, he almost always brought home a paycheck, seldom did he finish less than third place; he was kinda what you might call a bread and butter horse. 

          But on this particular night...something was clearly wrong with Herod Boy because as I walked him, he began bloating up, farting loudly and constantly trying to lay down. I didn't know what was wrong with him but I could see that my dad was clearly worried, especially when he said, "Keep him walking. Whatever you do, don't let him go down. I'm off to fetch the vet (track veterinarian)".

          It wasn't very long before my dad returned with the vet, who as I recall was a drunk and was probably drunk when he arrived. He told me to take Herod into his stall so he could take a look at him. Of course, as soon as I led Herod into his stall, he immediately tried to lay down and I had to keep jerking his head up to prevent him. 

          When the doc said, "He's just full of gas. Let him go." I looked at my dad questioningly because it didn't seem like a good idea to me. I don't think my dad liked the idea either but he reluctantly told me to do as the doc asked.

          I had barely taken the shank off Herod's halter, when he instantly dropped to his knees onto his side and then began rolling on the stall floor. He was desperately trying to get the gas out of his bloated belly but like a boxer from a deadly blow, down for the count, he never got up again. I remember going down on my knees in the sweet smelling yellow straw and stroking Herod's head until he took his last desperate breath. The doc's verdict was that Herod had been suffering from colic and that he most likely twisted his bowels when he was rolling around in the stall, which is why in my opinion that wonderful horse shouldn't have been allowed to roll. I would have walked that horse a hundred miles if I'd known it would have saved his life.

          It was late by the time my dad and I left the barn and headed to the parking lot. We were both silent, had hardly said a word since Herod died. When we reached the car, which was parked in front of a long log lying on the ground, my dad suddenly sat down on it and I could tell by his shuddering shoulders that he was quietly crying. With tears in my eyes, I joined him on that log and put my arm around him - it was the first time and the only time I ever saw my father cry. 

          My dad trained and loved horses until he died Christmas day in 1969. I lived in Lethbridge, AL at the time and he had phoned me Christmas eve, a conversation I don't recall, only know what it meant to me. I of course flew home and had to make, besides funeral arrangements, take care of the horses he was training for other people. It was the last time and saddest time I was at the racetrack...I'm feeling pretty sad now as I remember that day and don't really feel like ending this blog with the usual words, only know that they are bitter sweet...cheers, eh!            

THE PIRATES LIFE FOR ME!

             The cataracts on my right eye were removed yesterday and for someone who can't even touch his own eyes to put drops in them, I'm amazed that the doctor did so well. Me best mate Sarah, yar, and a pirate lass she is, still thinks her one-eyed pirate is a special guy. The patch on me eye gave me an idea for a pirate yarn that I hopes you'll enjoy reading.
          Yar! I run me wee ship, ONE-EYE hard aground while tippin' back more than a grog or two. She hit the shore with a horrifying crunch, which sent shivers down me backbone and had me only two remaining teeth clattering within the empty cavern of me maw. Although she's slightly listing between the craggy grasp of hard rocks and the steep cliff, the waves like delicate physician's hands continually slapping her arse end as hard as a new born lass just jettisoned from its womb, I'd be lying if I said we'd soon be clear and able to set sail again to plunder many a merchant ship. Thinking back, when first I saw the high rocky cliffs jutting out of the sea like a giant's fist, I should have allowed the first mate to grab hold the helm with his hairy hands and calloused fingers, the nails bitten clean to the bone - with strength like his, he would have ripped old ONE-EYE from the savage claws of the massive cliff and sailed her to deeper water where we would have been safe in the cradle of the Salish Sea. Although old ONE-EYE may be wedged tighter than a virgin's pantaloons between a rock and a hard place, her thick oaken ribs groaning and cracking with each flaying blow of the sea, all may not be lost for the tide will soon be on the rise and hopefully lift her clear and free.

           The masts, booms and yard arms are as bare as a naked hussy that shivers and shakes as each tremendous wave caresses old ONE-EYE closer to a screaming orgasm, louder than the cry of the lost banshee riding on the frothy waves streaking across the boulder ridden shore. The night is dark, darker than a freshly dug grave, not a silvery satin moon or a blinking beckoning star to be seen overhead in the darkening heavens. The rumble of thunder and roar of the waves, mingling together in tandem across the inky black Salish Sea - musical tones of Mozart gaily bouncing on every bubble came to mind and almost had me doing a jig.

           Yar! My blood was boiling fearlessly as I scrambled up the main mast and upon reaching the crows-nest was amazed I hadn't spilled a single drop of grog from me big mug. As I stood there bent into the wind, a long brass telescope pressed to my one good eye, my blind one tucked beneath a black leather patch with a painted white skull and crossbones shining in the dark, I was hoping to catch a wee glimpse of light within the surrounding misery of darkness. But the sky, as dark as a harlot's heart, wasn't about to give up her gold, not one peeping glimpse of sunshine on the horizon could be seen. The night would be long and many hours would pass before the turning and rising of the tide, which was needed to lift old ONE-EYE off the rocks.

        Cap'n One-Eye and his motley crew of murderous, cut-throats, pick-pockets, rapists, thieves and other lowly degenerates had stormed a British Man O War in a drunken stupor several years back. The ship had been at anchor in a warm Jamaican bay when a heavy mist evolved, the fog so thick, it was impossible to see your fist in front of your face. Stripped almost naked, each One-Eye pirate carried a sharp sword, a primed pistol and a dastardly dagger when they silently stepped aboard the HMS Venerable and slew every sailor in the most ghastly manner and then made the captain and his officers walk the plank - the sharks below licking their chops in eager anticipation. They had plundered many a ship afterward but due to dubious debauchery, gadabout gambling, impetuous imbibing, not to mention scandalous skulduggery, the gold and jewels they plundered were never efficient enough to change their way of living and besides, if given a chance at a more legal and quieter existence, they would have all lifted their mugs of grog high and cheered in unison, "If this is the life of a pirate, then this is the life for me! 

          As Cap'n One-Eye trod round and round the crows-nest his bleary blood-shot eye staring through the spyglass in search of a possible rescue, he suddenly glimpsed something moving between the tumultuous white caps. He wasn't sure if it was wishful thinking on his part or if something or someone was actually a short distance off the starboard side until a sudden flash of lightning lit up the surface of the sea for barely a heartbeat, but long enough for the one-eyed captain to see the form of a long boat and one person. His thoughts concerning the little boat and its lone inhabitant were rudely interrupted when an enormous wave struck the Man O War broadside and stove a gigantic hole in the side of her near the bow, which caused the bowsprit to splinter and dangle only mere bubbles above the sea. Realizing it was a mortal blow, not that the ship would sink, but was more likely to be smashed to smithereens with each wave that smacked her starboard side, it was time to take action and get the hell off the ONE-EYE.

             Grabbing a nearby rope, he swung from the crows nest to  the deck below and hollered to his panicking crew to gather round. When he had their attention he growled, "Well lads, looks like this is the end of ONE-EYE. It wont be long before she's busted all apart and the rats like us will be fleeing for our lives. As these are likely the last words to be spoken as your cap'n, I'd just like to mention how proud I am to have sailed with such a diabolical, comical, unscrupulous, murderous, bone-headed, dreaded, broody, moody, lazy, crazy, unwashed, unabashed, unworthy, scurvy, sleazy, measly, drunkards and raping bastards. I almost gets teary-eyed when I give the order to cut someone's throat and it's carried out immediately and with such glee, or ordering someone to scurry upwards to unravel a twisted sail during a hurricane and they fall to their death or when you're told to haul and keel a disobeying bastard and everyone cheers when the scalawag is ripped to pieces by the barnacles below." 

                After wiping a fake tear away with the sleeve of his thick black coat he grinned because he just then had a brainwave on saving his own life. It was risky the chance he was about to take but living life with those heartless, dumbfounded, treacherous, brain-dead and devious crew that surrounded him were far more threatening. When another huge wave smashed into the Man O War, many of the canons tumbled about and shattered the keel beyond repair. As the main mast cracked, about to break in two he urgently cryed, "Before I give the order to abandon ship I'd like to let you know what I saw through the spyglass" and smiling broadly at the terrified crew continued, "It's something you're really going to like. Just beyond the gentle palm trees growing along the shore, I saw some lights, looked like a small village in the near distance. Women, booze and food - what more could pirates ask for! Yar! Look lively mates, Grabs what you wants from old ONE-EYE and I'll meet you on the outskirts of the village."

          As the crew were dashing around, scavenging anything they thought useful or could sell or trade, Capn' One-Eye walked over to the starboard rail and looked through his brass spyglass until he was observing the small craft being rowed by a person, which he was certain was one of the female variety - much to his liking. His crew were too busy grabbing stuff to notice their captain taking off his shirt, exposing his massive shoulders and slender waist. After he took off his black leather shoes with silver buckles, he rubbed his stubbly square jawed chin, a dimple in the centre, with the back of his hand. He was a ruggedly handsome man, vivid blue eyes, thick black mustache and long blonde hair, which was held in place by a black satin ribbon. Putting everything inside an empty leather bag, which had been lying near his feet, including his musket and ammunition, he took one last glance over his shoulder, stepped up onto the starboard rail and dove into the black silky Salish Sea.

          I'd like to tell you that when Capn' One-Eye reached the dugout canoe, which was indeed being paddled by a Haida maiden, his stunning handsomeness would have made her swoon like so many other maidens he had defrocked. But no, his living happily ever after with a beautiful lass was not to be. Before he could even utter a single word, not even a slight syllable, she stood up in the dugout canoe and hit him squarely in the centre of his head with the sharp edge of the oar, splitting it cleanly in two. His men too, didn't live happily ever after either because their captain had lied to them - there was no village, the small island was deserted and they lived out the remainder of their very short lives by killing, eating each other and other unmentionable disgusting acts...cheers, eh!

READING BETWEEN THE LINES

Lookin' for a Ride

          As some may know, my wife and I have been planning a road trip to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island in our wee Hippie-Hangout trailer but because I haven't been in the best physical condition for quite some time, actually almost two years and still not in the best of shape, we've decided to fly there. That being said, I'm not sure if I should go for the blue or the brown diapers. I could wear the blue because even I am not quite sure anymore whether I'm male or not and that would at least reinforce my gender. And then again, I'm leaning towards the brown, besides matching the colour of my eyes, the deposit, if I somehow don't make it to a bathroom in time, might be camouflaged...hmm...then again the aroma, eu de toilette, I'm sure cannot be disguised. I suppose if passengers are turning to look at me or everyone is wearing an oxygen mask in case of an emergency, I'll get the hint that the jig's up, that I crapped my pants. Hopefully I won't be given a parachute and tossed out of the plane or the pilot doesn't pass out from the stink. 

Peace, eh!

          Up until a few days ago, I was pretty sure I wouldn't go. However, after receiving an email and reading between the lines, from a 70 year old friend who has been living in Mexico and Guatemala for about the last ten years and gives most of his old age pension to educate some kids - he lives in cheap places, sleeps on beaches when the tourists leave and rides a bicycle (not that long ago he got hit by a van, which destroyed his bike and broke three of his ribs) - I decided, even if I'm in rough shape now, which might be the best I will ever be again, to pack my bag, paints and brushes and head west for a month. It's been eight years since I've been back and I know, besides Sarah (who would have been excruciatingly disappointed) my kids, ex-wife and friends will all be pleased to see me. Of course, because of our finances, I still wouldn't be going if my daughter Brandi, who was planning to come to see me with her family in Saint John when I have a cancer check-up, rented us a place to stay. She said the price of our place would have equaled the cost of their two day visit. And where we'll be staying in Nanaimo is within walking distance from where I used to live on my sailboat - now how great is that! Also, Newcastle Island, where me and my little dog Misty walked around many times, is a short ferry ride away - I won't be walking far but it would be nice to just have these old feet shuffle around on friendly familiar ground for a little while once again, even if the feelings that arise might be bitter/sweet.

          It's amazing how hellos are uplifting and sometimes goodbyes are too (depending on the persons). But I don't kid myself, at this age and the problems I have, some of the people I'll be seeing when I get to Nanaimo, the hellos and goodbyes could be for the very last time. And even if they aren't, one has to make the best of it, and that my friends is one of the reasons why I'm going. I've always been a risk-taker - going down the middle of the road with a turn up ahead is what I've always been about...cheers, eh!

INCREDIBLE MARIJUANA HEIST

Page from my recent colouring book
that I drew and wrote the poetry.
18 pages dedicated to the hippie era
Only $10. plus $2.00 shipping

           The thing about an old guy like me, there's not much of a future ahead but looking back, in comparison, there's a helluva lot more past. And the thing about getting old, you never want to get me yappin' because I don't know when to shut up. However, since my fingers don't do a rapid tap-dance on the computer keys, like my mouth flappin' in the breeze, I have to say a lot in as few words as possible.

               Due to some physical issues, which at times can get a wee bit depressive, I try to keep this blog a touch on the funny side if I can. Thinking back to a time, only months into my first marriage, which although the event was a bit risky, I'd like to share a tale about when my friend and I pulled off an incredible marijuana heist.

          The tale starts at the beginning of the 70's in the summer time, the real hippie-dippy era, when everything was cool man, far out and outta sight. My friend Jimmy and I met when we were working in TV together in Lethbridge. When he moved to Calgary  to become a DJ for a radio station, I followed in his footsteps a few months later, when I landed a job at a sign company designing signs. He was single then and living with his parents and I was sorta single. Well...not really, my wife and kids had yet to arrive. Anyway, I'm over at his folk's place this day and we step outside with a couple of cold beers to greet the setting sun, dusk quickly descending and more importantly, share some pot.

                As we're standing on the porch passing the joint back and forth, he says to me, "How do you like our neighbour's garden?"

             It was a small backyard so the garden wasn't very big. Besides some lettuce and other tasty edibles, they were mainly growing corn, so I replied, "It's alright."

            "Take a closer look at the corn," he said.

            Although it was almost dark, I'm sure when my eyes bugged out, the whites glowed and could most likely be seen a block away. "Is that what I think it is?" I asked in disbelief.

            He nodded his head and answered, "Yup. I'd like to rip it off but as you can see, I don't feel like having my ass bit off." 

              His neighbours had two huge dogs roaming about the backyard, leaving gobs of spittle on the ground with every step. They were about the size of rottweilers that never seemed to take their eyes off of us. If there was a staring contest going on, they were definitely the winners! More out of curiosity than anything else I asked Jimmy, "Are they always outside?"

          "They seem to be, at least every time I come out here, they're always there watching me. They must be guarding his pot plants."

           "Too bad."

            And then suddenly, just as we toked up the last of the pot, a miracle occurred, it was as if we had made a wish on the first star of the night. The man of the house stuck his head outside and called in his dogs - most likely their time to eat.  Jimmy and I looked at one another and he says, "Are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

           "Do bears poop in the woods?" and then continued, "Have you got any ideas how to snatch those plants and getaway without being seen?"

             "It's not as easy as it looks is it? They could let those two mean looking dogs out at any moment."

           Free pot! This was too good to be true and before I knew what I was going to say the words just popped out of my mouth, "You grab your Volkswagen Beetle and pull up in the front of their house and I'll grab the pot!"

              While Jimmy went to get his car, I leaped the fence like Superman in a single bound. Like a ninja, I cautiously looked around and my ears were on high alert too for an opening door, the last thing I needed was a dog attached to my ass with his sharp teeth. Adrenaline pumping through my veins I dropped down on my ass and back and skooched along the rows of corn, ripping out marijuana plants as I went. Unable to hold anymore, I dashed down alongside the side of Jimmy's neighbour's house towards the street. I was young then and sprinting from any form of danger wasn't a problem - now you see me - now you don't!

          Jimmy was right on the ball! The back door of his Beetle was wide open as I tossed the huge armful of pot into the back seat and jumped in! I don't know which was loudest, the screeching of Jimmy's tires as he pulled away from the curb or us roaring from laughter. I'm sure just the aroma from the freshly-picked pot made us even more stoned than we already were until we looked at one another and Jimmy said what I was thinking, "You do realize we're stoned, half drunk and we're packin' a shit load of pot in the back seat. We could go to jail if we're pulled over." 

          Needless to say, we got clean away and had a very hazy summer due to his neighbour's crop...cheers, eh!

SPECIAL MOM'S IN MY LIFE

           Mom's day is a great day! For me, there's a touch of bitter sweet on this day - for mom's I had and mom's of my children and my mom in law, not to mention my grandmoms. I've been fortunate to have and have had all of these special ladies in my life and I love them all. 

          One certainly has to tip his hat to mothers, their endurance is profound and for the most part, their love is unconditional - somehow they always see the good in their kids, no matter what. As a kid, if I skinned my knee or was scared of something, I would go running to my mom crying but not my dad - somehow crying for a guy at any age doesn't seem so manly.  And besides, if I ran to my dad as a boy and showed him my bleeding knee, he might have said, "Hmm, that's quite a scratch. Don't worry though, it's a long way from your heart." Mommy's lap was always my first choice, not just because it felt warm and comforting but because it felt safe. There's a softness to a woman's body and her touch that even today, I still find assurance that everything will turn out alright, work itself out for the better. It's not that men can't be tender or considerate, to me, we always seem a little overbearing, like the world is tough, so toughen up.
              Yeah, mom's are great! When my mother was dying from lung cancer, I looked after her during her last six months. I almost took up smoking again from lighting her cigarettes - she set the bed on fire twice till I took her smokes and matches away - she was a smoker to the end. For her last birthday, since I enjoy doing calligraphy, I wrote her a poem and gave it a little flair of its own. Miss you mom...cheers, eh! 

           

TRAMS, TRAINS AND TRACKS

          Painting this train brings back more than a few wonderful and joyful memories about trams, trains and a racehorse. 

          When I was around thirteen, a tram, somewhat larger than a streetcar traveled from Vancouver to Richmond, which took about an hour. There's just something about a tram rolling along the steel rails, rocking from side to side that's really enjoyable, especially for a boy with adventure on his mind. I only rode the tram a couple of times with my parents and sisters to Lansdowne Park, so my dad could bet the horses. There was a trestle a very short distance from where I lived and just like in my painting, it was very narrow and had a couple of small platforms with a 45 gallon barrel full of water on each one in case of fire. My friends and I had a lot of fun playing around on the trestle, which if we had fallen off could have killed or seriously injured us but kids being kids, we were fearless. We'd even walk the rails and when the tram came, if we didn't have enough time to make it to one of the platforms, we'd hang off the sides of the trestle till it thundered by, which was a little unnerving since it shook. 

           Traveling by train is a cool experience too and I've been on several trains. I rode the day-liner on Vancouver Island a couple of times and going across a high trestle near the Malahat highway, if you're afraid of heights, is not a good idea to look down and think about crashing on the rocks below. I also took one of my daughters to see her grandfolks on a train from Vancouver to Prince George; the route spectacular.  I've also traveled by train a few times from Calgary to Vancouver, the most memorable time was during my honeymoon with my first wife Doreen to meet my folks and sisters. We had our own compartment, which was very cool. 

          When I worked as a groom at Exhibition Park, a racetrack in Vancouver, which is only a hop, skip and a jump from the railroad tracks and a huge grain elevator, a couple of us young guys would jump into an empty boxcar with a sack and a broom to gather wheat that was lying around on the wooden floor. One day, while we were sweeping grains of wheat into a sack, a locomotive backed into the cars with a jolt that almost knocked us off our feet. Thinking it would be fun to ride it for awhile, we decided to stay, that is until it began going faster and faster. It's more than a little frightening to leap out of a boxcar when it's moving down the tracks, the clickity-clacks becoming more rapid but that's what we did. We didn't hit the dirt with our feet and a roll, our feet were running as fast as they could to keep our balance when we landed. 

             You might think what's a racehorse got to do with a train? Well this was a special horse that was entered in the Longacres Mile at Emerald Downs near Seattle. Little Choo Choo was his name and since I was the groom, I got to ride with the horse in it's own boxcar, now how special is that? Little Choo Choo didn't win the race but to me, the whole trip was a big time winner. What's not to like about curling up in sweet-smelling straw, watch a horse by the name of Little Choo Choo nibbling hay as the train rumbles along the track? For a young lad, it doesn't get much better than that...cheers, eh!

MY FIRST BEER

          Yesterday was gorgeous; joyful flowers popping up, cheerful birds singing and the happy humming of bees in the air could be heard. It was the first time in over a year that I was able to sit outside and enjoy the sun on my back. Now one might think I'm knockin' back a cool brew and in a sense, I am. Well...a near-beer anyway - no alcohol.  

          I was around 16 years of age when I had my first beer and I guess I have my mother to thank for introducing me to that wonderful amber liquid - I loved the taste and the tartness as it hit the back of my throat right from the first sip. Having that first beer was like having sex for the first time - not only were they great experiences and memorable, in my case, they both  became rather addictive - cold beer and a hot chick - for a man like me, a great combination.  

          It was a hot day in July, the kind of day where beads of sweat instantly form on one's brow, when I tilted back my first bottle of beer. I was staying with my mom at my grandfolk's homestead alongside the Fraser River, which is not a river to mess around with - the current is extremely strong and the undertow can be extremely dangerous as well, suck your britches off with a single swallow.              There was a small island situated closer to the other side of the river that a nearby neighbour Len Lutz wanted to take us to in his little motor boat - thought it would be a good place to have sort of a picnic. At first, I thought it was a great idea until the three of us were seated in his little tin boat, our weight plus the combined weight of the motor almost had the river sloshing over the sides before we even pushed off shore; then I had my doubts. The current was so swift, he had difficulty steering the boat at such an angle, it was almost as if we were going upstream rather than directly across to the island. I have to admit I was a little bit scared and if that little boat is still around, which is highly unlikely, I expect my fingerprints can still be seen where I tightly held on.

           While my mom and Len leisurely stretched out on the sandy beach, their backs against a big tree that had washed up onto the island, most likely in the spring when the snow and ice melted, being a young lad, I decided to wander around and explore it's wildness. At one end of the island, was a stack of trees of various sizes that had grounded out when the river was higher, so I decided to climb up to the top and take a look around; nothing like height for a short kid. Upon reaching the apex, the stack of intertwined twisted trees seemed like a miniature volcano because the centre was open all the way down to the ground. When I climbed down  inside, all of a sudden, like obedient soldiers, the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention - the muddy soil was surrounded by bear tracks and they appeared to be very fresh. Well...I can tell you, for a short little guy, I flew up the inside of that stack of trees as fast as a blob of red-hot lava shooting out of a volcano. 

          When I returned to where they were sitting and casually talking, I couldn't help noticing that my mom and Len were sipping a couple of beers. I could scarce believe my eaves-dropping ears when Len asked my mom if it was alright for me to have one and she said sure. At that glorious moment, sweat running down my back from running away from a bear, which I had been certain was hot on my tail, I almost felt as if I had suddenly grown up. My first but far from my last beer, which at times have been a problem over the years, I felt as if I was in a mystical wonderland as I sat down and enjoyed a nice cold bottle of beer with them. Why I can even remember the brand - Old Style - the label had a tepee with some Indians on it! It was a pilsner beer and I drank it for many years before ever trying another brand, it tasted that good to me. 

          I still remember part of the conversation on that hot summer day. Len Lutz was sort of an odd single man, a live-alone bachelor, not crazy or anything but somewhat unusual and he told us why he limped, which I thought was one hell of a tale and still do.  He had been a soldier in WWII and had been blown up by a grenade during a battle. He said that when he came to, his head was sticking out between his legs and a medic was nonchalantly looking him over. When the medic told his aid to forget about him, they'd come back later, he felt that he was a gonner but much to his surprise, he survived! I still can hear his voice to this day when he grinned and said, "I may not have much meat on my legs but they're legs of steel."

          Funny the things a person remembers, but when I looked at the above photo of me enjoying a cold near-beer, that memory of me, my mom and Len Lutz sitting on a small island in the Fraser River brought that hot July afternoon back to life. As much as I still love beer, I just can't take a chance  since the last one I drank, I went blind for about 20 minutes and no, I wasn't blind drunk...cheers, eh! 

LET THE MAGIC BEGIN

          It feels good to be able to paint artistically again, plus do other things that I was no longer capable of achieving. However, something I've always found a little surprising throughout the years, is that after I've sketched whatever the subject matter may be and the canvas is still devoid of paint, a sense of incapability seems to pervade my being. While I sit and look at the white canvas, pencil marks here, there and everywhere, often just a scribble, I then look at my hands as I reach for a brush and say, "Let the magic begin." And, this painting of the train began no differently and I'm hoping the magic hasn't left me yet.

          My eyesight is quite limited at the moment, but like I told my brother the other day when he phoned to check up on me, "While I paint, my face is so close that my nose almost touches the canvas and it's the same when I mix the paint on the palette. However, although I'm seeing a blurry double line, at least my brush is a double image too, so luckily, everything seems to be lining up so far."  

          I find it frustrating that the painting process has become so slow and I often get angry with myself, even though there is nothing I can do about it. I'm hoping that when the cataract is removed from my right eye on May 27, even though the left eye isn't much better, my eyesight will improve. If nothing else, I'll stop seeing double. And then again, if I'm seeing double and painting double, since there will be two paintings in one, perhaps I should charge double the price - hahaha. 

          Since we went to Fredericton to display some of our art wares yesterday, I had to put off painting the train.  Me (Trip) and Sarah (Daisy) were part of an event and although we broke about even, we weren't discouraged because of the good response we got from the few people that walked through the door. The venue we had signed up for was poorly advertised, if at all. There wasn't even a sign on the street to be seen or any sort of directions as to where it was being held. Perhaps we wasted our time, but for me that doesn't matter because at least it gave me something to do and look forward to while I'm healing. 
          I was really excited about travelling and then staying overnight in our "Hippie-Hangout" and although a touch cool in the night and neither of us didn't sleep so well, we had a lot of fun - perhaps it was the brownies Sarah baked that had something to do with it...hahaha. However, that being said, because I'm still quite a distance from being well and I'm still feeling pretty good since our return, I'm still wondering if our participation will set me back. Not that long ago, just a day in town took me two to four days to recover. However, regardless of the outcome, I've never really been one to sit back and avoid the risks - sometimes living on the edge has its rewards - nothing ventured; nothing gained. 

          One of things which sold well was my haiku colouring book. I haven't turned it into a little chapbook yet but the 8.5"x11" (18 pages to colour) version is now available for ten bucks, plus two bucks shipping. I had fun colouring the front cover and hopefully anyone who buys a copy will find it real cool colouring the hippie inspired images and reading the haiku Trip wrote. 

          Looks like I'm back painting the train again and that's fine by me. While living on my sailboat, I thought I had a small studio area then. Now, one turn in my swivel-chair, I'm facing the painting, next turn I'm facing the computer, next turn I'm facing the bed and the final turn lets me walk away, careful that I don't knock anything over or stumble and fall down. The whole size of my small space is about 6'x8' and as odd as it seems, I don't really feel that enclosed, maybe because my mind like a butterfly flits free...cheers, eh!