Last of the year

Christmas has been and gone another year, this time differently than before for me and mine. Mama and I sent Rosie to the kennel and headed to Mexico for the week of Christmas. We laid in the sun, snorkeled, and enjoyed rum punch by the pool. No rain, no snow, no driving frantically from one event to the next clinging to tattered "Christmas spirit." It'll be hard to not make that an annual trip. We're back just in time, as it's apparently raining and storming down there now.

If you're reading this, thanks. I hope you come back. May your new year be blessed with the truly good things of this life.

My first truck

My first vehicle was older than me by a year. One year newer than my parents' old van. I was 18 years old when I bought it from a friend. His dad had bought the truck new and after a dozen or so years, sold it to his father. More years later, my friend then bought it from his grandfather with a mind to fixing it up and got about as far as replacing the alternator. His parents wanted it off their yard and my parents were fine with hosting another vehicle, so I bought it. It was an old faded blue Chevrolet pickup truck: 4X4, big V8, and two fuel tanks to feed it. From my increasingly fuzzy memory of fuel prices at the time and how much money I could spend at one filling, that truck must have carried over 200 litres just in fuel.

Not far from my parents' old house is a mountain with a road that goes right to the top. There are telecom towers up there, so the road is sort of maintained. In our teen-aged minds, the towers were just there for climbing, but I'm sure they served another purpose. A four wheel drive is usually required to get all the way up. It wouldn't be a worthwhile mountain for hiking up, but driving up with a truck bed full of firewood and a half dozen of your closest friends was as close to a perfect Friday night as we had back then.

We met at the end of the pavement so those in smaller vehicles could pile into the trucks that were going up. One guy showed up on his dirt bike with no headlight at the front and his girlfriend on the back. They buzzed on ahead and we started up the rutted gravel. Being 18, faster was better. This was my first time as a driver, one of the the lucky ones with a truck, so I wasn't going to be left behind. I also wasn't going to soften the ride for my passengers. That was the way it was. I had bounced around in the back enough times to know. Looking back, it's surprising the things we did without encouragement of alcohol.

As we jostled up that dark mountain, one of the rowdies in the back decided that my driving was too tame. To entertain himself, he climbed up over the cab and onto the hood of my truck. Then he climbed back up on the cab. I took this as a challenge to find every low hanging branch I could and drive under it. After a few good swats, he decided to join us in the already full cab. Head first. He was laying across the laps of the people beside me, trying to get everything in the window when I found a big puddle and soaked his left foot. Those old trucks were great. Even with rust so bad on every quarter panel that you could put your hand through it, a maniac could still surf the hood without denting it.

I sold that rusty truck at the end of the summer to an old miner. He looked as though he should be taking his daily constitutional around the mall with his wife in matching track suits, but he wanted my truck to get down the rough track through the woods he had carved between his gold claim and the road. It was rough enough terrain he had almost died the year before falling off a log between his previous truck and the creek. 18 year olds are not in a position to give life advice to 80 year old miners, so I listened politely and left with his money. I was just relieved when he didn't try to pay in gold.

No spray

I have decided not to carry bear spray when I go into the back country. Hikers I know won't leave home without it, and many non-hikers have heard of it and think it sounds like a great, almost necessary idea. I won't have it.

I was maybe four weeks into my second season of planting trees in central British Columbia. We lived in a camp that was little more than a large clearing on the side of a logging road an hour and a half from the nearest town. Each morning we would load our gear into a covered trailer towed by a 4X4 pickup truck and then jump into a big 4X4 SUV to ride to the clear cut we would be replanting that day. The trailer would have an ATV, boxes of trees, our bags, and our shovels. Everything was muddy or dusty, depending on the weather and terrain, but always a constant shade of dull brown.

We had to switch blocks part way through one day, so we all threw our gear in the trailer and bounced up a particularly bad road to the next piece of ravaged earth requiring new life. We opened the trailer and immediately started coughing. One of the thrown shovels had bounced into the heart of the can of bear spray strapped to someone else's bags. My gear was immediately below the punctured can, now covered in angry orange sauce. Once the air cleared, we emptied the trailer. I tried to carry my bags without getting pepper sauce all over myself. We came to a creek, which took care of the worst of it, but after walking up a hillside to the staging area for the afternoon, I realized I had definitely not left all the sauce in the creek. It was burning my hands and my face where I had wiped the sweat off. I was seriously uncomfortable, and no one had a solution for me. Basically, I did my best to work through it, with that stained hip belt rubbing remnants of hot sauce marinating my midsection even through my clothes. I vaguely remember it being a lovely day and a beautiful spot, but mostly I remember spending the day mad.

During my first season in the bush, one of the girls had a black bear approach her while she was working. She did everything right, not screaming, though it was her standard reaction to most events, backing slowly away, not looking it in the eyes, etc. Since it kept coming, she unloaded an entire can of bear mace directly in the bruin's face at close range. Later, she said the only effect it had was to stop the bear from advancing. Once her can was spent, the bear continued moving towards her. Only the arrival of another crew member with another can of spray convinced the bear that he might not be that curious after all. This wasn't some garbage dump scavenging bear long used to human beings, since we were at least a hundred miles from the nearest permanent settlement. Just a big, curious, possibly hungry omnivore.

Next hiking season I'll be carrying a shotgun on my forest forays. It is the recommended practice for the forest service, and I have an idea it'll actually be safer than spray that expires, blows back and can be punctured. I've encountered bears before and never had a problem, so I expect that experience to repeat, but I'll walk more comfortably through the mountain berries if I'm prepared.

Bad Moose

I had been driving all afternoon. Driving from camp to town to drop off the crew, town to the farm to swap vehicles, now on the home stretch from the farm to my home town. Less than an hour to go, nearly midnight. I hadn't showered in a week and I had a phone call to make. Driving, wondering if it would be too late to call. It was a clear night, visibility as good as one could hope for. I still didn't see it coming.

I was cruising around 110 km/h when he ran out in front of me. They say moose always take the easiest path, including using the spot of light provided by vehicle headlights. I didn't even see a proper silhouette, let alone have time to hit the brakes or think about swerving. I remember the sound of smashing glass and having time to think "This is really going to hurt," and then it was over. I had crossed the oncoming lane and came to a stop on the shoulder. A little further onto the soft sand and I would have rolled down the bank to the tree line.

My immediate thought was denial. Maybe I was dreaming. I was probably still back in my tent having a detailed dream. Next up was amazement, as I listened to hoofs running on pavement. I think I even said it out loud, "That bastard got away." I didn't want to move too much in case I was hurt, so I sort of flexed from left to right. At this point I realized I had a death grip on the steering wheel and that somehow during the smashing I had managed to mash my right foot on the brake pedal. In relaxing my limbs, I realized I had glass in my knuckles, but they still worked. I also nearly had a major groin muscle spasm from standing on the brakes so hard. I decided I was not broken, so getting out of the now very broken van was a good idea. I could hear fluid pouring out from somewhere underneath, and I had visions of a Hollywood explosion, even though sitting here typing in the daylight I know that almost never happens.

Understandably, the headlights no longer worked. I don't even know if they were still attached. I went around to the back and was greeted by the sight of a moose corpse on the opposite side of the road from me, steaming garishly in the red tail lights. He hadn't gotten away after all. There I was, 19 years old, all alone on a quiet highway in the middle of the night with a wrecked van and a big dead moose. At least I was hoping it was all the way dead. Growing up in that part of the world you frequently hear of a single moose destroying a transport truck and running off into the woods like nothing happened. Or laying there stunned and then getting up and mauling the nearest moving thing. No one wants to be a cautionary tale.

This wasn't in the days before cell phones, but it was 10 years before I had one. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long before a truck came by and stopped. The driver was only a few years older than me, also a tree planter. He had a first aid kit but no cell phone. I used his tweezers to pull the glass out of my knuckles and he offered to drive me to the mill that was not far away so I could call my folks. I didn't know if I was supposed to call a tow truck or the police or what, but I figured my dad would know. When I went back to the van to get my stuff, I nearly broke down. I opened the van door, and all of a sudden my heart was pounding and my hands were shaking more violently than I'd ever seen them. I didn't really know what was happening, but in the back of my head I knew I had a choice. I could let it happen and shake and sob there on the side of the road, or I could swallow hard and get in that man's truck. I chose to clench my fists, take a deep breath, and keep moving.

As I was gathering myself and my things, another truck stopped. He nearly hit the moose carcass as he came to a stop. Thankfully, he had a cell phone. I called my dad, told him what happened and where I was. He did just what I had hoped and stayed calm, telling me he was on his way. He confessed later to not being sure what he was supposed to do, other than come get me.

In the mean time, I became the hub of a growing crowd. An ambulance stopped by on their way back to town from another call. They checked me over to make sure I wasn't walking around with a broken neck before carrying on their way. A Greyhound bus stopped because one of the passengers was a paramedic and he demanded to make sure he wasn't needed. Then the police arrived. My dad had called the conservation office, but they don't respond if the animal is dead (mercifully, it stayed dead the whole time). "Call the police" they said. Dad didn't know if the animal was on the road or completely on the shoulder, so they sent a cruiser to make sure. Turns out, a dead animal not impeding traffic is out of any jurisdiction but the crows. By the time Dad arrived, there were vehicles parked on both shoulders, a police car with all the lights on, flares up and down the sides of the road, and me standing there with my bag of dirty laundry, periodically ensuring first aid enthusiasts that I was indeed okay.

I took a week off from planting to let my hands heal and make sure my back wasn't going to seize up. The insurance company wrote off the van, what with the motor off the mounts, the entire front end smashed, and moose hair completely coating the interior. That stuff was everywhere. My dad took me to the wrecker that week to see the damage, and we left without saying much.

I never did have that panic attack that nearly overwhelmed me on the side of that dark highway, but I nearly recreated the experience not two months later. I was driving the same stretch of highway in the daylight when the car in front of me suddenly slowed down. I was annoyed until a big buck darted behind them and in front of me. I missed him by barely an inch. I could see the blood vessels in his eyes, he was so close. I pulled over because I could feel that tightness coming in again. Strange that the closest call I've ever had came within a few weeks of my only actual accident. I haven't come anywhere so near to hitting an animal since, despite continuing to drive animal infested highways at all hours.

British Columbia is a big place. There are thousands of cut blocks and dozens of companies putting seedlings where trees used to be. The summer after my accident, I found myself on the same cut block as the guy who first stopped to help me. The world is a strange place.

Blue lights

I have already established I am a creature of habit. A byproduct of my adherence to daily routine is that I'm a sucker for traditions. My family has historically been one of immigrants and poor people, so our traditions are few and small, but those few carry weight. Christmas is nothing if not a time for traditions, and since we've managed to stay in the same country for going on three generations, leaving poverty behind, family traditions are starting to accrete.

My father claims his father made it up out of convenience one year, and so far between Google and people I've asked, this may be so. Grandpa put only blue lights at the top of the Christmas tree. Whether he accidentally bought a string of only blue lights, a string came from the store with all the blue bulbs at one end, or he only had blue replacement bulbs one year, the reason he gave is the reason we carry on now, more than 50 years later. We put only blue lights at the top of the tree to remind us of the people who can't be with us this year.

My grandfather was born to German-speaking Mennonites in Ukraine in 1920. Stalin ruled the land, and people starved. Through a convoluted series of events I may never get sorted, the end of WWII found my grandfather in Hamburg, his parents, sister, and one brother exiled in Siberia, and one other brother in a POW camp in Holland. After my father's uncle was released from the camp, he was reunited with my grandfather through an improbable series of coincidences. They came to Canada in 1948 on the first civilian trans-Atlantic airline, arriving in Montreal for Canada's Independence Day, which they took as a welcome party. Neither of them spoke a word of English or French.

Those brothers survived starvation and war and more uncertainty than I can comprehend and never saw their parents or brother again. If he did make it up, I don't think Grandpa realized that he had the ingredients of an icon: the act and explanation are simple, the act is noticeable. Of course, he never forgot about that family in Siberia. He was able to rescue the survivors to West Germany in the 1980s via German ideas around ethnicity and citizenship that don't make sense to my Canadian mind. I met Grandpa's sister and sister-in-law before they passed away, as well as several of their children and grandchildren.

My parents' tree always has blue lights at the top, as does my sister's. My aunts and uncles and cousins put blue lights at the top of their trees. Rosie's Mama and I will be setting up our tree on Friday, blue lights on top and prayers whispered for ones who aren't with us.

Pin me to the wall

Pinterest is ruling my life. Or is that ruining? The number of projects currently underway in my house is well out of hand. No matter how much progress I make, the construction zone keeps growing instead of shrinking.

It always starts so innocently too. Mama was pinning around and found a picture of someone's living room. They had put up big bookshelves floor to ceiling on either side of a big window and built in a window seat between them. Our house just so happens to have a very similar spot in our front room. She asked if I could make such a thing, and because I'm not very bright, I said sure. It was painted white, which means the wood is a bit cheaper and any mistakes would be hidden much better than if it was meant to be stained. I could do that.

I bought the wood, because if it was going to be easy and not terribly expensive, I didn't have any excuse not to. Of course, it was only once I had a garage full of wood that I looked more carefully at where these things were going to have to go. There are two electrical outlets and a furnace duct that would be covered if I just slapped the cabinets into place. That seems a waste, so now I have to move them. I am not an electrician. I have built houses and furniture before, but the most I do with electricity is swap out the occasional switch, and even then, I have to be prepared to be Tasered by my own house.

To install the cabinets properly, I now need to finish building them, paint, move the electrical wiring, decide if those wires will power lights in or on the cabinets and work that out, cut out the flooring and baseboards where everything will sit, and then move the units into the house from the garage. They should fit.

We had been talking about putting a new gas fireplace in our family room to replace the old ugly thing that consumes loads of fuel and produces precious little heat. This spring, shortly after I assembled the bones of the cabinets for around the window, a pipe in the wall beside the fireplace developed a small leak, only noticeable because of the mold it produced in the carpet. So, the carpet has a big piece cut out. The pipe and wall were simple enough to repair and repaint, but it created a cascading effect. Might as well do the fireplace now, before we replace the carpet. Since we're apparently doing that room now, the patio door needed to go too. More carpet was cut, more drywall was repaired. A new fireplace is easy. I just call a man and promise him riches, virgins, possibly my firstborn, and he will come install a new, efficient fireplace that should actually heat the room. You don't want to know what I'll need to do for the additional trim package.

Actually, even that easy part isn't that easy. Before the man comes to put in a new fireplace, I have to hang drywall in the closet that houses the unit. That little spot that no one ever sees has to have gyproc covering all three sides, floor to ceiling. Then once the man is gone with all my money and most of my dignity, I still have a wall that clearly used to have tiles, a hearth, and a mantle stuck to it. Those things have clearly been torn off. Mama is pinning again, so I'll be learning masonry very soon. And how to sob quietly so as to not disturb anyone. I keep having nightmares I'll come home one day and the doors will be torn off the kitchen cupboards to force a kitchen renovation.

Throwing waffles

We were broke when we married. Lots of schooling and not much training. I dropped out of college and took a dead end job, she stayed in school. If that job hadn't come with so much overtime, we wouldn't have made it. We scrounged dimes to rent a VHS movie and we would walk to save the gas. We donated blood as a date (Mama's idea) because, hey, free cookies.

Trips to the grocery store in that state of affairs are nerve-wracking. Bread, milk, eggs, a bit of ham for sandwiches, not much more. We ate a lot of pancakes and grilled cheese sandwiches. I was turned away from donating blood once for being anemic. But, as Tevya says about Motel and Tzeitel at the end of Fiddler on the Roof, "They are so happy, they don't know how miserable they are."

Our first weekend at home after our honeymoon, I made waffles for breakfast. I don't remember how it started, but I threw a waffle at my bride. She probably dared me to do it. It turned into a ridiculous game of trying to catch each other off guard with a flying waffle, or to get it down the other's shirt. We ran around laughing ourselves silly. That first place we lived was a dank little hole, but our memories from there are of mostly good times.

Money or no money, newly married is newly married. We had no television, no internet, just a library card and each other. We're still happy together, though we have more things. If we aren't getting along, I can always throw a waffle at her and we remember when we only had each other and it was enough. It still is.

Been and gone

Standing, listening, unable to look away, to mutter practiced words of comfort, not sure how to leave. He’s dying in that hospital bed. A son holds his hand, crying, trying not to be embarrassed of his tears for the gray crusty man gasping there on the bed. His hair and beard have long been gray, but now his skin matches. There isn’t anything left to be done but wait. Oxygen in, piss out, morphine drip. Hope is gone. His wife is already a widow, waiting to grieve.

I said nothing. I squeezed his wife's hand, bowed my head, and walked out into the night. He was gone by morning. 

Less than four weeks from diagnosis to death. Husband, father, grandfather, friend, chain smoker, mechanic, grump, perfectionist, cancer-ridden. Gone, and we are poorer for it.

Submit

Submit. Like they were demanding a way of life rather than confirming your credit card details for your purchase.

Not my will…

Submit. Leather whips and pudgy men in latex suits pretending to be furniture. Women strutting in impossibly high shoes, their clothing held together with miles of unnecessary laces.

Not my will, but…

Submit. Say “uncle.” Sleeper holds, arm bars, and half nelsons, the smell of rubber, the slap of sweaty skin on the mat.

Not my will, but thine…

Submit. Sturdy women in plain ankle length dresses and running shoes, armfuls of babies, resolutely avoiding eye contact with the world.

Your will be done…

Submit. Preacher says he has a plan, he has the whole world in his hand, don’t worry about your life. Easy to say when the things you really want haven’t been withheld. Ever. Not for long.

On Earth…

Taken isn’t worse. To have and lose hurts more than the ache of never having. But that ache… The pain of loss dulls with time. That ache stays with you. It’ll kill you, just like the slowly boiled water kills the frog. Either jump out and risk the fall, dying all broken and withered, or keep struggling until your blood boils and your heart explodes.

As it is in Heaven.

Hug of the decade

It was the most awkward thing I had ever seen. It should have been simple; a man should be able to hug his son without looking like he's trying to shag a cactus. He was a millionaire (if that means anything anymore) who remembered fondly every dime he had brought in the same way most people remember a favourite aunt. His son, on his 25th birthday, worked for dear old dad learning the trucking business from the shop floor up to driver, presumably soon enough into the office. Hard working kid, if a tad entitled. He would take any load any place, but he might make an unauthorized detour on the way. He'd fix his own equipment, but he  might take tools with him from the shop, and he might complain too loudly about little things. Nice kid, if a bit arrogant.

The old man had, according to the company legend, built a sailboat back in the 70's, which he sold to finance the purchase of an old trucking company. Not that he knew trucks, or how to drive them, only saw an opportunity and hired people to do the work. Equipment was scrounged, stretched, and over-used. Nothing was to be thrown away. Trucks, trailers, chains, employees, use it until it falls completely to pieces. Duct tape and wire and scabbed on pieces of steel kept most things on the road far beyond what reasonable expectations or safety concerns would allow. All in service of another dollar.

Predictably, there had been a failed marriage, doomed from the start by long hours and four tight fists. She had her own company, counting other people's money, and in the end they had two grown children and lawyers with new summer homes. It was a topic best avoided. The daughter only called for money, though it was hard enough to get she might might have had an easier time with a second job. The son worked for his dad, impatiently biding his time, waiting to inherit the kingdom.

So it was that I witnessed the worst hug of the decade. Wealthy, clueless daddy had clearly wandered through a hardware store the day before, hoping for something to jump out at him, and so presented his son with a torque wrench for his birthday. Present unwrapped, Dad went in for the embrace, and there was a long moment where the son didn't understand what was happening. He eventually realized what was expected, and moved to assume the position. Neither of them knew where they were supposed to put their heads, their torsos, how long to hold on. Whose arms go on top? A couple pats on the back and it was finally over. Dad looked proud of how it had all worked out, son stood awkwardly saying thanks for the wrench, and I sat, embarrassed for them both.

Backcountry Action

"Free your heel, free your mind"

Seven am soaking wet thick rain. Big ol' fat rayun. Car loaded, skis in, poor excited dog about to be disappointed. This is a trip for men only. Wife stays sleeping, dog stays moping. Drive until the rain turns to slush, then keep going until it is honest-to-goodness snow. Park, kick at pathetic piles of ankle-deep good stuff. Barely enough to cover the ice. We drove this far, it's worth a try. Boots on feet, skins on skis, skis on boots, too many clothes. Stop in ten minutes to peel layers so everything is not soaked at lunch time. Climb through trees, across glades and up, always up, always looking down. Snow deepens as we climb out of the clouds. More clothes come off, try to drink enough water to replace the sweat. -15C and we're down to the last layer, still sweating. Sunglasses stayed in the car, of course. Lunch on the lea side of the summit, in the bright sun. Dig the pits, cut, saw, scrape, pound the columns until they give up the secrets of every snowfall in the last month. Avalanche not likely, sun still shining, snow deep and stable. Bellies full of lunch and butterflies, ready for the descent. A solid morning of climbing, a blissful 20 minutes of deep, knee-straining turns. Take me home, I'm spent.

Dinner with the Ugly King

Istanbul. The most interesting place I've visited yet. Ancient and modern and all points between. The locals were friendly, even when they weren't trying to sell a guy a carpet. Maybe they were just always angling for the carpet. Good food, good wine, good weather, good views, yes I bought a carpet. Shut up, it's a kilim.

We had discussed before we left how "other people" always seemed to effortlessly meet people and stumble on adventure while travelling, and would it be the same for us. As it turns out, it really is easy. We had booked our first accommodation in a hostel in a room with 4 bunk beds, so we were forced to meet the people we were sharing quarters with, and they all turned out to be lovely.

A funny thing happens to a man when travelling with his wife. In the eyes of other female travelers, he is as good as neutered. Numerous times, Rosie's Mama and I were sought out as companions for female travelers because I was a man with all the benefits and none of the risks. Even if I were the type to wander, women could assume I wouldn't do so in the company of my wife, so, I was the neutered protector. I certainly didn't mind, and I would recommend this strategy to any women travelling in uncertain territory.

So it was then, that after a day of touring the palace and harem of the sultan for a day, two of our roommates invited us along to explore the city and find a "non-touristy" place for dinner. Two charming girls from the opposite side of Canada as ourselves, they had already had a few uncomfortable encounters with unenlightened men that week. We picked a direction and started walking, comparing notes and swapping stories about our first days in the city. We stopped at a little shop with a few tables on the sidewalk and an old man who spoke no English. We couldn't read the menu, but managed to convey that we just wanted some food and drink. He bustled in and out bringing plenty of drinks and rice and salty meat. It seemed like a slow little place until the taxis pulled up.

A large group of 20-somethings came and filled most of the remaining tables. Their leader introduced himself and immediately insisted that we join them. Tables were scraped together and we were now dining with the Ugly King and his crew of entertainers. They were on their way across town to perform at a club. We should come along. Would we like to see a magic trick? Where were we from? Someone in the group produced a guitar, from where I don't know, and started playing Hotel California. We all tried to sing along, but we didn't really know the words. His Ugliness spoke in rhyme most of the time. Of course, my horse. He wore a red silk shirt dangerously unbuttoned and somewhere I have a picture of his Gene Simmons tongue. We laughed and drank and sang there on the sidewalk through the evening.

I don't take my role lightly as the neutered protector. If you agree to be creeper repellent you are probably usually a passive presence, but it may also require action, so don't agree if you are not willing. I was one man with three women, and I could tell Mr Ugly King was trying his level best to determine who I was with without offending me or ruining whatever chances he imagined he had with either of my companions.

Finally, he had to ask. "Which one is your girlfriend?" I smiled and leaned forward, "All of them. I am the sultan!" His friends all laughed, and he looked as excited as if I had offered him one of the girls right there. "Can I be your brother?!" I never did tell him which girl had my leash. We finished our meal, paid too much for it, and found our way back through the old city. As it turns out, adventure isn't that hard to find after all. Just pull up a chair.

4 Types of Facebook "Friends"

I finally did it. I deleted my Facebook account. Ironically, it was in the same week as I began posting on this blog. At least you can't call me a complete attention-whore. I signed up sort of by accident anyway and then stayed too long out of habit. I had nearly 300 "friends" that I can group into four basic categories:

1. Terminally annoying:
I added these people out of guilt because I like to think of myself as a nice person. They initiated the "friending," and I couldn't hit ignore. These people, their pictures of their supper, and their constant whinging about baby poop, hangovers, and their shit lives were quickly hidden. I could present myself as a nice guy who is friends with everyone I ever met, and I didn't have to read their bullshit.

2. Mostly annoying/occasionally interesting:
Not bad enough to hide completely, these people still monopolized the News Feed with food and diapers and requests to please join them in some bedazzled online game. But, they were cousins or old friends whose off-line life I actually care about (or yes, I just wanted to creep their profile periodically). On the off chance they did something interesting, it was nice to have them around.

3. People I like who don't post anything:
The people I care about are the ones who have off-line lives where they do real things. Things I hope invite me along for. They have a Facebook account, because, really, who doesn't? They just don't live there. An irregularly annual photo album or profile picture to demonstrate that yes, they are indeed alive and out there, living. Without Shitville or Sparkly Turd Mafia Hunter. These are not the people who are online 15 hours a day and really believe that being a stay-at-home mom in the 21st century is the hardest thing anyone has ever done.

4. Interesting people I don't really know:
I went to university with some cool folks. Since I was married already, and you know, old, I didn't live in the dorms or go to keggers, but I still managed to have people in classes I could talk to and enjoy social interaction with. Some of them remain interesting, some remain drunk, a few are still both. Some post articles and commentary on Facebook constantly, and manage to not be annoying about it.

Obviously, if Facebook was all 3s and 4s, I would have stayed on indefinitely. Since it is primarily 1s and 2s, with a whole flock of ads now thrown in, especially on my phone, I'm done. I'm still not sure why I was ever friends with the guy who recommended I like Walmart.

"Dust the refrigerator yourself if it bugs you so much. Nobody else can see it."

People I don't know make comments about it as I pass on the sidewalk. New acquaintances generally assume their "witty" comment will be a welcome change from the usual small talk opener they usually inflict on strangers. I've heard them all before, about basketball, the weather up there, or the rather bald "You're tall!" Apparently, my exact measure should be a matter of public record, and people I've never met will demand to know my exact height. Asking their weight in return is usually not well received.

There is an assumption among most people that their life would be better if only they were a few inches taller. And generally, if a little is good, lots must be better, so I must be super pumped all the time about having my feet so far from my head. These sorts also seem to think I've never realized before that I exceed the normal range. Somehow being three standard deviations above the average has escaped my notice, and I must be informed immediately. It is completely appropriate at this point to gawk open-mouthed as though they are at the zoo before imparting this new information.

I am aware of my difference. Every time I shop for clothing. Every time I get into a vehicle. When looking for a bike, a pair of skis, or boarding an airplane. Every doorway and parkade I duck through is a reminder. I'm not saying it is all bad. I just wish I could go two days without the same tired old comments.

A word about sports in general: To be successful in a sport, a person must have several things at the same time. Inclination, coaching, coordination, the right body, and perhaps some natural ability (if you believe in that sort of thing). It is true that certain body types lend themselves naturally to some sports. I could never be a successful wrestler because I am too long and thin. I've never had the inclination for most team sports, and no one ever forced them on me. As for coordination, tall people tend to experience fewer growth spurts, instead growing slowly over a longer period. This was certainly the case for me. The thing about growing is that it plays hell with your coordination. I did it until I was 19. I've been the same height for over a decade, so I'm doing just fine now, but I could barely dribble or throw a ball as a teenager. For every pro athlete taking advantage of his/her extreme height, there are hundreds of us who could hardly make those knobby knees and awkward elbows cooperate to get dressed properly in the morning, let alone put a ball into a hoop from the top of the key.

The real down-side to being tall is clothing. Jackets are the worst, then long-sleeved shirts, then pants. If I could gain about 150 lbs, I could shop at Big and Tall stores (curse you ampersand), but since that isn't an option, it takes a lot of looking to find decent fitting clothes. You'd be amazed at the sweat pants you can buy in a place like that. My tent has less fabric. Plenty of stores have "Tall" sizes, but since they generally recommend those clothes for up to 6'3", I'm still out of luck more often than you'd think. Seriously? 6'3" is barely "above average." Not Tall.

For a time, if people asked about basketball, I would respond with a question about mini golf. I've been tempted, but never brave enough, to spit on people who ask about the weather and announce it is raining at lower elevations. For the most part though, it isn't something that takes up much mental energy. I'll catch a glimpse in a mirror when I'm out with Rosie's Mama (she's bang-on average height-wise), or I'll duck under something the person ahead of me didn't even see, or I'll see a picture of myself in a group, and I'll realize again how odd it looks. Maybe it's no wonder people say something.

The Man in the Sky (Watching)

Whenever I consistently exercise, I find myself outside in the dark, sweating into the night, staring at Orion. I'm neither astronomer or astrologist, and I only know two constellations, but I have a favourite.  Growing up in a northern town, he was only visible during the winter months in the southern sky, but now I've moved further south and he sticks around all the time.

My high school years were spent cross-country skiing through the long winters. I trained and raced and traveled and had a grand time doing it. No one was about to have me skipping school to train, so we went after. A mum would pick us up from the school, we'd change in the truck on the way, and we'd still have to ski by headlamps. Some days we'd park the cars strategically and ski up and down the parking lot, other times we'd strap on spelunker's lights and head out on the trails. Later the club was able to string lights along portions of the new trails so we could ski all evening. Skiing with no artificial light and just a full moon to guide your strides is a rare treat.

There was one section of track that led up away from the lake on a gradual slope to wear down your legs a bit, then a corner and a steep short down hill followed immediately by an even steeper up hill. It was a nasty little combination, and the lights didn't shine well to that spot. Many nights I would struggle up that little steep hill, staring at Orion seemingly perched on the snow at the top. The nights I remember best were the really cold ones, when the air sparkled as any humidity still left in it was frozen and slowly drifted to join the snow on the ground. The snow squeaked loudly, and if you spat on the ground, it would bounce, frozen before it landed.

Now I run with Rosie every morning. I plod along for a few miles while she bounds back and forth after rabbits into the underbrush. For a few months in the summer it is light out when we go. The sun even peeks around the mountain before we get back to the car for about three weeks. By September, we are running in the dark. Rosie's Mama bought me a new headlamp for my birthday this year, so she can have hers back. And, sure enough, every morning there is a big enough gap in the clouds that plague this part of the world, there he is, watching me run through the dark trees.

I know the stars have no influence over our lives and vice versa, but I can understand why people once upon a time did think such things. There are so many and they seem so profound. Even if it is all bollocks, it is comforting and inspiring to think of an ancient warrior supervising my training. 

A ritual life

Life is full of rituals. Mine is, anyway. Mostly little things that link together to get me through the day. I get up at the same time every morning, I run the same route, eat the same breakfast, make the same lunch, leave at the same time, every day. I get where I need to be, on time, and my mind is free for more important tasks than remembering to put on pants.

Some rituals are less utilitarian and more enjoyable. Every afternoon, weekday or weekend, I drink yerba mate. Fill the kettle with cold water and put it on the stove to boil. Pour the remainder of the previous day's water out of my black pump and stand it in the sink. Dump the previous day's leaves in the compost pail under the sink, and give the guampa a rinse. As a bachelor, I kept my supply of dried leaves in a rusty old coffee can I had hauled around college dorms, apartments, mountain tops, construction sites, and tree planting camps. As a married man, I keep it in a stainless container next to the brown sugar on the counter. Pull that out, fill the horn about 2/3s, shake it on its side, pack the leaves so they taper from the lip to the base, and insert the bombilla. Stand it up, fill with cold water, and let it stand until the hot water is ready. When the kettle makes its first peep, turn the element off and let the residual heat in the coil finish the job. Take the kettle off before the whistling gets shrill, and pour it into the waiting carafe. Ideally, I can take the water and the guampa and sit down at the kitchen table to finish what I didn't read of the paper in the morning. The first shot is just the cold water that isn't absorbed into the leaves in the horn. By the second "real" pour, it is up to full heat. Fill, drink, fill, drink, until eventually the leaves are leveled out and their frothy green goodness is drained. Put it to the side, and look forward to tomorrow afternoon to do it all again. If Rosie's Mama is home, the ritual takes longer, because she likes to be included, but can't handle it at full heat.

There is joy in these little rituals. Some people fear boredom from eating the same thing every day. To me, it is comfort. Every day, I know that I have enough food in my lunch. I know because it was enough yesterday, and the days before that. There are enough variables in a given day to create stress. Why add to that by not being sure you have enough food? Or the microwave might break. Or you have to leave the office for most of the day. My lunch does not need a fridge or a microwave, and can mostly be eaten while driving. Cheap too. My sandwiches, fruit and yogurt cost less than a wilted salad or lukewarm piece of pizza from the "convenience" store next door, and I don't have to question the provenance of fruit.

Pre-dawn bittersweet

Coherent thoughts are generally not something I create half an hour before my alarm. Elegant ones generally escape entirely, regardless of the clock. This morning I woke up early, and as I rolled over I briefly contemplated the beautiful tragedy of time. There is sweetness in looking forward to passing time, knowing it will be enjoyable and well-used, but there is a heart-breaking sorrow in the realization that time passed is lost forever, no matter how well spent.

I don't mean I shed a tear for having to get out of bed, or that each moment is filled with longing to go back in time, only that the passing of time, and my contemplation of it is bittersweet. There was great satisfaction at rolling over in the warm blankets, even while knowing I would shortly be crawling out into the autumn chill to run the dog.

Of course, as the day wears on, the profundity of pre-dawn musing fades to concern about thinking too much about nothing. Not to mention writing it down.

Guest post

Check out this post I did for The Art of Manliness:
http://artofmanliness.com/2012/02/06/how-to-back-up-a-trailer-like-a-man/

Thanks Brett for posting it!