SNOW

I don’t like cold.

Though I’ve lived all of my 55 years in northern climes, I’ve never learned to like winter. And yet, the experience of walking on a blanket of freshly fallen snow moves me in a way I can neither explain nor understand. The fragility and softness of snow belies the ruthless, unforgiving climate that produces it.

The delicacy of little pockets of fluff precariously attached to small irregularities on the bark of a tree trunk fill me with fresh awe each time I see them.

The tender way the fork of a tree cups thousands of tiny crystals without injuring them is gentle as a lover’s first uncertain touch.

We’re expecting 10 centimeters overnight. There is only a slight breeze; white shreds of frozen lace dance languidly around the mercury street lights. They catch in my hair and eyelashes, kiss my face as they melt on my cheek or lips. The low hanging clouds reflect back a warm orange-gold as the city quiets in the darkness.

The dog is never happier than when he steps out the front door of the house onto an untouched world of soft white – unless perhaps it’s when he can punch through the crust made on the snow’s surface from a brief thaw. He’s like a cat in a field of catnip, leaping twirling, rolling, burrowing, bouncing. The personification of joy. Or, perhaps I should say the ‘anim’-ation of joy.

I’m just recovering from several days in bed with a nasty flu/cold bug. Being ill is always a reminder to me of how good ‘well’ feels. It reminds me to be grateful for good health.Tomorrow, in celebration and gratitude for the reminder, I’ll take the dog along the walking trails that follow the creek. They’re kept ploughed throughout the winter, but if I wake early there will still be a generous layer of pristine glory over my world.

The outlines of the trees along the trail will be softened, touched here and there by the same glory.

We may be the first to walk through it - pioneers in a way, going where none have gone before.

Paint Your Wagon

Way back in the summer of 2011, I was asked if I'd be musical director for a local amateur / volunteer production of Paint Your Wagon. It seemed a safe bet that it'd never come off, as the cast is almost all male.... a very hard thing to cast in our town, especially if the fellows all have to dance and sing. So I said, "Sure, I'd love to!" Well, you've already guessed that they pulled it off, and now here I am doing a minimum of 3 rehearsals a week until the end of April. Sometimes as many as 5 or 6.

There have been some very interesting studies on the possible connection of creativity to mental illness. I'm living proof, I guess. Life is crazy these days.

So, since I'm @ rehearsals anyway, and I know the play, when the person playing Cherry, the dancehall 'madame' withdrew, I guess I seemed like a good choice to replace her. It's not a big part, so I agreed, not taking time to have a close look at the script. And once again, you know already that that was a mistake. The costume mistress showed me the low-cut form fitting gown they plan to put me in. Then at the first reheasal of the opening scene, my (Cherry's) lover (Jake) approaches me before we begin the scene to tell me " We need to practice this". "Well, yes," I respond - "That's why I'm here." "No" he replies, "we have to pratice THIS" ....pointing to the page of the script in his hand. .... which describes Jake and Cherry engaging in a passionate kiss.

So later that evening, at home I described all of this to my daughter and granddaughter, saying "I've been set up." The grandgirl's response was, "eeeeewwwwww! Grandma kissing a boy?!" The daughter's was a huge grin and, "We are SO going to see this!"

No, I'm not a prude, but my experience on stage thus far has not included public necking and partial nudity. This will take some time to accustom myself to. Wish me luck!

Thank you for coming by Gfid. Please hold.

No.... I'm not setting out to offend anyone.... just thought this sandwich board outside the Smart Mouth Cafe in Vancouver was amusing, so I thought I'd share it.

Sometimes life has a way of taking off on its own. With elder care for my father, a very demanding full time job , and an illogical belief that moonlighting in musical performance will will help keep me sane, (not to mention the need for the $ it brings in) there are no minutes left for a life in the blogosphere at present.

I will come by to visit old friends periodically, but any more than that means no sleep these days. Be well, blog friends. I'm looking forward to seeing your contributions to the think-tank in the ether.

May 2012 bring us all more of the things we need (as opposed to want) most.

Outhouses, part II

coming soon to a computer screen near you

On the subject of Outhouses

With the advent of the winter's first snow, I'm discovering a renewed appreciation for indoor plumbing. ....so I thought I'd take a short rabbit trail round back to the outhouse, where we'll find interesting details those with a more innocent upbringing than I may be unaware of. I'll amaze you with previously unknown facts about:

















stalagtites
a new definition of luxury
flora and fauna
what O.J. thinks of indoor plumbing
paperwork
sound effects
how you can tell the difference between really cold and BLOODY cold without a thermometer
and much more!

but first, a poem from the Yukon's beloved bard, Robert Service

The Three Bares
by Robert W. Service

Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn't get 'em clean
And so she thought she'd soak 'em in a bucket o' benzine.
It worked all right. She wrung 'em out then wondered what she'd do
With all that bucket load of high explosive residue.
She knew that it was dangerous to scatter it around,
For Grandpa liked to throw his lighted matches on the ground.
Somehow she didn't dare to pour it down the kitchen sink,
And what the heck to do with it, poor Ma jest couldn't think.

Then Nature seemed to give the clue, as down the garden lot
She spied the edifice that graced a solitary spot,
Their Palace of Necessity, the family joy and pride,
Enshrined in morning-glory vine, with graded seats inside;
Jest like that cabin Goldylocks found occupied by three,
But in this case B-E-A-R was spelt B-A-R-E----
A tiny seat for Baby Bare, a medium for Ma,
A full-sized section sacred to the Bare of Grandpapa.

Well, Ma was mighty glad to get that worry off her mind,
And hefting up the bucket so combustibly inclined,
She hurried down the garden to that refuge so discreet,
And dumped the liquid menace safely through the centre seat.
Next morning old Grandpa arose; he made a hearty meal,
And sniffed the air and said: `By Gosh! how full of beans I feel.
Darned if I ain't as fresh as paint; my joy will be complete
With jest a quiet session on the usual morning seat;

To smoke me pipe an' meditate, an' maybe write a pome,
For that's the time when bits o' rhyme gits jiggin' in me dome.'
He sat down on that special seat slicked shiny by his age,
And looking like Walt Whitman, jest a silver-whiskered sage,
He filled his corn-cob to the brim and tapped it snugly down,
And chuckled: `Of a perfect day I reckon this the crown.'
He lit the weed, it soothed his need, it was so soft and sweet:
And then he dropped the lighted match clean through the middle seat.

His little grand-child Rosyleen cried from the kichen door:
Oh, Ma, come quick; there's sompin wrong; I heared a dreffel roar;
Oh, Ma, I see a sheet of flame; it's rising high and higher...
Oh, Mummy dear, I sadly fear our comfort-cot's caught fire.'
Poor Ma was thrilled with horror at them words o' Rosyleen.
She thought of Grandpa's matches and that bucket of benzine;
So down the garden geared on high, she ran with all her power,
For regular was Grandpa, and she knew it was his hour.

Then graspin' gaspin' Rosyleen she peered into the fire,
A roarin' soarin' furnace now, perchance old Grandpa's pyre....
But as them twain expressed their pain they heard a hearty cheer----
Behold the old rapscallion squattinn' in the duck pond near,
His silver whiskers singed away, a gosh-almighty wreck,
W i' half a yard o' toilet seat entwined about his neck....
He cried: `Say, folks, oh, did ye hear the big blow-out I made?
It scared me nearly half to death. I hope you w'unt too afraid.
But now I best be crawlin' out o' this dog-gasted wet....
For what I aim to figger out is----
WHAT THE HECK I ET?'

From the yukon Journal - Monday, April 19, 1976

A guy from Teslin Lake we met at Haines Junction weigh scales and his woman stopped by on their way home from fishing at Haines, Alaska. They caught 5 Dolly Varden.

Gave us two for the cat.

As I recall, the cat got the head and fins. Dolly Varden is good fish, and we weren't too proud to eat someone's bag limit overflow... or whatever they were. The cat's name was Bagheera - named after the panther in Kipling's 'Jungle Book'. This was before I knew my frequent colds etc were due in part to animal allergies. He was a gorgeous fellow, huge, gentle and patient, once he got over his kittenhood belief that he was the most dangerous creature on 4 legs. Unlike every other cat I've ever known, Baggy came when called. He had the famous Siamese yowl, but, for the most part he didn't have a lot to say, unless he thought he was late for lunch. The strong, silent type. A purr like an idling tank. He came into the family just a few months after we got the German Shepherd pup... the one mentioned a while ago, who had porcupine radar. On arrival, Baggy entertained us for weeks at the dog's expense, with his fierce attacks. His favorite skulking hideaway was just behind the woodstove in the kitchen of the house we rented before heading to the Yukon. The dog was half grown by then, so he was too big to fit in the space between the woodstove and the kitchen wall. This became the kitten's private domain, as he was brand new, and hardly more than a pocketful full of creamy fluff.

The dog was Kochise. He loved everybody, without any bias as to race, species or gender. He especially loved that vicious little Siamese kitten. He responded to attack after attack with a smile and a wagging tail, certain that they'd soon be friends. The kitten wasn't convinced. He stalked and pounced, scratched and bit until he learned that the monster dog's most vulnerable spot was his big black nose. Baggy would skulk and peep until he saw Kochise nod off to sleep on the floor near the stove, then skitter out on tiptoe and POUNCE right on that big, black defenseless nose. Kochise would waken with a confused yelp to 20 needle sharp claws embedded in his tender nose. It wasn't a game. Baggy was out for blood - certain he was big enough and tough enough to take on anything. So the poor dog would paw - always gently - and lick and whine until he could dislodge the wretched feline from his injured proboscis. He'd lick the blood off with tears in his eyes, while the rotten cat skittered back to his vantage point to plan the next skirmish.

On a brisk fall day, they were each napping in their favorite spots near the crackling stove. Bagheera woke, stretched, and peered with evil blue eyes from behind his fortress. Aha! The monster slept. Perhaps he wasn't quite awake yet, or maybe he thought he'd try a new angle of attack. Whatever the reason, on this particular day, he leaped, not for the nose, but onto the end of Kochise's tail, sinking claws and teeth into it with fierce delight. The dog, of course, awoke immediately, lifting his head to look over his shoulder for the cause of the pain in his tail..... and broke into a toothy grin. It was his little friend the kitty! The tail began to wag. Thud! With .... thunk.... the kitten... konk.... attached.... whump. Thud. Thunk. Whump. Konk. Thump. Bonk. Clunk. Thud.

Stunned nearly to unconsciousness, the fearless predator lost his grip and tumbled to the floor. He was then scooped up by a careful black and tan paw, held down by another huge black and tan foot, and licked until he was a slobbery, slimy, dripping dog breath smelling mess. A few half-hearted feeble hisses and spits were vanquished by a tongue bigger than his body. They were fast friends from that moment onward. Until the cat got too big for this method of transportation, the dog liked to carry him by the head. He'd take the cat's whole head in his mouth, with the limp and completely relaxed cat's body hanging out the side. There was seldom any complaint about this. If Kochise was less careful than he might be, Baggy would reach up with a paw and poke the dog's nose lightly with a claw as a reminder to be more careful.

As they both reached maturity, they were often found curling up together at nap time, Baggy between Kochise's front paws, or at his belly, and they'd groom each other before they nodded off. When we travelled to the Yukon, at every pit stop, they'd leap out of the truck and rush off to explore. When the time came to hit the road again, at the sound of a bellowed "Kochise!......... Bagheera!" the enormous pointed ears of the German Shepherd and the brilliant blue eyes of the Siamese would appear from the shadows, each above its respective smile.

From the Yukon Journal - Sunday, April 18, 1976

Mitch skied to Dalton Post. 6 buildings. One was being used but empty of human occupation. Klukshu River and Tatshenshini both running.

Heard a moose

& shot a squirrel.

Found cabins belonged to Charlie Ross. Weather overcast but not cold. Left .22 at trail by Pringle Lake

We at a lot of squirrel back then. They're cheeky and bold, so you can get close enough to them that even a half decent marksman can bag one. Not a lot of meat on them, but it was protein. Not terribly tasty or tender either, but marinated in soy sauce, they tasted similar to teryaki. When you haven't had protein for a while, almost anything tastes good with enough soy sauce or garlic.

Mitch skiied to Dalton Post on the home-made skis. They didn't hold up particularly well. I think he did more wading through hip-deep wet snow than skiing. I know the skis didn't come back with him. That was, to the best of my knowlege, his one and only attempt at making skis.

There's a kind of unwritten law in many wild places, that no door is kept locked, and the shelter of an uninhabited roof is free for anyone who needs it. If you're hungry, and you find food there, there's no shame in eating it. Just do your best to replace what you take. The same applies to firewood. If you need it, and it's there, it's yours to use, but never use all of what you find unless you're right out of options. And always, unless you're mortally ill or terminally injured, replace the firewood you used, with dry, split wood for the next visitor. He or she may need it worse than you did. It's the frontier version of the 'Leave The World a Better Place Than You Found It' philosophy.

In the wilderness, especially in an extremely cold climate, it's hard to forget that your actions could mean the difference between life and death not only for yourself, but for a friend or a stranger, who comes there after you. This is true, not just about firewood or moose jerky for tomorrow or next week or month, but also or things that last for generations or more. Trappers often inherited their traplines from their parents or bought the rights to them from an old-timer. Some wanted to make a living there for a lifetime or more, so they were careful that there were always animals left to live off of. No one who knows he's going to need moose meat again next year kills all of the moose he can find this year. It's a philosophy we could use more of in places and situations further afield. Imagine businesses and countries harvesting minerals and trees and fish with a feeling of responsibility for the next people who came along and might need some?

There were cabins at Dalton Post, used by the fellow who trapped in the area. People who make their living trapping generally have any number of cabins along their traplines. They have to cover many, many miles, sometimes in the worst weather you can imagine. Back in the day, they traversed the miles on cross-country skis or snowshoes or, if they were lucky, by dogteam.... these days they're more likely to have a snowmobile with a heated seat and hand warmers in on the handlebars or in their mitts. A trapper who's really serious about his (or her) job can spend a week or more traveling the trapline, and never go to the same place twice. They build little cabins, spaced a day's journey apart, where they can build a fire, cook some hot food and sleep in a dry sleeping bag on a bed of sorts. Often the trapline trails are cut cross each other at the location of a cabin, so it can serve double duty.

There's usually a tin airtight heater with a flip top lid in the middle of the single, low ceilinged room, and if it's really civilized, there'll be a table and a chair made of peeled poles and a chunk of plywood hauled in from somewhere. There may or may not be a window. The thing about windows is, they're the easiest place for a critter to get into. Bear and wolverine, squirrel and porcupine are really clever at finding ways inside something they know contains food. So if there is a window, it's probably also got heavy shutters that can be closed and fastened down when there's no one home. The bed might be a wooden pole frame with more peeled poles stretched across it, fastened to the wall on two sides in a corner, and propped on the one unsupported corner by a post. Spruce boughs often served as a mattress, cut fresh and replaced every week or so. The dried twigs and needles of the previous bedding made great kindling for the fire. A few nails in the walls served as clothes hangers and a pole hung by snare wire from the ceiling over the wood stove made a drying rack for mitts and socks crusted with snow.

There's often a spitoon. Almost every cabin had a rusty old coffee or lard tin half filled with disgustng brown slime. In a pinch it could also serve as a chamber pot.... not something I even want to try to imagine.... no matter how cold it is outside, I'll choose the outhouse over that every time, thank you very much. Chewing tobbacco is easier to manage than cigarettes when it's too cold to expose your face. And there's the difficulty of lighting a match with mitts on, and making the sulphur ignite in very low temps . Exposed flesh freezes quicly in sub-zero temperatures. When you might be hours away from the next warm fire, you do your best not to get cold. So you chaw your 'baccy. In the winter, the nicotine dribbles formed along the side of your mouth freeze in your beard, till you have 2 brown icicles hanging down, one on each side of your mouth. It's easy to pick out the fellas who chew, even when these extremely attractive sludge colored icicles have melted away. The frozen tobacco juice bleaches the hair downward from the corners of their mouths, leaving blonde or orange or silver streaks. Fetching - most fetching... but doesn't hold a candle to being offered a kiss by a face covered in frost and dripping brown half-frozen slime.

This particular spot was operated by fellow who was more of a gold miner than a trapper. He annually forsook the 'civilized' life of Vancouver, from which his wife refused to budge, when the spring blossoms began to unfold, to spend his summers in the then untouched wilderness along the banks of the Klukshu and Tatshenshini Rivers. Yes, there was gold. Placer gold, washed down the rivers from some unknown source, which he patiently panned throughout the sommer. When it was all cleaned and weighed and cashed in , there was enough to pay for his 'vacation' and take some home to the little woman. His name was Charlie, and he was very proud of his sourdough bread.

He told us he sent a loaf of it home to his wife in Vancouver one summer, as a treat. The next time he went to the lodge for supplies he telephoned her to see how she'd liked it. She told him haughtily, "I threw the horrible stuff in the garbage." She wasn't so haughty when he told her he'd baked several ounces of gold in the middle of it as a surprise to her. It didn't seem to bother him much that she'd thrown the equivalent of a month's good wages out; he loved to tell the story, and he knew there was lots more gold where it had come from.