I'm 50, But I've Still Got It (subject to what 'it' is)

 

Well, I suppose that I had better do something to celebrate turning 50. The most obvious choice is something physical, as it seems like that's the best way to prove that I'm not washed up. Ideally I'd do a forward loop on my windsurfer, but that a challenge since I live next to a windless, waveless millpond. Some people run a marathon, but what's that got to do with the number 50. It's not 50 miles, so why bother? So, what to do?

 

Push-ups, of course. This is premeditated as I announced two months ago that it was my goal to do 50 push-up when I turn 50. And....how did I make out? Well, it was easy. The faux fatigue at the end of the video was mere theatrics. I could have turned 60.

 

So what have I learned now that I'm 50? More than anything, I've learned that I'm bald. I went to bed at 49 with a sun bleached blond mane of hair, I woke up bald and 50. Weird. It's strangely disconcerting to watch the top of my head on video, and I'm sure that you feel the same way.

 

Kojak. Beverley was right.

 

Speaking of nursing home women with a sense of humour, I'm going to celebrate my birthday by visiting my Mom. I'll visit my Dad too, but he's not a nursing home woman, just to make that clear. He was mistaken for a woman while convalescing in hospital once, but that's another tale for another time.

 

Wow, I'm really off topic now.

 

I'm 50. Behold! Shake your head in amazement. I have survived appendicitis, Agricultural College, Toronto (twice!), Alex Tilley and dennis h. hails, windsurfing in the Bay of Fundy, the Mulroney years, Mom's epoch of cooking liver for supper, Dad's grammar lectures (Robbie and me liked them, really), Alex's electric guitar infancy, Doug's Dougedness, Muggins, the Presleys and LM2, disco, hair bands, boy bands, La Forza Del Destino, and way too much alcohol.

 

But I made it! I'm 50, hear me roar, world, hear me roar!!

 

Meow.

Simple Pleasures: Sussex

Sussex is a delightfully odd little town smelling of both nostalgia and cow dung, mixed together indistinguishably. It's in some sort of time warp, though I'll be damned if I can put my finger on it exactly. It could be the 50s, 60, 70, 80s or 90s. It most certainly is not from this century.

I love Sussex, so don't get me wrong. It has something for everyone unless you want a good coffee after 3 p.m., in which case you're royally fuskered. Last evening Julian played the Rickenbacker 12-string along with Gary Morris and Crossroads. It was an outdoor street party with live music and a vintage car show. There were poodle women wearing poodle skirts who were dancing. At least, I think they were women. Butternut bellied men watched from the sidelines, nodding approvingly. Little kids spun and twirled. It seemed like every nut case within 49 miles was there last night, and I include myself in that discouraging demographic. It was a sight to behold. The video is but a small taste of what was seen and heard. As is often the case, you had to be there...

Julian Rickenbacker Varty and Dana Morgan Nielsen

When Dana Morgan Nielsen arrives home from Japan for a summer visit, his parents roll out the red carpet for him. He drives the green Morgan right up it!

Most kids don't have the luxury of driving their father's sports car, because most father's don't have sports cars. I can't recall any father figures owning sports cars when I was a lad growing up in Skyline Acres. My Dad drove a wankling Mazda. The Allabys had a Chevy Chevette, I think. The Bentleys did not have Bentleys, they had a VW van without heat (yes, it was driven in the winter....how, I don't know).

I feel sorry for Julian Rickenbacker Varty. When he comes home he gets to drive a 2005 Ford Focus wagon: paint peeling, rust spots showing, with tacky windsurfing stickers adorning the back windows. I don't think he minds driving it, because it appeals to his Scottish sensibilities. Less money spent on cars means more money for neeps, tatties, cabers and Edinburgh Rock. As the Focus gets good gas mileage, this also means more money stays in the inheritance sporran. I think he appreciates that.

Well, I may not offer my son a sporty car to tool around in, but at least I've got a couple of kick-ass guitars that he can use. What's cooler....that the old man has a sports car or that the old man has two Rickenbackers? That's a tough call. I see the voting being split down the middle. What would be cool would be if the old man (me) could play the Rickenbackers like Johnny Marr. In my defense, I doubt Uncle D drives the Morgan like Michael Schumacher.

Though my Dad's car wasn't all that cool when I was 16, things did change for the better. So what did my father have that was cool when I was 21? How about a V-8 Mustang Cobra? It was pretty sweet.

Maybe I should buy a mid-life crisis sports car? Wait, I'm turning 50 in two days! This can't be my 'mid-life', unless I 'fortunately' become Gretchen, Alberta, Marjorie or Mildred as I age. Gawd help me if I do. Gawd help Julian if I do! And Wendy!! We all know my mid-life crisis mobile would be a Volkswagen Camper (with heat). I wonder how Julian Volkswagen Varty would feel about that? It would be a good rock n' roll mobile for him, and would double as the UWM (ultimate windsurfing mobile) for me. Maybe I should bite the bullet and get one...although maybe the bullet would be better utilized elsewhere??

50 Up Ahead

The only things in life that are certain, they say, are death and taxes. To that list I add botched wind forecasts by Environment Canada.

I can't even add with any certainty that I'll turn 50 in three days. It's likely, but not certain. I don't care that I'm turning 50 because it's just a number that means very little.

I don't want to turn the clock back to 20 (infantile, alcohol induced behaviour, though the music was good back then), 30 (diapers, thousands of them!), or 40 (the beginning of that's my hair in the drain). I'm cool with 50: the hair is gone, the baby changes his own nappies, and I don't drink anything more toxic or mind-bending than guava juice.

All I want is a windy day. I don't care how old I am as long as I can lift the boom out of the water. I'd also like to have enough strength left at the end of the day to play the guitar. Hmmm...windsurfing and guitar.

Did you know that Robby Naish, perhaps the most famous windsurfer on the planet, was born in 1963?

Did you know that Johnny Marr, perhaps the most inventive guitarist still alive, was born in 1963?

Did you know that they're both still doing it? And so am I. I'm not doing it as well as they are, but I'm still doing it...that's what matters. Get out of bed....left foot, right foot. Repeat. Soap. Lather. Rinse. Spend some time with your wife. Play with the kid(s). Don't be afraid to be one. Keep the house clean. Do a good deed for someone. Don't trespass. That's all that matters. This is what I've learned in 50 years.

It's Not Polite To Speak Ill Of The Dead, But...

It's not polite to speak ill of the dead, so I won't. I will, however, speak ill of the parents of the dead. Who in their right mind would name their son Ethelbert?

Who, other than Bert and Ethel, I should add.

I went for my morning walk yesterday, as per usual. I took Lakeside Road, the one that passes the school, the mustang stable, the medical clinic, and a graveyard. Occasionally I look at the tombstones as I pass the graveyard, though not always. As I was walking alone yesterday (and not distracted by beautiful Wendy), I took the time to gander at a few of them.

I happened to glance at one tombstone and was struck by what a horrible name someone gave to their daughter....Ethelbert. I then noticed the words 'his wife, Agnes' underneath. I was stopped in my tracks. Founded dumb. You mean to tell me that Ethelbert was a man??????

Of all the hair brained, cockamamie names to give your son......

Can you think of anything worse? Gawd I hope they, at least, had the dignity to refer to him as Bert. Or Jim. Or George. or Cornelius. Anything but Ethelbert.

Are you paying attention, Julian? We could have named you Edithian, or Mildredick, or Gertrudebilly, or Nedrarden. Thank your lucky stars you have a normal name for a British descendant.

Taking Her To The Max

Yesterday Wendy and I took Mootha for a walk. We decided to scout Sunshine gardens in hope that Wendy's brother Erik might be at home. As luck would have it, Erik, Chantal and Max were at home. Even better, Max put on an acrobatic show for Mootha. Max displayed at least two dozen ways to get into his pool, most of which involved spectacular splashes.

As entertaining as it was to watch Max, it was equally entertaining to watch me Mootha. Mom would screw her face up when the big splashes hit, then ease off into a smile. I think she was greatly amused by Max's antics.

We enjoyed a cool beverage while watching the pool gymnastics. Max seems very comfortable in the water, which is nice to see. Every kid should be so lucky. Speaking of kids, did you spot Max in today's picture?

The Village Idiots Take To The Great Outdoors

There's no question that the Village Idiots have conquered Ken Appleby's basement. It was now time to take their sound to the great outdoors....a full on assault of Mother Nature.

Last evening the Idiots performed on Ken's deck to an audience of one wife, one mini Mootha, three chipmunks, two squirrels, a woodpecker and some earthworms.

The acoustic styled appearance was in preparation for an upcoming performance in the Village of/de Gagetown...in six days. Yes, the Village Idiots are leaving the comfort of their village to play in another village. If this keeps up, soon they'll be playing in hamlets, precincts, burroughs and LSDs. Or soon they'll be taking LSD and performing in arenas. You just never know.

Here's a link to last night's practice: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lo3zi-bffQc&feature=youtu.be

It's Not The Julian Calendar

No one keeps track of the number of times they go to the bathroom in a month, and why should they? In life, however, we all tend to keep track of something or other.

I like to keep track of the number of times that I windsurf every year, breaking it down to monthly stats. Let's look at 2013:

Month       # Windsurfs

April           1
May            8
June            4
July             4
August        8 (to Aug.16)

The beauty of keeping records is that it makes me accountable to myself and to anyone within earshot of me (typically Wendy and Julian). It seems that every year I make the proclamation that "this is the worst windsurfing year ever!" I say it every year, and I usually mean it. Of course it's unthinkable that every year is worse than the one before.

Between my annual Magdalen Islands pilgrimage and my time in New Brunswick I usually manage 40-50 days of windsurfing per year. I would like to average about 250. The fact of the matter is that I live in a place that simply is not that windy. <sigh>

If you look at the image provided, you'll see a partial picture of my August calendar. I write the letters 'WS' on the days that I windsurf. August has been spectacular so far, almost unheard of for these parts. June and July were disaster months. May was excellent.

The one stat that you don't see if wind velocity. I haven't had a single day on the Washademoak with high wind this year. Not one. That is a tragedy. It's doubly bad because when I go to the Magdalen Islands I inevitably get a lot of high wind days, and I sometimes struggle to use the smaller sails because I get so little practice at home, but I'm not complaining....or am I?

So, here's a summary of how I deal with wind:

No wind: I complain.
Light winds: I complain.
High winds: I complain.

It would make you wonder what would make me happy. It all boils down to this universal truism:

If I'm not planing, I'm complaining.

So bring on the wind, please. I'd love to see the Ian calendar filled with double-you-esses.

Running Down A Dream

Laurel had Hardy. Abbott had Costello. Wayne had Shuster. Earle has Dot. Bonnie had Clyde. Thelma had Louise. Ernie had Bert.

And Wendy has Gill.

And Gill has Wendy.

All quite comical in one sense or another. All experts in their field. All notorious.

We associate Wendy and Gill with music, and tequila, though rarely mixed together. It's a lesser known fact that Wendy and Gill both run. Up until recently they ran in separate provinces, but now the dynamic duo run together.

As the images illustrate, they take their running very seriously. A lot of stretches happen before they set out on the open road (image #1), and when they run they are 'in the zone'. They are completely focused on technique and not easily distracted, especially Wendy (see image #2). Gill has run a 26 mile marathon recently. Wendy is 1.923 percent of the way to completing her first marathon. Personally I'm 3.846 percent of the way there. That makes a marathon seems incredibly long, which it is. I'll never run one, mostly because I can't.

But as some wise Chinese philosopher once said 'a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step'. I've always liked that quote, because it's a very simple and obvious truth, though it's often overlooked by doubters. So.....good on ya, I say to Wendy and Gill, and to anyone who takes a step in the right direction.

Concrete Evidence

Rome wasn't built in a day, so it should come as no surprise that the renovations on the Cambridge-Narrows wharf/dock have taken a while. Three times, since the work began in May, has the lake risen and flooded the work site causing weeks of delays.

Now, finally but barely, the water is low enough to proceed with the work. The lake is still about three feet higher than it should be at this time of year, but enough dock is exposed to lay concrete.

It feels good to see the new deck taking shape. It looks like progress to me. There's still much to be done, but the forecast suggests that the lake should finally head towards a more normal level, so work should move forward unimpeded. I'm very curious to see what the finished dock will look like. I hope that the people of the village appreciate what's being done. I certainly do.

Flower Of The Month

One of the great pleasures of having a flower garden is the anticipation of meeting old friends. April has its crocuses, May has tulips, June has lupines, and July was rosy with roses. August is Echinacea (cone flower). They're quite dazzling with their amber cones and pink petals. The bees love them as much as I do.

 

Go Big Or Stay Home

My father-in-law Paul often says 'go big or stay home'. Typically we hear these words spoken aloud during a card game called auction 45s. In the world of poker, this is known as going 'all in'.

Paul applies the 'go big' approach to more than just card games. He also applies it to roofing and home heating, having installed the Cadillac of roofing on his house, and the Mercedes of air exchangers in said house.

I take a more modest approach, personally. My windsurfing gear is very nice, but not generally the best available. Some of my equipment could be considered low end Cadillac, but most of it is somewhere between Ford and Lexus. I never buy the latest and greatest models, preferring to nab close-out deals on gear that's a year or two old, though still new.

Every now and then I do 'go big', and nothing illustrates that better than my recent purchase of an outdoor fireplace, or fire pit. Years ago I bought one from Canadian Tire. It was an attractive unit, shaped like a Mayan temple. The only problem with it was that it was an absolute piece of shit. Forgive the crudeness, but I've got to call a spade a spade (in keeping with the card game theme). It was made in China and it lasted about a year and a half before disintegrating. Where's the value in that? Like much of what we North Americans ask the Chinese to make for us, it's absolute rubbish. We are fools, and the Chinese are capitalizing on our stupidity.

The fire pit I recently purchased was Made In Canada, more or less, and it's bullet-proof. When global warming rids the Earth of humans and polar bears, there will only be a few things left that will roam the scorched landscape: cockroaches, my fire pit, and lingering odor of Canada's Senate scandal. And Paul's roof!

My fire pit (and Wendy's!) is made from an old propane cylinder. It is, in a word, huge. It's thick-walled, sturdy and industrially attractive. It was made by the metal working students at the Mathieu Martin High School in Moncton. It's exactly what I've been looking to purchase, though it took me a few years to find. I discovered this unit on Kijiji (Kijiji be praised).

Last night we fired it up and it was a huge success. It looked great, burned beautifully and didn't cause a stink in the neighbourhood. There's something primitively attractive about a fire, don't you think?

What You Can't See, Can't Hurt You....Umm, I Disagree.

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way.

This is more of a half truth, for me, because yesterday I most certainly could not see all obstacles in my way. I was singing a different tune. Here’s what happened:

It was a windy day and I was determined to have some fun windsurfing. The wind was trying to decide if it would blow from the west or the southwest. There was enough southwest in it to convince me to launch at my place. Pure west wind is not good where I live unless it’s super strong, even then it’s not the best.

It was a slow start as I sailed off my beach. Due to the wind direction I had to sail right in front of DisGraceland. To the best of my knowledge, Priscilla didn’t give me the finger (this time!). I didn’t look anyway, though she was outside dusting her deck or toiling away at something equally inane. As I sailed along I could see the wind building nicely though the gusts were pure west. Oh well, might as well see what I could do with it.

A strong west wind is enough to get me down the lake, though I need a strong northwest in order to sail straight down the lake. I decided that I would head for Big Cove. Originally I was considering driving to Big Cove and rigging my windsurfer there, but I love the idea of a surfari so I decided to go for it. The wind was certainly spirited in the early going. Generally I would catch a great gust and sail down the lake. When the gusts would settle down I would tack and then limp across the lake, setting myself up for more forward progress when the gusts arrived…and they did!

At one point about a mile down the lake I was going full tilt, powered and in the straps/harness. I could see a mooring ball ahead of me and I speculated that it belonged to the a resident boat of the Lobster Lane clan. The boat that is usually moored here is a 50 foot lobster fishing boat. Big boat. The mooring ball that I was trying to skirt around was not the mooring ball where the lobster boat normally moors, but was in close proximity.

Typically a mooring ball is anchored to a mooring block. That’s the way it works. Also typically there’s a mooring line, or leader, that goes from the mooring ball to whatever is tied to it. Based on my knowledge of moorings, I’d say that the norm for a mooring line is about 12 feet, at least on this lake. Taking into account the fact that larger vessels need longer mooring lines, I passes the mooring ball with greater distance.

I was watching the mooring ball like a hawk, looking for any sign of a mooring line. I couldn’t see one. I passed the mooring mall about twenty five feet away, going full speed. I passed it with no problem, continuing to make good upwind progress, then….

WHAM!

Down I went. Hard. There was a mooring line of at least an inch of thickness that was floating just under the water’s surface. Often these mooring lines will float on the surface or have a small float attached to the far end. Not this one. My fin caught the rope and I got stopped abruptly. Imagine securely tying a rope onto your foot and then running as fast as you can. When you run out of rope, you run out of luck. That’s what happened to me.

I was thrown forward. The board stopped but everything else kept going. The sail, boom, mast….and me. I smacked the water ungracefully. My prescription sunglasses, with two straps, flew off. My neck got tweaked generously. When I ‘came to’ the first thing I did was look for my glasses. It not easy looking for glasses when you need them to see in the first place. It’s akin to driving to you driving lesson, so you can learn how to drive. Thankfully I had a floating device attached to my glasses. I found them floating about fifteen feet away. Once retrieved I looked my board over for damage. Thankfully none.

A power boater who had seen my epic catapult came over to see if I was all right. I gave him the thumbs up, regrouped, then carried on to Big Cove. The wind was on and off for much of the trip to Big Cove but I was pleasantly surprised to find big wind once I got there. Environment Canada showed gusts to 48 km/h for that time of the day. I could believe it as I was well powered. I was using my 6.9 sail which assured that I could harvest as much wind as way possible.

The highlight of my Big Cove adventure was getting a really sweet jump behind the wake of a passing motor boat. It was one of my best jumps ever on the lake. Long, high and controlled. I felt good about that. There’s something very satisfying in using the wind to benefit from the wasted energy of a gas guzzling motorboat. Call me smug. I am.

Robert Grant joined me on the water at Big Cove. He was using a 5.4 sail which was more appropriate in the gusts. Though I wanted to stay n’ play, I decided that I had better head home while the wind was still good. I left Big Cove like a bullet fired from a rifle. It was epically fast as I headed home on a broad reach. Needless to say, the wind was up and down for the trip home. There is a big of a windless Bermuda Triangle zone between my place and Big Cove. I can’t explain it, it just seems to always be there. I factor it in to my calculations.

I did eventually make it home between prospering in gusts and floundering in lulls. When I walked back into the house the clock said 4:26 p.m. I set out at about 12:15 p.m. and I never touched land the entire time. The only thing I touched was that mooring line. Yikes. I thought I might be paralyzed this morning but I’m functioning at 50%. This is good because I normally function at 49% (physically) in the mornings. Mentally I’m 99% in the mornings, though no one would ever know as I’m always up by myself, typically furiously away to complete my morning blog for my devout readers (Wendy, Julian, Dad and perhaps one other).

Well, like a frayed mooring line, I’m at the end of my rope for this morning. Now I must steel myself for another marathon session….a Nielsen family party at our house! Hook in, and hang on!

This Is My St.John River

If someone said 'take a picture that captures the essence of the St.John River', then this is what I'd submit.

I took this picture the other day while returning home after a tin boat adventure to Gagetown. The image was taken in Colwell's Creek, an offshoot of the St.John River that connects Washademoak Lake to the main channel of the river.

It's like a mini-Mississippi down there. Islands. Channels. Bass boats and red necks. And gorgeous trees!

Today's image provides a poignant contrast to yesterday's image. This is my St.John River, and it's yours too.

Water Frontage or Water Affrontage? You Decide.

I own waterfront property. I love it, and I fully understand why others would want some. I don't blame the owner of this Village of/de Gagetown home for creating what I consider to be a blemish on the Gagetown landscape, they just did what they 'had to' in order to make water frontage.

The owners of this place might be the kindest, most selfless people in the world. They may be charitable beyond compare. They may lend their time and skill to projects like Habitat For Humanity, or Doctors Without Borders. That said, I don't like what they've done to the landscape of Gagetown, but I don't blame them. Someone in the New Brunswick government gave them permission to create this affront. Why?

As I cruised up Gagetown Creek in my luxuriously appointed tin boat, I couldn't help but feel nostalgia. Gentle lawns sloped down towards the river from houses both century old and relatively new. I saw the world of Gagetown from what was once the highway, and by that I mean the river. I suspect the flowing lawns are more a feature of the modern world, but the feeling of timeless Gagetown was palpable. Acacia trees shaded the old Steamers Stop Inn, once a favourite of the yachting crowd, now looking unshaven and under-loved.

Slightly further upstream is the house I used for this blog post. It stands out like a desperately sore thumb. It simply doesn't belong. I'm not a  big fan of vinyl houses but that's not the problem. The house itself is immaculately kept. It's the boulders. They're horrible. No attempt has been made to soften their look. I wouldn't be surprised if Chris Hadfield saw them...from the International Space Station. They look so unapologetically out of place. They make Gagetown look less beautiful, and I think that's a shame.

The boulders are there because without them the riverbank would not, could not, should not support a home. This begs the question, why allow a house to be built there? It's a question to be asked of whatever government department sanctioned the building permit. I doubt an answer will ever be found; besides, it's too late. It might have behooved the property owners to have found a way to lessen the visual impact of their rock quarry aesthetic, but I guess that's probably not their thing. They're not the only ones to think, and act, this way.

Charlie Llewellyn, the disgraced former owner of the Wandlyn Motel chain, built a tasteless South Forkian nightmare amid the tasteful older mansions on Fredericton's Waterloo Row. Some uber-wealthy pharmaceutical CEO built an architectural shoebox from reclaimed ocean on Northeast Harbor's (Maine) tony waterfront. Neither place complements its surroundings, though I am making a subjective judgment call. I think that you would find a unanimous amount of support for my observations, among people who have environmental awareness or aesthetic sensibilities at least (itself a minority, perhaps).

Gawd, I sound like a bowtie wearing, tree hugging, art gallery snob who showers in prude juice and has his bum wiped with cashmere!

I love architecture. I love modern architecture too. I love visual design and natural harmony. I'm consumed by context. The right building in the right place....I'm all for it! You know it when you see it, and you know it when you don't. It's not a question of money. The people who built this place can afford to 'fix' what they've done, if they cared. It will never have the charm that a heritage home will have, few do, but at least it could sing in harmony when the wind whistles through the gorgeous grassy marshes of Gagetown Creek.

The Summer Of PBs

I hope that you didn't misread the title of this blog. We have not been watching Fred Rogers in his neighbourhood, nor has Carl Sagan been taking us away from our blue dot to distant galaxies. We have not been weeding our Victory Garden. This is not the summer of PBS, it is the summer of PBs.

What, pray tell, are PBs, you ask? PB stands for personal best, so PBs means that there have been a number of them. Let's have a look:

Julian: he's got his one mile best run time down to 6:35 seconds and his push-up best now stands at 41 or 42. All of Julian's one mile runs are sub-seven minutes now. Impressive.

Wendy: I mentioned in a past blog that Wendy was doing a bit of jogging. Yesterday she jogged from our driveway to Nan's, non-stop. That's a half mile! The real surprise is how little running training she did to get to herself in shape to jog this distance. Perhaps all that singing has kept her lungs in great shape. Her daily walking regimen has no doubt kept her legs in a jog-worthy state.

Ian: I haven't had PBs per say, but I've been inching back towards PBs from the past. I did 58 push-ups one evening. My longstanding PB is 62. I went for a run the other night and did the mile in 7:39. My PB is 6:45. It's a long way to go to get that one back. I did have one PB two days ago involving Mootha. I pushed Mootha in her wheelchair from Pine Grove to Joan's house (Garden Creek Pottery). It was a 7km roundtrip. Most of the trip was completed on the bike path which was either spectacularly smoothly paved or graveled. It was easier to do than you might guess, but I did it in flip flops which probably wasn't one of my better ideas.

Mom seemed quite enlivened by the journey. We passed through shady groves of trees (it's cawd) and enjoyed scenic views of the St.John river (oooh, that's nice), and we had a good look at the backyards of many riverside residents. As I was pushing the wheelchair, I was sweating in the midday sun with just a light t-shirt on (and shorts!). Mom had a shirt, light sweater and also an auxiliary blanket to keep her warm. There was a bit of a headwind which made it seem cooler to her, though she had some cerebral insulation from her most regal headgear...the Queenly straw hat. Next stop...Ascot.

Mootha chattered for much of the walk, though it wasn't her teeth. She had an ongoing commentary. I'm not sure what she was saying, though I suppose it was something along the lines of 'push faster, you dolt' or 'help me, I'm freezing to death...someone stop this crazy man' or 'there's a Tim Horton's up ahead and I'd kill for a box of TimBits....do you suppose this crazy fool has any money'.

We'll never know what Mootha was saying, but she was happy. Mom was always quite competitive  in any sports or games that we used to play, so perhaps she was aware that we were having a wheelchair PB. I can remember her playing ping pong with her tongue out to the side of her mouth as if to insinuate that she was locked in a grueling battle. A loss might be met with a quiet aside of 'dammit', and a coy smile. Never a Cheshire smile for a loss, that was only trotted out for a win. A big win, like a PB.

I'm not sure what the next PB will be, but I know for sure we won't have to wait long for its arrival.

Does Pollen Make My Thorax Look Big?

Isn't pollen great? It gives us strawberries, grapes, blackberries, flower seed for future blossoms, itchy eyes, runny noses and wheezing lungs that hate us. It also gives us Big Pharma with a cure for our airborne maladies.

Pfizer can pfind ways to make us pfeel better....pfor a pfee.

I don't feel like tackling Big Pharma this morning, that's beyond me. Instead I'm laying on the sofa, in my popcorn yellow sunroom, surrounded by buttery yellow flowers outside my windows. August is unofficially yellow flower month.

My gardens are overflowing with yellow blooms, from Rude Becky (Ya!) or Black-eyed Susan, to Lily, to Cory Opsis (he's Greek, I think), to Rose, to Mary Gold. They all seem to be named after people, predominantly women. Or are people named after flowers/foliage? We'd have to ask Herb Alpert, George Bush, Petula Clark, Iris Carrington or Nasturtium Nielsen-Varty.

My brain has been overcome by my morning coffee, I think. I'd best sign off and fulfill the fantasy that we are what we eat. Next stop: Raisin Bran (flakes).

Thar She Blows!

I love a good adventure, and I particularly love the ocean. I even like whales, having once had a whale watching tour in coastal Newfoundland....and more recently at the Oromocto Mall. We're talking about huge mammals here, folks. From three hundred pounds up to sixty tons.

I do wonder, though, why have I never gone whale watching in my home province? On Sunday I found myself in St.Andrews. As I usually do when 'stuck' in a port so noble as to be named after a Saint who never even took the time to visit. I walked to the end of the pier to admire the boats. I wouldn't call them yachts, as yachts are found in Maine and further south.

Before making it to the end of the pier I spotted a group of like-dressed individuals walking ahead of me. They looked much like the crew of Apollo 13, heading to outer space, all dressed in red space suits. Their space suits were, in fact, Mustang survival suits. These are the suits that ocean goers wear when there's a chance that they might inadvertently end up in the drink. Without one of these survival suits, a swimmer would only last an hour before the cold Bay of Fundy waters would 'take them'. With one of these suits on, they can float in the cold waters for hours before the cold Bay of Fundy waters take them.

Having those few extra hours to live allows them to repent for their sins, and potentially see a few more whales. It's a good deal.

So why have I not gone whale watching in New Brunswick? Two reasons:

1) I. Am. Too. Cheap.
2) I identify whale watching with tourists, and in St. Andrews.....I. Am. Not. A. Tourist.

I don't ever want to be a tourist. I want to travel, but I don't like the idea of being a stereotypical tourist. I don't want to buy trinkets or watch historical 'theme' shows in the evening (hula dancing, for example). I don't want to stick my head through wooden lobster cut-outs and have my picture taken (actually, I love it! Wahoo!!). I don't want to wear a plastic bib when eating lobster. I don't even want to eat lobster when on vacation (see #1 whale watching reason). I don't want to do anything that involves getting in a line-up (hello Disney World!).

I would, however, like to see whales again. They are quite spectacular. I'm always amazed at how something that big can seem so graceful. It is a pity that so many of them are endangered, both in the oceans and the Oromocto Mall. The minkes, rights and humpbacks are not the authors of their own demise. The same can't be said for the humans.

Now, I'd better shut my blow hole before I offend some lethargic, lipid-ladened leviathan. Or some plankton pillaging, pelagic pachyderm.

Cut It Out!

What is it about these damned cut out thingies that is so appealing? I've never dreamt of being a crustacean, yet I couldn't pass up the opportunity to pose like one. Is it our collective desire to embrace the absurd? Are we all looking for a new identity? Are we trying to become more alluring to our mates? Or do we simply need new blog fodder?

After commenting to the young lobster jockey that I would have no trouble 'amusing' myself while I waited for my lobster to be cooked, I wasted no time taking this self-portrait. I pondered the most appropriate facial expression, trying three different variations. A smile did not seem fitting, especially given my red-shelled fate. After all I was just murdered by someone making ten bucks an hour who, in all likelihood, was two pimples shy of twenty years old.

Smile....and say 'ha Varty'! I don't think so.

The expression I chose was one of surprise tempered by fate. It was that 'oh oh' look, the one Andre (the giant) might have worn after realizing he had wondered into a head hunter's village.

I mentioned to the lobster jockey that I was probably head number one hundred and one to poke through this two dimensional plywood lobster....today. He estimated that my estimate was low. Dear gawd, you mean that hundreds of clammy tourists stood here before me? Words that I muttered silently.

I fear that later today I'll develop some sort of hideous chin strap fungal furuncle (see boil), or a ring-of-fire rash, or a boil* from placing my sorry mug in this face toilet. I'd deserve a disgruntled dewlap or a wilted wattle for my ill-conceived photo op, though perhaps it's punishment enough to have voluntarily uploaded this image to the masses.

*Get it? A boil...that's deadly lobster humour.

The Long Journey

Ask a hundred people to interpret this image and you might easily get a dozen or more themes emerging.

The budding entomologist would want to know what kind of caterpillar is crossing the road. The psychologist would want to know why the caterpillar is crossing the road. The engineer would examine the chip-sealed highway surface. Anyone who lives on the Lower Cambridge Road would say that this image does not fairly portray the condition of the road (i.e. no potholes). The Baptist would want to know if the caterpillar has been, or will be, saved. The tenor wouldn't see anything in this image except his own reflection off the computer screen, then he'd tell you about his last seventeen triumphant performances. Clichés, all of them.

The caterpillar likely has one thing on his mind: food.

What do I see? I see the long road. I see my mother. It was approximately eight years ago that Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I don't think any of us really knew what to expect when the diagnosis was confirmed. In the early days it was mostly just a gentle forgetfulness, punctuated by simple 'mistakes'. We didn't have much of a sense for the anger, delusions, aggression (Judy!) or, oddly enough, the humour that would pave the road to where we are today.

And where are we today?

Today the road seems long. Not forbidding, just long. I can remember our early travels. In 2005 we flew to Maui for a family vacation. Alzheimer's didn't really travel with us. In 2007 we ventured to California for Christmas. Alzheimer's packed a bag but never really got out of the suitcase. Our travels became continually more dicey as the years progressed. I think it was 2011 when I drove to Halifax with Mom to retrieve Julian. It was nothing short of a miracle that we made it there and back unscathed. A few months later it was anyone's guess if we could get Mom to and from the hospital, or the Keswick bakery, without some speed bumps. Occasionally Mom would attempt to exit the car while we were driving, or balk at getting out when necessary. The long road.

My last two visits with Mom were such that I'm not convinced that she recognized me. Thankfully I don't struggle with that because I recognize her and that's all that matters. It's a long road and there is no map. We're driving into the cloudy twilight. It's inevitable. It's been like that for while now, though the clouds often part and Mom comes beaming through, albeit muted, with a few gifted rays of sunshine: a playful growl, a wink, a smile.

She's giving us all she's got, and that's what she's done for as long as she's been my mother <sorry, I should have said 'me Mootha'!> It doesn't take much to make us forget where we've been or where we're headed. Life must be lived in the moment: there is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow. There is, most certainly, a long road and we're on it today. Together. Maybe we're all just legs on the same body, heading down the road.

Pic-Rick-Asso

Let's compare a Rickenbacker 12 string guitar with anything Picasso ever painted.

Picasso, the painter, was considered a pioneer in his field. Rickenbacker, the luthier...ditto.

A Picasso painting is either intriguing or beautiful, possibly both. A Rickenbacker...ditto.

A Picasso holds its value, or increases over time. Rickenbacker...ditto.

A Picasso will impress your friends. Rickenbacker....ditto.

A Picasso sounds like nothing. A Rickenbacker sounds like nothing else.

A Picasso will cost you a million dollars (for a shitty one). A Rickenbacker, like this one, will cost you $3300.

They both hang comfortably on the wall. So...why would anyone buy a Picasso?

What's Up, Dock?

What's up, Dock? Well, the water in the lake, that's for sure. Twice now, since the renovations on our community wharf (I mean 'dock'...wink, wink...$$$) began, the waters of the mighty Washademoak have risen and flooded the wharf/dock.

I feel sorry for the company trying to renovate the wharf (let's face it, it's not a dock). There is a deadline to get the work done before permits expire, and this most recent flood has been inconvenient to say the least.

One wonders if the wharf  should be raised higher given the likelihood of similar floods in the future. Weather extremes are getting to be the norm, though perhaps they always were. Of course I blame our weather woes on Environment Canada. They are responsible for the weather. Here's an incomplete list of things for which I blame Environment Canada:

- the lack of wind
- floods
- global warming
- SARS
- eTalk
- Aaron Neville
- auto-tune
- tornadoes
- Nutella
- religious fundamentalism
- blackflies
- acne
- culottes
- Cindy Day (I just hate her!)
- Lisa Marie II (see Cindy Day)
- east winds
- gingivitis.

Remember, this is just a partial list!

Yoga: It's Like...Ommmmmm My God!

The names Julian Varty and Ian Varty are synonymous with extreme sports. We crave danger, but did you know that we are also devout followers/practitioners of yoga?

Ommmmmmmmmmmmm.

Ommmmmmm my god!