I’ve not been able to write.

The next piece had to come out first.

Here’s the text from my Nanny’s eulogy that I delivered yesterday in the little white church on the hill in the best part of the best part of the world:

I’m Jimmy - Ruby’s oldest grandson.

Ruby?

Nanny.

She took that name when she was still young.

I was born when she was only 42.

She said, I’m too young to be called ‘granny’. Call me ‘nanny’.

That name stuck for decades, until Mya arrived.

Ruby was born a Russell in family home at the end of the Russell Road in Clam Harbour.

She was a special woman, a gem really.

In a lot of ways he life is like her namesake: precious, brilliant and timeless.

Her life is a bridge to a different time.

Or as she put it, “It was a different world back then.”

As a youngster, she grew up poor.

Her summers were spent running around barefoot.

They couldn’t afford to waste money on summer shoes in those days.

Ruby no shoes - as no one ever called her, helped her mother around the house with chores and eventually collected and delivered mail for a nickel a week.

Most summers, she’d travel with her mother to visit her mother’s family in Upper Lakeville.

They’d pile into one of the three cars in the whole community - likely the cab driven by old Bob Cook.

Nanny would say: ”You could walk darn near faster than he’d drive”.

It was a different world.

Electricity never arrived at the family home until she was nine.

She spoke with a wide eyed wonder at the miracle of getting an electric pump in the house.

“Before then, the boys would have to put a stone in the bucket to break the ice out of the well in the winter”.

To use her words, and join in if you know them - the cow was in the barn, the pig was in the pen and the chickens were in the henhouse.

Outback, was the outhouse - pretty deluxe for its time - a two seater - the original Eastern Shore side by side.

When the war came, Nanny moved to Eastern Passage. Those were golden years.

She’d say ”There was a rec hall and there were kids everywhere to play with.”

Nanny loved it there. She was none too pleased to move back to Clam Harbour.

It is what it is.

It wasn’t long though before Ruby outgrown that little village.

The school there only went to grade ten. She wanted her grade eleven.

So off she moved to live with Mrs Jennex in Oyster Pond through the week.

Around then when her brother introduced her to a fella a few years her senior.

Ellis was home from serving in Newfoundland and he had himself a car.

He’d frequently drive her from home in Clam Harbour to Mrs. Jennex’s place in Oyster Pond.

I’m not going to speculate what happened on those long car rides.

I’ll leave that to your imagination.

But to light a fire under your imaination, I will say that Granddad had a girlfriend when he first met Nanny.

She didn’t last long after they met though.

They dated for three years then were married.

Six months after the wedding, my mother was born.

When I teased Nanny about her gestational efficiency, she gave me a wink and said: “You don’t think it was your generation that invented parking do ya?”

It is what it is.

Ruby and Ellis moved to town and ran an oil business.

Ellis delivered the oil.

Ruby kept everything running on time.

Supper hit the table every night at five - whether the potatoes were cooked or not.

In town, they lived on Farquarson Street.

At first, they lived in the basement while the rest of the house was built.

Nanny, Grandad, my mom, Al on one side of the basement and Sheila, Percy and the boys living on the other.

Robin seemed to have the good sense to wait until the rest of the house was built before he showed up.

Smart man.

It was a different world.

Nanny loved life in Woodlawn. She made lifelong friends there including the Weeks’.

Bernice was like a sister, Denise and Debbie - she loved you like daughters.

Nanny loved living in town. She even went and got her drivers license all on her own.

That was a big deal back then.

Grandad was not impressed:

”You mean they’re going to let you drive?”

She told this story regularly, bubbling with pride.

Ruby was a woman of fire and an independent spirit.

And that made it even more outrageous when Grandad sold the house out from under her.

“We’re moving home. Building a campground.”

That was that.

Luckily, they led and a lot of their friends from town followed.

Eventually they moved into the big yellow house on the hill.

That’s where I always picture Nanny.

When I spoke to my cousins about this eu goog ley, they talked about the food - the creamed corn in particular.

But mostly?

They describe her as a constant presence.

She’s just always been there in that big yellow house at the end of the road.

Keeping watch,

A silent sentinel peering down from her big bay window.

Her steady presence has always been a comfort.

I lived with her for two summers after Grandad died.

While I flailed with early adulthood, she seemed amused by my antics.

When Laura was sick and no one was sure how long she’d be around, Nanny and I talked about cancer, loss, living, dying and ‘what comes next’.

She seemed to be the only one who could ‘get me’.

Her presence was the ultimate comfort.

And now?

It is what it is.

One thing was always true: She loved her family.

She would always tell me how lucky she was to have such a wonderful family.

Wonderful children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

With God as my witness, she told me regularly how proud she was of each and every one of us.

Ruby no shoes was a woman with a hell of a soul.

And though she grew up with no shoes, her eldest great granddaughter - Mya - gave her the moniker that I think she loved the most:

Two shoes.

In one of our last conversations, Nanny was expressing doubt.

“What does it matter? What is this all for?”

I told her the truth.

”While Grandad was up the lake drinking whisky, you were the glue that kept everything going. He may of started it, but without you, it have fallen apart.

You made a place of joy that’s touched thousands of lives.

I keep meeting people whose best memories are of the campground.

You have no idea of just how impactful and important you’ve been.”

She may be gone, but her steady, enduring presence continues.

So as we gather here in the best part of the best part of the world to celebrate that gem of a woman - Ruby

Nanny

Mother

Sis

Two shoes

She’s always got eyes on all of us.

She’s looking down from her swing on the porch of the big yellow house in the sky

So remember,

Be good.

And if you can’t be good, be careful.

Thank you.

I’d put in the time, my bike is tuned and my calories counted and purchased.

Then?

Dodgeball happened.

I zigged like a champ.

My knee zagged like an octogenarian.

Then my body screamed like the Tic Toc Taliban - JOINT JUSTICE NOW!

Though mostly fit, I am a 53 year old man who has been fairly hard on my body.

Now?

I’m almost American.

I want life.

I want liberty.

And the pursuit of happy knees.

Unfortunately, my knees are not cooperating.

In the system that is me, my will is there.

My shell is there.

The fuel is there.

The motor that is my cardio vascular system is running optimally.

And?

I’ve blown a part of my transfer case or transmission.

As such, with a tweaked knee, I’m not riding my bike 100 miles through the rain tomorrow.

Stubborn me still wants to go.

Experienced me doesn’t want to be soggy and crying on the trail, ten miles from any road and fifty miles from my own bed.

With that in mind?

I’ve chickened out on the Resurewrection ride tomorrow.

Frustrated?

Yup.

I’ve got an angry pile of rats chewing the face off a dissident inside of my chest.

But I guess that beats hypothermia and a summer of limping around from bus to bus to work rather than riding my bikes.

Is this what wisdom feels like?

If so, wisdom can go fuck itself.

Stay salty, you fools.

This is a love letter and a rage letter and touches on some of the most sacred cows of our current society - the sexual revolution.

Interested?

Read on.

Scared?

Close this message meow.

One of the smartest people I know is also one of the bravest people I know.

And I must be pretty damn smart too because I chose to marry this woman.

That’s right - Laura.

Laura has a PhD in Education. She’s run an English department in inner city Toronto Schools.

She’s pretty frickin’ amazing.

And?

She quit. She walked away.

And that was a defiant act of bravery.

Women these days are subjected to more pressure than ever before, so much so that the biggest job, the best job and what I believe the most important job has been replaced with wage earning.

That job?

Being a mom.

That’s right.

Being a mom and loving and nurturing your offspring is more important than being President, more impactful than leading an HR department and more influential than teaching other peoples children.

And it’s been undervalued since the 1960’s.

These days, the statements above are likely seen as foolish, heretical even.

Because, hell, natural, biological abilities to feed and millennia of hard wired nurturing can easily be disrupted by pills, choice and bra burning.

And for whom?

Instead of loyalty to the family and for the benefit of the tribe, a woman’s super powers get turned away from the family and towards the functioning of the state and for the benefit of the corporations.

Yay progress?

Laura, facing cancer, had the bravery to walk away from the machine and the insurance support to turn her efforts towards supporting her family.

At work?

She was under incredible pressure to care for a nurture a lot of other people - other parents, other teachers and other peoples children. Hundreds of them per year!

And when middle class women walk away from a career that could have / would have /should have led to even more social status and pressure with a university career, they are silently judged and seen as a failure.

She’s had these unawares judgements passed on her for over a decade and a half now.

And?

She has the bravery to ignore and withstand the girl bullying in our culture that pushes women to perfectionism - Lioness at work, mamma bear at home and a minx in the bedroom.

I’m not sure that the revolution of the 60’s made things easier for women.

I hear the ordinary fools clucking in the media all the time

Men need to be better. Men need to do more.

Why?

We did’t ask for this.

We didn’t lead the revolution.

It used to be such that a two income household could get ahead.

These days?

It takes two and a half incomes to keep a family going.

So, with the revolution, who won, men, women, or the corporations who continue to extract more wealth from our efforts?

Family first is the core of community and shouldn’t be seen as a reactionary point of view.

But that’s the machine for ya, it simplifies narratives, creates good and evils in the world and finds someone to blame for the inadequacies of progressive culture

The biggest person Laura had to battle though was herself.

If I’m not there, they’ll miss me. What will happen to ______

We learned quite soon after she quit that she wasn’t missed.

She was disposable.

She was replaced.

Sure for a while they spoke about her.

These days though, there are few teachers at her old school who even remember she was there.

You are disposable.

You don’t matter.

One day you will be gone.

You will be replaced.

You don’t matter to the system nearly as much as you think.

Family first.

Love the people who love you and fuck the fucking fuckers

I’m back.

It’s been a couple of days.

Have you missed me?

I have too.

I’ve been stuck.

Not stuck with writing, but stuck figuring out what to say.

Things are a bit cold here lately. The heat pump has been broken for weeks.

We’ve been heating the house with our little wood burner in the living room.

In our cold house, I’ve been numb to a lot.

With Nanny now in a home that you generally walk in then roll out feet first, I think I’m blocking a bunch of anticipatory sadness.

People aren’t dying.

Time is just an arsehole.

It’s limited.

And these days, I can see how precious our time together truly is.

My mother in law reminds me of Nanny.

She’s starting to get really old and she lives really far away - for now.

That’s something we’re working on changing.

I hope she’s much closer soon.

I’m noticing more and more how my parents are aging..

They’re getting older.

They love me so much they’ve put up with so much arrogance, rage and just down right flailing on my behalf, that they’ve never given up entirely on me and for that gift, I’m deeply grateful.

I just wish I would have figured this out sooner.

I guess that’s the gift, the sick and twisted gift of being caught between generations.

My own kids are pushing me away.

They’re rejecting both of their parents.

It’s natural, but it hurts.

Now I know how much I had to push and hurt my own folks.

These days, I really appreciate caring for those older than me - my mother in law and likely in the future my parents, while at the same time caring for my children and helping them become adults.

It’s an odd place that I’m in, it’s a kind of holding on and letting go at the same time.

Holding on to who they are and letting go of what they were.

Life lately feels like eating 70% cacao bars at sunset.

It’s bitter sweet, entirely spectacular and all in all, good for the heart.

We have a little white dog. He had lepto about eight years ago. Dr. Bev told us we’d be lucky to keep him alive for five.

i guess we’re really a lot luckier than we think sometimes.

I was going through my drafts here.

One of the posts I wrote nine months ago.

It’s called My dog is dying.

Only, he’s not.

He’s living.

Sure he’s incontinent.

Sure he shits blood on puppy pads and sometimes on the floor every day.

And?

He’s been kept alive by his sheer desire to love my wife.

When we weren’t sure about her, he was with her.

Now that he’s coming to the end, she and my daughter are with him - carrying him outside to poop and cleaning up when he doesn’t make it.

The vet told us as long as he wags his tail and shows interest in being alive, the inconvenience of his incontinence is the only reason to put him down.

Many people, we’re told, most people would likely do this.

But?

One day I’ll likely shit all over the place and be a big inconvenience for the world.

And I won’t accept being put down because of a few bloody little shits.

When it’s time, we’ll know.

I’d like to file an objection from the barn.

Again, at the barn, things have been as one would expect with a lot of large animals around: Chaotic.

The chief agent of chaos has been Daisy - the cow.

Daisy likes to scratch on fence posts.

And fenceposts?

Well, as Daisy has grown fat on hay and alfalfa pellets, the fence posts haven’t been into it.

They’re not body shaming her for her growth.

Instead?

They’ve been folding like cheap lawn chairs at an outdoor concert under her mighty scritching.

Recently, Daisy’s scratching caused a mid night prison break and an all you can eat hoof party in the feed room.

All of the horses followed descending upon the feed bags like… like a…

Like a herd of wild horses freed from their paddocks having found mana from heaven.

Senior feed. Foal feed. Performance feed.

Their eyes must have sparkled at their good fortune.

Our golden palomino narced out his friends. He was caught with a fifty pound bag of alfalfa in his mouth shaking it back and forth, flailing like a drunken windmill. He wasn’t trying to narc. He was just so loud and obvious about it that he likely woke up the mice sleeping three counties over.

When approached, he dropped the feed bag then pranced off into the night.

Daisy was a different story.

Daisy found grain. Daisy would not yield the bag she was chewing through.

Well…

She would not yield until the barn owner decided to play the most dastardly of human tricks.

She threw her hands above her head making herself instantly bigger.

I can just imagine what Daisy was thinking ‘what twisted magic is this? One moment, it was lady. Next? Samsquanch’

Daisy panicked and chundered away with the feed in her mouth, tripping on electric fence, splintered posts and a rats nest of half chewed feed bags as she went.

You can’t hurt a cow, you know. Their skin is so thick and they’re just so damn durable. There’d be mornings when I worked on a dairy farm, we’d have to fish out six or seven from the manure lagoon each day. We’d hose them down then off they’d go. No problem. Cows are chill.

I know the idea of a half dozen Jerseys going swimming in shit seems a bit insane. It is. And that’s cows for ya.

Contrast that with horses.

Horses are just so dramatic. They get the tiniest little scratch and they bleed like a slasher movie. Or, they just do stupid shit to try to kill themselves. If we had a manure lagoon, my horses would definitely go and drown in it.

The point is simple, dear reader: cows are thick-skinned wrecking balls.

They break fences. They survive stupidity. They keep chewing.

Horses? Beautiful, emotional glass sculptures on stilts.

Leave the cattle to chew their cud and lead.

Go find a pretty horse to take out for an exciting ride.

Stay stinky, you fools!

Sounds dirty eh?

It gets worse.

Big news, dear reader!

Sheldon’s getting his nuts cut off soon!

No, none of my friends are getting married.

Sheldon is a young colt at the barn where our daughter rides.

He’s pretty adorable.

And.

It has to happen soon. Otherwise, he’s outta here.

Conversation then switched to tales of how difficult stallions are to handle.

Why keep them?

They’re just incredible. We took two to a huge horse show down south. We looked like a bunch of hillbillies with insane, nasty horses. And. We beat everybody. They did clean runs at a metre and a half. Clean. Then? We tell them, ‘Stud fee is 2k USD, Lucky mares can have live cover before we head home. Expenses expected’ We cleaned up.

This dear reader was when that odd opportunity presented itself to me. I was there with two women who went to agricultural school.

They worked on cattle farms.

They knew things that I was curious about.

Specifically?

Animal husbandry.

Most days I hesitate.

Most days there are children around.

It’s a wholesome, rural, down home environment.

But today?

No kids.

I had to take bold action.

Is there someone who ummm… manipulates the stallion? You know, works his gears.

The two women stared blankly. I was trying to be a gentleman, I was attempting to be discreet. Every cell in my body wanted to scream at them:

Does someone actually get paid to wack off a horse?

Right?

I mean who gets to put that on their resume?

“Chief Steward of Semen Extraction for His Royal Highness, King Charles of Windsor.

That would be a pretty wicked job title, eh?

So, as you can see, dear reader, I was pretty excited to find out some details while at the same time, I wanted to remain ‘polite’.

For some, this ‘remaining polite’ stuff comes naturally. For this fool?

It’s about as easy as farting a ping pong ball over a ceiling fan.

Despite this, I persisted.

I mean, how do they get it? The stuff? You know, the stud juice

Congratulate me, dear reader, for using precise biological terminology.

Then?

They described the process.

They call them ‘breeding sheds’ They bring in a mare in heat so the stallion can smell her. Then he mounts a fake horse and goes to town.

That made sense. No one would want the job of jerking off a horse.

Well… If you want that job, please unsubscribe meow because you’re a dirty pervert.

But for most ordinary fools like us, dear reader, the thought of horse masturbation is quite icky.

Which is why I tried to change the subject.

But the barn owner?

She didn’t let me.

Someone still has to catch it.

Catch it?

Yeah. They catch it with a special bucket. No matter what though? You always end up with it all over you. It’s a good thing they wear long gloves.

And that dear reader, was how an odd opportunity turns into a full body, splash zone.

Tip your horse masseuse, not cows.

And?

If you see someone at the barnyard wearing long dirty gloves?

Give them a lotta room.

I’m not picking it up.

I’ve accomplished absolutely nothing - full send into uselessness.

Time drifts as listlessly as I rise each day.

Blink. It’s the afternoon.

Blink.

It’s bedtime.

What day is it anyway?

I had just hurriedly shuffled out to the coop with the compost to feed some unruly little cluckers.

They swarmed me like groupies on a rockstar - no boundaries, all beak and bad intentions.

Quick tip my dudes: Protect your peckers. Chickens have no morals.

With the chickens satisfied, I dumped the nasty plastic compost bin in the kitchen sink, then stepped back onto the deck.

BAM.

That’s when it hit me.

That’s right dear reader, I was hit square in the face.

No, it wasn’t an ‘unpleasant truth’ - nor a surprised visit by folks fundraising for orphaned sewer rats

I had just turned to walk into the yard when I was smashed by the most delicious late afternoon sunshine.

It was the kind of sunshine that you notice in the early spring, Sunshine that sneaks out between snowstorms and barely stays - as though it knows it doesn’t belong and would be deported if it lingered.

That early spring sunshine carries with it a special magic.

Eight minutes and twenty seconds prior to that moment, that burning furnace upon which all life depends threw those rays at my face

The heat was intense even at five in the afternoon.

With no wind and warm sun, I ripped off my shirts like a depressed magician pulling out endless handkerchiefs. Ta Da! B.O. and pasty white skin.

Desperate for feeling, any feeling, I let the vitamin D producing waves of energy dance across my skin.

For a moment, I felt summer. It was just a hint, a promise of what’s to come.

Summer brings fewer clothes and more space occupied comfortably.

Everything gets a bit sweatier and a lot easier.

I’m ready for clammy pits and easy living. I’m ready to smell like freedom and tikka masala.

The summer sampler didn’t last long. A wind came up while clouds crossed the sun.

Everything cooled off for a bit.

Hope put its coat back on and went for a lonely walk past some dirty frozen snowbanks with Tims roll up cups froze to them like British teeth.

But, in the time it took me to write this, the sun started screaming through yet again.

If you’re frozen and stuck?

Go find your sun.

Let it hit you.

Let it thaw you.

It’s a gift from eight minutes ago. No invoices. No guilt. Nothing offered in exchange.

Sure, the wind will do its thing.

Clouds will show up.

So what?

But in the middle of your most moist doldrums, the sun’s still there.

Remember how its warmth wakes you and how the breeze dances so playfully with your hairy little nipples.

Sure, those moments will not last.

And?

Neither will winter’s chilling grip.

Remember, dear reader, life is always better without a shirt!

Stay bronze, you fools!

Dear reader!

It seems that I’m in trouble lately!

I’ve been radicalized by the internet.

The Al-Go-Rhythm keeps showing me things that are more and more radical.

One moment I’m merely watching someone talk about a bicycle, the next, I’m seeing dudes out riding dirt jumpers pulling gnarly tricks.

The more of this I watch, the more radicalized I become until finally all I see is a blur of big wave surfing.

The next thing you know, I’m shopping for a wing suit and calling it ‘self care’.

With all of this online high risk ideology, this athletic supremacy, it’s not long before Red Bull are declared a terror threat.

And this dangerous content?

This is toxic masculinity at its worst.

They call it ‘the manosphere’.

In this world though, there are no spheres - more hoops with spokes and hubs all organized in a network that seeks individual expression and freedom.

In this world, ‘doing the work’ means riding longer and more difficult routes.

This pipeline to extremism is everywhere.

It’s become quite awful.

Last week at the bike park I encountered chants of from the river to the sea, we all need an Allen key!

Worse were the stickers that I found on trees that read Black Flies Splatter!

Not long after that, I encountered a table labeled “Mutual Aid”.

There, they were handing out tents, blankets and knee pads because access to the trailhead is a human right.

And skinned knees?

A blight.

Do these criminals not know what they are doing to the children?

Anyway, after spending an evening watching Tickity Tock videos, I’m ready to lead through action.

As a radical, I’m calling for the end of bike lanes and of helmet laws - despite my neighbours lived experience with bike crashes.

I’m not here to debate.

I’m here to recruit.

Because this is how it starts.

You watch one dude send a big drop.

Then you buy a used helmet that smells like someone else’s fear.

Then you “just try” a little gap jump.

And suddenly you’re out here, doing the work.

Not the Instagram kind.

The real kind.

The kind where your lungs burn, your legs shake, and your ego gets sanded down by gravel.

So yes.

Get radicalized.

Drink the Red Bull.

Ride the harder route.

Take the jump.

Fall down.

Get back up.

And if you see a Mutual Aid table on the way out?

Take a knee pad.

Not because you’re a victim.

Because you’re going back in.

And when you have all the time in the world?

Everything takes longer.

Everything seems more difficult.

The solution?

Make yourself busy.

Productivity will follow.

Momentum is its own virtue.

Discipline?

What is discipline?

Ditto structure.

Both are easily lost to me these days.

I know I start work in three weeks.

Given this, my drive to do more is diminished.

I don’t feel like training.

I don’t feel like filing my taxes.

Hell, I don’t even feel like writing anymore.

The government doesn’t care what I feel like.

Neither does the 100 mile ride.

And writing?

Well, I’ve got to do something to let me know that I’ve been here.

And beyond that?

I think I may just go sweep the floor.

There’s always something better to do than stare at a screen.

Get moving, you fools!

My next big ride is coming soon - Easter.

100 miles of riding. Sixty percent of it is off road bullshit.

My hands, back and shoulders are already dreading the cobblestone trail along the gas line. It hurts no matter what.

I did this ride last year.

It kicked my arse.

And this year?

I’m afraid it might be worse.

Last year I trained too much and was, according to my handy little wrist watch, under a lot of strain.

This year, I’ve undertrained.

I must admit dear reader, when it comes to under training, I’m a Viking. There are few who could crash on the sofa and engage in passive recovery as well as I can.

Sure, I’ve ridden the distance before, but right now?

Now I’m nervous.

Zeke and I went out to get 80k of rail trail riding in before the snow comes (again!).

Preparations went well enough. I was only a half hour late.

The air felt cold and the drop bar bike felt awkward and fast at the same time.

Maybe I was a bit stiff.

I wanted to have my new / old bike project complete and rolling for a few hundred miles before seeing the road again with Zeke.

The project is a single speed. I wanted to play with the simplicity of single speed riding to see how it could impact how I approach a trail.

It’s a kind of limited pallette experiment but with hemorrhoids.

Also?

Riding a crappy old single speed on hard trails leading up to the ride will make the bike I’m riding that day feel so much more comfortable.

It seems as though I didn’t have to wait to enjoy / endure the cycling equivalent of a limited pallet exercise.

Whether my the size of my shed, or the limits of my drawknife, this limited pallet experience - as pointed out by Iain in the comments on yesterday’s post, I see the limited pallet experience / experiment as a great way to life.

What is life but a series of restrictions.

Time. Money. Relationships. Projects.

They all come with restrictions.

Pick some restrictions.

Fitness them.

Work simply with what works.

That’s how I like to roll.

Hell, that’s how the world rolls me along as well.

Whether I want it to show up or not, the limited pallette experience shows up.

Today, I rode my gravel bike. It has E-lek-tronic shifting.

This R2D2 shifting is amazing.

Well up until meow, it’s worked flawlessly.

Today?

Not so much.

The button for the ‘easier gear’ worked as needed.

The button for making it harder to pedal did not.

I could fix it manually.

But for the most part, I was stuck with one gear.

It’s a firmware error. This thing is a brick. You’ll need to file a warranty claim.

Facing the first big ride of the year, I was ready to just let the ride go. I’d go home, go inside and drink too much coffee.

Zeke wasn’t having it.

I guess you’re riding single speed today bud.

My hopes of an easy day were crushed.

Instead?

I engaged in yet another ‘limited pallet experiment’.

This was in fact, a version of something that I wanted to create for myself anyway.

The point, dear reader, can be summed up simply:

Run what you brung - or work with what you’ve got.

And most importantly?

Be careful what you wish for

Keep spinning, you fools!

Creatively, I’ve felt as tapped as the maple trees in the sugar section down at the lake.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, something will start running soon.

I’ve been whittling fish a lot lately.

I mostly use a draw knife.

I like this.

It’s powerful and precise.

There are some places where it just doesn’t work.

I could get another tool, something eee lek trick-ly powered.

More tools, more capabilities, more possibilities.

But that’s the attraction to my old draw knife.

It will only do so much

And given this?

It can only get me in so much trouble.

Forged in Austria, it makes short work of the slab wood spruces I’m working with.

My studio?

It’s a small 10 x 12 shed.

All of my projects live there right now.

I’d like more space.

But it’s kinda like my drawknife.

The limits of my space allow me to be creative with what I’m working with.

The last little while, winter has been relaxing its grip on us.

I can now spend hours at a time in my studio.

It’s insulated and heats up pretty good once I ripping my fish into shape.

So, dear reader, I’d like to invite you to take a gander at my space.

I both hate it and I love it.

It’s too small and completely enough.

What restrictions can you impose on yourself in order to flourish?

No one is laughing with you.

They are laughing at you.

This is important to emphasize.

People pretend to laugh with people,

But the laughing begins as a laughing at.

Pretend that you were going through a really tough time. Your life has become a blues song. Your dog has left you, wife has died and instead of losing your job, you’re working so much overtime, you’re paying people to spend your money for you.

That’s a lot to pretend.

Don’t worry, dear reader, you can do it.

I’m speaking directly to you.

Also?

Pretend that your name is Zigfreid.

To be clear ‘Zigfreid’, I’m laughing AT you, not WITH YOU.

Why?

Because it’s easy to see just how stupid and ridiculous every human is.

And?

If you’re alive, you’re well enough to have something worth laughing at.

You do weird shit. Other people find that funny.

And for those of you who wince at the thought of being laughed at?

It happens. Get over yourself.

And?

You started it by being such an absurd dumbass.

But if you can see just how idiotic that I find you right now?

Maybe we can share a laugh.

At your expense.

(Of course)

Sadly, your ego is not tax deductible.

But the gift is to start the process of laughing at someone.

In doing so, you’ve said hey weirdo, I cared enough to take the time and notice what a fucking nut job you are.

In reality?

Laughing at someone is an act of generosity.

And risk.

So who can’t you laugh at - yet?

Now imagine them farting O Canada into a microphone.

Now imagine that you’re farting O Canada into a microphone.

And me?

As you can imagine,

I”m laughing at the thought of you farting O Canada, into a microphone.

Well done.

Keep giggling, you fools!

Nor how well I show up with my food.

When I go off riding a hundred miles off road in a couple of weeks, there will come a time when I’m as saggy as the titties on hundred-year-old Jersey cow.

Thirty five miles hurts.

Fifty is worse.

But things get really bad when I start getting cold.

Eventually, around the 70 to 75 mile point it feels like the calories I consume go directly to my legs.

There isn’t a lot left over for making heat and even fewer to keep the brain operating.

For those without much imagination?

You’ve spent the day with your shoulders fused to your ears, your hands knitted like chicken feet and your arse beaten black and blue by a small seat over very bumpy roads.

That’s the seventy mile mark.

And that’s the time in every ride where I’m ready to lie down in the sunshine and give up.

And I keep going.

I get to a point where the calories I’m consuming are just enough to keep me going, but not enough for me to be making any sense. I start calling out to the sock that Neff used to wipe his arse when he shat in the woods the last time we did this ride.

When it gets really bad, the sock answers back.

That, dear reader, is where I am with my creative processes right meow -including this foolsletter.

I feel like everything is stuck at the 70 mile point on a hundred mile ride.

I’m taking on enough energy to keep moving, but most of the noises are incoherent grunts and most of the pleasure is gone.

Each day lately, I’ve debated packing this thing in and giving up.

I guess this is why there’s snow on my desk lately.

But, fear not dear reader!

I’ll keep posting, day after day.

Soon enough, I’ll break through.

Soon enough, I’ll hit those ultra sweet final five miles.

Pedal, pedal, glide - all the way home.

Unless I get hit by a truck,

Keep spinning, you fools!

The logic was that if I wanted to ride 100 miles off road on moderately punishing conditions, the more I trained on the bike, the better off I’d be.

This year?

I’m doing things differently.

Sure, I spend a bunch of time on my stationary bike. Instead of merely riding to improve my heart rate fitness, I bring a zip lock bag of cold mashed potatoes and I work on my eating.

Real food, rather than energy gummies is easier on the guts.

At the same time, I’m looking for carbs per hour.

So instead of working on increasing my maximum capacity, I’ve focused on eating.

Next?

I’ve been looking at gear.

Most rides, I’m either too hot or too cold.

And rain?

I hate rain. I’ve been avoiding it all winter.

And for our upcoming 100 mile Easter ride, there is always the possibility.

With a yellow advisory storm on its way, I ventured forth to test my gear.

By an hour and a half elapsed time, my jacket was fully leaked.

This is awful, I thought to myself. I’m so uncomfortable.

It was perfect.

The rain lashed through my clothes. My feet were soaked and freezing.

I was miles from home and could tell that my underpants were now a shade more dark than when I left.

After walking up and down the hills of Dartmouth, I was at the corner of Pine and Thistle Streets.

If I head down Thistle, I can be home in fifteen minutes. If I go the other way, I could add on an hour.

Life was miserable. I wanted to go home and get warm and comfortable.

And that, dear reader, is why I chose to go the long way.

As I walked I grew wetter and colder.

And with every little shift in body heat, my shoulders tensed and creeped up toward my ears.

You are not cold. You are in the cold. Resign yourself to the moment. Resign yourself to the cold.

Feeling terrible, I needed more.

In the more, I settled into the reality that I was miserable and was going to continue to be miserable for quite some time.

As I let down m shoulders, the oddest thing happened. I accepted the suck that I was striding through.

As I did this?

I felt flickers and arcs of exhilaration.

I felt so alive.

Not because I was strong.

But because I was there.

The trainer can make my heart strong.

The potatoes can stop my stomach from revolting.

And the right gear can keep me moving past mile 99.

But the real training takes place when the ride gets ugly.

When the ride gets ugly, there’s no negotiating with reality.

When the ride gets ugly at the corner of Pine and Thistle, I get to chose my direction.

Downhill to home and comfort?

Or,

Settle into the fact that the foreseeable future is going to really suck.

Drop those shoulders. Save that energy to keep moving.

You’re an animal in the rain.

Choose the long way.

Choose the rain and the pain.

That’s then the fun really starts.

Stay soggy, you fools!

The shit has been flying around here these days.

You see,

We’re doing a fundraiser for my son’s soccer trip to Spain.

My idea to raise money?

We’ll sell horseshit by the bag.

The love nuggets for sale are many scoops of four or more year old horse shit, packaged in feed bags and shovelled lovingly by two teenage boys.

Why, one might ask, would I try selling actual vegetarian raised butt nuggets?

Well, there’s always money in turds.

And so far we’ve taken over sixteen hundred dollars in orders.

Holy shit eh?

So when they tell you your idea stinks,

Let them know that was the whole point from the very beginning .

Stay stinky, you fools!

We were having one of our weekly Company meetings.

I was aboard the hippie theatre boat.

The founder, director, you know, the boss man.

He built the boat on donations.

People like to get behind tall ship building, so he got himself a tall ship built.

He was educated by Jesuits and was pretty wily.

He could guilt and double-talk a room so hard that if he borrowed a dollar, with interest you’d somehow owe him two-fifty.

This man was a masterful fundraiser.

Building that boat was an incredible accomplishment.

He was really good at fundraising.

As a director?

He was a hack propagandist.

Both on the stage and with his theatre company.

He called it a company, but, because we lived with each other and were all being paid an equal share of the cash we took in, we’d have these weekly meetings where we’d discuss how to run the company.

They were fucking awful.

Typically something would go wrong then Vinnie, the stooge who built the ship, would try to find a way to guilt us into giving our money back to the company for the collective good.

For the collective good?

Fuck that. We were in New York City.

I had subways to catch, plays to watch.

Motherfucker wanted to take my money for the collective good?

When he hired me, he had no idea what he was getting into.

But then again, neither did I.

While in Toronto, they told me this:

We’ll fly you down. Everyone will get health insurance, no problem.

Once there?

The health insurance became “Insurance companies are evil. Let’s just put what we’d pay in premiums in a collective account. We can use that should we need it. We never need it for everybody at once.”

Please, dear reader, imagine for a moment how long the collective health fund lasted for a hippie crew of twenty Canucks living collectively in a thousand stinky square feet of living space?

That is correct.

Not long at all.

Within a month it had gone.

I reminded Vinnie at each and every weekly meeting.

But in NYC, where they didn’t have money to pay us, and we were promised $200 USD per week and they wanted us to pay them our pay back for the collective good?

I spoke up.

I’m sure you will manage it just as well as the health insurance fund.

He looked like a kid who dropped his ice cream in dog shit then had it pissed on by a racehorse.

There’s a reason they call you Jimmy Dart-mouth, he retorted.

Not one to let a soft and easy one straight over the plate hang in the air too long, I was quick with my reply.

Yeah, because I pop the bubbles of manipulation.

He looked hurt.

You don’t have to be so mean.

It was an act. A manipulation.

He was a showman. A PT Barnum with an ark filled with dirty young hippie theatre sailors, all paired up two by two.

And he was used to getting his own way.

I wasn’t letting him.

This is a job for me. I was told I would be paid weekly. I was told there would be health insurance. None of this was true. So I’ll stop being mean when you stop being a manipulative fucking liar who takes advantage of people by guilting them out of their money.

That dear reader was when he started scrawling on the volleyball.

Once finished, he capped the Sharpie, and threw the ball to me.

Only one word was there. It read: ATTENTION!

There, he said, now have all of it. Are you happy now?

Great question, eh? I took a beat.

I remember looking around the room and seeing people staring at me, slack jawed, some puzzled, others appalled.

But I was on a roll and gathering no moss.

Am I happy now? Yes and no. Happy to have ALL OF THE ATTENTION. Hell yeah. As it should be. But I’d be a lot happier with health insurance.

He shook his head. There’s a reason they call you Jimmy Dart-mouth.

It’s true.

I come from a place where we can smell bullshit through a snowbank.

And I didn’t sail all the way to New York City to be paid in sporting goods.

Stay vinaigrette, you fools!

What does it mean to be living well?

Well, dear reader, I witnessed a great example of this just this weekend.

It was my Nanny’s 95th birthday party at her new place.

Her children were there.

Most of her grandchildren and great grandchildren were there as well.

People kept coming into the party room in waves.

With each successive wave, Nanny cried a bit more.

Her sister.

Her best friend.

Her best friend’s children who think of her as their second mother.

Wave after wave of tears came cascading down Nanny’s face.

I was worried that the salt water might have caused some erosion.

A few more lines might have been drawn across that ancient, wise face.

When I arrived she cried as well.

This is a first. It was puzzling.

I had to ask, What the hell is wrong with you?

She laughed through her tears.

I’m not crying because I’m sad. I’m crying because I’m happy.

I shook my head. Knock it off. If you keep this up, you’ll be dehydrated in a matter of minutes. If people keep coming, you’ll be nothing but dust within the hour.

This time it was Nanny’s turn to shake her head.

We ate cake and sang songs.

Some lady with a funny collar added something to the birthday song about the baby Jebus.

Who the hell is the lady with the funny collar?

Apparently it was the ‘minister’. And that title gives one permission to add baby Jebus to the birthday song.

It seemed weird.

But that, dear reader was a digression.

And?

The lady with a collar, she wasn’t important.

Nanny was.

We ate cake and gave her hugs.

Lots of hugs.

Big ones.

Long ones.

She just kept crying.

I’m so happy.

I’m so lucky to be so loved.

Nanny’s old now.

She’s 95.

I can’t have much longer left.

She says this a lot.

Though I didn’t hear her say that at her birthday party.

So what makes a good life, dear reader?

Perhaps it’s having a lot of birthdays.

But what’s a birthday when you’re 95 without having a bunch of your children, grandchildren and great grandchildren around to help you celebrate it?

I’m struck with one odd thought.

If I live to be 95 and have that many people around celebrating me, it will be great to be there.

Though I’ll likely crack jokes about it being a funeral pre-party.

Kinda like drinking before going out to the bar to get a little pre-tipsy before the real debauchery begins.

But instead of drunken whooping, it’s a bunch of family members and a lady with a collar trying to sneak a Jebus song in between mouthfuls of tuna sandwiches.

So what makes a good life dear reader?

A good life is made up moment to moment knowing that life is worth living.

And life is worth living when you know just how many people love you and just how much you’re loved.

My Nanny?

She has a great life.

Though she hasn’t bungee jumped into huge canyons, nor spent time on the back of an elephant in Thailand, hers has been rich and exotic.

And though some say they’re living their best life as they jet around the world dancing on surfboards wearing t-shirts that say salty hair don’t care, they will never know the love that Nanny knows.

Because Nanny knows about salt air and spruce trees and the fog that dances on still summer mornings in Lake Charlotte.

Most of all though?

She knows the salty taste of the tears of joy - the kind you get when it finally lands. You’re loved. Deeply.

Stay salty, you fools!

So tell me, dear reader:

Are farts funny or not?

Oh I know you, dear reader. You have a story to share.

Fart, shart or full-on rectum wreckage, I welcome all stories of filth and flatulence in the comments!

Because there’s a common theme through our lives:

When we’re born we shit our pants.

Late in life we shit our pants.

And in between?

We get to find poop funny.

And those who don’t?

They’re full of shit.