“Pretty stumps,” poets, loggers and another Peter in my life

I’ve arrived at the cottage, which is really not a cottage at all, more like the small wing of a house and I’m disappointed that there is no view. There was an ocean view on their website, lots of views. When am I going to learn? Well, it’s dark, I’m hoping the magnificent sea view will materialize with the morning light. I was counting on it for inspiration!

Sterile. Too much white in here, feels like a clinic. Our house has colour on the walls, thank Christ. I’m cramped, hemmed in, and discombobulated, not to mention tired after missing the Crofton ferry to Salt Spring Island. There were no signs on the Island highway for Crofton or the ferry to Vesuvius Bay and so I missed the sailing by about three minutes. Then I was driving in the fog and dark trying to find the place. It’s hard to tell driveways from roads and with no idea of distances, very confusing. I had to pull over and call the innkeeper, found out I had indeed gone too far, had to turn around. That’s it. I’m asking Santa for a GPS for Christmas! This is just dumb. In any case, after a nap and a cup of tea, I am starting to ease into the solitude, anxiety abating. In fact, it’s beginning to feel quite heavenly. I was vaguely lonely earlier, restless. Ah, quiet. Wow. No barking and howling, no video games booming, no doors slamming.

Why do the drinking glasses have the mason’s symbol on them?

Earlier today, around noon:

I saw a truck on the Bowen ferry bumper sticker: Slow Down! This ain’t the mainland.

I’m free! On the Queen of Cowichan, on my way to Salt Spring Island and my week-long writing retreat, watching three Cat in the Hat-shaped clouds recede as we chug along to Nanaimo, fog horn blasting. Another sign: Sail Satisfied. Yeah right, just ate some awfully bland clam chowder. Ferry food, on par with plane food.

In preparation I printed up my door-stopper novel, The Town Slut’s Daughter last night determined to get a leg up on a major re-write. I will be eliminating one of the major plot points, as I have done once before. This decision should enable me to work on it with a fresh approach. I am also working on verse, poems to accompany/complement Tina’s fantastic arbutus images. I gave Peter Trower my Window Seat manuscript last Thursday. He very kindly is going to read it and get it to some publishers he knows and he knows quite a few having published a dozen books of poetry and three novels. He collaborates with musicians too (several from my past) and I’ve brought his cds, Kisses in the Whisky and Sidewalks & Sidehills to enjoy while I’m here. I forgot my headphones though. Despite my lists and checking twice, I always manage to forget something. Love traveling; hate packing though I think I’ve learned to pack well, or at least lightly, after all these years.

Saturday

Off to Grandma’s house. We are going to visit Josef’s mother Ursula. She lives on Vancouver’s west side but she may as well live in Chilliwack. Getting there entails a ferry ride of course, but worse than that, navigating downtown traffic. Consequently we don’t see her as often as she would like. As least we won’t be as rushed today as we have found a dog sitter. I think. I hope. We ran an ad for weeks and just as I was about to give up hope, received a phone call from a woman, a retired lab technician/jeweler looking for part time work which is just the sort of person I thought would be ideal. I can tell she genuinely loves dogs and her adult daughter, a midwife, is close by and can back her up when necessary. Today she will come by to feed, water and walk the beasts so we can have more time with grandma. Too much time for Junior, apparently. He was falling asleep while talked about her errant son, Josef’s brother Chris, and a friend who died. Josef said, “Hey, 96, that’s not bad,” as Junior squirmed. Poor kid. I released him, told him to go play pool on the table down the hall. We managed to get her out, took her to dinner, thank God because I can’t abide the cafeteria-style food at the seniors complex where she resides.

We stopped along the way to take Junior’s picture at Lumberman’s Arch, (loggers again), a tradition since he was a year old. He just asked me why we decided to do it and I said it was a suggestion made by my photographer friend Lincoln Clarkes who chronicled his daughter’s growth and development by taking her photo in the same spot on or around her birthday each year. After fourteen now, our album is getting fat!

Driving through Stanley Park, devastation from 06 windstorms very evident. I watched Axe Men for a few minutes yesterday and a logger told his son it’s important to leave a “pretty stump.” Seems like an oxymoron to me, having never associated stumps with anything resembling beauty. I find I am haunted by the tall stumps along the trails of Bowen Island, the ones with twin holes that suggest eyes especially spooky. A stump is a stump, or as Obama might say, “Put lipstick on a stump and it’s still a stump.” Hey, whatever turns your crank, to each his own and certainly, as one’s livliehood, trees will not be viewed with any sentimentality whatsoever. There must be some synchronicity going on around here lately, having met the renowed logger/poet Peter Trower at the Rocksalt launch last week. I had him sign my copy of Chainsaws in the Cathedral when we went out for lunch the other day. He has many tall tales to tell naturally and we exchanged more than a few over a couple of beers-actually I had a glass of wine, I can’t drink beer anymore. My body parts are rejecting it. Let’s see; he narrowly escaped being cut in half with a shotgun by his mother’s boyfriend and he discovered Evelyn Lau, portrayed her Svengali/himself in the movie based on her book, Runaway. Yep, he’s a character and we get on well. Peter (Haskell) would have loved him. In fact, he rather reminds me of Peter; outwardly gruff, inwardly tenderhearted.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *