A Rant against Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer

I understand that Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer is a local classic and children's favorite. I have never liked it, partly because it usurps air space better devoted to herald angels, and partly because there is something quite warped in the story line.

What exactly is the life lesson that kids are getting here?
At first, it looks good. A bullied underdog, or rather under-deer is recognized for his special gift and becomes a hero. So far, so good.

But then we get this line: "Then all the reindeer loved him"
Really! Our boy is famous and now all his former tormentors want to be his friend? This is supposed to be the happy ending? What does this teach children about the nature of friendship?

A true friend stands by you while you are being bullied, he does not do a sudden turnaround because some higher authority decides you have some use. YUCK.

Flaggers, Unsung Heroes of the Road.

originally posted on Yahoo 360 May 1 2007
Because we have been more grasshopper than ant for much of our lives, we end up working past pensionable age. My husband has been doing traffic control. No, the picture is definitely not him. I wrote this little article about the sort of work he does for the local newspapers.

Flaggers, Unsung Heroes of the Road.

The phone rings just past 7 AM.
A voice asks for my husband. There has been an avalanche on the road to Trout Lake and they need traffic controllers right now. He may have to be there for 10 or 12 hours, so bring some sandwiches.

We were just about to have breakfast, but within fifteen minutes he is packed and gone.

Other times the call has come late in the evening. A truck may have gone off the road somewhere, or there's been a landslide, and someone needs to be there through the night to alert drivers to the hazard.

How is a person supposed to stay awake all night without a nap in the afternoon first? Somehow they do it.

Flaggers are supposed to be able to jump into action like fire fighters or ambulance personnel, but without any of the prestige or monetary rewards.

Even without emergencies the world of traffic control is full of last minute arrangements.
It is not unusual to get a call after 9 PM, asking you to be somewhere nearly 3 hours away by 8 the next morning.

Do the math:
That means getting out the door before 5AM, which means you should have been in bed with your gear packed well before 9PM if you want to get your 8 hours sleep.

Flaggers stand on their feet all day in all kinds of weather and have to stay alert through hours of boredom.
I couldn't do it to save my life, let alone someone else's.

Then there is the danger of being overrun by aggressive drivers, and the aggravation of people who take their anger at a delay out on you.

At least many years ago it used to pay well. These days the pay is just a bit above minimum wage.
The fierce competition between contractors is largely subsidized by the low wages of the people on the road. All hail the dogma of the free market.

So folks, next time you get stopped by a flagger, don't give them the finger. Give them a big thumbs up and a thanks for an essential job well done.

Merry Christmas from a Taoist Pagan.

Hark the Herald Angels! Bring on the Nativity scenes! Send in the Carols! In the name of the Mother, the Daughter, and the Holy Crone.

What I mean by the label is: Nature is the connection I use to commune with the Great Mystery. I am happy to call it The Great Mystery, the Tao, and let it go at that.

I have no desire to revive tribal gods of yester-year. The one we have left is doing enough damage. Parts of the tribal history AKA the Old Testament are truly grotesque. All that slaying and smiting. For the record: some of my ancestors belonged to that tribe.

My view of gods is rather Pratchettian. As The Great One (Terry Pratchett) so eloquently puts it, the difference between gods and devils is rather like that between freedom fighters and terrorists. Let sleeping gods lie.

Mystics of all religions get along just fine. As a Christian theologian said (sorry, forgot his name): “God is a metaphor for God.” Amen.

AND (and, not but) I was raised as a good little Christian girl. Part of me will always resonate to those particular rituals. Rituals feed the soul. I love Christmas Carols. The real kind: Herald Angels, Oh Night Divine, Once in Royal David’s City, and so on. They are simply too beautiful to be reserved solely for Christian believers.
I did another post  about how they became part of my Dutch childhood.

We used to hear carols over the airwaves in the Advent season. When did that change? As early as 1992 I wrote a letter to CBC radio complaining about their lack. It went more or less like this:

If the aim of losing traditional carols is to avoid offense to minorities, minorities and those who champion them need to make a clear distinction between wrongful discrimination and the simple inconvenience of being a minority. That seems to get mixed up.

When someone is denied schooling, employment or housing strictly on the basis of ethnic identity, skin colour, religion, gender, etc, that is wrongful discrimination. Most people of goodwill agree that everyone deserves an equal chance at the goodies.

But when a Muslim, Hindu or Atheist has to lay eyes on a plastic baby Jesus in the mall, that is merely an inconvenience. It is NOT religious persecution or discrimination. If you want to feel real discrimination, try being a Bahai in Iran or a Christian or avowed Atheist in Saudi Arabia.

I am all in favor of a strict separation between church and state. But I always thought that that simply meant that the state would refrain from dictation in matters of personal religion.

In my opinion public schools should indeed be secular. That doesn’t mean anti-religious, just neutral. If you want your child to be indoctrinated in your personal faith, take care of it at home or send her to private school.
In my grandson’s school in Greater Vancouver, B.C. Christian kids and those of European extraction are as much a minority as everyone else.
In that context it makes sense to change the traditional Christmas Pageant into a bland midwinter celebration.

But when did we get all paranoid about displays of religion in public space? Are our own convictions so pathetically insecure that we cannot handle being exposed to another view? What does that have to do with freedom?

True beauty has been replaced with insipid winter songs that reek of plastic and the Mall. That obscene Reindeer story deserves a rant all on its own.

I say: bring back the carols. They feed the soul on a deep level.
And when the time comes for Diwali, Hanukkah, Eid, or other celebrations, let’s hear the songs that go with those.

Let’s celebrate all festivals instead of none!

Sinterklaas, the real thing

Zie ginds komt de Stoomboot
Uit Spanje weer aan
Hij brengt ons Sint Nicolaas
Ik zie hem al staan
Hoe huppelt zijn paardje
Het dek op en neer
Hoe waaien de wimpels
al heen en al weer!
(traditional Sinterklaas arrival song)

December 5 is the one and only day in the year that I would rather be in "the old country" than in my beloved Kootenay mountain paradise. It is Sinterklaas avond, Saint Nicolas Eve.

The pictures on this post show the entry into Amsterdam, my hometown. 
Taken with permission from http://traveladventures.org/


The fun starts weeks ahead, with the official arrival of Sinterklaas by steamer from Spain, above.

The Saint is accompanied by his faithful Moorish servant, Zwarte Piet. (Black Peter) Zwarte Piet is sometimes alone, but sometimes, like at the official entry into the city, there are many.

Things are getting a bit complicated in these multicultural times. In 2007 I wrote: "I am glad to see that this most Dutch of all traditions is still going strong. Zwarte Piet is dressed in a sixteenth century style costume and is in outrageous blackface. Sorry folks, no offense is intended to anyone."

We used to joke that in these PC times the question was whether Zwarte Piet would be forced out, or on the contrary could only be played by people with the right natural colouring. That question is no longer a joke. Amsterdam has now officially banned blackface Piet and replaced him with "sooty piet". 

My reaction when the discussion first started was resistance, but now I think the time has come.



















Many years ago we used to wait for hours for the entry parade, just like this. Dad took oldest brother Jaap and myself, the twins stayed home with Mom. I used to feel so sorry for her! It never occurred to me that waiting in a crowd in the late November chill might not be the ultimate pleasure.

In case anyone wonders why a bishop who hails originally 
from Myra in what is now Turkey arrives from Spain:

Once upon a time the Netherlands were ruled by the Spanish king. That's what happens when your rulers are determined by the succession of  royal families, the Hapsburg in this case.
The English and French never quite got over Eleanor of Aquitaine, same idea. The Dutch anthem, written for the first William of Orange in the 16th century, still mentions loyalty to the King of Spain.


Just before the Dutch kicked the Spaniards out of the Netherlands Ferdinand and Isabella had been chasing the Moors out of Spain. A pity, since life had been good in the cities of Anadalusia, but so it goes. Perhaps that is why Piet's costume dates from that time.

Zwarte Piet carries a switch, and a big bag. The switch is for giving kids who have been naughty a good hiding (wie zoet is krijgt lekkers, wie stout is de roe). The bag holds toys, but can also be used to carry really hardcore bad kids back to Spain once the tour is over. Legend is vague about the punishment that awaits them there, the vague threat was enough.

Then there is the white horse! Zachtjes gaan de paardevoehoetjes, trippeltrappel trippeltrap.
It carries Sinterklaas over the roof tops. Zwarte Piet drops presents down the chimney. Sinterklaas is the patron saint of the city, so he wears the emblem of the city on his mitre.

As soon as Sinterklaas is in the country, somewhere in late November, children can place their shoe by the chimney in the evening and find it filled with a small gift or at least some candy in the morning. Certain candies are only seen at that time of year. There is TaaiTaai, a chewy sort of gingerbread, and the wonderful thick speculaas, in the shape of Sinterklaas. Pepernoten, little ginger cookie balls especially used to be thrown around by Zwarte Piet, small sugar animals, and chocolate letters. This was one time of year when I wished my name was Wilma or Mieke instead of Ien, since one usually receives one's initial. People usually had mercy and gave me an H, for my last name van der Hout.


Setting the shoe was a ritual: we had to sing for our candy, and sometimes we left a carrot or some water for the horse. Sinterklaas Kapoentje, the song sung by the little Dutch orphan in the original "Miracle on 34th street" was the most used for this occasion.


After weeks of anticipation it was finally time for THE evening. This is, or at least was, the big gift giving occasion. Christmas was a church and family affair.


There is more to a good successful Sinterklaas than a pile of loot. Once the givers reach a certain age they are expected to take extra trouble with at least some of the gifts.
The ultimate is to present a gift wrapped in a "surprise" (pronounced the French way) that somehow says something about the recipient. For example, you have bought a watch for a fanatical soccer player in the family. You might create a papier mache soccer ball, and hide the watch inside.
And then there is the poem, to be read by the one who receives the gift. It doesn't have to be great literature, as long it rimes and is funny.


For my Dutch, Flemish or Afrikaans readers, here is part of one that Dad made for Mom. It went on about her habit of interrupting his reading with her puzzle questions. She did the devilishly difficult cryptogram every Saturday, and would not rest till she solved the darned thing.
Pappa zat rustig in zijn stoel
En Ma keek met een ernstig smoel
In de krant
En langs de kant
stonden woordjes
aaneengeregen als koordjes

This is our family in 1954.
I had good parents, and appreciate them more with each
passing year.


And that is enough nostalgia!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends in the USA.

These wise words from that greatest of twentieth century philosophers, Theodore Geisel, say it all:

"You ought to be Thankful
A whole heaping lot
For the places and people
You're lucky you're not!"

By the way, the special effect turkey owes it all to judicious placings of aluminum foil.
Thanks to my online buddy Jan Jenson.

DIY housing, a proud Kootenay tradition!

Building low-impact housing out of whatever happens to be at hand was a way of life when we first came to the Kootenays in the early seventies.


The back-to-the-land crowd was building log homes from the trees around them or living in improvised shelters any old way. Building inspectors were nowhere in evidence. 
One in particular stayed with me as the ultimate in flimsiness.


We had bought our land in the fall of 1970, when Chris still had the good geology job near Grand Forks, B.C. We still lived near Christina Lake, a 3 1/2 hour drive from Nakusp.


We made it a point to visit the place at least once every season. We’d camp in a tent for one or two nights in the weekend, explore the area and marvel at the idea that we owned this spot.


The first time was in the spring of 1971, right after the weather had made its dramatic shift from winter to spring. By late April the sun was warm enough to allow sunbathing au naturel, which we were doing when Scott, the 12 year old son of one of the hippie settlers came for a visit.


Scott took us for a walk through the spring-green woods to introduce us to some neighbors. The trail snaked through a swamp, alive with skunk cabbage and yellow violets, to join a larger trail that went up the mountain. At the corner stood a dilapidated log cabin that had once housed an Australian trapper. The larger trail is now a solid gravel road, but it is still called Kangaroo Trail.


Up the hill a bit and into the woods and there in a small clearing we found Frank and Jane, starkers like we had been earlier, next to the shelter where they had spent the winter. It was a Bucky dome made out of thin cedar strips, covered in clear plastic. That was it. They had cheerfully lived through a snowy West Kootenay winter in it and seemed none the worse for wear. Interesting times. So wonderfully free.

The picture is the log house my husband built while we lived in the tipi. It was home from October 1977 to September 87. For some of that time a good job for Old Dutch took us to Vancouver Island. We visited when we could. 
Below, the kids getting clean in the first year we were back on the land to stay. I hope this does not offend community standards?

Unfortunately the house never got finished. There were several reasons. First there is the time vs money conundrum, well known to other wannabe builders. You tend to have either one or the other, depending on if you are employed or not.
But perhaps most importantly Old Dutchs' enjoyment of carpentry work did not match his ability. He is surprisingly good at it, handy and inventive. He even did all the electrical wiring. It was inspected and found good.  But after a week on a job he loathed but did for the sake of the family, laying a floor in the upstairs was the last thing he'd feel like doing. I have two left hands that are all thumbs and am useless for building.

With the brilliance of hindsight I should have insisted on hiring a few professionals to speed up the job. It was an option at some point. At the time I had no idea that a pro could do things in days that take amateurs months. Also at the time I was a financially dependent SAHM, my self esteem was non existent, and I just went along.

At some point an inheritance allowed us to buy a mobile home and have a finished dwelling, paid for, NOW! It has served us well. My only regret is that we did not put a snow roof over it right away. But never mind, we have one now. 

A Holiday proposal

Call me Scrooge. Even in years when we have a nice get-together with friends or family I hate the frantic build-up. I hate the Hallmark/Hollywood reinforced suggestion that one is missing out if life is not filled with glittering and/or deeply meaningful gatherings.

December is the month when one feels depressed about not getting invited to parties that one would not enjoy much anyway. I am not a good party person. I prefer people in small batches.

I also do not like traveling over snowy roads in the dark, nor do I want my loved ones to expose themselves to unnecessary risks.

At this time of year I really enjoy withdrawing. This is not depression, more contented hibernation. Happiness is a pile of books, a good internet connection and a pot of tea. In the deepest dark cookies may become involved. Sparingly, because I am a cookieholic. 

It is amazing how many people one meets with the same reaction. My friend Els has a solitary Christmas ritual. She did plenty of the usual when her four children and numerous foster children were home. But these days she declines all invitations from friends and family. She lights a fire, puts on Christmas music, unwraps a chocolate treat and settles down for the day to read. Some beloved Christmas stories are on the reading list. She gleefully reports that many women, knee-deep in guests and kitchen stress, have expressed envy.

So I have a proposal. 

We get to keep the days off. We need a break at that time of year. We mark the Winter Solstice, the Return of the Light, whether as a secular celebration or a religious holiday. By the way, this pagan will happily wish you a Merry Christmas.

But if we must have that yearly busy card-writing visiting-present-giving party-going thing, let's move it to the spring equinox or even May Day. 
In spring we feel restless and ready to crawl out of the winter cave, but the gardens are not happening yet. In climates where gardens are happening it is not panic season yet. Travel is safer. What a perfect time to socialise!
How about it?

Sprout your kernel, Green the Earth

It's easy to feel overwhelmed when we look at all the work that needs to be done to make this Earth a better place for our children. There are definitely days, especially towards the tail end of winter, when one just feels like crawling under the covers and giving up on the whole enterprise.

Whenever I start feeling that way I remind myself of the grain field metaphor. It comes originally from Albert Schweitzer, but it came my way through our local woodsy sage Robert Harrington.

The day before a seeded field of grain greens up, it still looks totally black. Then suddenly one morning the field is a tender green. The whole field turned green because each individual kernel of grain has sprouted and come up. It looks like it happened overnight, because much of the process happened underneath the ground to start with. As any gardener knows seeds have their priorities straight: Roots first.

You can't take on the whole world. You are not responsible for the whole field, or for the weather. Your job is just to sprout your own kernel. All the small green gestures add up. Take a cloth bag to the grocery store. Plant a garden. Shop for food at the farmer's market. Connect with neighbors. Turn down the thermostat and wear a sweater indoors. Ride a bike, take the bus or carpool to work. Support fair trade organic businesses and so on. Do what you can, let the rest go, and live joyfully. Positive vibrations are good for the planet. Appreciate what is, and give thanks (to Whom it may concern) frequently.

How to be socially acceptable in the Kootenays

My gifted friend Barbara McPherson wrote this hilarious look at hippie culture. In the Kootenays, the Nelson area and Slocan valley in particular, the sixties never quite ended.

Published here with permission of the author.

How to Be Socially Acceptable in the Kootenays.

In the past, if you'd read Emily Post, you knew the proper etiquette for most events and situations. But nowadays, it can be tricky to be socially acceptable. Every area has its own peculiarities, the Kootenays being a sterling example. There are certain rules that should be known if you wish to fit into the most predominant type of society up and down the valley.

Proper identifying clothing is absolutely essential. Never wear anything that is pink, light blue, lemon yellow, or of a synthetic fabric. It must not be fluffy, ruffled, or tight-fitting. It's also best if nothing matches. The bywords to remember are: earth colours, layering, wool, cotton, and used.

People in the Kootenays wear lots of jewellry but it must be of the right type:

Wrong: The pretty locket Aunt Mildred gave to you. Right: Necklaces made of mysterious concoctions of leather, feather, and crystals. But, a word of caution: you will be found out if you wear a necklace with, say, a rune, and you don't know what the symbolism is. Murmuring something like "The Great Mother" doesn't cut it if the other person is up on their Nordic runes.

Rings are not only acceptable but mandatory. In fact, you can't have too many rings. If you run out of fingers, you can use your toes, or even your nose. But they must be the right sort of rings:

Wrong: gold rings with a lot of diamonds or any other blatantly expensive kind of stone. Right: anything made of silver, preferably with symbols such as Egyptians ankhs, Celtic spirals or the Great Mother's vulva.

Once you're dressed the right way, the next area of greatest importance is the kind of vehicle you drive. Never, ever, own a new white Cadillac, even if someone gives it you. Be warned that if you arrive at a new-age health food store or a Reiki workshop in this sort of car, they won't let you in the door. If you must have one, park it at least a block away and say you hitched a ride in with your neighbour.

The right kind of vehicle, however, is tricky. Even if it's a pickup truck or a Jeep, it can't be too new or too big. Small cars with a liberal amount of rust and faded stickers that say "Free Tibet" or "Blessed Be" are the best bet if you're to be taken seriously. Never, under any circumstances, own, drive, or ride as a passenger in a cherry-red diesel pickup with a bumper sticker that says "Hug a logger, not a tree". This is not only worse than a new white Caddy, but fatal to your reputation.

If you've been legally married to the same person for over twenty-five years, it's best to be discreet about it. Rather than referring to your spouse as "husband" or "wife", it's best to murmur "my long-time life partner", with a slight inflection in your voice hinting that this could change at any time.

If you have a job, the best sort to have is part-time, low-paying, and to do with healing, the environment, or making things with hemp and garlic.

If you do happen to have a high-paying, full-time job in a logging company office, keep quiet about it. Stash your money in a Swiss bank and keep driving your old car.

There's much more that could be said, but this has to be cut short. I have to slip on my Pakistani cotton dress, jump into my 1979 Dodge Omni, and get to work at the health food store. The cosmic clock never ceases to tick.

Barbara McPherson, Nakusp

Remembrance Day

Originally posted on Yahoo 360 November 11 2006

As a war baby who was liberated by Canadians I take Remembrance Day seriously.
I grew up with stories of the famine of the last winter, and my parents dancing the hokey pokey in the streets during the crazy happy days of May 1945.
"Ha daar zijn de Canadezen! Zou d'r wat te bikken wezen?"
(Goody, here are the Canadians, wonder if there is anything to eat?)

In 1995 when the liberation was 50 years ago, I offered free Reflexology sessions to any veteran who wanted to take me up on it. One special vet did.

Al Butt was not only a veteran, he was a faith healer. His small jewelry store in the side street leading down to the lake had a special peaceful feeling to it. Al embodied the archetype of the wounded healer. He suffered from ankylosing spondilitis and lived in chronic pain. The sessions certainly could not cure him, but they helped with the pain, at least for a while.
Al was a devout Christian but very open-minded. He was fascinated by Reiki. During our weekly session we developed a special friendship till his death two years later.

By the way, Brent Butt, the brilliant creator of  "Corner Gas" is Al's nephew. Corner Gas is Saskatchewan's answer to Seinfeld.

WWI was not a vivid reality to me at all. Fiction provided education on that one. The picture at the top of this blog is the Canadian Vimy memorial in Northern France.
Jane Urquart wrote a stunning novel about its birth.

"The Stone Carvers" ranges in action from a nineteenth-century Bavarian village, through the grim reality of early pioneer life in the Ontario bush, to the battle fields of Vimy and the creation of the monument.

The lover of a missing soldier dresses as a man in order to work on the project. She finds closure by carving his name into the stone. There is much more to it.
This is a dense book by a master writer at her peak.  

In spite of the bleak subject matter the totality of the book is uplifting. Highly recommended reading, even if the topic of WWI normally turns you off.

Happy Birthday CBC!

Originally posted on Yahoo 360 November 2 2006Happy Birthday CBC!

The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation is 70 years old today.

We love CBC. It usually murmurs in the background, keeping us company, marking the rhythm of the day.
I save boring kitchen work to do during interesting programs. Many a cupboard has been cleaned out during 'Cross Country Checkup' or a particularly good 'Ideas.'

CBC is great for comedy. We treasure a collection of old comedy audio tapes. Mainly " Doctor Bundolo's Pandemonium Medicine Show" and "The Frantics."

More than anything else I credit CBC for making me truly Canadian, as much as that is possible when one has spent one's formative years elsewhere. We'll always be hybrids to some degree, and that's OK.

Nationality is more than a passport. It is a whole bunch of little things, trivia, that you know just because. Like knowing who Maurice "the Rocket" Richard was, even if you never watch hockey.

Listening to CBC over the years has filled in a lot of gaps in our Trivia store in an organic sort of way.

Happy Birthday dear old Radio, and many more!

How a nice girl from Amsterdam ended up living in a tipi on a mountain in B.C.

As a child I always wanted to live in the country, but in my late teens and early twenties I loved being in Amsterdam.
Leaving my native Netherlands all started with my husband being a geologist. There is a serious shortage of rocks in Holland.
Canada was wide open, and we knew one fellow student who had gone there and got work in the Calgary oil patch. So we packed up our lives and went to Calgary. It was a great adventure and I loved it.

Chris eventually ended up finding work not in Alberta, but with a mining company in Grand Forks, B.C.

I got dragged away from Calgary kicking and screaming. I had an opportunity to go to Graduate School and I did not want to be a stay-at-home anything. I even spent the winter living in a friend's basement so I could finish my courses. Every weekend I took the overnight Greyhound to Chris in B.C., a 14-hour trip each way.


But come summer time there I was, in Christina Lake near Grand Forks. With neighbors who had a big vegetable garden. And intriguing people nearby who had settled into abandoned farm houses in the hills, without running water or electricity. We  shook our heads at the folly. 

Then I made friends with one counter-cultural couple, and before you knew it our home was grand central station for quite a few people who used it for phone calls, baths, and as a crash pad.
The photo below is from the facebook album "Old pictures" by Carol Nye, Carol Leon at the time. The baby on Carol's lap on the left is my dear 'daughter-friend' Christine.

It seems everyone was looking for a piece of land. This was a new concept to us. Not just a yard, but LAND!
Civilization was supposed to come crashing down around our ears any day now, and we'd all better be holed up on our self-sufficient homesteads. Forty years later, with the 'prepper' movement going strong, us old hippies don't know if we should laugh or cry. Anyway back then I became obsessed with the notion of owning my own chunk.
We went land-hunting during the Thanksgiving weekend of 1970, and ended up with an undeveloped ten acre plot near Nakusp that was only $3500, the equivalent of $35.000 in today's money. I sincerely believe I had Guidance. We could never have bought at any other time in our lives. Land prices went up and our income went down.

As for the tipi, a year later we came home from a summer in the geology field to find our friends had been joined by a new couple who lived in a tipi. We shook our wise old heads some more. But when we went to visit the new folks we found they were actually quite cozy, even in mid winter.

A few years later our financial fortunes took a nose dive.
We had planned to move to our acreage some time in the far future, after we had earned the money to build a house and install water and electricity and other necessities of life. Instead we bought a tipi and just went there!

The first year was fun. The picture at the top was taken in the first fall. That is our daughter in the door opening. The transparent door was my husband's brainwave. It was a "white man's tipi" with a solid wood heater, propane for cooking, a round kitchen table and two chairs, and the rear seat of a car as couch. 

I can't remember when we acquired the wooden shoes. Did my parents bring them when they came to visit in September 1975, or did I buy them on my visit to the old country the following year? We never wore them in Amsterdam, that's for sure. Anyway, wooden shoes with thick socks are perfect foot wear when you live in a tipi and are always dashing in and out. I am so sorry I never took a picture of them parked in front of the dwelling. At the time it was just life.


The second year was a bit much, especially since the summer of 1976 was cold and wet and the baby was a toddler now.

By the time the first floor of the log home was ready to move into, fall 1977, the 16x32 foot dry space was absolute heaven.
Never mind that there was still no plumbing and the windows were covered with plastic.

I call myself an old semi-hippie rather than a full-fledged one. We were on the edge of the whole thing. Apart from some small experiments we never got into the drugs and we always looked presentably straight and had jobs. We had times on unemployment insurance, but never welfare.

As for the drugs, it is definitely true that trying marijuana will lead to harder stuff. I never took to pot. It makes me want to sleep and eat, activities at which I excel without help. But it took twenty years to kick the nicotine habit that I acquired in order to practice inhaling.

P.S. My daughter has started to blog her childhood memories, fun! 
http://brokenmice.blogspot.ca/2014/01/pointy-tents-are-made-for-babies.html

And after the tipi there was the log cabin.
http://freegreenliving.blogspot.ca/2007/11/proud-tradition-of-diy-housing.html