Slothful winter pleasures

During the dark of winter I have been slipping into a rhythm of later to bed, later up. Ben Franklin would not approve, but then I am healthy and wealthy enough to be content. The concept of enough needs to be more honoured. As for wise.....it is not up to me to determine when enough of this desirable quality has been reached. (Yes, I realise that that remark in itself has pretense at wisdom)

Old Dutch has been getting up earlier. By the time I emerge from vivid dreams between 7.30 and 8AM I can hear the coffee grinder going, or the machine making its pruttle pruttle sounds. Time to wake and smell my favourite drug. Fresh coffee is sacred and must not be allowed to wait. Enter my recent slothful habit: instead of getting showered and dressed right away I slip into a robe and head for instant gratifcation. Then I sit around with coffee, muffin, and Facebook on tablet before starting the day for real. 

The robe is a recent acquisition. I used to have a red one, known as the Bear Robe, when we lived in the old log house. Getting up entailed stoking the wood heater. It made sense then, but getting out of it and into clothes could be as hard as getting out of bed. The bulky red fuzzy finally got thrown out and was not replaced. There is much to be said for getting dressed right away. Once we get back into the earlier rhythm that goes with outdoor life that habit shall be resumed. 

Meanwhile I love my fuzzy thriftshop find. Brand new, incredibly soft, my size, 4 bucks. I wonder about it's origin. Was it was a guilt inspired present for a loved one in hospital, who died before she ever used it? Or a Christmas gift for dear old Nana, who thought it was too nice for daily use? And then she died and it was found, untouched, among her possessions. Anyway it is being enjoyed, last but not least by the cat who loves the lap covered with its sumptuousness. Equally delicious fuzzy socks keep feet and lower legs toasty. 

And last but not least, about once a week I treat myself to a leisurely lavender scented bath, in the company of the kobo mini e-reader. Others may need to climb the ice falls of Niagara to feel alive. My thrills are found in the pleasure of small things.

Honour the Sabbath OR ELSE

Sometimes I could kick myself. I do stupid things when I know better. By the way, this post is so boring I will not even announce it on Facebook. It is more by way of my private memory album.

Lack of agility makes kicking impractical so I shall just endeavor to learn from mistake. In general my life philosophy is to gain the greatest amount of wisdom  possible from the smallest amount of pain possible.

Long experience has taught me that I simply do not function unless my week has one day without anything on the schedule. It does not have to be Sunday, it can be any day. But there must be one day that is entirely mine. I may well end up being very productive on that day, but it must be by choice, on the spur of the moment. If I do not schedule that in either my body goes on strike by getting a cold, or I mess up in some other way. There are probably psychological theories on hidden motives, sabotaging inner children or whatever. Maybe I am just spoiled. But the principle holds.

As readers of these blatherings know one of my favourite things to do on a winter day is batch cooking with something interesting to listen to. So I thought I could get away with making promises to do some extra cooking for other parties. There is genuine need for this service and I not mind it or so I thought when I made the promise. But thanks to the acupressure practice sessions I have been busier than usual lately. Instead of impulse day Sunday has been cooking day and I effed up royally, twice now. 

Last week I overcooked the batch of lasagna I made for the other party while I was working on one for us. I just did not check on it in time, duh. This week I let about six quarts of precious turkey neck stock, all sieved and ready and delicious, sit on the stove overnight instead of putting it outside in the cold. It took me all day to admit that yes, it had gone sour. I didn't think it would spoil that fast but it did. Old Dutch keeps the house much warmer than it used to be. At least I had one quart left in the freezer for the promised mushroom soup. But drat it, that is fifteen bucks and at least an hour of my time gone down the drain and I am mad. Food waste normally does not happen in my household!

Mushroom soup always takes me longer than I think it will. Today's other project was spanakopitas but I am running out of steam. Cooking should be done with patience, joy and full attention. I think I will stop for the day. Borscht and pizza from the freezer for dinner tonight.

Three, nay four! books and the city of my heart

As usual many winter resolutions have fallen by the wayside, but some were kept. I am actually studying acupressure, which includes giving practice sessions, and doing some serious reading.

I was not planning to spend a literary month in the city of my youth, but that is what happened. Pictures are random. Earlier I did a blog about places Old Dutch and I used to live. 


The road to Amsterdam started in Oran. I read La Peste because I wanted to catch up on some classics, revive my French, Camus had been discussed on CBC, and Ebola was happening. There were some good, even haunting parts in it. How could it be otherwise with that topic, a city isolated from the world by an outbreak of the Black Plague. However, as a novel I found the structure pretentious, needlessly laborious, and detracting from the powerful narrative. I did not see why Camus had earned a Nobel for literature. Maybe he had earned it through another book, supposedly a master work. On we went to La Chute, The Fall. La Peste was still on the shelf as a memento from a previous life, but the internet delivered La Chute for a few bucks. I may get to do some more non English reading.

The Fall is set in Amsterdam in 1953, long before the hippie invasion that started in 1970, before the red light district spilled out into Damrak, the street leading from Central station to Dam square. Background music: Jacques Brel's "Dans le port d'Amsterdam". 
I wasn't crazy about the unlikely frame for the story. An expat French lawyer  meets a country man in a bar in the red light district. Ancient mariner style, expat supposedly keeps fellow French man spellbound night after night with the story of his life and his moral dilemmas. Yeah, right. There is nothing else to do in Amsterdam. There were some interesting ideas and I enjoyed Camus' observations on the Dutch. But I wish Camus had simply written some essays and reportages. Marcel Proust would have agreed. He once said that a novel with 'ideas' was like a gift with the price tag attached. 

Nevertheless, I enjoyed walking along for those few scenes when the narrator and his guest step outside into the fog or walk along the quay in the drizzle. When the narrator leaves his guest at the edge of the red light district to cross a bridge to his hotel on Damrak, I am there. That never happens to me with fiction taking place in London or New York. 

The next book, Cees Nooteboom's "Rituelen", (Rituals),  also takes place mainly in Amsterdam. It was part of the Dutch collection transfered from my brother's Kobo. I have still not decided if I love it or hate it. It is beautifully written but somehow it lacks heart, at least to me. Perhaps that was intended. It is not a long novel and I may well reread it in order to understand what everyone sees in it. It has been widely translated and won awards. The three sections of the book take place in 1963, 1953, and 1973, in that order.

I don't feel like reviewing it here except to repeat how much I loved walking along the streets of a city that will always be in my heart. An important scene takes place in the Spiegelstraat, home of antique and art dealers. Again, I am standing right there, looking through the window at a single raku bowl.

Finally, I just finished listening to the audio version of "The anatomy lesson" by Nina Siegal. It tells the story of the origin of Rembrandt's famous painting. 

It takes place in one single day, January 16 1632, the day the lesson takes place. By necessity this is also the day the man whose body is being dissected has been hanged. The book is historical fiction at its best, a brilliant mix of invention and research. The fictional character of Flora, pregnant lover to the dead man, adds heart and drama. Through flashbacks we get to meet the dead criminal, a mere career thief, not a murderer. Rembrandt's thought processes as he reflects on how to compose this important commission are of course imagined, but not unlikely. We get a wonderful sense of time and place. The city, a boom town with all its brash nouveau riche glory and teeming smelly humanity, is like an extra  character. I loved it. Five stars.

Addendum. After this, alerted to it by a reader of this blog (Thanks Christa!) I read The miniaturist, set in Amsterdam in 1686/87. I felt mixed about it. I found the writing good in places but pretentious in others. Above all, the characters don't convince. Is there such a thing as psychological anachronism? 

Anyway, the Guardian said it already, here is their review.

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/jul/10/miniaturist-jessie-burton-review-history-modern-day-heroine

On 1949 and the timing of wish fulfillment

Some memories from the year 1949. Yes, I do remember Harry Truman being president. The memory is that of a newscaster intoning the name as a man in a hat steps off a plane. It is indelibly linked to tinny music, the smell of french fries, and Popeye the sailor man.

Back then movie meant one thing: Cineac. (Picture from wikipedia.) Dad would take us there once in a while as a special treat. The Cineac in the Reguliersbreestraat, in between the Munt and Rembrandts plein, was a place where a one hour program, a combination of newsreels and cartoons, ran continuously.  The black and white newsreels were part of the overall experience, associated with the anticipated pleasure of the cartoons to come. 

One usually had to stand in line to get in. The narrow street where you waited was home to a number of snack bars, and many of the people patiently waiting their turn passed the time with a pointy paper bag filled with mysterious steamy strips of something. It was years before I got a taste. The air was redolent with the smell of what I now know to have been french fries. 

I loved all cartoons, nay, all moving images. Had I been born later I would have been such a TV addict. Popeye was a favourite because of the spinach connection. The visits to cartoon heaven were partly meant to encourage us kids to eat our spinach, prescribed by the pediatrician. In the spring of 1948 Jaap and I had almost died from an allergic reaction to a pinworm remedy that was later removed from the market. Anaemia was an after effect, hence Popeye.

Now for the wish fulfillment. In the summer of that year, the year I turned 6, I had been obsessed with the wish for a doll house. We did not have children's books but my parents would tell us stories. Some were traditional fairy tales featuring big bad wolves but some were tailor made. During that summer the happy ending of a tailor made story would always include reception of a dollhouse. 

Ah, the perfidy of timing!

The wish became reality on Saint Nicholas Eve of 1949. 
Dad's mother, father and sister had lovingly crafted me a dollhouse. It was a simple wooden rectangle open on top and front, divided into three equal compartments for living room, kitchen and bedroom. The furniture was exquisite. Later Jaap and I played with it lots. But back on that Sinterklaas avond in 1949, there was a bit of an anti climax. I remember people trying to draw my attention back to the doll house and me feeling vaguely guilty. You see, the other gifts included two simple books. I had just learned to read and all I really wanted to do was sit down with them. The cheap little books eclipsed the long desired doll house. I liked the doll house, but I was not ecstatic like I would have been a few months earlier. 

One part was salvaged: The furniture included a little book case complete with hand made books, see here.

The book case is an exact replica of the solid oak case that hung on the wall in our Amsterdam living room. My grandfather had made it for his brainy son. It was gifted to me when we moved away from that flat. My son has it now. I am happy to report to the ancestors that it is lovingly cared for. Opa had carved the miniature books and Oma and tante Betty had hand painted them, some even with titles. The ones on the top shelf have names: Ien, Japie, Miek, our cousin. It is a treasured possession and lives in the healing room.

I wish I could go back in time to express my gratitude for all the love that went into its making.

On being a dabbler

At 71 I have the privilege of no longer having to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. That is a good thing because I never did. 

Earlier gender and age protected me from that dilemma to some extent. My generation of women still grew up expecting to make domestic life the main occupation. It never appealed to me and many others, and by the time we came of age things changed, but that is another story. The main point is that society did not judge our lives on the basis of success at work the same way it did men's.

I have raised two children to awesome adults and done my bit to support the household with paid labour, but I have never really had a career of any kind. Even though I am in some ways quite clever. (Stupid in other ways. Never mind now) This was partly due to the choice to live in the boondocks, which I have never regretted. But even here I could imagine having tried harder and made something more of a success in some endeavor or other.

The truth, dear reader, is that I am by nature a dabbler.
I like doing a bit of many things and as a result became a master at none. I keep seeing people who are making a success of enterprises I might have been able to pull off.
I catch myself thinking "Why did I not do that?"

I used to be a serious student of astrology. There was a time when my greatest ambition was to become a professional.
Occasionally I come across something I wrote in that context and think "That was actually quite good. Too bad I fizzled out." I had good reasons for doing so but that is another story.

I quite enjoy giving reflexology sessions. People tell me I am good at it. I have never earned a living with it. Could this have developed into a more successful practice if I had put more effort into promoting myself?
The sad truth is that I never tried hard enough, consistently enough to do that. I also cannot imagine enjoying the 9-5 equivalent, living or no living. The size of the town provides a great excuse that is partially valid.

I love to grow things. Standing at the farmers market behind a table loaded with perennial bedding plants of exceptional quality was a favourite thrill. Yet the thought of doing it full time, having to advertise sales, being a slave to the small life forms in pots, no, too much like work.

For a full decade, after a health product made a dramatic difference in my own life, I wanted more than anything to be a successful network marketer. I still have to finish the blogs on that experience.

And speaking of blogs, I have been both gardening and blogging longer than some young women whose very professional productions I have followed. When I first started blogging (on yahoo 360) in the fall of 2006 it was with commercial intent in mind. But, as with everything else, my efforts are intermittent and half hearted.

In retrospect, the Home Support work I rolled into for thirteen years was a good fit. I loved meeting the old timers and learning first hand about the history of this community. History is young here. The parents of the people I cared for had been the first European settlers. I loved working independently but not having to do the organising bits. I suck at organising. Twenty five hours a week provided a basic income with enough time left to persue the other endeavors. 

After 13 years of it I felt the need for a break, and asked for a summer off. As it turned out, the agency was starting on a reorganisation that would require lay offs. If I agreed to lose my seniority and stay away for a whole year they would give me a lump sum, roughly equivalent to 6 months wages. I thought about it for half an hour, then decided to go for it, practically giddy with freedom.

I figured with full time effort the combination of network marketing and the reflexology business would support me. Almost, but not quite. No regrets, I would have had a hard time being a HSW in the new reality of brutal cutbacks.  I do not hurry well. But from a financial point of view retiring from steady work at 57 was not the smartest move. No months in Hawaii for us, the local Hot Springs will have to do. 


So here we are, and what do you know: the Reflexology practice is busier than it has been in years!  I feel the need to become just a bit more professional. I am investing in some extra courses, and will visit Vista Print for fresh business cards. 

Who knows, perhaps the time has finally come to be less of a dabbler.

Winter resolutions

Isn't Samhain/Halloween the start of the Celtic New Year? In the rhythm of my life resolutions now make more sense than January 1st, which is more of a middle. 

The outside is almost done for the year. All the bulbs and the garlic are planted. As soon as the cover is off the greenhouse frame I am done except for harvesting the fall garden. I can keep puttering a bit but the soil is too wet to be handled. This time of year belongs to the mind. Also to the kitchen but praise be to audio books and podcasts, that goes together.

Last winter too much time was frittered away. I have serious plans for this one.

Last night I did something scary. Actually no true risk is involved, there is even a 30 day money back guarantee. But before I could talk myself out of it I shelled out $450 for a 5 months long online course on acupressure with Michael Reed Gach, author of Acupressure's Potent Points, a book I have been using and recommending for years.

I have been wanting to enrich the Reflexology practice, which has been getting busier lately. I love MRG's free teaching videos. He is so clear and concise and has the same mentality about hands-on healing that I have. Never mind all the theory, show as many people as possible how to do this right now! Yes, do see your medical doctor when needed.

The reason I am scared is my own bad history of buying books and courses and then not reading them or not following up or finishing. From the early nineties comes the shamefaced memory of a herbal correspondence course that I shelled out serious money for. I never sent in a single assignment. In my defense I must say that it was B.A., Before Algae. I was tired and busy, a stressful time. Also, just as I was about to send in the first assignment, the course managers started babbling about getting extra marks by going an extra mile. The resulting perfectionism was the final straw that did me in.

I also want to get off Facebook and the internet and do more serious reading. Kobo allows me to pick up classics and French books for a song. Reviews on recent readings soon.
More reading, less surfing. More blogging, fewer Facebook postings. Pay less attention to the political circus unless I am about to do something about it. I do not live in the USA. Let them go nuts on their own time.

If I were young I would seriously consider a course in Mandarin. Whether we like it or not. China is taking over the world, with some help from Stephen Harper and other supporters of international capitalism. Only fair, it is their turn. In my seventies Mandarin might be too much of a stretch and besides I am tone deaf. As it is, after reading a historical novel set in the 9th century I have this urge to refresh or rather relearn my Latin and read some classics. I am looking for a free online course. I suspect I would really enjoy Cicero now. Greek is probably too much of a stretch, let's keep it real. 

Also on the winter list: finally get the printer working with the computer, get new printer if necessary. Scan old photos. 
Restore old travel blogs that lost their pictures in the closing of Multiply. Turn  them into a book for Old Dutch to enjoy. Resume FlyLady routines.
Sort through possessions and continue to reduce clutter.  Use Vista Print to get new brochures and business cards made for Body & Sole.

And last but not least: MOVE. Sloth and gluttony are the deadly sins to which I am most inclined, especially when the days are dark. Blame Taurus rising and Mars in Taurus in the same sign. This is the flip side of the ability to spend hours in the garden without getting bored. It is ridiculous how sedentary I get in winter. Ideally get outdoors but do at least a 20 minute yoga routine first thing in the morning. There are no excuses. And with that I am heading into the healing room and onto the mat.

Remembering Coyote. Peter Roulston got out of town.

An old friend just died unexpectedly at the Silverton Lookout, where this picture was taken. A local poet wrote a poem in his memory comparing him to Coyote, most apt.

Peter Roulston was known to many in the region for his knowledge of the great outdoors. Through his column "Get outta town", maps of trails, and personal advice and assistance he encouraged one and all to get off the couch and explore the splendour that surrounds us.

What follows is my memories of the man.

Before he moved to New Denver Peter Roulston was part of our rural neighbourhood above Nakusp for many years. We met in the seventies when we were first getting settled on our respective acreages.  
Peter lived in a camper and was cutting down the trees that he would later turn into a sturdy house. I have fond memories of tea and cookies at the tiny table in the camper, that was dry and solid compared to our drippy camp.
From the very beginning there was order in the clearing. The logs were stacked neatly on one side, brush piled properly somewhere else. Peter liked "A place for everything, and everything in its place." Those were his own words, spoken when I admired the orderly bicycle workshop in his basement, years later. He was an amazingly competent person, good at everything he put his hand to.

Peter was a self made man. Like Mark Twain he did not let school interfere with his education. School had been ditched at the earliest opportunity and Peter took a job. He found his niche when a relative suggested a forestry technician course. 

Peter's ideal was to live a simple life in the country with as much self determination as possible. B.C. still had homesteading options back then. That may have been how a man in  his early twenties got hold of 5 acres, dry and rocky as they were. It is also possible he had purchased his land outright with savings from hard work. Back then wages in the bush were good, land was cheap and Peter knew how to save.
"A penny saved is a penny earned." was one of his quoted mottos. Yes, he actually said that. He always looked natty and groomed, but his clothes came from the thrift store. He once told me shampoo was a waste of money. Good old Ivory soap could wash hair as well as skin.

His freedom loving nature craved the wide outdoors rather than putzing around in a garden. At some point he had the peasant stuff down to 3 components: chickens for eggs, potatoes and kale. A man could live on that if he had to, and the set up was such that the chickens did most of the work. The Crescent Bay ridge is notorious for water problems. Peter solved his by building an ingenious system for catching rain water to supplement the shallow well. A hand pump on the counter delivered water for washing up and such. Nature's calls were mainly answered in an outhouse, and when indoor comfort finally arrived it was a composting system. The man was a practical genius.

Although he was one of the greenest people around qua life style, Peter refused to be put in any ideological or political box. As far as I know he got involved in politics only once: in 198(4, 5, 6)?, he and I paired up to canvas for the NDP in provincial elections. We actually did the door to door thing together a few times. It was an interesting experience. Some people were relieved we were not Jehovah's Witnesses.

The famous Bicycle Hospital was born when Peter got tired of jumping out of helicopters to fight forest fires and other strenuous work. He built his business with his usual competence. The hospital/doctor theme was maintained throughout the site. The ads he made up for the Arrow Lakes News, milking the theme for all it was worth, were hilarious.

Peter was smart and witty. He loved irony and had no patience for political correctness. He enjoyed playing devil's advocate and going against the grain, whatever the grain might be. His letters to the Valley Voice were rather refreshing. Like many people gifted with energy, practical aptitude and organisational talent he did not suffer fools gladly. When it came to sharing his passions for cycling, skiing and the great outdoors Peter was generous with time and advice. When it came to money, not so much. "Neither a borrower nor a lender be" was his answer when I asked him to be part of a small loan for a mutual friend in an emergency. The man liked his quotes. He had made it all by himself, thank you very much, and refused to get entangled in other people's problems.

And speaking of entanglements......No account of Peter's life would be complete without mentioning the many women he loved and left. As far as I know he was a serial monogamist rather than a player, with emphasis on serial. He once admitted over a neighbourly cuppa that no matter how perfectly compatible and nice his partner was, after about two years he would get restless. He recognised it was not the fault of the woman in question, that's just how it was. Peter was handsome, charming, fun to be with and he genuinely enjoyed the company of women. My impression, which may be mistaken, was that most women were no worse off for having spent time with him, as long as they did not build up expectations of permanence.

Peter, wherever you are, I suspect you would have enjoyed the acerbic wit of the Tom Lehrer song. 
"When you are old and grey". Click on link for the Youtube.
The final words are:
"So please do remember,
If I leave in December
I told you so in May".

Goodbye old neighbour. You may not have left a family, but you will be remembered fondly by many.

PS. I just got home from the memorial gathering in New Denver. My friend Karen Moody Ballard took the picture of the stage. The hall was packed.  Speaker after speaker remembered Peter Roulston as someone who was always first to help in any community effort. He was part of many organisations but also took personal initiatives, for instance ferrying vulnerable people to a warm place during power outages. In Nakusp Peter lived on a rural acreage, but in New Denver his home was right in town. The town became his family. He was deeply loved.

PPS. My daughter wrote some blog posts about her semi hippie childhood. One is about outhouses. This one was Peter's.

The Swinging Bachelor- I used to visit this neighbor just so I could use his outhouse. This thing was built on a cement foundation, with a staircase leading up to the throne. It had a a door with a big wooden latch (outhouse doors are not ubiquitous), a heater, a Persian style carpet, a window for natural light and a real toilet seat that somehow didn't get cold. There were usually witty and urbane publications of a liberal political bent carefully placed in a special magazine holder. This man had no children. He had time to make his outhouse nice.
http://www.brokenmice.blogspot.ca/2014/01/outhouse-hierarchy.html

All I want is an extra body!

July, one of my favourite months. Ideally a moment when time stops, even if it is for a brief ten days, and all is warmth and slow living and forgetting what day of the week it is. Even getting dressed is a joy. Winter's laborious layers have been replaced with panties, sandals, dress. Done.

Last year we had the construction crew here the entire month. The year before I was in hospital. This time I had promised myself that simply enjoying the summer season would get top priority. Who knows how many we have left? Not only in general, but with both of us functioning in this wonderful place. I promised I would NOT allow myself to get sucked into super busyness. 

I lied.

I rejoined the farmers market. It is wonderful to be back there, but we do have to be aware of what day of the week it is. The market, a cheerful anarchy thus far, also has to form a society and I promptly got sucked into the busywork and politics surrounding that. Old Dutch was wondering if I was turning into a "honcho". Not. But somebody has to do these things. With no day job, good health, and no ailing dependants I have fewer excuses than most. 

The market leads to more reflexology clients at home which is partly good and partly not. I'd rather get them in November, but we have to make that hay while the sun shines. Please do not take this as a complaint. Few things in life match the satisfaction of seeing someone leave your room feeling much better than they did coming in. "Healers' high" we call it. No munchies involved.

I almost got the planting work done in the garden but not quite, and of course now we are in watering/thinning/harvesting mode. Details soon on the garden blog, which is another thing I really want to attend to. 

What it all boils down to is I need an extra body. I love or at least do not mind every one of my tasks. I can spend hours picking raspberries and enjoy every minute of it. I like cooking and preserving, especially with the aid of good radio or an audiobook. I don't even mind cleaning house and mowing lawns. I do mind the feeling of never being done and missing out.

I can hear the Buddhist admonitions. I know. Just be in the moment. yadayadayada. Note duly taken. What I really want is an extra body. One to sit here with a second coffee and some internet time, and one to be in the garden watering. (never mind why, it has to be done by hand) One to go to the beach and one to sit in the shade with a book. One to make dinner for tonight and one to finally transplant the rest of the sweet basil. One to tend the garden and one to make a few trips. We get the picture. 

Oh well. I once again remind myself that I'd rather wake up in the morning wondering where to get started than wondering why I should bother getting up. 
Meanwhile we give thanks for good health, good family and a place in paradise to live, ducktaped armchair and worn kitchen floor and all. To Whom or What it may concern.

Canada Day 2014

I donned white jeans and my fire engine red t shirt, the only day of the year I wear it. It is really not my colour. 

Thus appropriately attired I joined the festive crowds in the village. Not everyone does the red and white thing but many do, it adds to the fun. 


Those small town celebrations are very touching, with a Norman Rockwell sort of feel. The weather was perfect, the setting idyllic. Wait, I can show the scene at least from an older picture.

An extra farmers market was set up on the street just above the lake beach, across from the band stand. A large lawn surrounds the band stand where things were happening. Families hanging out, demonstrations of parkour and athletic stuff, and a race with cardboard boats below us on the beach. 
The volume of the music, a combination of live and DJ, was bearable, most of it fairly mellow Country stuff, as far as my musically illiterate ears could tell. The only thing that bugged me was a song that went on and on about Stars and Stripes, but then, what could be more Canadian? Face it neighbours, we know a lot more about you than vice versa.

I had brought the camera but ended up being too busy doing feet. I am ticked off now that I did not get around to it. My market neighbour was also in red and white, it would have taken a moment to get that memory documented.

Introducing people to reflexology is fun. The trick is to get the first person into the chair. Once people see someone else sitting there all relaxed and blissed out they want to try it too. I have a system: I hail a local who has enjoyed reflexology in the past and offer a free mini session. This person is called the pump primer. It works like a charm.

They are always amazed by how good it feels and how limber they feel afterwards. Note to self: must remember to dig up one traveller's email and send her some information I promised.
We get these intense half hour encounters, during which nothing seems, nay, is, more important than the person in the chair. I can't wait to get to the computer to send them helpful information. Then it is on to the next one. I thought I had learned to pace myself but obviously not enough. I still felt fine during take down, but once we got home I was exhausted and spent the rest of the day doing nothing at all. Praise Dr. Oetker for thin crust spinach pizza on sale. The fireworks start at 10 when it is finally dark. I really wanted to go, it is such a fun atmosphere. However, by 9 it was clear that only true sleep would do so I conked out early. 

Market is starting to take up more time and energy aleady, and it is resulting in more clients, good! But we have to remember summer is short and precious, beach or lawn time must be claimed as a priority. See also: Honour the Sabbath, or The Importance of a weekly do nothing day. Oh wait, that is still in draft. Anyway, it is time to go outside.

Today we mow, water and mulch, tomorrow we beach. In terms of garden mind states, we have definitely switched from the obsession of May/June to the more leisurely mind set of July. Must update garden blog, but do the real thing first. OUT with me!

My life and times in the wonderful wacky world of network marketing, in installments.

First this: Everything you have heard about Network Marketing AKA MLM is true. The bad, the ugly, the crazy and the good, they are all true.   

This is a set of memories, most emphatically not meant as advertising. I will most likely eat the product that got me into the industry till it is no longer available or till I die, whichever comes first. But I can no longer do that "This will fix everything for everybody" thing.

Chapter one. A bottle of green pills.
My stint in the wonderful wacky world of  MLM started with my friend Mary handing me a small bottle of green capsules. By the way, this friend is an extremely private person. Her name is not Mary. Everything else is true. 

"I have a little present for you", said Mary in the fall of 1996, handing me the aforementioned bottle of green capsules. Mary is one of the most generous people I know, and we shared an interest in health matters. I got to know her when she and her husband took an introductory Reflexology class I taught.

A picture of my life at this time: 
I was the main family breadwinner, never mind that story. I had a day job in Home Support and did Reflexology on the side, as well as the odd horoscope. I gardened and kept chickens. Daughter had launched and I missed her terribly. Teenage son was still at home. My body was doing the puberty in reverse thing known as peri-menopause.

I never had a single hot flash. Instead there were many small annoyances and some big ones. My neck was often sore and stiff. My hips and knees were starting to whine when I got up after sitting down too long. My hair was thinning. And muddled! Dear Earth, was I muddled! You know that thing where a name is on the tip of your tongue, but you can't get to it right now? My brain was doing that with ordinary words. Fridge might become "Eh, you know, the cold thing with the food in it". At one point son said: "Mother, who will finish your sentences for you when I leave home?" 
But the worst symptom was the frequent bouts of debilitating fatigue. On a bad day I looked forward to crawling back into bed from the moment I got up. I had pneumonia in the spring of 1996.

In short, I was a mess. This was in spite of a healthy lifestyle, a generally upbeat attitude, and various supplements. Adelle Davis had been my guru. I swallowed iron and vitamins from A to Z, including B complex for energy. They always helped for a while end then I would stop feeling them. Take some time off and start again. I would dread the time off.

So, when Mary gave me the bottle of greenery I was like, "Another pill. Whatever. Sure, I will try it." I took the odd one along with the rest. After a few weeks Mary called to ask if I was noticing anything. "I am supposed to feel something?" She encouraged me to be consistent and take one daily. I did. For Christmas Mary gifted me another bottle, with the advice to try 2 a day. I did. And the lights came on. 

By mid January my words were coming back. My neck felt better. There was less hair in the drain after a shower. Best of all I was needing fewer naps. That whole horrible feeling of being on the verge of collapse was going away. I went to visit the Holland family in early spring and breezed through jet lag. 

When the second bottle ran out I actually bought the next one, even though the price was much more than I was used to spending on vitamins and minerals. Whatever this green stuff was, it worked for me in a sheer miraculous way that nothing else had. To this day, I think of life as Before and After AFA, Aphanizomenon Flos Aquae, the wild bluegreen algae from Klamath Lake, Oregon. To this day I remain grateful to Mary for having introduced me to it. She is welcome to any money she made off me.

Now, to the business factor. My friend is a discreet person, a Scorpio. Every now and then she would slip me a cassette tape (remember those?) and never mention it again. I tried listening to some of them. They were so American, rah rah rah, like a revival meeting. I never got beyond the first minutes before turning them off. Meanwhile, I was telling Reflexology clients who had problems with fatigue to give Mary a call.  She was selling this wonderful stuff you couldn't get in a store.

Fast forward to August. I am in my Reflexology room in the village, giving it a thorough cleaning. Entertainment was wanted. Anything would do, even one of Mary's cassettes. This one was actually nice, no rah rah rah. A bunch of people were sitting around a living room in Northern California telling each other how much they love the green stuff, and how much they enjoy being dealers and earning some money on the side. "I could do this", thought I. I enjoy selling if it is something I believe in and I sure believe in "the algae", as AFA is known among its fans. The next time I came to Mary's house to pick up a bottle, I left her a note. Would she mind terribly if I became a dealer too, even though she was the one who had introduced it to Nakusp? 

Anyone who has ever been part of this industry will burst out laughing at this. But seriously, that's how it started. 

Chapter 2: I see the light and turn into an evangelical monster.

Where were we. Oh yes, August 1997. I had left Mary a note, asking of she would mind if I became a seller of the product she had introduced me to. Really. Needless to say she was all in favor . "I was hoping you would ask that! It's a total win/win. Come for tea and let me explain".

Reader, I was an MLM virgin.  I fell for the hype hook, line and sinker, as had Mary. Residual income on a sale, just like artists who get royalties, the idea that I could get paid on the sales of people who I had introduced, and a percentage on their people, what's not to like? Time freedom, working from home, oh yes! The whole concept blew me away. Selling a product not available in a store made even more sense in those days when the Internet was just starting.

I had a bit of disposable income and got fitted out with a business kit. Then I went to work.  Thanks to even more green pills I no longer knew the meaning of the word tired. 

I wanted to put algae into every tired face on the street and show the compensation plan to every friend who was struggling with money worries. I made cold calls. I set up meetings to show the expensive kit with a whole health program. I even sold quite a few. I was rather like a fresh convert to a "Hallelujah!" church who has just seen the light, has stars in her eyes and wants to save everybody else too. In retrospect I must have been insufferable. In my defense I must say that I came from a place of total sincerity.

In January 1998 I broke my right ankle skiing, right here on the land. At the time I was quite happy about it. A guilt-free break from work, yeah! I was not in pain, it was just a matter of letting time do its healing. Mary had been to the company convention and came back laden with motivational tools of all kinds. There was a stack of issues of "Upline" magazine, videos documenting past company conventions, and piles of cassette tapes. I have fond memories of basking in winter sunshine on the couch and immersing myself in a world of glowing testimonials, success stories and positive thinking. 

I even made a few sales by phone, earning money from home, just as the propaganda promised. I was high on the drug of endless possibility. It was a good time.

Part 3: I find my niche and my medium and do some good work.

After the initial rush of success reality set in. Not everyone responded as well as I had. Some people wanted their money back. They got it. Others liked the product fine but balked at the price and did not reorder. I was also running out of easy people to talk to, and the friends who had joined me in the business soon ran out of steam. 

In the spring of 1998 a group of distributors in a nearby town had organised a workshop with Dr. John Taylor, author of some books on ADD/ADHD and learning disabilities. He had an arms length relationship to the company. He sort of recommended the product but did not directly benefit from its sale. Mary, her husband "Bob" (also not his real name) and I made the 2 hour trek to Castlegar to attend. 

I went just because this would help me sell product. I knew nothing about ADHD and pictured only kids who could not sit still. I was gobsmacked when I heard the man describe members of my family as if he knew them, including yours truly. The strategies he described seemed helpful. I was fascinated. Thus began an educational journey into the topic and a time of learning and sharing. Nutritional support for ADD became my niche. 

As for the medium, later that year we replaced the 386 PC with a second hand 486 and joined the internet. Well, sort of. The dial up connection was excruciatingly slow and we could barely cruise, but we could do email and join email groups. That became the medium.

I made a few beginners mistakes by being too eager to mention my miracle stuff. Again, coming from a place of total sincerity. But I did some good work. I would spend hours replying to group emails and gently educating people on the importance of nutrition for brain function in general. Every now and then someone would email me privately and I might make a sale. One of my favourite stories concerns the mother of a son who did not respond well to ritalin. She confessed to being "a microwave Mom". With encouragement from the whole group and the help of a website I had stumbled upon she started to cook from scratch. The family never did buy any algae. But the kid improved to the point where he no longer had to take medication. 

Homage to a teacher on the Ides of March.

March 15 1958. Latin class in grade 2 of the Lyceum, the first year we had the subject. Greek had to wait another year. The education we received, Gymnasium, was supposed to be the perfect preparation for the lofty halls of academe. In retrospect we were being trained to be perfect seventeenth century gentlemen.

The teacher gave everyone a chocolate bar to commemorate an assassination that had taken place some 2000 years ago. I remember that small incident every March 15. Not because of the candy, but because he was such a great teacher.

Kees de Keizer was only 24 at the time, still a graduate student. This meant nothing to us. He was a teacher and therefore on the other side of the dividing line between Us and Them. He was a grownup and that was that.

In spite of his youth and inexperience he was one of the best teachers I ever had. A tall, gangly young man, he had no problem dominating the classroom and keeping order. An orderly classroom is one of the prerequisites for a good learning experience. I don't think it is something one can learn. There may be some methods and tricks, but above all a teacher of teenagers needs a certain animal tamer quality, an inner stance of strength. It is a good thing I never tried to become one. I had a hard enough time getting my kids to pick up their toys.

Mr. de Keizer loved his subject. He brought the classics to life like no other teacher ever did. The memory of his lessons in Ovid still makes me smile. We had to learn reading hexameters, a tricky business since certain syllables can be either long or short, depending on the rest of the verse. Said he: "If you can learn to dance, you can learn to scan verse." 

Somehow my feet have never been able to connect to a beat in my ears. There is a block somewhere. Past lives in a monastery would explain much but that is of course pure speculation. Anyway, I loved Latin, hexameters and all. In spite of never learning to dance I excelled at scanning . It is sad that the brain has retained no more than a few fragments. 
One such fragment, from the story of the great flood, pops up every time I see a picture of a flooded landscape.

Terra ferax, dum terra fuit, sed tempore ab illo
pars maris et latus subitarum campus aquarum.

Fertile land, while land it was, but at that time
part of the sea and a wide field of sudden waters.

Once in a while I think it might be fun to take a refresher course, but let's get real. There are gardens to plant and too many kittens on Facebook.

Meanwhile, today I raise a glass (of carrot juice) to the memory of a beloved teacher.

A tunnel into Spain. I wish I had pictures.

I am knee deep in Maddaddam, borrowed as an e-book from the library. Love it! Margaret Atwood has this dry sly humor that makes the darkest tale entertaining. However, I could not continue until The Precious has been recharged so it was time to look for entertainment on Netflix. I picked The Way, a movie about 4 strangers on the Camino de Santiago.  

Never mind the plot, mainly I loved the landscapes. It was special because we were there. Once upon a time, in April 1966, we spent three days on the municipal camp ground in Saint Jean Pied de Port, the French starting point for the Camino. It was the last time Chris had to go to Spain for the practical part of his geology studies. We were waiting for parts for the three-coloured Citroen CV, AKA Ugly Duckling, or just Duck.

The Duck was the European equivalent of a VW bug. In Europe the bug was considered a middle class car, not the counter cultural icon we found it to be on this side of the Atlantic. Chris and some friends had cobbled this one together from 3 old cars. It sported a brown body, grey doors and a green hood. It was a big step up from the motor cycle that had taken us South the previous year.

Anyway, we spent three days in our tent on this field that I recall as green, speckled with dandelions, on the edge of a mountain stream with a rock wall behind it. And everywhere there were signs to the Chemin de Saint Jacques, which unfortunately meant nothing to me at the time. It was rather boring. We could not explore the countryside without a car and we had no money to enjoy local cuisine. Funny, I don't remember how we drove into Spain that time. I do know the transition was not as dramatic as the one the year before. 

That time, still with the WWII vintage DKW motor bike, we had started our crossing at a French place called Something de Luchon. Shortly after the border into Spain we came across a tunnel. The tunnel entrance had big green wooden doors that were opened for us and closed behind us. We found ourselves in a cavernous space, sparsely lit with a road in terrible condition. There were places with gravel so loose that I had to dismount and walk while Chris went to first gear and straddled the heavy bike, loaded with all our gear for months, with his feet on the ground, heroically keeping it upright. If there was other traffic I don't recall it. We were alone most of the time. It was surreal. It went on and on, but finally we saw the proverbial light (no doors at that end) and emerged into a different land.

While the Northern side had been lush, we were now in a craggy place of bare rocks and much sparser vegetation. The steep hair-pinned road down with the ravine on our side was dramatically beautiful but terrifying. There were villages perched high above us on top of crags, fortress-like. A scene from a fairy tale movie. I might have enjoyed it in a car. On a bike, not so much, especially with mutterings about the danger of burning out the brakes. Even in my twenties I was a chicken with no taste for physical risk taking. 

After the movie I stayed up well past midnight to see what Mighty Google had to say about this memory. My only clue was the word de Luchon and the fact we were in the middle of the Pyrenees. There was, indeed, a tunnel. It would be on the road between Bagneres de Luchon and Vielha. It is well over 5km long and was the world's longest road tunnel until 1964.
Bless you, wikipedia. 
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vielha_Tunnel

Those crazy sleeping brains

A dream about a family of ranchers. I was in turn one of two brothers and the old widowed father. Wives and children are vague background presences. The brothers are trying to run the ranch while caring for the father. There is love and exasperation in equal measure. Father is frail, angry, bitter, hard to live with. He used to be a powerful outdoors man, able to smell the rain coming. That phrase keeps popping up. The waking brain connects it to reading The Orenda. A plan emerges to take him out on a horse to the fields once more. An image of him sitting on a horse held by a son, smelling the coming rain, feeling alive for the first time in months.  Doctors fuss it might kill him. All involved including father wish it would. Images of splendid landscapes throughout, tawny rolling hills with mountains in the background. I often dream landscapes. 

I wake to a fragment of poetry in my head. Frederico Garcia Lorca.
Dejasnos cantando en la plazeta
dot dot dot claro, fuente serena.
Immense satisfaction when the missing word pops up: arroyo.
Arroyo claro, fuente serena. So beautiful, and so meaningful in a parched landscape.
Singing, you leave us in the village square
Clear stream, calm spring.

What are our sleeping brains up to?

The joy of ENOUGH. Back to saving loonies and other normal life.

For a delicious year I was rich. It was wonderful, and now it is over and that is OK too.

I have never understood why talking about money is a taboo, just like I don't understand the prohibition on discussing politics and religion. All are fascinating topics that we all deal with. We just have to agree to disagree, and remain polite in the face of another opinion or belief. Is that really so hard? 
I never understood hiding age either. 

Income level determines much of life. I feel no shame about my low level of cash income, which is the result of life choices, rather than lack of opportunity. I don't regret the choices and take full responsibility for their consequences. Well, almost. Back in the day it never occurred to me that the social safety net might disappear. I can quite happily live on the basic government allowance for old age. If it ever disappears, well, that would be such a different world anyway. Let's not go there right now.

In the past I have been rather Micawberish, often living in debt and in hope of "something turning up". Being self employed encourages that. One can always believe that next month will be better. From now on the focus is on living within the means of the fixed geezer income and earning "nega-bucks". Thanks to Erica Strauss  for that term. As Ben Franklin said:"A penny saved is a penny earned." Extra income will be pursued, but it will be just that, extra.

The year of being rich was 2013. I received an insurance settlement for the injury sustained in the car accident in 2012. Then there was an inheritance from my dear sister, whose home was close to being paid for when she died just short of 61. All those years of pinching pennies and eating margarine, for nothing. OK, she enjoyed the sport. But life is too short to not eat butter.

I was giddy with the sheer freedom of it, bubbling with excitement. The first thing I did was pay off all personal debt. In 2008, as soon as I started getting OAP, I had already torn up the credit card, which kept giving me a higher limit the more I used it. I turned the debt into a life-insured re-mortgage with my trusty local credit union. Peace of mind came from knowing that at least my family would not bear the burden of my sloppiness. We are free and clear again, and my monthly income is all mine.

It took a big chunk but what a good feeling! I gave some away, enjoyed hitting the donation button for umpty good causes online and introduced the local library to Dr. Who. We went to see the kids at the coast, an expensive outing these days what with bus tickets and hotel costs. I bought a new stove, a couch, a guest bed, some bedding, some small things, some clothes. I made Amazon.ca happy a few times. I indulged in the entirely frivolous purchase of a tablet which I love, the less frivolous purchase of a new laptop which was a mistake. I hate Windows 8 and the old one keeps chugging along, I could have waited. By the way, buying the laptop gave me a total appreciation for the simplicity of not having choices.

Dreams of a winter vacation in Cuba were sacrificed to the shoring up of the dwelling. Sister Margreet would so approve. It is still an old trailer but it will last our time. Well, maybe not if we live to be 100. I went to the dentist. 

That's it. There is some money left in the bank, but it is reserved for real emergencies. Oh, and for some labor this summer to make the place more productive. Details will be on the garden blog. Other than that starting 2014 it has been back to normal, which means saving loonies and getting seriously excited about an extra twenty bucks in my pocket. 
We may not have much, but what we have is paid for.  I still have ways of earning a bit extra with the farmers market and the odd Reflexology client. 

There is an element of sport in making do. Example: my friend M. grew fantastic savoy cabbages that kept well but need to be used up now. She also still has potatoes and carrots. I have a cupboard full of canned tomatoes I got on sale at $1 per can. M. needs to recuperate from exhaustion after years of care giving. I have plenty of energy this winter and have been using her produce to churn out near industrial quantities of fabulous borscht. Click on link for the recipe. Creating good food while listening to audio books is one of my favourite winter activities. We share the proceeds. Win win.

For the time being we live in a safe place with health care and social security. We are warm, well fed, and healthy. We have a garden and a library. Enough is all the abundance I need.