A Fine Thought

Sports

2010-09-30T20:51:00.002-04:00

Not made a post in a while, no picture just a link. This kid is one of my best friends, an old soul. I don't know anything about sports not even 1/8 of what this gentleman knows, but I know a lot about enthusiasm. He has it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-02sc998Ruw&feature=player_embedded

Wisdom and Washing Dishes

2010-08-15T21:26:00.000-04:00

My father once told me a story of how when he was a little boy he stood watching his mother wash dishes. A question came to his mind, he was about four or five years old at the time. He wanted to know, why, if they ate their food only from the face of the plate, was it necessary to wash the back. His mother went and opened the cupboard where the plates were stored and explained how as the plates are stacked, back resting upon face, a dirty back would make for a dirty face. My dad told me that at that moment he became sure that his mother was a very smart person.

I never got to meet my grandmother on my fathers side, she had died before I was born, but I had the opportunity to spend a little time with her kin. This past Saturday was the Tschirhart Reunion. Held this year at the lovely little cottage of my Uncle Earl and his family. The cottage sits high atop a cliff overlooking lake Erie, just outside of Port Dover Ontario. It was great to see everyone, they are all such fantastic people. I got to meet my first cousins granddaughter Katie. I guess that makes her my third cousin or something, but when it comes to being a sweet little girl she is definitely first.

Our ages ranged, I think from just over three to perhaps just shy of ninety years old, four generations stretched out on a beautiful summer afternoon,sharing food and drink, games and stories, laughter, smiles and hugs. Its so wonderful to be among a group of people linked by blood and marriage, by a common story, shared memories.

I wonder how many times little bits of wisdom have been past down this family chain through time. Wisdom like the the story of plates and their washing. Stories that tell us that as a child you can find an answer to a simple questions using the tools reflection and logic, that as an adult the same tools help us find the answers to questions more complex.

What It Is

2010-06-25T19:41:00.003-04:00

I built this pergola for a customer in Waterloo, it turned out rather well I think. The owner did the design. He’s the kind of guy that has a real sense of the way he wants things, the way that things should look. He insisted on using cedar despite the added cost. We made changes as we went along, as the structure took shape. The customer has an, “It is, what it is” attitude and remained very flexible. Early on we decided to use two upright post instead of the first conceived three. and after all was done we saw that the two posts framed the garden beautifully.

The project set me to thinking about order in the way we live. I’m kind of a unorganized person my only saving grace is that I can put shoulder to it and pull things together when need be, bring order out of my chaos in a way.

I like the way that my wife folds the laundry. I like the way it looks when I open the closet and the crisply folded linens present a wall of order to the eye. I like the look of my neighbours freshly trimmed lawn, the walkway swept, borders snipped, hedges clipped.

I could tidy up some things of mine, and I will, I’ll get around to it. For a while things will have order, but then after time, I’ll start just dropping things in drawers or worse just leaving them on the counter. “Oh well”, as my customer with the beautiful pergola and garden would tell me. “It is, what it is”.

Supper

2010-06-07T20:00:00.002-04:00

I made this tonight for supper. No recipe, totally extemporaneous. I was going for a chicken cordon blue kind of thing. I had no smoked ham so I stuffed the chicken with chorizo sausage. Yes I'm the kind of fella that would have no ham but still posses a link of chorizo in the fridge. I love those little potatoes, anything that a tired cook doesn't have to peel is a godsend.

That's fresh Ontario asparagus under a sauce of Parmesan and Swiss, all herbs used were fresh from my garden. Tomorrow Kraft dinner.

Underwater Wellheads, Depleted Uranium, All of that Stuff

2010-05-08T18:53:00.003-04:00

I can't remember where first I saw it. It must have been when I was a boy. A medicine cabinet with a mirrored door and behind the door a small slot an inch and a half or so wide. When I found out what it was for I was astonished, it left my mind unsettled. Of course the slot was the disposal chute for used razor blades, and I realized that it was probably the best way to get rid of them, but it bothered me. To think that in your home, while you slept, there lay behind the plaster, between the studs, a rusting pile of sharp danger.

We do good things as people and as societies. We plant flowers and grow food, we build schools and paint lovely pictures, but we also leave hazard in hidden places.

camera obscura

2010-04-09T20:01:00.005-04:00

camera obscura : dark chamber, a dark box, with a light sensitive element within. Thats what I lost, but found again. Then, well... Listen to the story... Last week I was having lunch with my wife Elaine, she had the day off and I had no work. The kid, Connor was in school and this was one of the rare times we get to do something together, just the two of us. Lainy excused herself and went to the restroom. I used the time to check my emails on my phone. {Email from Brandy S- Peter, did you perchance lose a digital camera at 32 University ave E.? } Thats where it was, on a job site, 5 weeks or so ago I was replacing a broken door at a student housing complex. My Camera was found by a student who brought it to the administration office, Brandy, who looks after me when I work there, scrolled through he pictures on the memory card until she saw a blurred image of a man sitting on a couch in his living room. The person in the picture was me.

I took the picture above at the Riverside Rails skate park in the Preston section of Cambridge. This is for sure the last picture that I will ever take with my little camera. Shortly after my Cannon Powershot, suffered a fatal lens error. A speck of dust or a misalignment of pins has rendered it useless, all forms of remedy suggested by an in-depth internet search have come to no avail...She's dead Jim.

My head: camera obscura : dark chamber, a dark box. My brain : a light sensitive element within.

Bottle Cap

2010-03-24T18:09:00.002-04:00

If you find a single bottle cap on the beach you would have a treasure, a reminder of a wonderful day in the sun. If you find a dozen bottle caps you would have a hand full of litter. That is sometimes the way that I feel about blogs, about photography. I wonder about my adding to this litter of words and images, I wonder to what end. I lost my little camera, it can't be found. I must have set it down on a job or in a cafe. It is most likely in the hands of another.

I feel content not taking pictures, taking a break from it. My wife wants me to buy another camera she says it's part of who I am... I think that I would like to be someone else for a little while, think about other things.

I baked the most amazing loaf of bread today and hung a new door on my front closet, a carpenter, a baker, a prose writing faker. Work is a little slow but I have plenty of the nonpaying variety to do around the house.

I'll cut this short, I'll press just one bottle cap into your hand to take away and stash in that shoe box in your mind, to remind you of a happy day.

The Soft Skeptic

2010-03-06T13:20:00.002-05:00

I've miss placed my camera, I think. It's small, about the size of a package of cigarettes. It's very portability caused me to take up photography again, unencumbered by a huge gadget bag and a leather strap around my sweaty neck. Oh well it will turn up in a drawer or my glove box, maybe in the pocket of my heavy coat. No matter.

I've been thinking a lot about belief lately. I've heard interviews with some writers, writers who charmingly put forth the idea that religious belief is not only wrong, it is harmful to humankind. Rather then simply not believing and and being an atheist they feel compelled to be anti-theists and point out the harmful absurdity of the believer.

What am I then? Certainly not an atheist, nor a true believer either. I'm what I call a soft skeptic.

The soft skeptic at his core admits that all things may be. He knows that there is no proof so absolute that he can totally discount anything. He does however, pay little attention to those things that are not supported by solid evidence, a firm testable theory. He does not demand proof of other peoples beliefs, only his own. The soft skeptic has in the past blown and will most likely in the future blow again, upon a pair of dice.

It does not matter to me what you believe as long as you have a good heart. Even if you don't believe in Heaven or Hell it would be helpful if you could suggest to me... Where in the hell did I leave my camera?

The Solace of Snow

2010-02-22T18:58:00.009-05:00

Boy, February is beating the heck outa me. Work is slow, I hate the cold and the snow. We've all been sick and I have a cough that just wont quit. Tonight I'm trying to bust out of my funk. I'm cooking Tuscan Chicken, peasant food at its best. I'm drinking a little wine, past sunshine caught by the grape and stored in a bottle. I hope that you, my northern hemisphere crew, are hanging in there. Spring is just around the corner, fellow children of the light. Days will become longer the warmth will return.

The Solace of Snow

The snow has fallen, it covers both king's barrow and peasant's grave.

All stains of sadness lie hidden beneath. From pain, our hearts it does save.

A white illusion of newness, of purity, gives hope, an escape from the past.

It insulates us from bitter, troubling reminders that happiness will never last.

Flowers and earth, and sprouts of green, the Spring brings life to the land.

I say keep the snow covering all, It is sadness that the Spring has planned.

This is the mood that February brings, melancholy through lack of light.

our limbs seem like lead and we cannot move, inaction is our plight.

Keep the path and plod along, know that what you're doing is good.

Spring will come whether we wish or not, it will elevate our mood.

Sadness comes I know not why, it seems like it has no reason.
Sadness will past in three months or so, just like any season.

Merry Christmas

2009-12-24T10:21:00.001-05:00

I, at one time, five years ago or so, would rush home from work on a Thursday night to take my boy to his swimming lessons. I would sit on the bleachers and watch the little ones tread water. Each week they were able go a little longer before they had the need to grab the deck at the feet of their encouraging instructor. One thing that always struck me as funny was that when the whistle called them from the water into the cool air, they would all clasp together their hands at their chests. It looked to me like little monks lining up and joining in a chattering, shivering, prayer.

It makes me wonder about the origins of this almost universal gesture, that of hands pressed together, held to the body, an outward indication of prayer. Do we humans do this in order to warm our spirits?

2009 was a chilling time for a lot of people in this world. Many found hardship and challenge. I hope that if the whistle blew for you, and you were forced into the coolness of the air, that you found a way to keep your spirit warm. I also hope that 2010 will afford you plenty of time in the pool.

Merry Christmas

Be Inspired

2009-10-31T14:18:00.007-04:00

This will be my first sort of guest post on my blog. On Friday my Uncle Wilfred was granted, or he excepted, I'm not sure of the exact term... Perhaps had bestowed upon him, a well earned degree. I could not get away to attend the ceremony. My cousin Jane Curtis sent me an email saying that she would take some pictures and share them out. That not being enough for me I asked her to write something. Pictures are never enough, I need to hear a story.

With Jane's kind permission, I will share what she wrote for me with you. Take this story of my Uncle Wilf and use it when you feel like your best days are behind you, when all opportunity seems missed. Use the story when you need to cut the grass and weed the garden, but just can't find the energy.

Thanks Uncle for the inspiration, and thank you Jane for taking us there.

A Day to Remember
October 30, 2009
Wilfred Gregory Tschirhart receives his
Doctor of Philosophy in Geography at he age of 88

Today was a rare and special day. My Uncle Wilfred Tschirhart achieved his Doctor of Philosophy in Geography and quite remarkably at the age of 88 years of age!
The Wilfred Laurier University convocation took place at the Waterloo Recreation Complex with a graduating class of approximately 500 students.
I met up with my Uncle Wilf’s son Cousin Chris, along with my sister Judy, cousins Ed and Bill and then we were joined by our cousin Mary Jane who is Wilf’s daughter. As we sat waiting for the ceremony to begin we laughed and joked as we always do when we get together. We had excellent seats right next to the stage.
The arena facility was transformed with red carpet and a very large stage and a band played music to set the tone. Later we found out that all the musicians in the band were graduates of Laurier.
When the procession started there was Uncle Wilf right near the front in his beautiful gown and cap. He looked like a true scholar. His seat was near the front and second from the aisle on the side where we sat so we had a great view. The convocation began with the Chancellor for the University making a speech about education and future goals.
The Doctorates were recognized first and Uncle Wilf was the second to go on stage. As he proceeded to the stage the speaker remarked that he had achieved all of his educational degrees after the age of 65. At that moment the entire graduating class rose to their feet for a standing ovation, the only one of the day! This moment brought a proud feeling to my heart and a tear to my eye. What a remarkable achievement, extremely inspirational.
Uncle Wilf was also given a special gift from the book store.
After the convocation we got together to take photos and then the majority of us proceeded to a restaurant called Kennedys in St. Agatha where Uncle Wilf lives. We were joined by Cousin Ed’s wife Pauline and Mary Jane’s daughter Jessica and her boyfriend Phil. Jessica and her sister Rebecca had mid term exams today or they would have been there for their Grandfather’s marvellous achievement.
We had a lovely meal and further time to talk about the day. After the meal we went to Uncle Wilf’s for some more socializing and he opened up his gift to discover a book on the brain.
He remarked that he saw us all sitting together as soon as he got near the front and that having us there made his day more special.
He is truly inspirational and I can’t even begin to imagine all of his efforts toward this day.
I will never forget this once in a lifetime event.

Ten Foot Pole

2009-10-29T13:35:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I was painting a difficult ceiling, it was above a stairway and it had a strange curve to it .
There was no way to use a ladder and I had no scaffolding, so I took out my telescoping pole and attached my roller to it. The job was going well, but when it came time to cut into the corner where the wall met the ceiling on the curve, the work began to slow down. I had to tape my brush to the pole and slowly, carefully, with great concentration, trace the contour.

Last night as I slept, I dreamt that I had come upon an installation of performance art. A woman sat in a chair behind a low barricade. Leaning against the barricade was a long bamboo pole with one end covered in a soft fabric. I picked up the pole, and with its soft end I traced along the contour of the woman's face, down her long neck to the V shaped depression where it met her upper sternum.

When I awoke my first thought was of blogging and the Internet. It occurred to me that the writing and the reading of blogs was somehow like reaching out and touching someone with a pole.

Poke, poke.

Quintana Roo

2009-10-04T18:23:00.002-04:00

Quintana Roo is the name of a Mexican state. It is also the name given to the daughter of the American writer Joan Didion, I knew this for some reason, I had read it somewhere I think, perhaps in the lines of a book dedication. When I first heard the pronunciation of the name it was an Anglicized version, very much the way it appears.

When I went for a vacation in Cancun I notice the state name on the licence plates. I ask our driver the Mexican pronunciation, and he replied, (Keentawnaw Row) the last syllable was clipped short like it had been barked by a dog.

Anyway to the purpose of my post: I'm giving away this book, Miami By Joan Didion It's a first edition. The book was gifted to me years ago buy my brother in law Dave, maybe for Christmas I can't remember. I think that Didion is one of Dave's favourite writers. The guy is very serious about books, even the funny ones :), He has been a bookman all his life, or if you prefer the gender neutral, but less romantic term, bookseller.

I have read this book at least three times. I am rarely a person to read a work of fiction more then once.

If you wish to have your name in the jar for the chance to win this great read, all you have to do is add a comment sharing with us a person who you think has an unusual name. You don't have to be a regular reader of this blog to participate, you can be just passing through.

Lastly I should give credit to the person that I stole the idea from, Kendalee from Dance of a Painted Lady blog. I don't know how to form a hyper link, but if you give the girl a Google I'm sure that you'll find her.

Good luck all.

What's for Supper?

2009-10-03T12:21:00.003-04:00

Curried beef Kabobs with potato. The recipe is totally off the cuff. I'm going to put them in the oven at the minimum safe temperature and let cook slowly while we go for a hike at Rattlesnake point with our pals the Reddins. When we get home we'll dig in. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Inside the Box

2009-10-01T06:02:00.002-04:00

When trying to solve a problem, the personal development gurus will suggest that we get creative and think, “Outside the Box”.

I'm fine with this, I think it's a great idea, but the thing that they don't tell you is that you should take a peek “in” the box first, nine times out of ten thats where the answer is.

Thats where you left your keys...

Chicken Pie

2009-09-13T18:42:00.008-04:00

I was at the supermarket yesterday with my son. His mother was pushing the cart far from us down an unknown aisle and he and I were doing what we do best, joke around. He has my sense of humour or perhaps you could say that we share a common one.

The store had advertised a sale on beef so he and I headed to meat department. We saw something that appealled to our chuckle headed nature. Around the beef display area there was a crowd of shoppers all digging through the cello wrapped meat, searching for the best looking chunk to take home. I grabbed my son by the arm and told him that they look just like lions on the African plain, feeding on a fresh kill and he and I were just a couple of hyenas too timid to take a bite.

We bypassed the hungry pride and found a nice small chicken, it wasn't on sale but it looked good and our family can get three meals out of a small chicken.
Bird in hand my son and I went off to find his mother and the cart. We were laughing, laughing like hyenas.

The Grand River

2009-09-04T10:42:00.002-04:00

The Grand River of my early youth was nothing like it is now. For the greater part I would say that its health and beauty have greatly improved. There was a time when the river was a polluted vein of ugly water that ran through our town carrying sewage and agricultural runoff from lands and settlements along the way.

To eat fish from the Grand was unthinkable, there were so many phosphates in the water that huge amounts of grey brown foam would form on the surface of the churning waters below the Park Hill dam. On very windy days this awful stuff could be seen blowing around on the streets nearby.

The story of my river is to me a reminder that not all things get worse. If you care about and care for something it can be made better, decay is not always inevitable.

When I was a boy you never saw the graceful heron stalking small fish in the shallows at the rivers edge. Today their numbers high, to see them is common, though they are less rare, to see them is still a delight.

Each Brick a Prayer

2009-08-21T18:21:00.003-04:00

When my son was very small, maybe three years old , he had a tough time falling asleep. He was afraid of ghosts and monsters and for some reason that I can not explain... hobos. I made up a story to give him comfort. I told him that in 1960, when our house was being built, the mason who laid the bricks was so much more then just a bricklayer. The man was a shaman, a priest, a holy man. I told my son that he didn't just mindlessly lay the blocks in mortar. I said that with each brick he placed he uttered a prayer, an incantation. He said, “ May no evil pass or dwell within these walls.”

This week I have been busy working on my front entrance. I ripped out the old rotting oak threshold and cast a replacement in concrete. I'm going to replace the door with a modern unit, fitted with a leaded glass window.

After I pushed and bumped the heavy, new threshold into place, I spoke the words, “ May no evil pass or dwell within these walls”.

Oak

2009-07-25T19:50:00.004-04:00

Oak trees have always been a favourite of mine. I like how they stubbornly hold on to their brown, crisp leaves well into winter, like an old man with a full head of hair. Where there are oak trees there is wildlife, acorns are a great source of food. I once read, somewhere, that oak trees are the most likely to be struck by lightning. No wonder the ancient Celts revered them, for they are chosen by the gods of the sky.

I understand that French oak makes the best barrels for ageing wine. I've tasted it, in a bottle of Bordeaux, I must recommend it.

Have you ever noticed that the fruit of the oak, the acorn, has a tiny little hat, like the beret of a Frenchmen? The connection to wine in the light of that fact seems all the more appropriate.

The largest oak that I know of in Cambridge is an ancient one at the northern end of the cricket field in Victoria park. I could take two or three of you and join hands and we may still not encircle it's trunk.

The Means of Production

2009-07-18T19:24:00.001-04:00

I wonder if manufacturing in Canada is dead or at least terminally ill. The area that I live in Cambridge, Kitchener, Waterloo was at one time heavily industrialized. Now I see that our rate of unemployment is higher then in Halifax Nova Scotia. Five years ago if an economist made that prediction he would have been thought a lunatic.

Take a look at the photograph above its taken in a factory that is no longer a factory. It speaks to the way thing have gone. My father worked here for thirty five years. He helped make things, important things, large fans for the mining industry. I would imagine that some of the things that he skillfully built are still turning away helping to pull raw materials from beneath our northern frontier. Only now more and more of those raw materials are moving across the sea to build things that we once built for ourselves, providing people like my father a good job to help support his family.
When I was about ten my fathers union negotiated dental benefits in their contract with the company. Those benefits were hard fought for, I think that they came at the end of a strike. I know that many people are ideologically apposed to trade unions, but I have to say that I enjoy having my teeth now because of them.

The factory now is an outlet mall. Mostly everything in the place is made in Asia and then shipped to our shores. The place employs many people in its shops and shoe stores, but I don't think that many have dental benefits.

2009-07-08T20:32:00.001-04:00

I'm small, tiny, insignificant before it all, but I'm flying.

Silly

2009-07-06T17:34:00.001-04:00

I once loved a girl named Lily

she had a lovely sister named Rose

Lily was a perfect beauty, though

she had on each foot, six toes.

Lily left me standing at the altar

I guess she was mine to lose.

She found out that I was a poor man

and couldn't afford her special shoes.

Now I have myself a pretty wife

my silliness she always handles.

She may not share Lily's beauty

but she sure looks great in sandals.

Life

2009-07-04T17:16:00.001-04:00

Small whirling winds are our spirits that hit the plain in the heat of a summers day.

Our bodies are the chaff and dust picked up and moved along, we are dust devils.

Temporal, temporary, ephemeral, we settle back to the field, but our winds blow on.

Canada Day 09

2009-07-01T19:22:00.002-04:00

I remember working with a couple of guys a few years back they were first generation Canadians. Their families had immigrated from Europe when they were young children. I can't remember what we were talking about, but I said something about Canadian culture. The guys just laughed at me and one of them said that the definition of Canadian culture was ketchup on kraft dinner.

I thought that was a funny line. It made me think. Canada doesn't present the greatest culture to the world, nor does the US. I'd have to give that title to France.

I love living in Canada, enjoying the rights of a citizen that can only be had in a liberal democracy, rights guaranteed under a strong charter.

This is a nice place. Coast and woodland, prairies, mountains and a North that is more then just a direction, its a place thats vast and wild.

Tonight I'm cooking chicken the best way that a person can...Italian. I'm be drinking the finest beer...German. I'll be doing this in the best place for me and my family...Canada

Happy Birthday Canada!

Ritual

2009-06-28T18:08:00.001-04:00

Beans are ground, their rich aroma fills the kitchen.

A a spoon is heated, the flick of the lighter echoes in the alley.

Water is drawn, heated and passed through a filter, steam forms.

A solution is pulled into syringe, a ligature tightens on an arm.

A cup is filled.

A vein is found.

Coffee passes the lips.

Heroin enters the blood.

One man wakes up.

One man falls asleep.

Remembering

2009-06-21T19:03:00.005-04:00

There was a prominent family from my home town called the MacGregor's they had an estate which had been past through inheritance to several generations. The house sat on a large pie shaped lot bordered by the streets of St. Andrews, Osborne and Victoria avenue. The house was shielded from view by huge lilac bushes the gardens were delightful, three large pines stood at the thin edge of the wedge shaped lot . I don't remember ever talking to Mr. MacGregor. I have a hazy distant memory of the man walking around the edge of his property wearing suspenders and a hat, picking lilacs in the sun of May.

Mr MacGregor died or his wife died, then he, I can not remember. Rights to the property past to a nephew from out of town. The nephew was not interested in living in the house, so the property was sold. There was a huge auction on the grounds of the estate, many antique dealers were in attendance.

I was about seventeen at the time and had a love of old books. I spotted a set of five Kitto's Daily Bible Illustrations. I didn't know anything about the author or the content, but I was attracted to the antiquity of the volumes and the wonderful prints inside.

There was no competition in the bidding, maybe it was the religious content that scared away the sinners from the big city. I won the bidding and paid for the books with a crisp, orange, two dollar bill.

So now this heirloom from a family that is ingrained in the history of my home town, sits on my bookshelf. They've been there twenty seven years now and never once have I read them, but I can say the I have looked at every single picture.

Scrambled Eggs and Afterthought

2009-06-16T10:43:00.004-04:00

What arrived first, egg or chicken?

Lets hear your speculation.

What arrived first, chicken or egg?

Were there feathers before ovulation?

I used to work with a man who earlier in his life worked in a poultry processing plant. He would work all night killing, plucking, gutting, chilling and packing young chickens. The chickens would ship to the counters of grocery stores or find themselves turning on the rotisserie at restaurants.

Every once in a while they would receive an order to process a group of older laying hens who's production had fallen off. These birds were prepared for a company that made soup, meat for soup making need not be overly tender. My friend told me that often when slaughtering the hens they would find eggs within the bodies of the chickens. The crew would divide the eggs up at the end of their shift and bring them home to feed to their families.

I eat lots of eggs and enjoy chicken soup, either canned or homemade, but I found this story to be rather disturbing. I know that my eggs are not gathered by pretty maidens in bonnet and apron. I know that large scale production keeps prices down and puts protein on the plates of children who would otherwise have very little of it, but there's something about the industrialization of agriculture that is undeniably nasty.

If you are a carnivore with a conscience,

eat less meat, though eating meat be seductive.

If you happen to be an older laying hen,

then for goodness sakes remain productive!

The Golem of Galt

2009-06-08T11:17:00.005-04:00

What is it about dolls that unnerve me so?

there eyes hold no life, but seem to glow.

They sit in silence, just sit and wait

for Mrs. Shelly's lightning to animate

I know that these things are made for play,

but to me they are golems of rags and clay.

I found this evil pair outside the locked door of the Goodwill donation centre. They were just left there, the centre was closed and I guess the donor didn't wish to have them in their house after the sun went down. I don't blame them.

I left them in their cardboard coffin and finished my errands at the plaza. When I returned home I made sure the door was locked.

Perspective

2009-06-05T19:11:00.002-04:00

He looked down at her and thought... My goodness, what beautiful eyes.

She looked up at him and thought... look at all that nose hair.

Find someone close to your own height, life will be easier.

Taste

2009-05-29T13:12:00.003-04:00

The Kid: Hey Dad, whats for supper?

Me: Well, we have Caribbean inspired chicken, grilled on a bed of fresh chives, a zucchini sauté with shallots and mushrooms, and some basmati rice.

The Kid: I don't want that, Dad. I want one of those pizza pockets from the freezer.

Me: I want a DNA test.

Long Weekend

2009-05-16T12:17:00.002-04:00

I like to take pictures of churches, architecture in general, but especially churches. This is one that I have photographed on several occasions. Every time that I go there I see something new, another angle.

I have no one near me that shares my interest in photography so I go alone or with my dog Jacques.

When Jacques is with me he always finds his way into the photo.

Have a happy Victoria day long weekend.

Ne Me Quitte Pas

2009-05-13T18:51:00.000-04:00

In the Pink

2009-05-12T20:57:00.002-04:00

When we think of the health of a plant, we think green.

When we think of the fitness of the carnal, pink is the colour.

Why does the the magnolia mimic the flesh?

You beautiful plant, you have my attention.

Careless Master

2009-05-09T09:09:00.002-04:00

I never cut my right hand

it's the one that holds the knife

I always nick the left one

it's been that way all my life.

My left hand is the helper

it holds things like a vice.

My right is a careless master

it's helper it will often slice.

When we carelessly cause pain

a friendship we can sever

We better find a way to say sorry,

express love and sound clever.

Public Transit

2009-05-06T11:23:00.005-04:00

Jacques hates the bus. He barks and growls at it every time it goes by. He sees it the only way that he can, as a huge horrible monster with an awful mouth on the side of its head and an anus further down its long body.

Poor Jacques, he has witnessed this monster stop and swallow people whole. On other occasions the beast has stopped and pooped them out.

Poor Jacques, he lives in such a frightening world. It's a good thing that he and I look out for one another.

String Theory

2009-04-27T07:20:00.005-04:00

I wanted to teach myself to make a Flemish string for my bow. I thought it would be easy I had seen it done before. I built a jig that would free me from the measuring of individual strands and cutting them to the proper lengths allowing for an even stagger of strand ends in the bundles. That was the hard part, I thought, but I was wrong.

It turns out that learning the technique of twisting string has to be learnt twice, once by the brain and later stumblingly, by the hands. Like plucking a difficult series of notes, knowing can only come to you by doing.

More About Jacques

2009-04-23T13:14:00.003-04:00

My dog can talk, well he almost talks. He sometimes lets out these weird vocalizations. We live on a quiet, dead end street that has very little traffic. Whenever a large truck comes down our way, to empty the recycle bins or make a local delivery the noise disturbs little Jacques and he starts to make sounds. In the three years that he has been my friend I've heard him say, Wow, Now, No, Ouch, Mama, and just yesterday he said, Bark Obama.

I asked him if he really thought that Obama's approach to the economy will work, whether it was the right way to fix the current troubles. He just look at me and said nothing.

Perhaps the reason that he and I have remained such good friends is because he refuses to talk about politics.

Heres a link to a video af him going for a walk.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z00IlLgeH8Y

Crossing Wires

2009-04-14T18:05:00.009-04:00

This bike appeared in a Kijiji ad that I placed on Sunday. The asking price was $150.00 I didn't really need to sell it, but I rarely ride it anymore preferring the comfort of my mountain bike on my not so youthful body.

I received much interest. It's a bike that would be good for an athlete on a budget or someone looking for a good touring bike.

My first offer was for $40.00. I hate low ballers, why do they bother? I returned a message to him/her thanking them for their interest, I declined their offer

Next up was a guy named Mike he offered $125.00 and gave me his number. He was in the 905 area. In my add I had indicated that I could deliver the bike. I sent him a message to say that I could not deliver to the 905 Area for that price. Here is an exchange of our emails:

Mike:No problem will pick up tonite or tues anytime

905 xxx xxxx its a cell phone,Im coming from Waterdown

Thanks mike

Could you meet me at Tim Hortons 6 and 401?

Me:Hey Mike,

Tuesday 11:00 am at the Tims on six north of the 401 if thats ok. $125.00 and a medium black coffee to cover my travel. Blue Toyota with a bike on the rack. I'll check my email in the am and if it's ago I'll head out.

Thanks,

Peter

Mike:its a go, see ya 11
905 xxx xxxx

will call in morning to say im leaving,I dont have your # thou
will send email in morning otherwise

Thanks mike

Mike:Good morning Peter,see you at 11.00 am Tim Hortons 6/401

905 xxx xxxx Mike

ll be driving a gold Hyundia

Me:Great, My cell # is 519 xxx xxxx. See you at the Tim's 6 and 401 11am. today .

Peter

I left the house without Mike's telephone number, and I can't check my emails on my stupid old phone. I pulled into the parking lot at at the Tim Horton's at eleven in the morning and I immediately spotted a golden coloured Hyundia. I parked and walk pass the car. I see that there is no driver in it. I figure that Mike is just grabbing a coffee or using the washroom. I now notice that there is another vehicle in the parking lot with a bike on its rack.

I go back to my car and wait. About ten minutes later I walk in to the coffee shop and look around for someone sitting alone, I see a young man at a table, he has a book in his hand and he's wrapped up in what he's reading. I ask, “Are you Mike” “No” he replies . “I'm Mark.” I apologize for interrupting him and return to my car. At this point I'm really wishing that I had Mike's number.

Ten minutes more pass and I see a man at the rear of the Hyundia. I exit my car and walk over to him. I say “Mike”? He says, “Yes”, but looks confused. He asks who I am. I tell him that I'm Peter the guy with the bike, I pointed to the bike on the back of my car. The back of my blue Toyota.

A look of disbelief came over his face, He suddenly realized what he had done. In his zeal to find a road bike for the spring riding season he began to communicate with multiple sellers, He managed to twist his brain up in a confusion of emails, and struck a deal with both me and the other guy assuming we were the same person.

I let Mike off the hook and wished him happy riding. I drove home with the bike still on the rack.

We had this further email exchange:

Mike:Peter again I apologize for this morning,had spoken to so many regarding bikes I lost track of who I was talking to.

If you have not sold it,let me know I'll bump up to 140$ to cover cost of you coming out today,if sold send address and what you like on your pizza or beer you like.

I feel badly your time was wasted and I had no cash on me to make it right:(

sorry again mike

Me:Hi Mike there's no need for you to make amends. It was an honest mistake. You are a gentleman for offering to compensate me but I assure you there is no need. I have a funny story to tell my friends. There is also no need for you to own two bikes just because your brain had been over taken by the speed of the internet. :) It's a good bike at a really good price and i'm sure that I won't have trouble selling it.

Thanks for getting back to me,

Peter

This morning a friend of mine had asked me to write her a story. I thought that I might tell her a funny one to offer her some cheer. Two hours later I had my funny story all for the price of a couple litres of gas.

I wonder if the other man with the bike takes his coffee black as well.

Grey

2009-04-11T12:18:00.009-04:00

I have a map booklet that I find very useful. Mapart is the name of the company that publishes it. It's well designed and easy to use. One helpful feature is that it has colour coded areas, pink is residential, green is parkland, and grey is zoned industrial.

Yesterday I drove to a grey area. An area that has been scared by heavy industry, but over the last thirty years many of the factories have closed down or been re-purposed. An old canal that runs through the area has been made shallow with the silt of a hundred years, beavers chew mulberry trees along it's banks. Teenagers drain cans of Coors Lite beneath the natural cover that has grown around old slag heaps, piles of rock that were once molten.

When in speech we refer to a grey area we are usually talking about something that is uncertain, not well defined. That is how I feel about my grey area, the place shaded grey on my map.

If I were to clearly tell you how this place is, define it clearly, you may not want to go there. Things and places and people will always have an area of grey to them. I find that comforting.

Stones

2009-04-06T14:20:00.002-04:00

What is it that brings rocks to surface of a field? The farmer picks these stones, hauls them to the edge and piles them. He builds a long wall, a cairn, a monument to nothing but his hard work.

Surely there must be an end to it. An end to the back breaking labour, but every season the man finds these stones in the place where crop is want to grow. Bend,stoop, pick, pile.

Is it the the sun? The frost? Does the disc of the silver moon pull them from the earth?

There must come a time when the field has turned all of its stones, when nothing is left but the soft loam. Will some inheritor of that field look upon this pile of stone and appreciate the hardship of the man that came before?

I do.

High Places

2009-03-31T22:03:00.004-04:00

I remember, when I was a teenager I did a fair amount of wandering around the woods on the outskirts of my town. There's a strip of woodland that runs the length of West River road. The Grand River Valley has steep sides carved by the rushing glacial melt waters of the last Ice Age.

There are some spectacular views at the crest of the hills at the top of the valley, I remember, on one of my walks I came across a sitting area that consisted of two old Adirondack chairs side by side facing out across a beautiful vista. High on a nearby tree there was a sign upon which was written the name of a man that I can't remember, but beneath the name was written the phrase “He loved, good music, conversation, and high places”.

I remember thinking that the man must be long dead, for the condition of the chairs were poor, they were nearly falling apart.

He's been dead that much longer, because its been nearly thirty years since I came across that sacred little spot.

The things that he loved, the dead man, the man who's name I read, but cannot remember, the things he loved live on in me, good music, conversation and high places.

Work

2009-03-19T13:47:00.003-04:00

It feels good to work with my hands. Connecting thought to movement and movement to shaping a form. I have missed it, the creativity of it.

I can smell wood on my hands, hickory, red elm. Red elm has a nutty aroma. When you work hard maple with a block plane, golden curls fall to the floor, each one a beautiful song.

Oh, I could immerse myself in this kind of work, but there is a chance it will not pay. Do I need a salary? This work may fill all need, except the worldly.

Change

2009-03-15T20:19:00.002-04:00

The Measure of a Man

2009-03-12T10:26:00.004-04:00

How does a man measure? I mean, what system to use. I have no problem ordering 500 grams of fish. I fill the mighty Toyota with 40 litres of gasoline. I know that I could run 5 kilometres before collapsing.

None of these things have an emotional or personal dimension to me, but if they did, they would be measured using the old imperial system.

If the world does not beat me down, I will always stand 5'7 inches tall. My weight may fluctuate, but I will always report it to my doctor in pounds. If I were to build a home I would frame it on 16” centres.

When I travel by car I calculate time and distance in kilometres, but if you are a person that I love, and I can't be with you, you will always be miles away.

The picture above is of me at about half of my current age. I'm sitting atop Dundas peak looking out at the railway corridor that passes through that area. You can bet that if I'm sitting there thinking of the romance of trains, my mind was not in a metric mode.

Green

2009-03-10T08:40:00.002-04:00

The promise of Spring is finally seen.

The colour of Hope is often green.

need a title

2009-03-05T15:18:00.003-05:00

One picture, no primping. There you have it. Excuse me Georgia, I must go trim my brow.

Of Eden

2009-03-03T09:16:00.002-05:00

There is something just west of me, something wonderful I know.

For when the sun is through with me, that's where light is want to go.

Trespasses

2009-02-26T10:26:00.003-05:00

I kicked my dog today, not on purpose of course, it was accidental. I was tired, it was dark and cold as we left the house for his morning walk. I was looking at the sky. I saw a planet and wondered if it was Venus in the western sky, I thought of Venus lying to the west, it made me smile. Then THUD little Jacques had walked across my stride and my big, heavy, winter boot struck him right in the ribs.

He sat down right away and looked up at me in disbelief. His sweet, brown eyes spoke of fear and betrayal.

I reached down and scratched behind his ears. I said, “Sorry boy, forgive clumsy Peter”? His little tail began to swing back and forth wildly. We finished our walk, still best friends.

You know, that nine and one half kilos of cute, has a lot to teach a guy like me.

Eau de Parfum

2009-02-24T19:58:00.003-05:00

If you are a woman, you may have at sometime found yourself at the perfume counter of a large department store. You would have likely applied a sample to your wrist. If you were with a man, you almost certainly held out your wrist for him to offer his opinion.

That man may have taken a sniff and wondered if this store had section that sold tools. He may have thought about buying a book.

You may have been with another type of man, he would take scent of the fragrance and know that it was held aloft by the warmth of your blood. He would wish to stand with you in a dark space, because the harsh lights of the department store cause the colour of possibility to fade.

Both types of men would say the same thing to you, they would say, “That smells pretty, you should let me buy it for you”.

Secret Name

2009-02-22T13:06:00.003-05:00

This is my bow, it has a secret name know only to it's maker. There is not a deer that it could not slay, no pheasant that it could not knock from the air, but it's owner has too soft a heart and casts arrows only at stumps in the field or targets on the range.

It is smooth and fluid in it's function. When you cock the arrow and draw the string, it feels as if you hold your arm against the current of a powerful river. Upon release, the string sings a whisper song of purpose. The arrow's flat trajectory closes the distance to the target in an instant.

This is my bow, it has a secret name known only to me.

A Link

2009-02-18T19:28:00.004-05:00

My blog, this place here, started on a whim. I thought that I would post my thoughts and photos, I thought that I might follow a few other blogs and find some inspiration and a different way of looking at the world. I liked that people looked at my pictures and read my words, such encouragement I received, so far beyond any I had given. Through blogging I've made a great friend and read so many wonderful things and viewed such lovely photographs, paintings, read some fantastic writing.

When I first started, I made a rule that I would only post things that I had created... but now I see that we live by too many rules and I think I'll post this link to a video of a song at I would hear on the CBC as I rolled down the highway in my service van. Rolling into cities large and the small towns of southern Ontario, fixing things for people, chatting with people and sharing a joke. I drove hundreds of kilometres a day, and when I heard this song on the radio it made me feel like I was in the groove, I could feel all that road moving underneath me, sliding along on a grand asphalt ribbon.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHNAFRg6jYA

Light

2009-02-10T19:19:00.002-05:00

I'm glad that churches have windows. Whenever I see one, I have an urge to peer in. I wonder what mysteries are housed within it's walls. When I stand within the church my eye is again drawn to the window. I wonder at the mysteries of the world outside. I think of the force of light that pushes through coloured glass, trying to reach my soul.

Light, so important to a man with a camera. It just doesn't illuminate your subject, it sometimes feels as if it is pushing on you. It sometimes feels like the breath of the divine.

Turtleneck

2009-02-07T07:46:00.004-05:00

Sometimes a Thursday will suddenly tower over you, it will try to push you down and break you. When this happens you need to put on your turtleneck sweater, because there is something about a turtleneck that makes you walk upright. It causes you to level your gaze as you you meet your fellows on the the street. A construction worker will flick away his cigarette and nod at you as he meets your eyes. He knows what kind of man you are, he sees you as a peer. The man in the suit is friendly toward you, he holds the door and lets you enter the coffee shop first. The girl behind the counter smiles, she seems glad to see you, you don't usually come in at this time of day.

Later as you walk down the street with a warm paper cup in hand, you catch sight of yourself reflected in a shop window. Even before you recognize the figure that gazes at you from the pane of glass, you think, My God, that man has dignity.

Muse-ic

2009-01-29T17:44:00.003-05:00

I love music, all kinds. I can find something in just about every genre, that speaks to me. I love the old boys , the crooners. If I had to pick a favourite it would be Dean Martin. Sorry Frank, you were great too, but I have to go with Deano, I'm a sucker for the female vioce also. I'm over the moon for Senade O'Conor, I don't care that she's bald and tore up a photo of the Pope, I still listen to her songs.

I once took one of those bamboo torches that you set out for a garden party and fashioned it into a Japenese flute. I can't play any instrument but I was able to make my creation emit some haunting sounds.

I've been having some conversations with a good friend about music, she's sent me some to listen to. The girl has teased and tickled my brain. She's made me want to explore more.

Music is one of a few thing that you may enjoy even if you know nothing about it. I would add to that list, food, love, and sunshine.

Winter Walk

2009-01-25T17:41:00.008-05:00

I wish you had been with me on this winter's walk alone.
there was too much to see for just one set of eyes
I'm sure I missed things, small things, that your eyes would have seen
you would say stop, Peter, look, this leaf is the wing of a fairy.

A Small Crime

2009-01-23T13:12:00.001-05:00

I stole a book from my friend. Not really stole, I borrowed and failed to return it. Maybe failed isn't the right word, for to fail you need to try, and I didn't try. The book began to feel like my own. I read and reread it. It was special, it spoke to me. To my friend it was just a book, but to me it was a treasure.

The book was called Atlas. It featured short writings by Jorge Luis Borges that accompanied photos by Maria Kodoma. It's been years since I've turned those pages. There is in the book a very short piece, I think it was called the Last Wolf in Europe. I can't remember the lines but the writing was so powerful that I can remember the emotions I felt when I read it. I felt the feeling of being pursued. It made me feel an awful solitude. the words made me feel what it would be like to come to the end of something.

My unlawful possession of the book came to an end. My friend came over for supper one evening. My wife went to my bookshelf and brought the book to him, she reminded him that it was his and that we had it in our house for a long time.

That same evening my wife reminded my friend to take home his Miles Davis CD, that we had had it for a long time too.

My wife is a good partner, but a terrible partner in crime.

What Kind of Day Did You Have?

2009-01-19T18:41:00.003-05:00

I found these flashed cards in a set of drawers being stored in our warehouse, they must have belonged to someone in an HR department. I took all of the negative ones and spread them out on my chair and snapped a picture. I did the same for the positive ones

I wondered what type of touchy-feely exercise they could be used in. I imagined "Team Building", "Conflict Resolution". I thought of some guy like me having to endure a talk from an HR specialist, a watered down Skinners "positive reinforcement", a Maslow's "self actualization".

I don't know maybe I'm too cynical, maybe there's a place for all of this new age stuff in business, I just can't help but seeing it as a dog and pony show.

I can smell supper cooking, I'm salivating, Pavlov's "conditioned response".

Cold

2009-01-17T12:18:00.003-05:00

It's cold today. This is the day that winter came up and bit me. when I left for work yesterday I didn't think the mighty Toyota was going to fire up, It groaned when I turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught and it came to life, It hasn't let me down in ten years. oh heck I'll be sentimental "she" hasn't let me down in ten years.

The cold today made me think of some winter camping trips I've been on. If you like quiet, than winter camping is for you. Two Friends and I went out to the Pinery Provincal park. Anyone who was ever a teenager and lives within a 200km radius of me has been to the Pinery, has camped at the Pinery, has drank to much at the Pinery, has barfed at the Pinery.

Sorry back to winter camping, the two friends and I arrived at the campsite. My one friend brought 12 ounces of old scotch whiskey, the other "friend" brought 26 ounces of I don't know what. It had a picture of a sheep on the bottle. I brought a bottle of french red wine. I remember that it was a Bordeaux, Chateaux Puyfromage.

The three of us are foodies, I brought fish, Orange Roughy, I think, with minced peppers and onion, Kirk, the sheep bottle boy, brought this amazing orzo with fennel and sausage, Steve brought the good scotch, but I can't remember his choice of food.

While we were setting up camp Kirk opened the sheep bottle. I took out my coffee mug, Steve took out a coffee mug, and Kirk, had forgotten his coffee mug, he took out his cereal bowl. Kirk gave us all a too generous pour. As we set up the camp we emptied our cups/bowl.

Kirk is a pretty fit guy, he's a runner. he wanted to go for a hike, I wanted to eat. He won. It's a beautiful park in the winter the snow was not too deep, we didn't need our snow shoes but my companions put theirs on, they had rented them and they weren't going to waste their money. We hiked for hours. I remember seeing many beautiful birch trees. I'd say "My god look at those birch trees, such stark beauty." Steve would say, "I know, what a sight." Kirk would say, "What the hell is it with you and birch trees, shut up!"

We returned to the campsite and began to prepare supper, If you ever find yourself camping with me and you wish to start the fire, forget it. That's my job, I warn you don't even challenge me on this. I'm good at starting fires, you can gather wood, set up the tent, play the harmonica, I don't care, just leave the fire to me. I've lit hundreds of camp fires, I've done it in the rain, no one has ever been killed and no forests have been
set ablaze.

The food was fabulous, I pulled the cork on the wine and we prepared the supper, it was was fantastic. Later that night we opened the good scotch and stood next to the fire as the temperature dropped, we stood, we sipped, we solved the problems of the world, three friends, Steve's scotch, my fire, and Kirk leading the conversation.

I slept in a tent alone, I snore, no one would join me. In one tent Steve and Kirk, with their two dogs, in the other Peter alone. I shivered the whole night, I drifted in and out of a tenuous sleep.

In the morning I awoke. I needed coffee. All of the drinking water was frozen. The only thing liquid was the sheep bottle booze. I managed to start the camp stove. I turned the drinking ice into drinking water, boiling drinking water. I found my french press, (I never drink instant coffee) I dumped in some ground coffee, I could smell it in the cold air. I needed this coffee, it was at the center of my focus. I needed this coffee like a boy needs his mothers love.

When the water was ready, I picked up the pot and poured the boiling water into the cold french press. I heard a crack and the glass vessel shattered, the bottom fell out.

I didn't need a lesson in physics, I needed a coffee.

My next winter camping trip I hope will be in a nice hotel, I'll miss the birch trees and the warm fire, I won't miss the the sheep in a bottle, nor the cold.

Cadence

2009-01-12T17:56:00.000-05:00

I remember running on a trail, an old rail bed converted to a hiking, biking, running trail, I was with my best friend, we at the time held an almost identical level of fitness. It was a humid summer night, the air offered no resistance and on the last 2 km of a 10k run, we fell into the most perfect rhythm of stride. The tips of my fingers felt as if they were skimming the still surface of a warm bath. I was running swiftly and gracefully and my mind was totally relaxed.

I sat in a restaurant waiting for my dinner. I was watching a girl polish stemware, one hand would spin the glass, the other would work the white cloth over its surface. The glass would be quickly held aloft, her eyes would flash in the light that revealed the clarity of glass, it would be set down and another taken up. Each time I waited for the flash of her eyes when she gazed upon the glass. The whole ritual, the timing, held me mesmerized.

I've had times when I was alone on my boat in a perfect breeze, my tiller lashed and my sails set in a sweet balance. I'd step to to bow and would hold fast to the fore-stay. I could feel the power of the wind being transferred through the mast and into the hull of my little craft. I'd see my shadow cast on the surface of the water, I was, as a man flying.

You can hear it in song or feel it in the meter of a poem, you can experience it in the motion of life, I think it's called cadence.

I have no photo to add to this post, I can only hope the words were picture enough.

Copernicus

2009-01-11T22:20:00.003-05:00

This picture was taken by a talented 9 year old photographer. His modest nature prevents me from telling you his name. Lets just say that we share a surname.

Surnames, mine is Tschirhart, I don't know what it means, I don't speak the language of my ancestors. I do know my way around in English well enough to know that an Archer shoots arrows, a Fletcher makes the arrow, and the Bowyer builds the bow. A Miller grinds the flour and a Baker bakes the bread. A Mason lays the brick, the Carpenter frames the door, A Cooper builds the barrel which holds the Brewers ale.

Old names that come to us out of past occupations, today a Tanner is just as likely to work in metal or practice medicine as tan hides.
A Fisher may steer the boat, and a Bateman may fish.

This brings me to the name of a person, Copernicus, one who works in copper. Work in copper he did not, but he could well have been the inspiration for the phrase, "a penny for your thoughts". His thoughts were great, fresh and new. Through observation, and brilliance he correctly discerned that the sun, not the earth was at the center of the solar system. Radical thought at the time.

Sometimes we are guilty of precopernican thought, it's easy to do, we veiw the universe from the center of ourselves, it's easy to think that we lay at it's center, but we do not.

Why is this important? the precopernican man, when he is sad, sees the world as sad. When dying he see the world as dying. The man capable of post copernican thought may lay in his bed and know that he is dying, but he knows that the world is full of life, he hears the voices of children playing though the window of the last room he will ever occuppy, the post coperincan man is content.

If a a whole culture can shift its thinking and see itself in away that before seemed impossible, than It gives me the hope to think that I can discover new things about myself. Surely realizing the I am not the center of the universe has been a good start.

Piltdown

2009-01-10T10:31:00.002-05:00

This is a picture of Central Presbyterian I shot through the steamy window of my favourite place to drink coffee, the Grand Cafe in Cambridge. I don't think it has anything to do with my post, but I can't be sure. I seem to see connections everywhere I look these days.

Have you ever heard of Piltdown Man?

About fifteen years ago I was home, sick from work, not well enough to leave the house, I was just laying on the couch in a restless state, I found day time television unwatchable, and no activity seem to suit my mood. I went to my bookshelf and pulled out an old geology text from the twenties. I had picked this up years before from a used bookshop in Guelph but I'd never really read it through.

It was well written, I’d say at a college introductory level. It explained theories, but also gave their histories, that is to say, how they came to be accepted as scientific fact. There was within the book a small chapter on human origins. A lot of attention was paid to the European discoveries of Neanderthal remains. It was discussed how Neanderthal was felt to be an off shoot species, sharing an ancestor with modern man, rather than modern man being his direct descendant. This was all familiar to me, I had some how absorbed this through school or television.

Near the end of the chapter there was a short reference to Piltdown man, fossil remains said to be found in a gravel pit near Piltdown England, by an amateur geologist. They consisted of a few skull fragments and a lower jaw. There was a reconstruction done, and it showed that the upper brain case appeared to be almost modern in dimensions however the jaw bone seemed, with the exception of the teeth, to be more apelike than human.

Piltdown man became part of my body of knowledge. I didn't really understand it, this was in pre-internet times, so further research would have meant a trip to the library. Piltdown, this man-ape settle into my brain, he may have even helped form my view of the world, and even my view of myself.

Several years later I had learned that Piltdown man, discovered and presented to the scientific world in 1912, was in 1953 proven to be a hoax. the specimen was a compilation of an orangutan's jaw fitted to the upper skull of a modern human.

In 1912 amateur geologist Charles Dawson was messing around on his specimen table with a skull. Many decades later he messed around with the contents of mine.

Thistle

2009-01-08T21:32:00.002-05:00

At a railway station a man stands holding a woman in his arms . He wants to fall into her; he wishes to vaporize and be drawn in with her breath. He feels that a thistle lodged in his brain, a prickly thought is on his mind, he thinks that she may only wish to board the train.

Later the man is witnesses to the the beauty of world, when he sees the rising sun and the awakening of the day, when he hears the sweet cloonk and gurgle of the stream from which his thirst is quenched , when he feels the caress of a warm breeze brought to him fragrantly through the swaying bows of pine. He then feels a deep love for the earth, he wishes to be of it, to be one with it. He does not care that the earth and all of nature offer him no regard. He is content to love that which cannot return love.

The thistle in his mind is caused by a code writ in his body, a heritage that wishes to be driven into the future, it pays for its fare in bliss and despair, When not fulfilled it becomes the germ of the hermit the seed of the drunk.
I wrote this a long while back, and kept it in a mental drawer. It was an attempt to try and understand why I, and others need to have our affection returned, why we're not content to simply admire. It's my contemplation on the nature of unrequited love. I end within a suggestion that it is a product of our biology. Had I written this at an earlier time in my life I would have framed it in a more developmental way, something with a Freudian flavour.

Now as I think of these questions , at this time, neither theory seems to fit.

I invented the word cloonk, it is that hollow sound that you hear sometimes at random, it is made by the flow of a stream, its a beautiful sound. if you stare at a stream and ask it these questions. It's only reply is a hollow cloonk. I think it means, Go figure boy, you're on your own.

Gerry

2009-01-07T18:55:00.004-05:00

I got out of the warehouse today, I had the pleasure of working my pal Gerry, we've worked for the same company for along time. There was a time when we worked together all the time. Now its a rare treat when I get to go out in the field and give him a hand. In honour of the occasion he bought me a coffee and a bagel at Tim Horton's, for those reading who don't know of Tim Horton's, it's a coffee shop, kinda like Starbucks only a little more blue collar and instead of being named after a Herman Melville character, it's name after a dead hockey player.

Gerry's about 20 years older than me but we get along like pals. He has a couple of lifetimes worth of stories, many of which involve numbers. He says things like "We were driving at a speed of 80, we were gittin 14 miles to the gallon, it was 2 in the morning, we were 70 miles outa Montreal"
And then he gets himself confused and says " It's a B.S. story anyway you can make up the numbers, little buddy."

2009-01-05T08:58:00.007-05:00

"What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?"-William Shakespeare

This is a photo of the vertebra of a turkey, It is very similar to one in my own neck, the one that sometimes pinches a nerve and causes my arm to hurt, I roasted this bird on January the 1st, he rose phoenix like the next day in a fine cannelloni with sauteed mushrooms and chopped fresh spinach. That evening the remainder was rendered to a broth that I may use in a risotto or a hardy soup.

At the bottom of my stock pot is where I found this little challenge, this little provocation to thought. So like my own stages along my spinal column so like that of a whale though tiny in scale. My dog has the same in his cute little body, a deer, a fox, a dolphin structured much the same.

How clever of the builder to use a template, why draw freehand? A real sign of intellect, the manufacture of a tool and it's implementation in your work.

I have no trouble harmonizing evolutionary theory with my own beliefs, they both make such perfect sense.

Ancient peoples have always held in their legends that there is a kinship between all life on this planet, the modern science of genetics seems to be proving them right.

Dickson Park

2009-01-04T17:11:00.004-05:00

I took this picture last night when I was tobogganing with my son. Dickson park has a great hill, it's one of the best spots to go in Cambridge, A good size hill swoops down and flattens out onto the empty fairground. Galtonian children have been sliding down this hill for over a century.

When I was standing at the top watching my kid slide, trying to stop my little terrier from chasing him, I noticed a family of new Canadians.
I don't know where these folks came from originally, I'd guess Latin America. They were probably more accustom to the heat of the tropics then the harsh winters of their new home.

In all the history of Dickson hill sliding, I don't believe anyone has had more fun than that transplanted family, especially that father, he really wore those kids out.

Welcome to Cambridge Amigo, thanks for reminding me how nice my city is all year round.

International Language

2009-01-02T21:03:00.002-05:00

Way back in 1967-68 I've been told that I sold lemonade or perhaps Koo-lade to the tradesmen who where building our church, I have no recollection of this because I was so young that I would have barely been out of diapers. The church was within view of my house, it was a building that I took for granted. I saw it every day, every Sunday morning I sat in a pew and twiddle my thumbs.

Over the years my work has placed me on many construction sites. I've been around carpenters, painters, electricians, cable pullers, carpet layers.
glaziers, masons, caulkers, roofers, framers... Most of the jobs I've been on were in the Toronto area, Toronto is possibly the most ethnically diverse city on the planet. The odd things is that these guys all speak the same language, that is to say they swear. Obscenity, profanity and blasphemy is the international language of construction.

So different are the tradesman of my imagined memory. The builders of my church, drinkers of my lemonade. Pious were they all, journeymen, apprentice and labour. The carpenter ever mindful that he fallowed in the craft of his master and saviour would hang a door, if it did not quite fit he would take it down and ask his aprentice to plane the edge. The aprrentice would inquire, "How much Sir, how much shall I remove"? "Just a little son", The carpenter would say, "Just the thickness of an angel hair".

Queen Square Cannon

2009-01-01T11:27:00.006-05:00

This old Russian cannon sits in the main square of my hometown. It was captured by the British during the Crimean War and later presented to the town in honour of it's service to the Empire. I've known this artifact my whole life.

I don't believe any Galt men fought in the Crimean war, but I do know that this cannon claimed two local men on Victoria day 1866. They were packing charges into the barrel and firing a salute to the Queen in front of a crowd of spectators. As they drove in a charge it met with remaining embers of the previous discharge, it exploded while they worked the ramrod. The men were thrown a distance, I believe one had his armed torn off. When the smoke from the discharge cleared the two men were found dead.

Imagine the effect that incident must have had on the town. Tragedy striking in the middle of joyous celebration.
Who can guess how many lives this sleeping monster may have taken on the fields of Europe before it killed for the last time, on that day in May 1866?

Inner Peacock

2008-12-30T06:51:00.002-05:00

When I see a person in a shiny car it makes me think of a peacock. I'm not making fun of that person, we all have our ways of puffing out our chests and displaying our feathers. Dancing a little to catch the fickle eye of the hen. With us humans it's not always a rooster hen thing, mating often has nothing to do with it. As humans we have a need to be noticed.

Nice hair cut. Thank you, is that a new coat? Why, yes I got it for a steal! Excuse me I have to check my blackberry, can't leave the office for a moment. Gosh, don't I know it!

Did you see my picture?

Did you read the clever thing that I wrote?

Meet my dog, see what I read:)

2008-12-29T10:14:00.000-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o91FLc4yDGc&feature=channel_page

Structure of a Town

2008-12-28T19:09:00.006-05:00

Brick and stone. Stone first, and then brick, that's the way they seemed to appear in my home town of Cambridge, Galt. The area was settled by Scottish Immigrants in the early part of the 19th century, the Scots brought with them their talents in working stone.

When you walk around the buildings in the downtown core you first notice the front facades of carved stone or ornate brick. next you marvel at the buildings sides and rear, how it is composed of carefully fitted rough stone. You see this method of construction in the tiny little cottages that have survived the century and one half since they were first built. I think that as people in my area prospered they began desire the sophistication of brick.

Brick is a hallmark of civilization, any peasant can gather field stones and pile one atop the other, but it takes structure and civil planning to organize a brickyard.

Resolve

2008-12-28T10:20:00.002-05:00

Me: I want to change the world. I will change the world. With the force of my will and the strength of my convictions, I will make this world a better place... How shall I begin?

Guru: In order to affect positive change in the world, you must first affect positive change in yourself.

Me: Oh crap! forget it, it sounds like a bigger job then I thought.

Riddle for a Winters Day

2008-12-21T18:07:00.000-05:00

I can travel on water.

I can fly in the air.

I have been to other planets.

I can be made of wood, paper, leather or even clay.

I can sometimes be a witch.

What am I?

I wish everyone warmth and light, on this the shortest day, through this the longest night.

Earmuffs

2008-12-20T17:05:00.001-05:00

I spent the summer working in Toronto, there I got to know a really fun and creative girl, she shares my love of words. Her primary creative focus is painting, I've seen her work in oil, very unrestricted and abstract. She has promised me a painting but has yet to deliver. I'm not going to rush her, when it comes to waiting for things I have a Jobian Patience. When I transferred back to my home location I found that I missed our daily conversations.

We began a game of email tag, we would take turns posing a question and then try to answer it in the most creative way that we could. One day she brought this question to the virtual table. "after you die what is the most interesting thing that you could have done with your remains"? In my reply I described an elaborate ritual of cremation. followed by a scattering of my ashes upon distant lands, that in life I had failed to visit. I made my descriptions of the places as visually beautiful as I could, I used a very somber tone, I built into it a reverence for the earth and its peoples.

That night I thought again about the topic. I felt it was to morbid for my taste, though I liked the way it had stretched my imagination. I felt that it needed to be balanced with humour, and an absurd humour at that.

The next day I wrote this,

An additional request for the handling of my remains. I have always had nipples of a rather large size. They have caused gym class ridicule and beach front embarrassment. To this day when someone suggests a shirts and skins basketball game I enter a state of full blown panic.

I don't wish to take them with me on my journey into the afterlife. Before cremation, my nipples will be removed and sent to a tanner, after the tanning process is complete, fine fleece needs to be fitted into their inner surface. I would like a master craftsman to fashion my tanned and padded nipples into a pair of earmuffs.

It would please and honor me so, that if on the coldest of days you would wear them. At that point I believe my spirit could rest knowing that my nipples, something the caused me such grief in life, were now keeping warm the ears of a dear friend.

If on a cold winters night you were to wear your nipple-muffs and walk alone into a silent glade of the forest, I am sure that you would hear the echo of my beating heart.

Are you smiling?

Face

2008-12-18T20:42:00.000-05:00

Behind these hands is the most handsome face. I've kissed it when it first appeared on this earth, and every day there after I kissed it again. I wouldn't have traded those kisses for travel, for money, for any other excitement. It's been a good run of kisses, these nine and one half years.
I know that circumstance will interrupt this practice from time to time, as the future stretches itself out before us.

It's the sweetest thing to stand over a sleeping baby, to softly kiss his face and whisper, God bless you and keep you safe.

I, Ghost

2008-12-17T17:19:00.000-05:00

I find the worse thing about being a ghost is not that you can’t touch or taste, it is that you can still see and hear but you can’t touch or taste. Can anyone blame me for my envy of the living?

I took this picture and wrote these words after a conversation with a friend about ghosts. I believe in ghosts only metaphorically. I see them as literary stand ins for alienation. To me ghosts carry a subtext of yearning for what is impossible.

Boyhood

2008-12-15T18:10:00.000-05:00

There is a book, or there should be a book about boys. It is, or should be, titled, Rivers of Our Boyhood. It describes the crackling tight feeling of mud-clay drying on small hands. It should detail the exciting, golden, dragon scale flash of a carp breaching the surface of murky shallows.

To read it is to see the underside of bridges illuminated in dancing reflected sunlight.

Soup

2008-12-15T06:52:00.000-05:00

I have no recipe for soup that I follow in my little kitchen, the ingredients are dictated to me by what is left in my fridge. Soup is the food of second chance, the broth of redemption. Stuff that was headed for the compost bin, the bits and pieces that failed to make it into my meals throughout the week, are made useful.

When those scraps come together in my pot its a kind of magic to me. Its a Sunday afternoon story of something from nothing.

Oh, don't forget to add a pinch or two of turmeric, or you'll still have nothing.

My Kitchen Rock

2008-12-14T14:08:00.000-05:00

I was a young man when my father died. A year later my mother died. I wept more for my father, though I was closer to my mother. Oedipedal guilt Freud would say, but not really, for I never begrudged my father my mothers affections. He was simply a nice guy, a mostly gentle person.

After his death I took his wrist watch, not his dress watch but the one that he wore to work every day. When I would slip it on I would feel some of his energy, a tingle in my arm. Whether real or imagine the sensation was comforting.

I have in my possession an egg shaped cobble of granite, a stone that I found on a walk in the woods.It reminds me of the egg shapes in a Dali painting. I made it surreal with a hammer and chisel years ago when I was bored. I use this stone as a "kitchen rock". I crack peppercorns and pound garlic like an east Indian cook. It is very useful, better than any store bought utensil.

If you are a sensitive person, you could hold this article in your hand and feel my energy, a tingle in your arm...

Cell Phone Tower-Tower of Babel

2008-12-11T19:24:00.000-05:00

I'm not very good with numbers, higher math has always eluded me. When I see people applying concepts to numbers and figuring things out like , how much the tip at a restaurant should be, I am left in awe. A jealous awe I should add, for when someone demonstrates a talent that I don't possess,my humanness makes me jealous, not in the really bad, Catholic theology, 1/7th of the deadly sins kinda way. Just a benign, I want to have also.

Try to imagine how confused I am when I attempt to understand the cause of the global economic crisis, being that global economics isn't a strong point for a guy who can't tell you what 15% of a $12.50 order is. Challenged as I am, I think I can say with a bit or certainty, what wasn't the cause.

A raise in the minimum wage I don't believe had anything to do with it, I think community sponsored agriculture may be off the hook as well. We certainly can't blame the creation of more child care spaces or the funding of programs for youth at risk. Harm reduction strategies, socialized medicine, lower tuition fees, and the Kyoto accord, I feel are all innocent.

I don't buy into the old proverb: The road to hell is paved with good intentions. -I would choose good old human greed as a more direct route.

Old Canoe

2008-12-09T07:00:00.000-05:00

My old canoe. If there was anything or anyone in my life that was so neglected and abused as this old boat, I can't say. I remember the day that I bought it from its maker, Mr. William Coleman of Cambridge, Galt. He made sturdy canoes of hand laid fibreglass. It's been at least twenty years since I first tied it to the top of my Toyota Tercel and drove off in search of still lakes and meandering rivers.

I once carried it on my head on a 5 kilometer portage to a tiny lake in Algonquin park. I stayed there with a friend for five days the weather was so beautiful. I remember sitting in our camp at night, the immense wilderness all around, and staring into our warm fire. I remember thinking that sitting in front of a fire in the dark uncertainty of night is one of the most human things that we do.

I love this old boat, I see beauty in it's lines, and grace in it's function.

My best memory of this canoe was paddling the Grand River on the still waters above the Parkhill dam. My wife Elaine sat at the bow, she was nine months pregnant, dipping her paddle every once and awhile. I paddled the J-stroke and brought us up river to the point where we floated adjacent to the Cambridge hospital. We both smiled at one another, we had an appointment there, our baby was to be delivered by Cesarean section the next day. Less than twenty four hours later I stood in the sun room at the hospital holding my new boy tightly swaddled. My gaze kept shifting between his perfect face, and the river of my own boyhood.

Moments like these in our lives make even the most practical person philosophical, The date was July,15,1999

The Fruit of Neglect is No Fruit at All

2008-12-07T15:36:00.000-05:00

I'm a neglectful gardener, my poor little plum tree developed a black knot infestation and I let get out of hand. Before the snow came and the ground froze I hacked and hacked until there was little if anything left. the only thing that stopped me from uprooting the tree and getting rid of it was the same laziness that got the tree into trouble. If that tree was a dog, I would have had it taken from me and my neglectful cruelty would have placed me in jail.

If I'm lucky I'll find a few blossoms on the remaining limbs next spring, and if I'm really lucky, mid-August will have me tasting plums.

Fast-break-Fast

2008-12-06T18:29:00.000-05:00

Huevos rancheros, my kid will eat this guaranteed. He cleans the plate every time. I fill a flour tortilla with scrambled eggs, drop in some chopped, crisp bacon, shredded cheese and some salsa. Fold over, brush a little oil on a hot pan, and brown on both sides. This is fast simple peasant food at its very best.

Put a pinch of oregano in the eggs , go ahead I dare you!

Remembering a Summer Bike Ride

2008-12-03T17:44:00.000-05:00

Shade of a spruce, printed on this old barn, built long before the tree was even a seed.

I saw closeup the old farmhouse door. Streets and avenues intersect in its weather-checked paint. A blemish mares the luster of its porcelain knob, like a crater does the face of the moon.
The key hole is a dark mysterious orbit of an ancient skull through which I cannot peer. I try to imagine the splendor that lies behind. Light that falls through bare windows, illuminating wide planked floors. Old ,rose patterned paper curling off the walls from the humid weight of summers past. Switch plates of old Bakelite.

I reach for the knob, the door is locked.

Jack

2008-12-01T17:14:00.001-05:00

Coincidence and synchronicity always leave me feeling strange. They make me feel like I'm being poked at by a cosmic smart-ass, an omniscient, playful prankster that sticks his foot out when I'm walking down the corridor of life.

Several months back I ordered an inexpensive screen printing kit from an art store. I had the idea that it would be fun for my 9 year old son and I to make t-shirts with some cool stuff printed on them. I searched online for high contrast images that I could use, I polished them up with some imaging software and I showed them to my son before printing them to a transparency. The first picture was one of writer Jack Kerouac
and the other was of the 60s icon Twiggy.

When I showed them to my son he was unimpressed, He didn't know who those people were and he didn't care. He told me to keep searching.
The next day I went into work. I work in a warehouse and look after inventorying office furniture that we store for corporate clients. I was telling my coworker the Jack And Twiggy story, and how my son responded to my choices. My friend laughed and said that the kid probably wants a picture of Sponge Bob.

20 minutes later I was pulling furniture from the racking, I had a skid that was full of freestanding sets of drawers, what we in the office furniture business call peds. the peds were old and used, they had been inventoried but not properly specified and bar-coded. I always clean the contents out of the drawers so that when I ship the ped out someone doesn't receive a bonus rotten banana or a pair of smelly shoes. When I opened the bottom drawer I found a photograph of Jack Kerouac lying on a bunch of loose papers, It wasn't a copy of the one that I found for printing, it was one of Jack standing shirtless, on a beach.

I have these strange experiences all of the time, I imagine that most people do. It's as if the universe is keyed into you and you into it. It's like underlying everything there is a force of playful humour at work.

The Old Main Street Bridge

2008-11-30T17:12:00.000-05:00

The Old Main Street bridge in Cambridge Ontario. On the bridge there was affixed A bronze plaque which noted the date of construction as being in the 1930s.

When I read the plaque it made me think of those workers in the middle of the Great Depression, they must have been very grateful for the work. I see it as a case of public money being spent on the public good.

The old bridge has served the town for many years. I couldn't even guess at how many times I've crossed it, on foot, by bicycle, or in car. And now that we are on the edge of another economic hard time, the workers who are repairing it must be happy for the work, A little certainty for them, at least for the duration of the project.

To see the rehabilitation of this bridge makes me happy, happy to see public money being spent on public good.

A Good Story

2008-11-30T15:51:00.000-05:00

My brain is an imperfect tool for the task of recollection. It's a flawed organ. Though it can usually be well trusted, sometimes it leaves things out, looses bits and pieces of detail. Sometimes, I'm afraid that it picks up random memories or imaginings and places them in the wrong place or order. I mention this not as a warning or disclaimer, but just as a statement of fact.

The truth is a great thing, a liberating thing, but it should never be allowed to stand in the way of a good story.

Retirement Shavings

2008-11-29T12:47:00.000-05:00

"Stay the course", "Invest with discipline", " You're in this for the long term" .

I believed that which I was told.
I bought that which I was sold.

There now is nothing upon which to draw.
for all my gold has turned to straw.

I am entering my life's winter,
with no wood for fuel.
I blame no one but myself ,for trusting like a fool.

I don't think mutual funds are the best way to save for retirement, hugely promoted by all financial institutions, most people, myself included, are heavily invested in them. Roughly 90 percent of my retirement savings are in mutual funds. Now we have a financial meltdown and peoples' portfolios are slashed in half. All this is not without precedent. The last century has been host to a number of these downward events. If I had followed two simple rules, I would be much wealthier.

1: Save ten percent of my income.

2: Invest only in what I truly understand.

Oh well maybe in my next life.