Moving On #3

Duncan, at first glance, is a much more likely place to move to. The weather, while it is quite frequently grey and gloomy for what feels like months on end, is also rather glorious for even more months of the year. During the warm months there is very little humidity. No matter how hot it is during the day, by evening it generally cools down. The range of temperatures is, as compared to central Canada, fairly small. Temperatures in Duncan on average only fluctuate 35 degrees in a whole year (-6 to 30 degrees Celsius). Ontario's temperatures can fluctuate 25 degrees within a week. And no matter how wet it gets in Duncan - seldom does one have to shovel the stuff!

The housing costs in Duncan are very comparable to cities in Ontario. While I have not seen the insides of any two bedroom apartments, it appears as if $800-900 can get one a  reasonable two bedroom apartment - about the same cost as Ontario. Duncan also has a vibrant social and cultural life. There are number of open air markets in the area, there is a lot of home grown music, and if there are fewer (and less varied) restaurants in the area, there are certainly sufficient for my needs. People are more relaxed/friendly (in part I have argued because of the more benign weather). They are, for example, more likely to talk to you on the bus.

But there are no seasons here. Because there are far fewer hardwood trees on the West Coast, the fall colours are significantly less glorious. Summer sort of seems to slip into the rainy season they call winter which by February slowly evolves into summer.There is no mad celebration of spring after a winter of fighting the cold, of wearing boots and mitts and hats, of shoveling the snow from the end of the driveway or getting into a car with the vinyl seats so cold that the heat is sucked from your flesh. One wonders if the various equinoxes and solstices of the northern climates that mark either the leaving or the return of the sun were ever as important to celebrate in warmer climates when the seasons have less impact upon daily life.

The cost of living here is higher. Food is substantially more expensive, in part because so much of it is shipped across the strait by ferry, but also because there is so little competition. Duncan has three reasonably large grocery stores. All three stores in Peterborough would be seen as reasonably high end stores. There are no low frills/budget grocery stores in Duncan or anywhere else on the island.  People just seem to accept the high cost of food as being normal. The cost of getting around is also more. Gas is more expensive and if one wants to visit any where off island - the cost of the ferry makes one hesitate.

Moving to B.C. also means switching health care systems, car insurance and getting a new driver's licence. It means having to learn how the civil service/bureaucracy works. It means that my fairly comprehensive knowledge of how the courts and the social service system operates in Ontario will no longer be useful to me or anyone else. Moving means that I lose contact with some people that I have known for much of my adult life. Moving away from Ontario means that I will no longer see the hills, the river and the lakes that have shaped so much of who and what I am.

While it would be fun to watch my two youngest grandchildren grow up, and to see how they evolve ( and perhaps they need my attention more), it is unlikely that my son would commit as much energy to watching out for me as would my daughter. I suspect I would have to work harder to remain connected.

There are so many things to consider about moving. I know I have to move. I know that I will move. I suspect that whatever decision  I make - part of me will feel that it was the wrong one.

Moving On #2

There are only two options for me in terms of living closer to my adult children. Well actually there are three, but the third choice is not, more the pity, mine to make. One of my two kids could decide to move to where the other lives. Then, while I would still have to move, the choice as to where I moved would be obvious. However the possibility of my daughter moving west or my son moving east is so far removed from reality that all of us living in the land of Oz is more likely. Of course they could both move to a central point, but none of us have a desire to move to Winnipeg.

My two choices are Sudbury, Ontario and Duncan, BC. While I suspect that most people would assume that where I wanted to live out the rest of my life would be a no brainer; that any one in their right mind would prefer to live in Duncan as opposed to Sudbury. But they would be wrong.

Sudbury has a number of attractive aspects to it. It is not the dreary, scrag covered hillside,  moonscaped town it use to be. In 1972, Inco built a new refinery smoke stack. That ensured that the toxic sulfur dioxide would no longer rain upon the ground and thereby upset the pH balance of the local lakes and destroy the vegetation (the fact that those same pollutants fall somewhere else doesn't seem to bother anyone in Sudbury). Sudbury has, in the last 40 years or so, turned into a reasonably attractive city. Nothing can hide the fact that the city is built on solid rock. There are streets that twist in strange directions to avoid a sudden upthrust of rock) and there are rows of houses that look as if they are perched, somewhat insecurely on the hard, dark nickel bearing rock.

The weather may be Sudbury's biggest downside. Winter can be cold, there can be lots of snow and in general it lasts for months and months. The blackflies and mosquitoes are present for what feels like an almost an equal number of months.

There is not much of a downtown core. It is not for the lack of trying, There are restaurants, a few stores and lots of offices. I think people would like to make their downtown attractive but the buildings even when they were new, were at best, uninspired designs. Thirty or forty years of pollution later, the buildings are tired looking, dirty and quite frankly rather unwelcoming. The retail side of a vibrant downtown core has either gone out of business or has moved to one of the numerous strip malls or large indoor malls scattered well away from downtown. But on the side streets there is a glimmer of hope, a sense that things could be changing; that there are entrepreneurs who are innovative and creative; who are prepared to try something new. It could be interesting to see that process unfold.

Sudbury does have beautiful lakes, including the one at the center of the city. There is a great science center, lots of shopping, good music including some great concerts, some decent restaurants and a vibrant multicultural life for those of middle or Eastern European heritage. While their Saturday market is not large, it has some potential. The people that I have met seem to be kind, friendly people.  The hills are now  covered with grasses and small birch and popular trees. One hopes that in a hundred years much of the majesty that must have been Sudbury might be returned. There is much to look at and enjoy. If one likes the outdoors - it is perfect place to live.

Most importantly, my daughter and two of my grandchildren live there.  The kids have been a joy to watch grow up. It would be great fun to live closer to them and to be able to cheer them on as they play their sports and become the wise and capable adults I know they will become. My daughter has always been a great daughter, a wonderful teacher and even a better friend. I can't imagine a better person to support me in my elder years.

Sudbury, while it is not the ideal place has much that attracts me.

Moving Again ?

This is the start of a new thread or a series of conversations with myself (and anyone who happens to stumble across my ramblings).

I am thinking of moving.......again.  I appreciate that thousands if not millions of people move every day.  Many of them move even further away than I am thinking of. Of the millions of people who move each day, many if not most of them are gambling (and losing) far more than I am. But still, for me, moving is a big deal - even thinking about moving 500 kilometers to a different part of the province is mentally exhausting.  Moving 5,000 kilometers across the country is almost beyond thinking about. The very thought of moving could make one question one's sanity. While I am surprised that I have I have come to the point where moving is a possibility, people I have talked to are not. In fact it seems as if they are surprised that it has taken so long for me to make the decision.

So why am I doing it? Why would anyone think about moving for the fifth time in 10-11 years? That is an absurd amount of work and expense. One could think, with some legitimacy, that I didn't know what I wanted or that I was infected with a particularly virulent form of the " grass is always greener on the other side of the fence" syndrome. The fact of the matter is that I do know what I want (but what I want/need changes over time) and with one exception, I have only made the previous four moves after much soul searching, anxiety and profound reluctance.Three of the four moves have been painful and even as I watched the truck with all of my possessions drive away I would have done almost anything to change my mind. But I didn't then and I suspect that I will not this time.

I am 66. While my health, with one small exception is reasonably good, I can feel that my body (and sometimes my mind) is getting older. I don't move as much or as fast as I use to. While I like to think that I use my energy in a smarter, better planned way, the fact is that I have less energy to use. And there are certainly days when I wonder if my brain is deteriorating at a faster rate than my body.

I live alone, in a beautiful city with all of the needed supports. I have a great dentist, a doctor and a cardiologist. Peterborough has great food, music, two post secondary institutions, lots of green space and nice people. It is also five hours by road from my daughter and six ( not counting getting to the airport) hours by plane from where my son lives.When (not if) I need some help (as I age) both are too far away to help. If I needed a lot of help, they would have to make some major sacrifices to be there. While I know that they would want to help, it seems to me that that is far too much to ask.

It is not that I don't have friends in Peterborough - I do. Some of them I have known for well over twenty years. But most are my age.  All are busy, all have families. I don't think that that they are that much healthier than I am.  While it is tempting to fantasize that we would all grow old together - and then die around the same time - that seems an unlikely fantasy.

So if I need to move closer to family, and given that one "child" lives in central Canada and the other on the West Coast - where should I move to? It is not as easy of a question as it would seem to be.Moving

On the Road Again 2015 Interim #10

When I was first invited to Hornby a few years ago I was warned that one needed to get a ride from someone on the Buckley Bay to Denman ferry as there was very little chance of getting a ride from anyone once on Denman Island. Once the ferry traffic has disembarked from the ferry, there is no one else travelling to the other side of the island to catch the next ferry to Hornby. This complication was the primary reason why I had not visited Hornby. I don't like asking for a ride. I don't mind standing somewhere with my thumb out - if people choose not to stop - I don't feel as if it is a rejection of me personally. But if I ask them face to face and they say no - then it is a direct rejection. I prefer to not be exposed to such possibilities. It also feels like begging or asking for charity - I don't like that feeling either. Which may be a bit strange as I spend some summers travelling through the help/charity of other people.

I, because my hosts had picked me up in Nanaimo on their way to Hornby, had had no problem getting across Denman Island the first time. I was concerned however, about my return trip. On Wednesday morning my host drove me to the Hornby ferry terminal. He had only time to ask one driver if they were going all the way (the answer was no) before the ferry was loaded. I walked to the front of the small ferry and hoped for the best. I was the first off the boat and as soon as I could, I stuck out my thumb hoping that someone who was going across the island and ideally south on highway #19 towards Duncan would pick me up. I was fortunate in that the person who my host had spoken to took pity on me and while he hadn't planned on going  to the ferry terminal, did so just to drop me off.

I was feeling pretty lucky and in my silliness assumed that the hard part of the trip was over. I was wrong. It is a bit of a hike up the hill from the Buckley Bay terminal to the entrance ramp on the highway 19 heading south. While I suspect the ambient temperature was about the same as it had been on the smaller islands, the lack of a sea breeze and the heat being reflected off of the dark pavement made it feel much  hotter. Halfway up the ramp there is a notice saying that pedestrians (and farm machinery) were not allowed on the four lane divided highway. It is perhaps interesting to note that bicycles are allowed. The shoulders are very wide and are great for hitchhiking and biking. I remain unconvinced that someone on a bike is at less of a risk than a pedestrian.  At the very top of the ramp there was a large sign stating that hitchhiking was not allowed and that drivers could get charged for stopping. Clearly not a spot that was conducive to getting a ride.

After  experimenting with standing at various places over an hour or two - I gave up following the law by standing by the entrance ramp and headed down the highway for a kilometer or two. I felt that I needed to be far away from the sign warning drivers to have a reasonable chance of getting someone to stop. The speed limit on this part of the highway is 120 KPH.  That is pretty fast and there were times when I wished the shoulders were a wee bit wider.

I got my first ride from a young lady from one of the First Nation communities. I say young because she looked no more than 16 - very small/petite. She was driving a large pick-up truck. Within a few minutes we had established that I knew her uncle on Salt Spring, that she had at least one child, and that I was her first hitchhiker (she had seen me from the back as I was walking along and thought I was a woman). It was a very efficient conversation. She was bright, enthusiastic about life - an absolute charmer. I think I must have misjudged her age by half a decade or so. She was just too mature and knowledgeable to be only 16. Just before she made the turn to Port Albernie (which meant that I had to get out), my driver said that she was doing some work developing a community plan for her community. I passed on some quick suggestions about lending cameras to the young people and the elders so that they could take pictures of their favourite parts of their community. This helps the planners develop community plans based on strengths as opposed to looking at what the community doesn't have. Community plans that evolve from strengths are always, in my mind, better than plans that evolve from deficits.

In relatively quick succession I got a ride from an older gentleman who had taught welding at the local community college for 18 years and a Duncan contractor who had a crew of three or four working for him. Each of the gentlemen were interesting and we could have talked for another hour or two without a break. In fact the last driver and I chatted in the parking lot of Thrifty's for ten minutes. It was a relatively short walk to my son's house and I was home by 4:30.  It had been a long day. I had only travelled a fairly short distance but it was a tricky hitchhike considering that I had had to cross two islands, take two ferries and encourage three drivers to ignore a really silly law about not stopping to pick up hitchhikers.

On the Road Again 2015 Interim #8

My three days in Hornby were delightful. There was an upstairs room in the charming little house that I could have slept in but I choose to sleep out in the front yard in my tiny bivy sack. It rained a bit the first night, but the other two nights were warm with thousands of stars twinkling, visible  between the leaves of a big old maple. It was amazingly quiet - with the exception of some unusually raucous crows, and a mother and her baby calf bawling over their forced separation, I could lay there for an hour in the morning and not hear a sound. It was quite delightful.

It must be a generational thing but my hosts who are of a similar age to my son and his wife, are not early risers either. They have managed to train their10 week old baby to follow the same sleep patterns as my West Coast grandchildren follow. Late to go to bed and late to rise. I kind of like it in that it gives me an hour or two in the morning to read or write without others puttering around or me feeling the need to be social.

While on Hornby I went for a number of walks to the nearest "beach" or just down the road for 45 minutes because I was curious as to what was there. There were, while not enough blackberries on the bushes beside the road for a meal,  enough to satisfy my craving. The air was warm, sometimes veering towards hot, but there was always enough of a breeze to make it feel comfortable.

The first night my host and I went to a winery just down the road where there was a reggae dance. Reggae is not my favourite type of music but the crowd was into the music and it was fun to watch the folks dance. There was a young man who joined the band with his trombone.  I don't know if trombones are a usual reggae instrument but this kid was good and well worth listening to. As we drove home we talked about this specific musical genre, why it is important and how it has been carried around the world. I still don't get but I do appreciate the energy that it generates.

On one of the days we walked along a nature trail that followed the cliffs. Looking out in between the trees one can see Denman Island and then further on, Vancouver Island. It is interesting to note that while Hornby Island is quite hilly and of course Vancouver Island has whole mountain ranges, Denman Island in the middle is as flat as the proverbial pancake.

Hornby Island, while it is home to approximately 1500 permanent residents, is far busier than that. Hornby is a major tourist destination. What few stores and restaurants there are are focused on collecting as much money  possible in the few summer months. There is of course that love/hate relationship between the locals and the residents. The two food stores, the paved roads, the frequency of ferry service and the income of many of the residents is a direct result of the visitors and their willingness to spend money. The fact that the beaches, the roads and the stores may be busier than one would like is a small price to be paid compared to all of the benefits.

Hornby Island, like some of the other Gulf Islands has created an image of itself that it sells to outsiders. It is an image of being somewhat laid back, relaxed, perhaps almost hippy like (this laid back relaxed atmosphere extends to having a nude beach). The tourist love it - perhaps because it is not really an act at all. Hornby struck me as a place that was pretty laid back.

On the Road Again 2015 Interim #7

I went to Hornby Island for a few days. There are two things about the trip that seem to stand out for me. One is that it is a very pretty island with lots of beaches, extraordinary views and nice people. Secondarily Hornby is incredibly hard to get to and from if you don't have money and a vehicle.

Friends from Hornby had invited me to visit them a number of times. As much as I wanted to visit, getting there always seemed to be too much of a hassle. However as they were in Vancouver on Sunday and heading back through Nanaimo, it seemed to be too good of an opportunity to be missed.

I ended up spending a couple of hours at the ferry terminal at Nanaimo. It is, quite frankly, not that interesting of a place to spend a few hours in or around - except for the people. The terminal was quiet for an hour and then as it came close to when the ferry was docking/leaving things got a bit more exciting. It was specifically interesting to watch people running towards the ticket terminal with seconds to spare. It was even more interesting to watch their faces as they found out that BC Ferries' policy of people needing to be there ten minutes before boarding time was being enforced. Some of the people who had missed that cut off time by well over ten minutes were so angry. They would tell anyone within earshot how unfair it was that they were not allowed to board. I wondered to myself if these were the same people who complained when the ferry was running late.

In spite of the entertainment provide by these unjustifiably angry want-to-be passengers, I was glad when my hosts-to-be texted me saying they were just about to disembark and where was I waiting (any comment as to my inability to text quickly or accurately would be woefully inaccurate no matter how many words I used to describe my fumbling).

Buckly Bay is about 90 minutes north of Nanaimo. It is a small harbour whose only function is to provide a brief home for the ferry that goes to Denman Island. While that ferry uses diesel oil to power its way across the narrow channel, by next year there will be a ferry that is winched across using a thick cable. From the little I have read about the proposed ferry, the users of the present system wish that some other community were used for the experiment.

During the short 15-20 minute ride across the channel, all of the locals get out of their cars and continued the conversations that started while waiting for the ferry to load. Then they get back into their vehicles, disembark - drive across Denman Island which takes ten or fifteen minutes, get on another ferry for an equally brief ride and then disembark again. The whole trip takes just another an hour. I suspect they spend at least a third of that time driving or loading and unloading. If one doesn't know anyone, or is not brazen enough to ask for a ride, one could easily be stuck on Denman Island for an extended period of time. As far as I could see, there was little to do see or do on Denman Island. It is just a flat little island that is stuck between Hornby and Vancouver Islands. Of course there could be more to it, but I did not see it.

On the Road Agan 2015 Interim #6

I have for years whenever I left the house worn two necklaces. One necklace has been very visible. At least once a semester one of my more courageous students would ask where I got the stone from and surprisingly, store clerks frequently comment on it. Whenever I have time I am glad to share the story of where the stone came from and why, I somewhat compulsively, wear it all of the time ( the short story is that the stone comes from the B.C. beach where I found my son - he wasn't lost, I just didn't know where he was; the long story involves two separate trips across the country, a man named Reg and some angels).

The other necklace has been far less visible. In fact, I suspect that most of the people who know me, never knew that I had a small red necklace fairly high around my neck, well under my beard. I got the small, irregularly shaped meteorite at the International Rainbow Gathering at Maniwaki, Quebec in 2004 from a elder of the Quebec Family. His long dreads were gray, his skin dark and his English was limited. Every day for the twelve or so days I was there he and I met somewhere on the trails and shared a few words about the weather, the food or the numbers of eagles that had been seen flying overhead. Somehow this temporary connection became very important to me. Certainly on more than one occasion, when it was getting towards dusk and we had not met, I went and looked for him. Just before I left to return back to Ontario, he gave me two stones, meteorites from a field in Mexico. One of the stones is just smaller than a tennis ball. It sits amongst my other treasures on my grandmother's wicker trunk. The other stone was much smaller. When he gave it to me, he told me to always wear it around my neck.

The stone is very irregular in shape. It took numerous tries for me to find a way to tie my macrame knots so that I would not lose the stone. As the strings became worn from the constant rubbing against my neck, I have re-made the necklace three times in the past 11 years.

This past weekend that necklace fell off of my neck while I was at a Pow Wow. I don't have a clue where it happened. I didn't even bother to go back to look for it. The grass was too long, there were lots of people there and I had wandered around the grounds for over two hours. It is not the first time that it has become undone (or more likely it was never done up properly in the first place) but every other time I have felt it become lose or heard it fall. In the past few week this coming undone has happened more than a few times. It is almost as if it was telling me it was times to let go.

I keep on telling myself that the person found it, liked it and that they will wear it for while before it gets passed on to someone else. I keep on reminding myself that eleven years is a long time to own a stone, and that it was well past time that I gave up at least one of my compulsions or obsessions. I know in my mind that no one ever really owns a stone - that they are lent to us for awhile before they must be returned to where they came from or at least passed on to someone else. But I miss wearing it. I miss knowing that it is there, around my neck, hidden from the world like some ancient good luck charm only visible to the Gods.

Perhaps most of all, I am afraid that losing the stone means that I will forget about that magical Gathering and my somewhat tenuous connection to the elder with the grey dreads .