Our Cherries Bombed

Moving into a house with a yard containing three apple trees and a cherry tree was very exciting. From the off we envisioned harvesting all the fruit to make into pies, jam and whatnot, as well as spreading some love by sharing our bountiful crop with friends.

Having moved in early April we experienced the joy of witnessing the trees blossom before the serious business of creating fruit started in earnest. Over the last few weeks we've been eagerly watching little green buds swell into small apples, and watching cherries in our huge tree darken and turn lovely and shiny. After nightmare infestations of tent caterpillars in the spring, as gardening novices we had no idea what to expect of this year's yield, so were pleasantly surprised and happy to witness fruit happily growing on the branches. From the elevated vantage point of our deck, the cherry tree looked particularly abundant.

The apples are still developing, but tonight we finally had some time available to pick the cherries at the time it looked most like they should be picked. They were deep red and looking very juicy. First, however, we went onto YouTube to see exactly how it should be done: cut them down individually with secateurs, high up the stalk so as to delay the ripening process. Then, in expectation of a bulging sack of cherries, we also researched the various ways in which they can be used and/or preserved. Excited, we donned our gardening gloves, grabbed the ladder, a container, and the secateurs.

When underneath the tree in search of cherries, we were suddenly somewhat crestfallen. There were a few within reach with the ladder, but many of the cherries that looked so healthy from the deck were soggy or half-munched by birds. Plenty more were entirely rotten on the branch. Stepping back, it seemed the real booty was the crop of cherries teasingly totally out of reach at the very top of the tree unless we were able to employ something like this: 

Nonetheless, undeterred, we ploughed on. "Ooh, there's one!" Susan or I would chirrup enthusiastically upon a sighting, one of us then scuttling up the ladder to snip it down. "Oh, it's rotten," came back the reply, the disappointed harvester hurtling it into the distance in annoyance. This process went on for some time until pretty much every reachable, snippable cherry had been extracted from the tree. Then totally forgetting our reason for being in the yard in the first place we got sidetracked by butchering a gargantuan arc of blackberry thorns that had infiltrated our yard from next door. But the more we chopped away at the prickly bastard the more apparent it became that it was totally entwined as an all-but-impenetrable network in the upper reaches of the cherry tree, so after removing what we could we called it a night, shuffling disconsolately off to head indoors to take stock of our cherry haul.

So, ladies and gentlemen, collapse in awe if you will at our cherry harvest for Summer 2013, presented for your amazement by my good lady wife:

There we have the grand total of 26 cherries. Twenty-effing-six. That's less than the average sparrow consumes for breakfast. It's even less than in a single Mini Cherry Cutie Pie, for crying out screaming loud.

No pies, no jam, no whatnot, no spreading some love by sharing our bountiful crop with friends. No, not in Summer 2013. But, as total novices at this game we have learned plenty of lessons for next year. We have learned, for example, that it matters not how much we love birds, it's not the greatest idea to actively encourage them to visit our yard by hanging a bird feeder... in the cherry tree. That was a big mistake right there.

Oh well, let's see how we get on with the apples.

Jello 'n' Me

Last week was very strange. It was a week when it seemed as if the life of an American punk rock icon and mine were somehow intertwined. This is what happened:

MONDAY JUNE 17
As usual of a morning I sat with my coffee and breakfast having a surf of the news, entertainment sites and music blogs I enjoy each day. It's my routine before ablutions and heading off to work at the music store. One music blog I check in on is called Cover Me. As the name would suggest it is devoted exclusively to cover versions, which I have a fondness for and compile CDs of. One regular Cover Me feature is They Say It's Your Birthday, which "celebrates an artist's special day with other people singing his or her songs." On Monday June 17, 2013, the featured artist was the aforementioned punk rock icon, one Jello Biafra, who turned 55 that day. For better or worse, here are the covers of his songs.

WEDNESDAY JUNE 19
It had been a quiet day at work. Neil and I busied ourselves with the usual jobs in a routine, ho-hum kind of way, until at around 3:00pm a balding, greying middle-aged man dressed head-to-foot in black walked in and caught my attention. With the punk star's image fresh in my mind from two days prior, as he poked about in the 45s rack I thought, 'Wow, that guy really looks like Jello Biafra.' Then when he spoke to me to ask where the Canadian punk records were, I immediately knew it was Jello! Crazy!

What the hell was Jello Biafra doing in l'il ol' Nanaimo? I remember my boss Steve telling me that Jello had been in his store many years before, when it was located in Country Club Mall, buying a bunch of exotica/lounge records, so I asked him what brought him to town. It transpires he has friends in our community, and was here to see them as part of his birthday celebrations. Anyway, we left him to it and he listened to a pile of Japanese surf/60s R 'n' B and other cool records until right up when we closed three hours later, dropping $290 to considerably boost a quiet day's takings.

THURSDAY JUNE 20
A box from our Ottawa supplier J-Mac arrived in the afternoon. As I do with every delivery, I opened it to inspect the contents prior to processing the order. Amongst the LPs were two copies each of Jello's Dead Kennedys' "Bedtime for Democracy" and "Frankenchrist." This may not seem particular unusual - this is a record store, after all - but the fact is we had not had these titles in for the longest time. The latter, in fact, is out of print, so we were lucky to track these copies down at all. All things considered thus far this week, I looked at the records and thought, "Hmmm... what the hell is going on here?!"

SATURDAY JUNE 22
Susan and I (with our friends Art, Carol, Pete and Heidi) attended the awesome Campbell Bay Music Festival on gorgeous Mayne Island on Friday and Saturday. There were hundreds of people there, arriving steadily all day long on both days. The bands were amazing, pretty much keeping my eyes glued to the stage the entire time (Friday included), but for some reason that surely can only be explained by cosmic intervention, at some indeterminate point I suddenly felt compelled to look to where the festival entrance was located a way down the field. And wouldn't you know it, the guy walking through the gate at that precise moment was wearing a Dead Kennedys t-shirt bearing the classic DK logo.

Trust me, chills ran down my spine when I saw this guy. Bear in mind that the Campbell Bay Music Festival is a very folk music-oriented, generally rootsy affair, and despite its DIY ethic is as far removed from political hardcore punk rock as can be imagined. There are lots of hippies and crusties present, and nary a punk in sight. In truth I saw very few band shirts or merchandise of any description, regardless of genre, so this Dead Kennedys t-shirt was something of an anomaly in this situation. Really, if someone was spotted wearing a Belle & Sebastian t-shirt it would have likely been deemed edgy.

What does this all mean? Why did all this Jello stuff arise in one week? Does Jello perhaps have some part to play in my future, his presence and the inadvertent Cover Me heads-up presenting the first clues...? Is he aware of this? Or do I have some part to play in Jello's future, and everything that happened last week was the universe's way of informing me? Of all people and all musicians, why Jello Biafra? Because Susan is the service advisor at an automotive repair garage, does the DK's song "Trust Your Mechanic" suddenly have some significance for us?

Yeah, what a weird week! Coincidence has played quite a part in my life at times, and in weeks like June 17-22, 2013, such occurrences can really mess with your head. Because coincidence is obviously all this is, but coincidence(s) so extraordinary that it is easy to think there is something more 'designed' at play! Ah, whatever... but in the middle of it all I did get to wish Jello Biafra a belated happy birthday, which is presumably not something I'll get that many more opportunities in life to do!
      

Miserable Moggies

This is simply wonderful. Thanks are due to our dear friends and fellow cat lovers Paul and Catherine Bezooyen for bringing it to our attention.

They Walk Among Us

There have been some 'interesting' customers in the store this week...

Scruffy, but not overly so, one chap walked up to me and said, "Have you detected the eerie silence out there recently?" I replied that I hadn't. "You know, a silence, like the Nazis are coming...?" Thinking this an unusual question, I could only once again respond in the negative. "The animals, like Bigfoot and the werewolves," he continued, "are worried, because now cell phones have cameras we can take photos of them and prove their existence!" In response to this excited pronouncement I could only respond with, "Oh, really?" "Yeah," he said, then, with a dramatic change of tone, "...or maybe I'm tripping?" With this he put his right hand to his forehead, screwed up his face in apparent confusion, then toddled off down the aisle and left the store. Bless.

And secondly, finally, as I am losing the will to live here, let me tell you about the CDR I received from a customer recently. After he asked me if I like The Rolling Stones and I said I did, he gave me this disc, saying it contained a book he'd written about the band. A couple of days ago I inserted it into the computer to take a shufti, and shuddered as I began to scan the content. It contains 185 pages of stream-of-consciousness 'poetry' inspired by the band and, as the introduction explains, written entirely under the influence of absinthe and very strong marijuana. If you are lucky I may reproduce a few lines here in future posts, but I think it is only fair to warn you here and now that it is absolutely mental. Well, the first four pages are.

I wonder what it might be like working for Thrifty's?

UPDATE, Sunday May 26: Amazingly, as he does not come in often, the author of said Rolling Stones tome came into the store yesterday. "Did you read it, Dave?" he asked. "Not yet, because I've just moved house and things have been a bit hectic, but I did take a quick look," I responded, in all honesty. "Well, when you do I'd be interested in your thoughts," he said, "because I think it sits somewhere between a masterpiece and complete gibberish."

Seriously, I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Fate

As happens from time to time, I seem be somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of fate right now, especially concerning the fragility of life. I think the trigger for this occurrence was recently reading about a songwriter (whose name escapes me) planning a concept album, the central theme of which will be a contemplation on the nature of perfectly ordinary, individual human existence. It was borne, he said, of an unshakeable feeling of infinitesimal tininess in the universe, and how mind-blowing and overwhelming a thought it was.

With this on my mind I started thinking about certain news items in a different way. I've had thoughts like this before, but we can become so desensitized to the horrors of the world that it is easy to read about such as scores of people being blown to pieces in Baghdad or Basra, as has happened again this week, without a further thought about it beyond the last sentence. But with the songwriter's intentions floating about my brain, I've been thinking about the fate of those poor people, and in fact anyone simply caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Those Iraqis got out of bed on those mornings to go about their days like any normal human beings. They probably had plans to shop for food and essential supplies for their families, perhaps meet with friends for idle chatter about who knows what. Going about their business, others going about their own blew them into a million pieces. Alive one second, dead the next, probably feeling nothing. The lights were on, then they were off, and those lives were snuffed out in an instant in the name of sectarianism. Had they not been there, they would have lived, but however way you look at it there would have been great loss of life of people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps it was fate that those particular people's lives had to end that day. There is no cosmic design governing human existence, but if there was... 

This morning I could not stop looking at a couple of particularly extraordinary images of the devastating tornado in Oklahoma. One aerial shot showed a trail of destruction through a swathe of Moore, yet either side of the path of the tornado was untouched. Nature at its most calamitous had followed an obviously random path, yet people and buildings just a relatively short distance from its massive destructive power had remained unharmed and undamaged. The survivors will likely thank their respective gods they were spared, while an entire community will be forever scarred by the randomness of the power of nature.

I used to get lost in these kinds of thoughts, but no longer. However, these kinds of events, whether man-made and driven by "God," as in Iraq, or an "act of God," as in Oklahoma, do get me thinking about how it might all end for me when it does. Will I die a quiet death by natural causes; be claimed by some awful disease or a tragic accident, or will my demise be dramatic and newsworthy like the poor souls the world lost this week to bombs and tornados? What will be my fate?     

...in the Middle of our Street

We moved into our new house on April 6th. It's fabulous. I'm not a good mover, so have found the experience stressful, overwhelming and emotional to the tangible detriment of my physical and mental health, but I'm also busting with pride and excitement for what lies ahead.

You see, at age 52, apart from the first five or so years of my life - a period I have no recollection of - I've never before lived in a house. I've lived in all manner of condo/flat/apartment/bedsit and maisonette-type dwellings, but never a house. And the fact that it's ours makes this new experience all the more rewarding.

Over three floors, we have so much space we hardly know what to do with it! That said, we have more than enough stuff to fill it. An embarrassing amount of stuff, truth be told, but it's all books, music and art - the things we love dearly - so we will be surrounded by beautiful things.

Yet the reality of the space is that (a fireplace excepted) every need and desire we had when house-hunting is met. On the top floor we have cozy double and single guest rooms, separated by a sizeable area that will be Susan's "Girl Cave." Finally, we can offer visitors comfort and privacy, and my baby can have a space to call her own and do whatever the hell she wants in, away from her annoying husband. On the main floor we have a dining room with views of Mt. Benson, my large office (also providing aforementioned views), the master bedroom, en suite bathroom and large kitchen with doors leading out to an enormous deck. Many a BBQ will be enjoyed out there, for sure.

Downstairs we have our living room, laundry room, workshop and a second bathroom which we'll be gutting and redecorating somewhere down the line. We also have the ridiculous luxury of a room big enough to house our entire combined music collection, so that's what we're doing with it, and yet another room we don't even know what to do with yet! It formed the main part of the recording studio once operated by the former owner's late husband, but we'll be ripping that out (fantastically, to donate to friends moving to Gabriola Island soon...to set up a recording studio!), then we'll decide how best to use the space. Undoubtedly there'll be more books in there - likely all those devoted to music - and I quite fancy a pool table, but we shall see. It's all very exciting.

As the photos illustrate, we have a front yard and picket fence. In the front yard is one of three different apple trees on our property, and we also have a large cherry tree in the back. The backyard is huge, with a lawn, garden shed and carport, which is formed by the deck on the main floor above. For the first time, then, I have a proper yard at my disposal, and we have grand plans for it. We'll be concentrating on inside the house this year, but next year we plan to install raised beds and start growing our own vegetables. I've wanted to do this for the longest time, so here we go! Serving meals to guests that include vegetables grown yards away is something that thrills me no end. We've been the lucky recipients of such meals at friends' houses here, and there's no flavour or, obviously, freshness to compare. Yay for the 10 Yard Diet!

And we are in the loveliest imaginable neighbourhood. Just a 15-minute stroll away from my workplace and everything else downtown, it is beautifully quiet here. I actually jumped the other day when, for the first time in about four hours, a car drove past. Ridiculous, but true. In the mornings all we hear are birds and the very faintest hum of traffic from nearby Bowen Road.

Our best friends live a three minute walk away, but if we get bored with them we have lovely neighbours. On the day after we moved in, there was a knock at the door. It was Bernice and her daughter Moira from next door, with a gift of a beautiful orchid. "We just wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood" said Bernice, "and here's something for you to look at when you're sick of looking at boxes!" Exhausted, sweaty, surrounded by the inevitable chaos of a move, we were so touched by this gesture that we welled up with tears there and then. What a delightful welcome! More was to come over the garden fence when we met Seoras, who rents the house on the other side. The owner, Connie, is an organic gardener, but does she realize that the meaning of her tenant's Gaelic name is 'farmer'? Amazing! Anyway, he seems a nice chap. Then across the street is Mark, but we have yet to meet his wife or other family members. An ex-pat like myself, he's a laidback guy who owns a waterfront coffee shop that all of a sudden it seems we may be paying regular visits to!

So, yes, this is all rather incredible. This was always going to be our final move, so the house had to be exactly what we were looking for, and so it is. Being an old house (built in 1912), it needs some work and updating, but that comes with the deal. I would rather have that responsibility and my own four walls than shared walls, rules and regulations and a strata fee every month. We truly are in our element and loving every minute of piecing it all together as we want it.

Most satisfying of all, however, is the truly humbling reaction we've received from friends concerning our purchase. Everyone is utterly delighted for us. Perhaps they recognize that in one way or another we've been through an awful lot of tough times the last few years, and are glad to see us so happy. Regardless, it's very comforting, but we are inclined to agree with them that we've truly earned this little corner of heaven!

Blowing a Gasket

In the world of retail one has to serve what I imagine is a reasonably representative cross-section of society. So you get your lovely folks, and you get your bastards. Yesterday I had the deep displeasure of serving (or rather trying to serve) a woman falling firmly into the latter category, and in order to move on from the encounter I feel the need to vent here!

"A lovely store, but I really must take exception to the ridiculous inclusion of Nanci Griffith in the country section," she snorted, approaching the counter with her purchase yet looking all about her rather than addressing my boss Steve or I directly. I took one look at this woman and hated her instantly. We have all met these people who inexplicably wind us up without rhyme or reason before they say a single word, and even without her comment one glance whence it came confirmed this woman was one of mine. She simply had that look and a lofty, superior air, what with her outraged eyes with pin-prick pupils, and half-eye glasses perched right on the very tip of her nose like a school ma'am. "Punch, kick, gouge," I thought.

"Oh, why is that?" I enquired. "Well, she's a bluegrass artist, of course!" proclaimed the evidently Stupid Woman. "No, she isn't," I responded, hackles rising. "Yes, she is," Evil Woman snapped back. Sensing Steve's concern and an almighty ruck ahoy, I put my hands up and said," Well, I beg to differ, so let's leave it there." "She hasn't got a country voice; she has a bluegrass voice," continued Imbecile Woman, with real 'authority' on the subject in her tone.

At this juncture, the old adage of the customer always being right burning hot in my brain, I simply could not resist but pile in once more. "If anything, if you want to get pedantic, Nanci Griffith is a folk artist, so neither a country or bluegrass artist," I countered, "but she is most associated with, and appreciated by, the world of country music. Besides, the defining factor of bluegrass is the banjo, and there's not a lot of fiery banjo in Nanci's music, eh?" The woman looked aghast, especially when her pleasant husband piped in and said, "Aha, he's got you! Please forgive my wife...she's rather opinionated!" Perhaps unwisely, I laughed and said, "Yes, I can see that!"

Anyway, we batted opinions back and forth in an increasingly heated manner as Steve twitched behind the counter, then the woman spat, "Anyway, I have no doubt there is only one person present who was born in Appalachia, and that would be ME! I've been listening to bluegrass my whole life, and Nanci Griffith is bluegrass!" "Okay, fair enough," I sighed in mock resignation, understanding the debate was headed nowhere as she walked out of the store, leaving her embarrassed husband to pay.

I later pictured her in my mind, still all in a tizzy (like I am today), cursing my name and ignorance of the bluegrass giants to her exasperasted, long-suffering hubby, wondering how the hell I got a job in a music store (all those decades ago). I don't want to come across as an archetypal, "Hi-Fidelity"-esque record store asshole or smug music snob, but I know my country music, and I know my bluegrass, and I know that Nanci Griffith is categorically not, nor has she ever been, the latter. When entirely necessary I will bend over and take one in the name of a quiet life, but when confronted with such arrogance, even in a working situation, I will always speak up. So...

The opening paragraph of AllMusic's entry for Nanci Griffith:

"Straddling the fine line between folk and country...has become as well-known for her brilliant, confessional songwriting as her beautiful voice. A self-styled "folkabilly" singer... began as a kindergarten teacher and occasional folksinger. The country scene took her to heart in the mid-'80s, giving her a reputation as a quality songwriter... etc."

Genres: Country, folk, pop/rock
Styles: Contemporary folk, country-folk, progressive country, singer-songwriter, contemporary country

I don't see too much evidence of bluegrass categorization there, do you? So, f*** you lady!