Back in Austin, 2015

When I finally reached Austin on November 24^th I didn't stop for gasoline being thankful to back into a driveway and settle into a spot where moving wasn't necessary. Ten days later I still haven't moved the van or been shopping for groceries, Monday, December 7^th I expect to gas up and go shopping.

It rained the first week I was here and then turned cold, well cold for Austin. I finally got around to reading some of the books I'd had on hold and became available earlier than expected. I'm still in recovery mode from driving 2600 miles.

Day two in Austin had BBQ at Mann's Smokehouse to mark their final day and exchanged hugs with the owner, that evening was the youth-led Thanksgiving Service.

Thanksgiving Day was November 26^th on which I was thankful for the company of my friends the Berrys and their Thanksgiving Table. The next couple days were spent staying dry and warm as I settled into my winter home and did some laundry.

Renewed acquaintance with friends at church on Sunday and sat to catch up online with my tablet during second service. Sunday afternoons tend to be quiet.

Last Monday I finally got online in earnest and caught up with my bills. The trip down cost me $1100.00, essentially gasoline and camping fees.

By Wednesday this past week the sun finally broke through the clouds and it has warmed up by day. I joined a good showing for the Newsletter Party—folding, sealing, and labelling. At noon I joined the worship group for coffee and cookies. That evening enjoyed chicken vegetable noodle soup, Holden Village Mass and choir practice. One practice for a piece we're to do on Sunday.

Thursday enjoyed more BBQ at Smokey Mo's in Round Rock with friend George, then off to see the round table rock in Brushey Creek that gave the place its name.

Friday evening, yesterday at time of writing joined Gethsemane Choir and 8 others for a Carol Fest at Saint Louis King of France Church in a benefit for Drive a Senior. The host was mercifully brief in offering comments. The singing was an experience as always. I enjoy the opportunity to sing with enthusiasm in a large crowd with great organ accompaniment.

Today, Saturday the 5^th learned about Altar Guild and the duties appertaining. About time I was properly trained I suppose.

Heading South in 2015

November 16, 2015

When it comes to travel by motor vehicle, boring is good. In part that involves proper preparation and packing. Certainly there are always those little things. Having to jump start the battery before departure and having to repair the battery tender connections before getting off, at least the generator started. American Customs was routine, I'd shaved my beard to ensure my physiognomy matched the passport photo. Driving through Buffalo and Lackawanna in the dark is not pleasant but preferable to rush hour traffic. I paused at the Erie Welcome Centre to make coffee considering myself lucky that I wasn't seeing white stuff flying. Before heading due South I skirted the edges of Cleveland Ohio.

In Ashland, Ohio stopped for fuel ($1.99/American Gal) and brunch at Dennys where I took the opportunity to read the day's comix. An hour later I found Cross Creek Resort in Delaware, OH without incident. After a few miss-steps I've figured out the difference between South and North Old State Road—a difference my guides failed to mention. The park is already celebrating Christmas. I caught up online and went to bed.

Decided I deserved to sleep in and so miss rush hour traffic in Columbus, OH and Indianapolis, IN. Stopped at a travel centre for fuel and brunch at Dennys once more. Since I visited Terre Haute last they commenced highway construction hostilities making finding the KOA there a challenge, not something one appreciates after a long drive. The donkeys welcomed me with a nibble at my coat tail.

Day three began with fueling north of the highway. Gusting crosswinds and early morning heavy showers made this the worst day for driving I had in my travels. This day I encountered the other bugbear of driving, mile upon mile of highway construction and rough roads. I got through St. Louis, MO without incident and continued the long drive to Lebanon, MO. There was a sale on traffic lights when the city was built, they have one every block. Fourteen miles out of town in the boonies the campground was obviously closed for the season—their web site made no mention of fall closure. Drove over to my fall-back position, the Bennett Spring State Park. Their campground was open for self-pay. Oh Joy! After finding a site that had working electricity put the money I had in an envelope, wrote up the required info and dropped it in the vault. I considered it a minor miracle that their Wi-Fi was up and working and since I was the only person spending the night there I enjoyed excellent service. The warnings about bears proved an exaggeration, expect they'd trundled off for hibernation. It was one very quiet night.

Next day I took the north exit from the park which crossed a canted Bailey bridge that gave me cause for trepidation before I gingerly crossed it. The detritus from recent flooding had been pushed to one side. Got gas in town and headed toward Tulsa, OH. This day's drive seemed long and involved a toll highway for part of the trip. Hoardings along the highway remind one that one is entering the Bible Belt culminating in the sign for Oral Roberts U. For once there was someone in the office at Warrior Campground when I arrived.

Most of Day 5 was spent in Oklahoma State which lived up to its rep with a steady headwind blowing across the plain all day. The sunshine reflecting off the soil gave it a fluorescent Orange cast. The Oklahoma Welcome Centre provided half-decent free coffee. Little but prairie farmland to see save for the passage through Oklahoma City. I pulled off the highway there for gas. West of there farmland gives way to open rangeland dotted with scrub. Entering Texas one begins to encounter their countless wind farms. I stopped in a few miserably small towns before I found a place to stop for lunch made in my RV. The Overnight RV Park in Amarillo proved to be at the end of the airport runway and had non-working Wi-Fi as had everyone else in the area.

I did break down and accept a limousine ride complete with longhorn hood ornament to the Big Texan Steak Ranch. Staff were accoutered in Stetsons and cowboy boots. Christmas tree and decorations already in place. A plaster model missing a thumb was seated at one of the long tables. Did he complain about the service? I did not order the 72 oz steak. After overeating I took a look at the rattlesnake in the gift shop and the facilities for “Cowboys” and “Cowgirls” before I caught a ride home. Overnight the temperature plunged to 28.

Next day it dropped as low as 24. I wore winter coat and gloves as I gassed up. The wind turned during the night pushing me West to Albuquerque, NM. The terrain was flat and dusky until a dark patch of cloud proved indistinguishable from the foothills ahead. A cold front was plainly visible as I passed through it. After the height of land I entered the basin that holds Albuquerque at 5000 ft. No word from the gentleman I went there to visit for the next 24 hours. American RV Park was welcoming as ever. After several visits to the area I finally got to drive old Route 66 into Old Town. Finding parking was a challenge. Haggling is expected in the many gift shops and sidewalk displays where turquoise and silver jewelry, ceramic pots, along with Copper Arm bands bear prices in the $500 range. I did break down and buy a nativity collection with a Pueblo inspired theme for a price that would have scandalized my mother.

Monday, November 23^rd I got ready for travel and took in the complimentary continental breakfast provided by the Park before leaving. For the first 125 or so miles I retraced my route toward Texas before turning South on Hwy 84 at Santa Rosa. In Fort Sumner which may or may not be the burial place of one Billy the Kid I stopped not at the museum/fort but at the local grocery store. Just East of Clovis I crossed back into Texas and the Central Time Zone, Albuquerque is on Mountain Time. Here one enters the cotton belt where half the crop is yet to be harvested and the fields are dotted with pumpjacks. Highway here is a two-lane rated at 75 mph with slower zones through small cities. The KOA in Lubbock is North-West of town just off HWY 84 too near a railway track. There's a ring road surrounding Lubbock, a 'town' famous for country music, government, education, and medical facilities—shopping.

Tuesday Morning got off early to beat traffic gassing up first. The four hundred mile drive was through rolling countryside on two-lane and four-lane roads sometimes divided headed in a generally South-Easterly direction. Somehow I'd forgotten how miserable it is to drive into the rising sun. Albuquerque was 5000 ft, Lubbock 3000 ft so it was essentially downhill to Austin at 700. A slight crosswind and unstable winding roads made the posted 75 a might too fast for me. All was well until I reached a large gathering of emergency vehicles 10 miles North of Leander 30 miles from Austin blocking 3 of the four lanes. Lots of mangled cars. Made Austin without a fillup but the low fuel light came on as I backed into the driveway here in Austin.

I got here just in time, a few days ago Chicago got 12 inches of snow. It's greener in Austin:

Scottsdale Farm

Scottsdale Farm is an Ontario Heritage Property administered by the Halton Conservation Authority accessible as a side trail from the Bruce Trail or from the onsite parking lot off Trafalgar Rd at 13607. Calling a 15-car lot large is a matter of perspective. 

The working farm was bequeathed by the Bennett Family to the people of Ontario in trust. In the year 2015 the farm houses have been leased to tenants but the farm itself remains unworked and the barns empty. The unmown fields and garden plots remain untended and are rapidly returning to weeds and scrub. To a former farmboy it is sad to see barns slowly mouldering away their board and batten sides turning grey and growing moss. The asphalt shingles may protect the roves but they look out of place along with the modern white eavestroughing in which grow a crop of weeds and small trees. The outbuilding and former farm homes feature multiple gables and a white paint job. Most buildings have air vents or dovecots up top. 

Pictures of former draft horses and winning bulls are no substitute for the real thing. There's a so-called wishing well and an untended pond with bridge crossing the dam on the Cold Creek. The Marsh appears a prime breeder of mosquitoes but probably supports a good crop of frogs and toads as well. The trail was a pleasant walk through muted Autumn Foliage. 

Alas, the tone of this entry betokens the fact that I expected more. Even the barns are off-limits today. 

Sponsoring Refugees

A programme on CBC got me going on the topic. The concept of international law makes it illegal to interfere in the affairs of a sovereign nation as say the US did in Iraq. The moral issue of what is our responsibility to people forced to flee persecution by their own government or neighbours is quite another matter. Uprooting populations from their homes and cultures and transporting them to a different climate, a foreign language and customs will always be a second-best solution.

First there is the terror of fleeing and life in a temporary refugee/resettlement camp—Israeli Arabs have lived like this for up to 5 generations. The minimum wait for government sponsorship is one year and as much as 3. Refugee sponsors may welcome their guests with all the best of intentions and good will but nothing can prepare someone who has lived in a tropical climate for snow and cold. A language unknown to them and customs and mores they don't understand. This comes down to matters as simple as never having encountered indoor plumbing and the need to flush a toilet. Being gifted with clothes but having no concept of the fact that one doesn't send children to school clad in pyjamas. Dealing with the ridicule that results.

How do you prepare food when you've never seen an electric stove, refrigerator, a can opener, a water tap and the food stuffs are all foreign and you know not how to prepare them and have no appreciation for the flavours involved.

How do you deal with post-traumatic stress when you don't even have the same language as a potential counselor?

How do you find work and a means of self-support? A lawyer or doctor faces many barriers before they can practice in this country and driving a cab is demeaning.

Fools Rush In....

It seems modern readers are surprised that Atticus Finch expresses what in today's terms would be defined as racist sentiments. Should we be surprised that he is a child of his time. After all the writers of the Bible took slavery for granted. I grew up with the rhyme:

“Eenie Meenie Miney Mo

Catch a Nigger by the Toe”

and the saying, “nigger in the woodpile”.

Today even the word Negro is freighted with such baggage that a black Canadian Writer had to change the title, “The Book of Negros” before it was considered saleable in the US.

The Civil War is associated with the struggle in the South to preserve the institution of Slavery. The Confederate Flag used by the breakaway states is seen as expressing Southern defiance of their defeat and the advancement of Civil Rights. Suddenly flying it and its appearance on cars and other chattels is seen as objectionable.

I would judge a man by his actions. Atticus Finch took the case of a black man accused of molesting a white despite the probable damage to his professional reputation and the risks to his family. His treatment of Calpurnia and their mutual respect speaks volumes.

Similar broodings rumble near the surface on my side of the border. The French may have lost the battle on the Plains of Abraham but the province's motto is “Je Me Souviens”, I remember. I just drove by the sign on HWY 20 marking Quebec City as the National Capital Region and once again noted that Quebec Provincial Parks are termed National Parks. The premier of the province is referred to as Prime Minister and everyone has their nose rubbed in the struggle to eradicate English from the province. It continues in the province's insistence on opting out of the Federal Pension Plan and their squawking at any Federal move seen as an intrusion on provincial jurisdiction.

Do we gain anything by over-reacting to these provocations? Dose allowing rhetoric and emotion to boil over do anything to resolve long-standing contentions? Is not inclusivity more productive than argumentation. Cannot we allow the past to be the past and move on. Does over-reaction do anything to resolve matters? Would it not be smarter to choose our battles: like low minimum wages, discriminatory hiring practices, weak labour codes.

Homeward Bound

Got going before breakfast while the coast was relatively clear. I'd fallen into bed upon my return Sunday Night. Got out to walk around my RV just to make sure nothing was amiss. Just kept driving until I finally had to stop somewhere beyond Pictou to run the generator to make coffee and toast. Rough roads made using my laptop dicey so I listened to Radio or played the CD's I'd picked up at the festival.

Stopped once more at Masstown and took my brother-in-law's advice to buy a quart of Grapenut Ice Cream rather than spend nearly as much on a single cone. Picked up fresh strawberries and some jam though they were out of Strawberry Rhubarb. I'll try Blueberry Rhubarb as a consolation. Opted to drive up old highway 4 bypassing the tollway. Made it to Sackville on the gas I'd bought in Enfield over a week earlier.

Short drive from there to Stonehurst Golf Course near Magnetic Hill. I'd been running A/C for some time to remain alert. The 'campground' wasn't much and the Wi-Fi was pitiful and turned off overnight. Met a retired couple who were interested in picking my brains about local music. Originally from Pictou they'd retired to Florida.

Tuesday took off for the drive to Quebec. Stopped along the way for lunch at a Subway North of Woodstock, NB, and ran into a long lineup at the counter. Stopped North of Edmundston to fill-up so I could make it through Quebec without spending 10¢ more per litre on gasoline there. Between Déglis and Cobano HWY 185 is still under construction so traffic was diverted to the southbound lanes. At least everything was paved.

My once favourite park in Rivière-Du-Loup has degraded Wi-Fi. Couldn't get online once I arrived having gained an hour crossing the border. When it started thundering with heavy rain the gang beside me in a tent packed up and left. Made it online just long enough to pay my bills late in the evening.

On Tuesday drove 346 miles, Wednesday the hop to Montreal was a hundred less though the roads were rough and the sun hot. Stopped at a St. Hubert Express west of in Drummondville for counter service and self-serve condiments. Decided to drive on to West End Montreal so I'd be West of Thursday Morning traffic and give KOA Montreal West one last try. Propped between the CN Mainline with level crossings to the south and HWY 20 just outside the park office the place is almost fully occupied by seasonal campers with fancy park model homes. The patch of grass between tree stumps was ill-marked and uneven. The Wi-Fi worked mind you and with the A/C blasting the noise was tolerable. Ten miles from the Ontario Border.

On Wednesday made coffee and was on the road shortly after 7:00 AM. Rough roads again but Montreal Classique en français beguiled the first section of road. Made it to Landcaster, Ontario before I had to fill-up my gas tank. The machine balked at completely filling my tank. Stopped at my favourite Dennys in Napanee for Brunch and moved to avoid the loud chatter of two woman having a businesswoman's lunch.

Save for a rude female driver who honked at me in the right-most lane because she seemed to think I should tail gate the car in front of me the way she was my Van, the drive proved merely tiring. No slowdowns despite lanes marked for Pan Am HOV traffic. Made it to Oakville shortly before 2:00 PM with classical music still playing on CBC.

Stanfest

There's a poignancy inherent in an event that commemorates the life of a singer/songwriter who died far too young. It continues in the life of a town that died because its principal employer closed up shop. In an event cancelled last year due to a blow-hard named Arthur.

Folk Music is the language of the working people; be they migrant workers, the man behind the plough, the men who go down to the sea in ships, the colliers who enter the deeps, the factory worker, the housemaid on her knees. Too often the pay is too little, the jobs short-lived, the work too hard. In consequence the tone is often melancholy.

Arriving at Stanfest it is hard to believe that matters will ever come together but 800 volunteers pulling together with a will and a co-ordinated purpose seem to always make it happen. The Thursday Night Pre-Party appears to be an opportunity for old friends to renew acquaintance. It is nearly impossible to hear the acts who perform in the dreadful acoustics of the Canso Arena above the chatter.

Stanfest is a party animal kind of place. Quiet hours are between 3:00 AM and 8:00 AM. Generators allowed between 8:00 AM and 11:00 PM. Remember concerts go to 1:00 AM. Waiting until 8 to make one's first coffee is a bit of a strain for early risers. As with most seaports getting anywhere involves a hill and so it was, puff, puff, as I walked into town to shop at the CO-OP. On Thursday July 2^nd their truck had just come in and pallets of food were plopped everywhere in the aisles. They'd just gotten a load of fresh Maritime Strawberries. Bread was from the local bakery I'd just walked past. Sauer Kraut from Lewis Mountain, NB.

Just to tease us it rained overnight twice but managed to clear before concert time each day. Friday Night presented an azure blue clear sky and as the sun set Venus and Jupiter lit up the sky just to the right of stage while a bird flew back and forth with worms to its nest under the eaves above the speakers stage right.

A Duo called Fortunate Ones from NFLD led off proceedings followed by Catherine MacLellan from PEI. Talent really seems to run in families. Guy Davis' harmonica truly sang next. The Pictou Prince Dave Gunning found reason to scowl before he bloomed for the audience. Guitar picking is rarely lacking at these events but Thom Swift stood out, particularly on National Steel. Alan Doyle of Great Big Sea fame to quote others put on an object lesson in how to work an audience. As the night's headline act he held the crowd enthralled. His guitarist Corey Tetford pranced about the stage and watching the expressions on his face proved to provide an act in and of itself. He and the accordionist mugged with Alan while the bassist from Halifax stood expressionless and unmoving. Fiddle and drums completed the group. Harry Chapin's brother performed with Livingston Taylor—a music professor, and EVA, an all female trio. RURA from Scotland were rather loud and featured a mixed group, one in peaked sailor's hat on tin flute and bodhran, a guitar, fiddle and bag pipes. I found the entire evening rather over-amplified and heavy on the bass in particular—the recording from John Allan Cameron as I waited for the show to start boomed. By wrap up time the sky was clear and cold and returning home was about getting warm again.

Morning came all too soon on Saturday. Decided to try out the Shamrock Club for breakfast. It proved to be a continental breakfast with fried dinner ham and boiled eggs thrown in. I was underwhelmed.

Daytime workshops from 11:00 to 6:00 PM provide an opportunity for solo acts to give an extended performance and to highlight acts that don't get their moment on the main stage. When groups of performers join up for a themed presentation the magic happens when up to four groups use the opportunity to jam together. Alas egos often get in the way. It is also instructive to see whether event hosts choose to lead off or let others go first. With 5 stages performing simultaneously plumping for one group is a dilemma.

For Bards and Ballads Nathan Rogers, Rachel Sermani and Mike Doyle played nice and supported one another.

The next grouping of Ryan Cook, Fortunate Ones, and Shiretown performed as solo acts. Seeing performers up close and personal gives them the opportunity to supply background to their songs and personal details. Ryan Cook from Yarmouth grew up on a dairy farm—“You can whip our cream, but you can't beat our milk.” The farm is no more.

The Fitzgerald Family are Everything Fitz from Bancroft Ontario playing Ottawa Valley style fiddle and tap dancing. With the second act a no show they put on an impromptu hour-long bravura performance with one of their own number a late arrival due to travel problems. Great fiddling even more impressive when done while tap dancing. Just watching them made me feel sore. Their novelty fiddle act is sheer magic. Tom loosened the hair on his bow and pulled it over his fiddle to play all four strings at once.

I remained at the Queensport Stage for About My Home. All these groups seem to blend together in one's mind. A break for late lunch at 3:00.

At the Fox Island Stage Garnet Rogers led a workshop called There's Something Wrong in the World. Garnet told us about the county expropriating a family's land to ship crushed rock to China. As Sam Baker put it, “Don't they have rocks in China.”

Songs by my Heroes So who were their heroes?

Singalongs Alas the songs selected tended to give one the message that audience participation was not really wanted.

Something about a Saturday Night Audience dating back to my days in Amateur Theatre. Granted that I've been spoiled by the classical music experience for the not so subtle differences of the pop music genre. But the gang who moved in behind me Saturday Night had zero interest in listening to the acts on stage which begs the question, if all you want is a family reunion why go to a concert and spoil it for those who want to listen. I finally had to get up and move elsewhere. People so boorish wouldn't give it a second thought.

I'd already seen Chuck Brodsky and Sam Baker in the afternoon. Matt Anderson, a surprise replacement for the third act was popular with the crowd. Lennie Gallant followed and then Bruce Guthro headlined. He brought out his 24-year-old son and then in succession filled the stage with 10 other musicians. Breabach from Scotland brought twin bagpipes, end blown flute and transverse, fiddle, guitar and stand-up bass plucked and bowed. Modern young celtic performers do their own interpretations of traditional ballads and seem to shun performing unplugged. Maddy Prior strutted regally on stage amid the wall of sound her backup group provided. When the noise became painful I made it a night missing the final group—Shanneyganock. I'd long since moved so I could hear the performers above the audience racket.

Sunday Morning began wet for those up that early. I walked up to the arena for their breakfast in paper machete box after brewing my own coffee at home. Seven bucks gets you scrambled eggs, hash browns, curled bacon, three sausages, and buttered toast—single slice. Grab your own condiments. There's a reason for the term greasy spoon.

Went outside to access the Pourhouse Stage. Though the place has dreadful acoustics it affords an opportunity to sit inches from the performers and see them eye to eye.

The first act was Lennie Gallant from PEI accompanied by two sons on drums and guitar. A fourth musician on fiddle. The latest in drums is an enclosed box the performer sits on getting different timbres depending on where they strike it with hands or brushes or padded sticks. First saw one 4 years ago at Louisbourg Playhouse. Lennie is a folky who has written many hockey ballads having played left wing in his younger days. He told of drilling a hole in the ice on a backyard pond to flood the ice to smooth it out. When he met Brian Trottier at a community game he was told. We had one of those backyard ponds, somewhere out west, when we wanted to flood it we just kicked a couple of logs out of the beaver dam—can you get any more Canadian than that?

I hung around to see Everything Fitz a second time. With both sisters present the act was somewhat different. I marvel at their father's ability to keep an act involving three growing young adults together for 10 years. I haven't checked to see what's happening with the Leahy Family lately.

What followed was termed Fiddle Fever. Fiddlers from 3 groups accompanied by mandolin and guitar. Elsewhere at another time and location I missed the guitar workshop, always a highlight. Watching fiddlers jam together unrehearsed is a treat.

Slipped home for lunch and missed the blowhard intro to Singing Stan. Seeing some twenty performers on stage to work together was worth the price of admission.

Opted to settle at the Fox Island Stage near my campsite for the last three workshops.

Hard to single out individual performances after all those acts but interesting at the time to see what choices were made.

At a session titled Songs about Underdogs Bruce Guthro and Nathan Rogers exchanged some rather pointed barbs while Sam Baker and Chuck Brodsky tried to avoid the verbal fencing. Some of the humour and the songs were rather X-rated.

Rita Coolidge's handlers spent 25 minutes setting up and perfecting sound check. The few numbers she performed were sonically perfect but was all that worth it? I first saw her at about 1000 ft from the balcony of Karl Marx Theatre in Havana, Cuba with her husband of 8 years Kris Kristofferson. Seems I missed a few of her exes. She hasn't aged well but make-up and plastic surgery help. She ran over. Aside from her parade of husbands she talked of her Cherokee heritage and sang Amazing Grace in her native tongue. I am not a fan of Gospel Songs or any ballad drawn out in agonizing fashion.

Barely time for supper before finding a place to park for the evening. Found a “window” between two female beached whales that moved into preplaced seats. Their smoking buddy walked all over my feet in the dark going out to smoke every half hour. At least the gang this night were relatively quiet.

Garnet Rogers came on first to a lawn that was packed with empty chairs. He was gracious and pulled out two sheets of paper that contained an excerpt from the book he is writing about touring with his brother to come out this Fall.

Hat Fitz and Cara were a pair from Australia. He played National Steel and she sat in a long dress with her legs splayed in front of a set of drums and wore a brilliantly red hat of bird feathers. She drummed, sang, played washboard with steel studded gloves and penny whistle. He sang and reacted badly to his wife translating his thick outback accent.

Coig—Scottish for five are a group formed after a Cape Breton workshop placed them together. Interesting sound but over loud.

Room was made for an Ozark group that failed to make it Saturday. Looking like the cast from Dueling Banjos in the movie Deliverance the men had flowing beards and long flaxen hair. Ten-year-old EmiSunshine left we wondering what constitutes child abuse as she sang lyrics I hope are beyond her years.

Rita Coolidge performed non-stop for over an hour songs spanning her decades and husbands. Note perfect performance but I tire quickly of that long drawn out ballad style of singing.

Long haired young Jordan Musycsyn was raved about by the hosts with his past shoulder-length hair, patched jeans and 8-piece band including black blues pianist in white suit and red tie. I didn't see what the fuss was about. They did make a lot of noise.

The Standfields, a local act were 5—guitar, bass, drum, bouzouki, and electric mandolin. They weren't as bad as I'd expected is the best that I can say.

The closing singalong was for the 40 some people on stage but didn't include the audience who couldn't have read the words printed in the program anyway at 12:30 AM in the dark. I'd brought my light and was disappointed. They skipped two of the numbers including the final Amazing Grace already performed in Cherokee by Rita Coolidge.

Cape Breton

The drive up to Cape Breton begins with a trip to Truro. First order of business was full gas tank. Eventually I'll remember that Wilson's in Enfield is at the second entrance to the highway. I gassed up at Petrocan. The drive to the Canso Causeway is on limited access highway until the last few miles. I stopped at the tourist bureau after I'd crossed over. Stopped again to shop for groceries in Port Hawkesbury. Drove up to Little Bras-D'Or Lake to camp at Arms of Gold Campground. Stayed over an extra day as I needed the rest but ended up wasting a sunlit day for rain that arrived a day late.

Walked down to the loch crossing a railroad track that ceased operations the day before. Startled a Great Blue Heron and sat a spell. The peace was disturbed by a local yokel on a dirt bike. I passed up on a trip to the Miner's Museum and lunch at Wilma's on site. The rain started Sunday Evening and continued through the forenoon next day. At least I missed the suête that blew 114 mph Sunday Night in the Cheticamp area.

Monday Morning dawned foggy. My one bit of luck was driving straight onto the Englishtown Ferry. Cape Smokey was shrouded in natural smoke and the world disappeared a few feet from my windows as I drove up to Ingonish. Early Season Staff were still getting used to using Park's Canada's Wonky Software and still leaning about their park. The bookstore and guide books are at the other end of the park in Cheticamp. The park map provided is rather rudimentary. Got a campsite and settled in to wait out the rain. The evening program in the amphitheatre, outdoors proved to be a tour of the park's 26 hiking trails. I took plastic along to sit upon and a head lamp that reflected the fog on my way home.

Tuesday Morning I awoke to brilliant sunshine. Ideal weather to drive the highlands. Aside from a patch of dense fog on the inland highlands the views were spectacular. The roads winding and betimes steep and mountainous. I stopped in Cheticamp to pick up a park guide and a few other books. The movie in the theatre at the Visitor's Centre proved to be an apologia for Water Parks in Canada, not an intro to Cape Breton Highlands. Outside the Service Berries were just beginning to form fruit. Stopped in Cheticamp for fuel and failed to find either the campground I was looking for or the pub that was to have had an evening program. Drove on along more winding occasionally rough roads to Mabou where the Rankin Sister's cafe looked unprepossessing and lacked parking. Drove on until I saw a sign for Sunset Sands RV Park in Port Hood.

The overflow parking proved to be beside the community pool and arena the campground proper fully occupied by seasonal campers. Across the road was the Catholic Cemetery with the church up on the hill. A wharf and rock reinforced sandbar defined a protected beach where one person was out in the water while the rest sat on the beach. A yahoo on a seadoo roared back and forth making waves and noise. Come evening I got the rare opportunity to see the sun set over the ocean.

The Celtic Music Interpretive Centre in Judique prove to be a short drive the next morning after a casual breakfast. I parked in front of the community centre and explored the neighbourhood. Finding the door open entered the Catholic Church and met Father MacMillan in his nave. The church is well maintained and displays simple beauty. A MacDonald Tartan hangs from the truncated balcony. I learned that despite the name the area is now 100% Celtic, not Acadian as the name would suggest. Walked over to the gazebo in the Tartan Gardens where later flowers will define a tartan pattern. Next door was the funeral home and opposite the General Store and NSLC. The Post Office was just beyond—they still have one. Always fun to see what the must have items would be. Here also a glimpse in the locals taste in wine and beer. A single bottle in presentation case of the locally produced Single Malt Whisky sells for $79.00 for 750 ml. No sale. Walked over to the Community Hall with its displays of local Tartans and a model schooner that rivaled the Bluenose. A tribute to Buddy MacMaster. At the back of the stage a giant fiddle that filled the backstage wall.

I passed on visiting the interactive museum and briefly browse the small boutique. The lunchroom boasted a small alcove with rogues gallery between the windows and a few tables around a central stage area where a female fiddler played on mike with electronic piano. I had chowder, fishcakes, chow chow and chips—potato chips. Sampled the local 'Scotch', acceptable with a finger of water. A tiny ramekin of strawberry rhubarb crisp with a dollop of whipped cream and coffee which was quite good. With tip $40, I am a spendthrift today. Tipped the musicians a twoonie.

Drove down to Canso finding the winding road a bit dangerous at the posted speed. I slowed down. The sky today is cloudless or nearly so. Canso has sprouted a wind farm since my visit 2 years ago. Found my camping area and parked without assistance, then went in search of a program. The place will fill up but I seem to be one of the few early arrivals. I was thankful when my generator started to power my A/C. Time for Supper.

Halifax

After I spent a week in Halifax the sun finally figured out how to shine. There had been brief patches between showers and thunderstorms but mostly it was just wet. Visiting Fall River is a matter of spending time with family and to a lesser degree getting my RV a yearly waxing. That and being grateful for the availability of the resident handyman to resolve a few nagging issues. Watched a couple movies and saw a few TV shows. I'm not accustomed to watching commercials. A neighbour here got a load of firewood he's cutting up with a powersaw. Another has been feeding pheasants whose squeaky washline call echoes periodically. Deer and their two fawns appear in the back yard, it is hoped that Bambi leaves the garden alone. The resident piliated woodpeckers call off and on. Beech trees here are suffering from a mite blown in by Hurricane Arthur last year. They look very sick. The Halifax Chronicle Herald arrives daily, a packet of flyers Wednesdays. Life in the fast lane?

United Church on Sunday. A trip into Dartmouth for Clams and Chips at John's Lunch then cross the bridge to Halifax to tour the new Library. A walk up over the hill to assay the latest subdivision expansion. Someone has money for such large homes. This time round there hasn't been time yet for a walk down to the Shubenacadie Canal. Home and family is where you are treated the best and complain the most. I got to finally meet my great niece and nephews. The avuncular Great Uncle Garth is still uncertain of the role.

Mahone Bay

 

Traveling in Nova Scotia is not like driving on a Toll Road Perry Texas Highway where the speed limit is 85, that's miles per hour pardner. Too often with a high profile vehicle one watches out for encroaching brush and tree branches. Tire eating potholes, uneven patches, one-lane-bridges, sharp curves, steep hills, and even dirt roads. Highway construction is done in summer. Even on expressways traffic is often two-way and the curves are left in and the hills can be very steep. This is to say that it takes longer to get there on these kinds of roads.

My trip this Thursday, June 18 was on the Route 3, until the construction of HWY 103 the main road from Bridgewater to Halifax and along the South Shore heading South-West all the way to Yarmouth. In the 60ies I traveled it by school and commercial bus and even once or twice by car. Patronage being what it is how recently certain sections have been repaved tends to depend upon the constituent's voting patterns. Wake-up Hill with its sharp curve left at the top of a blind hill is particularly memorable.

I left Lunenburg on the Kissing Bridge Road. The covered bridge that would have given this road its name has not existed in my memory. Much of the route winds through alder, birch, and swamp. Finally one gets sight of Mahone Bay and its reputed 365 islands and around a bend in the bay a glimpse of the famous three churches: Anglican, Lutheran, and United. Along the waterfront is public parking and even a civic washroom, clean and well appointed.

As I was to discover, they don't roll out the sidewalks in Mahone Bay until 10:00 AM so I found the Biscuit Eater Cafe closed. Tim Hortons was open and even has a drive-through window but I can visit one of those anywhere in Canada. Jo-Ann's is a combination gift shop, fruit stand, emporium, bakery, and tea house and it was open to browse but... ...I decided to wait it out.

As billed The Biscuit Eater Cafe was a book-lovers paradise with new and used books, self-serve coffee, and tables located amid the stacks. Staff were warm and helpful. My on request breakfast omelet came with biscuit and jam and a delightful salad. I'll go back when I visit next year.

Shopped the area boutiques and picked up a colourful print by Paul Hannon, right:

Back at my Van I was charmed to find the South-Shore Mobile Library parked on the Bay Side Lot. 

 Paused to capture a close-up of the churches though this combo slights the Angican Church.

Drove on to Hubbards to find camping. Walked out to Hubbards Beach but even the gulls weren't braving the wind-swept whitecaps. The cabins here look exquisite. Watched a carpenter drown a fish burger in Ketchup at the canteen. Sat in my home on wheels and used the Wi-Fi to catch up online.

Lunenburg

Visiting Lunenburg evokes childhood memories of a drive in our old Ford pickup at 25 MPH the twenty miles from home to pay our yearly taxes and visit the relatives on Kaulback St where children were expected to be seen and not heard. I probably made the trip from Falmouth in the same amount of time.

Its designation as a World Heritage Site ensures that little changes in Lunenburg though the sign on old HWY 3 directing one to “New Highway”, 103, has finally come down after 4 decades.

After its protracted refit the twenty-million-dollar Bluenose II is finally undergoing sea trials. No word yet on what further adjustments it may need before it's ready to take on the public. It is a beautiful ship engendering the proud tradition of Lunenburg Seafarers. An eight-sided compass-shaped monument honours the hundred ships and many more men lost during two and a half centuries of the Lunenburg Fleet going down to the sea. The most recent entry was for 2014 paying mute testimony to the fact that seafaring remains a profession fraught with danger. One of the two 1935 entries is for Harris Oxner whose wife saw her husband, the captain's ship return to port from her 'widows walk' with its flag at half mast. Men lost at sea leave behind no earthy grave a grieving widow can visit. She with her daughter moved back into the home in which she grew up living out her days with her maiden sister. Hazel and Edna suffered the indignity of having devastating hurricanes bear their names.

Once more I'm camped at the Lunenburg Board of Trade Campground. The crew of a movie, The Healer, being shot in town have taken over the upper level but save for one other motorhome I have the lower level overlooking the back harbour to myself. It is quiet save for the hum of two generators above. I took advantage of a beautiful sunlit day to wander the lower harbour section of town.

First stop was the Ironworks Distillery where Chester the orange tabby stray with a rumpled ear and unbalanced head adopted them last November assuming the run of the place and greeting patrons ever since. His new dark rum was not to my taste but home bound I picked up some Apple Brandy, a rather fiery brew.

The Cape Rouge was moved to the Bridgewater Wharf after sinking in Lunenburg, (it serves as Duke's boat in TV series Haven). The rest of the harbour area has various working vessels under service with pride of place given to the Bluenose II and her entourage. Various companies offer whale watching—minky whales this time of year, deep sea fishing, harbour tours, and sailing excursions. Finally the two ships of the Fisheries Museum of the Atlantic. There I found a come back from away who engaged me in chat for several hours. I forget his name but he lives across the harbour on the road to the golf course near the home he grew up in.

Dropped into Foodland for raisin bread and to look for fish. Given its location the place stocks very little fish but I picked up some frozen breaded haddock for supper. I was seeking some fish paddies.

After supper wandered over to the Mariner King to meet my tour guide for the Haunted Ghost Tour of Lunenburg. Since I proved to be the only guest the part owner and I spent the rest of the evening swapping lore. Superstition marks the life of a sailor as the sea remains uncontrollable and unpredictable. The former owner's wife haunts the now Boscowan Inn as a naughty poltergeist. Peter Mailman was hung outside the former Lunenburg jail after bludgeoning his wife with an axe on a trip to the woods to pick berries. Various superstitions influence architecture including identical back and front doors so built to confuse the devil who enters only from the back door. No trip to Lunenburg is complete without a visit to St. John Anglican where seventeen people lie buried in the basement crypt. No knowledge remains as to the reasons for so honouring those given this resting place. They range in age from infant to seniors. The other icon of Lunenburg proudly stands on the height of land as it has since it was built for $30,000 in 1885—The Lunenburg Academy. The basement washrooms were termed the dungeon by students who feared to go there. Many students walked to school through the adjoining cemetery still accepting the dearly departed. A view of the coming conjunction of the planets Venus and Jupiter in the early evening sky marked the end of our tour. I was even give a ride back to the campground.

Spent a quiet night after a shot of brandy and awoke Tuesday morning to a brief ray of sunshine. No fog but rain is predicted to be on the way. I need to get dressed and go in search of a plate of fish patties and chow chow.

Walked uptown along Montague St in search of same, in fact walked all the way to the end past the French Cemetery. When I did find them they were well-browned but lukewarm, the chow chow was over-sweet and the accompanying Caesar Salad had one lone crouton. I'll eat in tonight.

I yielded to the temptation to pick up a very bright print of the Lunenburg Waterfront. Bought myself a pair of Blunstones, definitely not a casual purchase but I needed new shoes and the price was right.

Stopped at Adams and Knickle for fresh Scallops fresh off the boat yesterday--$11/lb. Met Chester the cat out for a prowl. Out to visit a regular customer he had no time for me.

At 3:04 still no rain. When it came the fog horn started as well but contrary to predictions it was a gentle sprinkling that lasted overnight and cleared for a beautiful Wednesday.

After clearing up what proved to be a minor engine issue—a gas cap jarred loose by rough roads I drove off to visit the Olde Sod in Midville Branch. As the saying goes, you can't go home. I am not the lad who departed in 1967 and home has changed inexorably. Most of the people I grew up around I can visit in the cemetery.

Falmouth

Visiting Falmouth is about spending time with family rather than doing. I get barked at by the dachshunds but otherwise consider myself at home and part of the furniture. Always pleasant to have someone else do most of the cooking. Sitting on the verandah reading or watching TV when the dogs are quiet. I did get a chance for a swim in the pool whose base I helped put in place last year when I visited and a shopping trip to Sobeys in Windsor to stock up on a few supplies. One of my sports is checking out what is and isn't available in a certain area and what local can't do without items have pride of place. Red Rose Tea shares prominence with Morse and King Cole but they actually had a few varieties of Twinings loose tea. Sheer volume confirms Maxwell House as Canada's favourite coffee, it was on sale. I found Tancook Sauer Kraut sharing space with rival Krisp but no turnip kraut. As you head East bologna becomes more widely stocked and the chubs bigger and bigger. I do not go for Newfie Steak but its popularity is obvious. I did find everything on my shopping list.

Leaving Saint John

Seemingly Saint John is sad to see me depart as in honour of my last day here we are being treated to a monsoon. 

Sunday Morning made it to Trinity Anglican for 10:30 Service which saw the interim pastor absent and a guest speaker, a second year Seminarian giving the sermon. An integral part of the service is coffee in the Bennett Room, a social event that engendered noisy conviviality. Trinity has a failing Allan Electronic organ that contains transistors long out-dated by modern integrated circuits. When purchased to replace a pipe organ in need of repairs that pipe organ that still famously performs in Charlottetown, PEI could have been restored for the same price. Anyone who knows me understands what a tragedy I consider that to have been. I sat and chewed the fat with an amiable confederate.

In the afternoon attended a backyard BBQ at the home of a mutual friend. Met a gentleman with the surname Hebb who grew up on the Newcombville Rd in Wileville, Lunenburg County, Nova Scotia. We had an interesting chat comparing memories.

In the evening went to Compline which was followed by tea at Tims. On our return ran into J-P, Jean-Paul, the pastor of Stonechurch and Trinity.

Monday was quiet occupied with making sure my engine battery is healthy and topping off my house batteries. Spent considerable time reading David Goss’s latest book on Saint John.

Made the unwise decision to have dinner at Lily Cafe here at Rockwood Park. Suffice to say I have resolved never to repeat the mistake.

Today, Tuesday finished the book on Saint John and am looking out at the rain. I’m glad I did those chores yesterday. There’s a small lake building outside my windows.

My friend and I broke bread together one last time and I retired for the night to the patter of rain. Overcast but only misting fog Wednesday Morning as I dumped my holding tanks before departing.

Gassed up in Sackville, the payment system at the pump malfunctioned, nothing new, fuel $1.17.9/L. The gang at the NS Welcome Centre were not welcoming but Jacob the piper in full tartan regalia is back to pipe travelers into Nova Scotia once more. The Halifax Chronicle no longer supplies complimentary papers.

At the Coboquid Pass was charged the $4.00 car rate and next stop was Masstown Market. A double scoop of Grapenut Ice Cream was $3.40. The raisin bread fresh from the oven. Loaded up on That Dutchman’s Gouda, Maple Syrup, Honey and a few preserves.

I left a foggy Saint John and after Moncton hit high winds. The windfarm at Tantramar Marsh was busy whirling away and has grown considerably. The Sun was out when I reached Elm River and the flies had arrived. I dozed in the afternoon sun and was attended by mosquitoes and silence otherwise overnight. I did not miss the noise from Irving’s trains.

End of Life Care

From my point of view the issue here is the fact that philosophical and ethical discussion has not caught up with medical science. I have been listening to podcasts in which Dr. Brian Goldman discusses issues surrounding DNR or No Codes, (Do Not Resuscitate), in the case of terminally ill or dying patients.

In the first place if your loved one dies at home do not call 911 as paramedics are obligated to apply CPR and Defibrillation unless the body is obviously dead--rigor mortis has set in. In a world where it is possible to sustain life in the absence of brain activity or any viable quality of life the issue of using extraordinary means to sustain life indefinitely becomes an ethical and emotional issue.

Lost in all the emotional baggage is the fact that death is a natural and inevitable part of life. Hospitals and Medical professionals seem to feel it is their bounden duty to fight death at all costs. Too few live out their elder years at home or are allowed to die at home in their own beds surrounded by loved ones.

In a hospital setting staff are by default required to run a code blue if a patient stops breathing or their heart stops beating hence the DNR designation. Resuscitating a patient who will inevitably die within minutes, hours, days is cruel, painful, and adds no quality of life to the individual.

When a patient is terminally ill, in pain, or not expected to recover having to ask relatives to authorize a no code at a time of deep emotional trauma is a matter of asking for a decision when the decision maker’s mind is not capable of rational thought. Failure to resuscitate is not euthanasia, it is allowing the body to undergo its natural processes and it does not equate with failure to care for the patient or to do everything possible to make their final hours as comfortable as possible. 

In the absence of home care and the opportunity to live out one’s life in a multi-generational setting Hospice Care for those nearing the End of Life is preferable to a hospital setting. I’m personally uncomfortable with the recently coined term Death Midwives.