Vancouver wildlife (as opposed to "Wild Life")

For a winter month I've seen quite a bit of wild life recently. It started with a racoon scratching at our back door several weeks ago.


















Then the knocking of a woodpecker caught my attention in our back lane.







The familiar, although somewhat eerie, call of an eagle pulled my gaze up to the treetops in Surrey's Bear Creek Park recently.


I've seen two Great Blue Herons in recent days; one in Elgin Park in South Surrey, and the other at Canada Place, on the wharf where the cruise ships tie up.










And finally, a seal in False Creek yesterday.

Is there a Latin plural for coincidence?

Do coincidences occupy the same realm as Ogopogo or the Easter Bunny? By that I mean, how does the average person view them; as fact or fiction?

A while ago I wrote a blog about coincidences, and this morning has convinced me to add a couple more to that weighty tome.

And what’s the deal with coincidences anyway? They appear to be super-persistent in that they just keep happening until you finally break down and exclaim, “Enough already! I get it! Yes, I realize that what I just experienced was indeed strange, but I can’t process it logically. Leave me alone!” And hopefully one does not espouse such comments in the middle of a crowded shopping mall at Christmas, or during a board meeting or…You probably get the point.

My guess is I’m not alone in wondering what it all means. This tangent is likely the result of hearing about a planetary discovery released yesterday by NASA concerning a potential “new Earth”. It’s called Kepler 22b, located a mere 600 light years away in the “sweet spot” of a similar solar system to our own. While not exactly related to my initial topic of coincidences (there’s gotta be a Latin plural for that word), it none-the-less veered me toward this existential thread. More specifically, there’s gotta be a source that guides the experiences of humans; a central command room, if you will. A “Jacob” for all the fans of Lost.

Being somewhat of a news junkie, another current topic that stirred my grey matter this past week has been the increasing unrest in the Middle East, especially concerning the recent Arab Spring that has toppled so many dictatorships. I’ve read in the news or heard on radio more than a couple of times the expected rise in sectarian violence that appears to be coming to pass regarding Sunnis versus Shias.

I guess what I’m wrestling with is, I do accept the existence of a higher power, thus my exhortation on coincidences (don’t worry, I haven’t completely lost that thread), but I’m wondering about the ferocity of a belief system that would pit two groups of the same religion against one another so intently as to kill each other in ever increasing skirmishes, even though what the West saw as their nemesis is now gone, i.e their former dictators.

But then again, how about Catholics versus Protestants? Northern Ireland hasn’t exactly been a picnic the last few decades.

Or Tutsis versus Hutus.

Or Israelis versus Palestinians.

Wow, this is getting pretty deep.

And now, we join previously scheduled programming, already in progress…

At work we’re currently contracted with another company to conduct facilities audits of several recreation buildings in Surrey. Our company does the building envelope portion and the other does mechanical/ electrical.

The first interesting experience I had was a couple of weeks ago. I had just pulled into the parking lot of the South Surrey Arena. It was about a quarter past 8 and Rick Cluff was just about to conduct a radio interview with a guy about the upcoming Vanier Cup game. As he finished the introduction of his guest, he then greeted him by name: Jim Mullen.

As a bit of background, I grew up in White Rock, and the South Surrey Arena is right next door in South Surrey. As you might agree then, I was a bit intrigued that just as I pulled into the parking lot of the area in which I used to live, the voice on the radio at that exact moment was a guy I used to know in high school. Admittedly I didn’t know him well, he was a friend of a friend, but I did know him. As a side note, he let me drive his MG once. It was the first car with a manual transmission I ever drove, so being a car nut, it was a rather special honour.

Fast forward to today. Arriving at another facility audit appointment, again listening to CBC, again an announcement of an upcoming guest on the program. This scenario is a bit more complicated, but again, still intriguing. And it actually involves the same friend as the previous story.

I had reviewed the Elgin Community Hall earlier in the morning. Friends Rob and Rachel held their wedding reception there about 15 years ago. That was the last time I’d been inside the building. The next appointment was Elgin School, just up the road. I’d just parked the truck and was opening up the job file of the Elgin Community Hall on the iPad to make some revisions. As I did so Rick Cluff was announcing his guest coming up shortly who just happens to be Rachel’s sister! She's a reporter for CBC.

By the way, for clarification, Jim Mullen was (maybe still is) a good friend of Rob’s.

That’s just weird. People can’t generally process the multitude of connections required to link such strings of events together. The cerebral gymnastics are just too advanced.

And just to promote that old adage that things always happen in threes, here’s another one, again related to Rob. My City of Surrey contact today happened to be the brother of a teacher I had in high school, Mr. Wiebe. (Thinking back, I must admit he did seem pretty young at the time, even to a high school kid. It could have been his first teaching job.) Currently Mr Wiebe teaches at the same high school as Rob (he’s a teacher too).

Ya just can’t make this stuff up.

Now I have a challenge for you. However you may feel about the phenomena of coincidences, whether you believe in them or not, I ask that you try to be more aware of them, at least for a while. Perhaps it’s simply a matter of the more you’re aware of them, the more often you notice them when they occur.

Because I believe they will occur.

The Hudson

I have to say, I do get to see some cool spaces with this job. Some are public, some aren’t.

Last week I was privileged to conduct a warranty review of the old Hudson’s Bay building in Victoria, which has recently been re-purposed as upscale condominiums.

I’m pretty keen on heritage preservation and revitalization, although the building envelope game I’m in doesn’t often get to play around in those areas. The last couple or three years I’ve taken quite a few courses offered by the Vancouver Heritage Foundation, whose tag line is “Creating New Life for Old Buildings”.

Several high profile buildings in Vancouver have been saved from the wrecking ball in recent years. In fact I conducted a warranty review in Vancouver a couple of years ago for another big-name department store conversion; Woodwards. And although I’m happy to still be able to see the giant “W” revolving in the sky downtown, I was a bit disappointed that, in the end, only two walls of the original structure were saved. And this was for retail/ commercial space, not residential. The living units are 100% new construction.

My interest was indeed piqued when I received instructions to put together a proposal for a new home warranty review for The Hudson; doubly so when we received a signed Work Authorization to proceed.

Construction began on the original Hudson’s Bay store in downtown Victoria in 1913, but was interrupted by WW1. The store finally opened for business in 1921. Eighty-two years later the store re-located to its present location a few blocks nearer the Inner Harbour, leaving an uninhabited shell behind to gather dust. In 2006 a developer bought it and started the long process of re-design.

I’m happy to report that the original façade has been retained, and restored. The building even features the original restored wood frame windows! Being in the building envelope biz I know I should renounce all things single pane on general principle, but I find the allure of wood-framed, single-hung sash windows to be strong indeed. Yes, it can be draughty, but the restoration process tightens up loose sashes, and seals gaps that took decades to develop.

One nifty feature that non-residents won't see is the new inner courtyard that was cut into the center of the building. It enables suites in the core to attract natural light, although their views are limited to their neighbours across the landscaped gap.

There's also a magnificent landscaped rooftop terrace on which to recline, or barbeque, or just take in the vistas of Victoria.

Black Friday

My job took me to Victoria on, of all days, Black Friday. And ironically, the building in which I was to conduct a warranty review is a former Hudson's Day department store!

First off, however, I must share with you the spectacular sunrise I encountered en route. Every time I ride the ferry, which is almost always between Tsawwassen/ Swartz Bay, I stay on the deck through Active Pass. It's the best part of the trip. That passage is the narrowest and gives you the best views of both shores. Plus the wind funnels through there with fury most of the time.

Last Friday I had just finished my breakfast as we cleared the open water stretch of the Strait of Georgia. Perfect timing. I bundled up (it was cold at dawn!) and stood on deck, armed and ready with my trusted Point-and-Shoot. It wasn't lost on me that I was about the only person on deck, save for a few smokers. Perhaps photography is a bit of an addition.

The sun's rays were almost cresting the trees on Mayne Island as we rounded the northwest tip of Mayne. Between that tip and Village Bay is where I caught the sun's first wink of the morning. Honestly, there aren't too many things I'd gladly awaken at 4:30 in the morning to witness, but this is truly one of them.

p.s. Just to be clear, the sun didn't actually rise at 4:30; it came up at about 7:50, although I had to get up at 4:30 to make the 7 a.m. boat.

zzz's

I’m really letting the moss grow under my feet regarding our recent summer road trip. We’ve been home for 2-1/2 months now and I still haven’t shared our other great adventure from that holiday.

You’ve already been entertained (I hope!) by my harrowing tale of “I know precisely how far I can go on a tank of gas”. Well now I do, is the upshot of that little mis-adventure.

“Gas Gauge Blues” occurred on the way to Winnipeg. As much as anyone might think that was all the (mis)adventure one trip should accommodate…wait, there’s more!

Let me begin with a seemingly unrelated statement; over the years I’ve come to realize that I’m likely a lot less mechanically inclined than I ever really was (am).

Believe it or not, the adventure I’m about to relay to you brings back memories of a particular book that I referred to often in my late teens, “How to Keep your Volkswagen Alive; A Manual of Step by Step Procedures for the Compleat (sik) Idiot” by John Muir. It was a bible of sorts to me, and I really believe it kept me sane on numerous occasions; those times when all I really needed was a simple diagram to tell me which engine cylinder was number 1, or which wheel brake cylinder one bleeds first, or what is the correct spark plug gap.

You see, I was a compleat (appropriate, n’est pas?) car nut in my teens. Maybe to say I wasn’t as mechanically inclined as I’d wanted to be is a bit harsh; perhaps it’s more that I didn’t have enough patience to thoroughly learn a task before jumping right in. Nonetheless, I really knew how to frustrate myself on a regular basis. I had several manuals to assist me with my 1962 Beetle, bought very much used (and abused) in 1984 during high school.

I bought my first copy of The Guide for this ’62 project. It had a spiral wire binding (the book, not the car). I couldn’t find it while preparing for this article, although I may still have it; it would be very grease-stained, and perhaps missing a few pages. My second copy of “The Manual” is the 34^th printing, dated April 1988, almost new when I was in high school. My two copies of this faithful tome assisted me many a dark night (aren’t those always the times an old VW breaks down?) with subsequent ’72, ’69, ’65 (Notchback), ’55 (Kombi), and ’64 convertible (my favourite thus far, btw) models.

Most mechanics’ manuals were too technical, or I was too impatient, or both. I drifted toward my favourite, the aforementioned Idiots’ Guide for my lion’s share of information. The illustrations drew me in (pun intended) as well. I’ve always considered myself somewhat artistic, although again, I’ve been too impatient to really apply myself to drawing. I used to sketch cars and trucks as a kid. But the cartoon style illustrations in the Idiots’ Guide (drawn by Peter Aschwanden) were definitely an attraction within themselves. Their ultra-detailed style reminded me of the Doodle Art posters I’d coloured with felt pens as a kid.

So, long-windedly, that brings me back to the memory that was forefront in my mind as we (my wife and I) experienced the second adventure of our summer road trip from Vancouver to Winnipeg, and back again, this past summer.

We had split up the return trip a bit differently. We were to attend Shauna’s cousin’s wedding on our return, thus breaking up our driving time. Usually such a trip requires approximately 24 hours of total driving time; either two 12 hour marathons, or three more sane 8 hour days. This time however, we drove about 6 hours from Winnipeg to Regina for the wedding, and stayed there a couple of days before carrying on to what we thought would be Calgary.

Our first mis-calculation occurred when we decided that we could actually travel further than Calgary; say Golden, BC. Our second mis-calculation was in leaving the hotel parking lot at 9 a.m. instead of 7. And the third mis-calculation revolved around having been driving on flat prairie roads for the previous two weeks. We (meaning me) had become unaccustomed to winding two-lane highways through the mountains, at dusk, in the rain. How soon we (and again, meaning me) forget.

Oh, and plus…the temperature plunged from a 3:37 p.m. high of 37^oC (photo-documented for proof) in Medicine Hat, to an evening low of 11^oC in Field, BC.

Yes, Field, BC. How is it we’d know with such accuracy what temperature it was in Field, BC, on that fateful late august evening, you might ask? Hmm, now therein lies a humdinger of a travel story.

From Regina, via Medicine Hat, we arrived in Calgary around dinner time, and for some reason we were at odds with each as to what to do about dinner. And as I tend to be more motivated by food than my better half, I wanted to go to a real sit-down restaurant for dinner, although honestly neither one of us were hungry enough due to afternoon snacking in Medicine Hat (who knew Timmy Ho’s had hard ice cream?). I topped up the gas tank, spilling gas on my sandal in the process. Events were definitely starting to snowball out of our favour.

We hit the road again after I’d changed from sandals to socks and shoes (in the end, a good idea). Out of Calgary, through the foothills, past Kananaskis, we finally decided to grab a bite to eat in Canmore. Sounded like a logical place to get some fast food and get back on the road quickly. Not quite a NASCAR pit-stop, but similar intent.

However…I mis-read the highway sign and took one off-ramp too soon. And do you think we could find the ruddy McDonald’s? Mein Gott im Himmel, where did they hide the McDonald’s in Canmore?! After several time-wasting laps of this small tourist town (although certainly not to suggest that Canmore is a waste of time in any way; we were simply pressed for daylight at that point), we dashed into A&W for a bite, then back on the road.

The weather was getting increasingly wetter and colder, the skies darker, and the highway narrower. (Welcome back to our 2011 BC summer!) With every passing third-of-an-hour we were getting more concerned. Although, to be perfectly honest, had it been a clear summer evening, which is what we’d been expecting (didn’t really pay attention to the weather forecast the previous evening), a drive after dark wouldn’t have been too bad. Darkness on its own doesn’t necessarily portend a bad trip. Prior to our arrival in Winnipeg Shauna drove the last portion of the trip from the US border to Winnipeg. That drive had taken a lot longer than expected due to road work and nightfall, but Shauna was reasonably familiar with the route, having grown up in that region, and it wasn’t raining. Thus, darkness really wasn’t a problem.

However, our westward tack was now combining nightfall, cloud cover (no moon), rain, streaks on the windshield from oily roadspray, lots of approaching semi-trailer trucks whose headlights were starting to cause increasing consternation due to the streaky windscreen, poorly marked road construction, numerous curves in the road, 2-lane traffic, and over-exertion on our parts from having bitten off more than we could chew in terms of driving distance. We’d already been on the road 12 hours at that point. To say the least, the atmosphere within the passenger cabin was tense at that point.

So…how did we end up in Field, BC you ask, and what on earth does this have to do with an air-cooled Volkswagen repair manual? Especially since we drive a modern Mazda?

I remember fondly from one of the first times I thumbed through a copy of “How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive”, one of the illustrations in particular caught my eye. It was a sketched scene in which many Volkswagens were parked at a highway rest stop area, most with zzz’s emanating from the cars’ interiors.

I think the rest stop design is more of a US highway scene than Canadian. I’ve driven from Vancouver to Seattle many times, beginning in my late teens when I’d attended VW shows in Seattle in the summers. I was well acquainted with these rest stops as these would be the areas we’d pull into to let slower cars in our VW mini-convoys catch up. In those years we tended to make the trip in groups of like-minded car owners.

Back to Field; as more kilometres passed, I was starting to internally scroll through our options. Although (ironically) we had a reservation for a motel with a pool in Golden, I was becoming increasingly aware that we weren’t going to get the chance to use it, at least not unless the rain stopped and the roads dried up a bit. Oily roadspray, doncha know.

Around every curve I fully expected to see a road sign denoting a (very) short distance remaining to Golden. And every ensuing curve proved to be ever-increasingly, maddenly disappointing.

The last straws were a combination of curvy stretch of dark, 2-lane through a poorly marked construction zone, a line of traffic behind me, a very long line of glaring headlights through my streaked windshield approaching me, and a narrowly missed concrete median dividing construction zone traffic. I wasn’t going very fast, not nearly fast enough for all the traffic on my bumper apparently, but I really don’t know how I avoided side-swiping that concrete barrier.

This occurred a few minutes before seeing the fork in the highway for the Field Tourist Information Centre, as if heaven-sent. A quick left, followed by a right, and we were safely in the parking lot. Unfortunately it was around 10 p.m. and the place was locked up tight; except for the public washrooms. Again, at that point, heaven-sent.

The washrooms were the one glowing beacon in this whole debacle. They were brand-new, and apparently open to the public on a 24-hour basis. I did note, however, that at the late hour we had arrived that perhaps it hadn’t been such a great idea for someone (not meaning me) to leave the doors chocked open with garbage bins inside. Upon our exit from the facilities, I ensured the doors were closed, but unlocked. The last thing you want to meet is Mama Bear and her cubs rooting through the garbage in the washroom lobby as you stumble in rubbing sleep from your eyes.

We did attempt once more to make our reservation in Golden after the rain let up a bit. We got perhaps 2 km down the highway before I turned back. It was like thinking you could most certainly swim across that small channel, and then chickening out a very short distance from shore. Once we’d mentally kissed our comfy Golden hotel room good-bye, we aimed the car across the narrow bridge over the river to see if Field held any available lodging. Slow trolling of the few streets of Field revealed one full travel lodge and several Not Vacant B&Bs.

Back to the Tourist Info Centre. Did I mention it was an 11^oC summer evening? By this time, at around 11 p.m., we were resigned to catching as many zzz’s as could be caught by bunking in the car overnight. And I must say, it wasn’t anywhere as near satisfying as that cartoon freeway reststop appeared to be. It had completely lost any pretense of attraction that it may ever had held for me.

Fortunately our dog was safe at home staying with my Mom, or else rearranging luggage within the car in order to recline the seats would have been near impossible with her kennel stowed near the hatchback. As it was I moved almost everything into the hatch area, save for a few smaller bags we stashed between us.

We drifted off somewhere close to 2:00 a.m., serenaded by the sounds of all-night-long semi-trailer truck traffic, and were awakened at 6:00 by the slamming car doors of a Filipino family having just driven eastward through the night from Vancouver.

I think I can honestly say we’ve gotten the halfway-across-Canada driving trip out of our systems for the foreseeable future.

Wardrobe mal-function

Stangely enough, this morning as I was traveling to work I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I messed up and wore one shoe each of a different pair of shoes? These ones feel like a matched pair."

Just now I looked down at my feet and guess what I saw?




Not enough sleep this week thus far, is what I saw.

Good thing I keep another pair of dress shoes in my office for days when I ride by bike to work.

Sheesh, this could have been embarrassing.

How many more sleeps?

Hard to believe. Is it just me or does it seem like Christmas advertising starts earlier every year? Waiting for a bus last night (Nov. 1) I saw the Chistmas displays set up already in this shop.

I thought briefly about masking the name, but you'd know it by its colours anyway.

October scenes

October is very transitional. I remember thinking in early October, "It really seems like the leaves aren't going to fall this year." Of course, it's completely impossible, but nonetheless I have had that thought before. I suppose it would make an interesting novel; "The Year the Seasons Stopped Changing."

This past year could have been the one. We almost didn't have a summer. And when it finally arrived, it was short. I think the late arrival really through the trees for a loop. The leaves seemed to forget to loosen their grips well into late September, and continued into the early throes of October.

Fortunately my wife and I had already planned a summer trip to Winnipeg. It's always hot there in the summer. Vancouver had more of a summer that wasn't. So it wasn't an altogether abstract thought to imagine a year where the leaves remained firmly attached to their branches.

I was thinking recently that I do tend to have abstract thoughts while walking our dog. It's those times when I really try to take in my surroundings. When a new product hits the market I often wonder, "How did anyone come up that?." Sometimes it seems it's just not a product of rational thought. But whoever said you have to be rational all the time? The abstract leads creativity, in my opinion. And I have my dog to thank for accelerating my creative process, especially photographically. Who knows, maybe one day I'll successfully act on an abstract idea.

While not altogether abstract (except maybe the grandfather clock image), these photos are a taste of what I've seen lately, and are an example of what I've thoughtfully processed, in this month of October.

BTW, the "Keep out" photo was taken at the site of the old Jericho Beach wharf. It's been removed lately because it was deemed unsafe. This view is looking East early on a recent Saturday morning.

Coincidences

Coincidences are indeed thought provoking, i.e. things that make ya go, “Hmmmm.” (How the word “go” ever replaced “said” I’ll never know, but that’s for a future rant.)

A couple of days ago a work colleague of mine told me about two commuter trains colliding in China. The same or next day (I can’t remember) this same colleague phoned me on my way home from work to say he’d like to drop by after work to give me some documents I’d need for the following day’s site investigation. I was lying on the couch watching the news as he pulled up in front of my house. And wouldncha know it; I was watching the report of the collision of those two trains in China.

This morning my wife told me about a new fitness centre a neighbour of ours is planning to open soon. I started thinking about fitness clubs because I’ve started going to Fitness World again, and the company I work for has a reimbursement available to cover part of a fitness club membership. I was thinking I should contact our HR rep to find out how to do it. I opened a job file this morning to work on a current project, and there right in front of me was an old draft document I’d physically cut and pasted some project photos onto for a field review report, and lo and behold, on the back of it was the Health Club Reimbursement form I’d filled out in 2007. I guess I never submitted it. This was the same form I was going to look for this morning!

There was another one of those “Huh?” moments that happened in between the colliding trains and the fitness club membership reimbursement form, but I have forgotten what it was. I made a mental note of it at the time, but it seems to have been sucked from my head to blend with the ether as seemingly permanently as parfum de skunk does with my Spaniel’s big floppy ears.

But, never fear. Another coincidence has just occurred (these always occur in threes, right? Or does this count as four?) This morning I was arranging a business trip for early next week to Sechelt to conduct existing conditions reviews of some buildings. I had just finished arranging a time and place with the client when I received an email from my department manager, asking if I’d issued a proposal first. I hadn’t because I thought from the phrasing of his original email that that portion of the job was already complete. Apparently not.

Considering this assignment is out of town, I thought back to the last existing conditions review I’d done; it was in Whistler. Bingo. I’d use that as a template. I had just pulled that proposal file on screen at the exact moment that Evan, the project manager of that Whistler job, walked past my office in search of my department manager. He almost never comes into this department. I’ve seen him around here maybe twice this year.

If I could display that distinctive opening music from The Twilight Zone in easily recognizable characters (not everyone reads music), I’d do it right here.

Gas Gauge Blues

Our Winnipeg trip this past summer was very memorable; a thoroughly enjoyable trip. The main reason we went was for Shauna’s parents’ 50^th Anniversary surprise party, which was a rousing success , by the way. Have I already mentioned that? Probably, in past posts. Shauna and her brother Gary planned it perfectly!

So we knew we were going to Winnipeg in the summer. The reason we decided to drive rather than fly was because we’d gotten a newer car recently, complete with cruise control and air conditioning. Anyone that’s ever driven across the prairies for a day and a half knows what a windfall that is! This was to be the longest trip we’d since embarked upon with this car. It went really well, all things considered. Except…

Everything’s bigger in the prairies. Especially distances. And me being the native BC lower mainlander proved not to have a solid handle on that concept. We had planned our route to take us south at Creston to dip into Idaho, then across Montana and South Dakota. All was going well until we (‘we’ meaning ‘me’) decided we had “plenty of gas” to get us to the next dot on the map. I seriously believed that at the time. My mistake was inserting math into a summer driving equation. To this day, I still think mathematically it should’ve worked. Especially when flat roads and steady-state cruise-controlled speeds are factored in. However…

The passage of a month’s time since we returned home has dulled my memory as to specifics, but we were still probably 50 miles away from the next “big” town, i.e. anything with a gas pump, when I started to notice the digital bars of the gas gauge disappearing seemingly at a faster rate that they had been doing on the other side of the half-a-tank indicator. Four bars...OK, we’ll make it. Three bars…Huh? Where’d that bar go? Two bars…Crap, don’t let Shauna see this. I’ll just move my hand slowly down the side of the steering wheel to block her view of the gas gauge.

One bar.

One lonely bar.

When was the last time you felt that deep thud in the pit of your stomach when something has gone horribly wrong? Perhaps a dog ran out in front of your car and you had to slam on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision and/or loss of control of the vehicle. There are lots of similar scenarios, many of which I don’t even want to think about, so I won’t be-labour the issue trying to create a list. But I’m reasonably sure you know that feeling. It was surprising to me how physically I felt that punch in the gut as the 2^nd to last bar of the fuel gauge winked out. With something like 25 miles to go on a lonely stretch of prairie highway, with literally miles between homesteads, and fading daylight, I was literally almost sick.

This trip has again revived my appreciation of guardian angels. I was trying not to panic as I scanned the horizon for some sign of civilization, i.e. anything with a gas pump. Sure enough, a line of trees I had seen approaching turned out to be a side road. I slowed down and made the turn, unsure if this smattering of houses included any services at all. I drove slowly down the gravel road past neatly maintained houses on either side. No sign of businesses, and no obvious gas stations. We shortly got to the end of the road, terminated by a grain elevator at the railway tracks. Still no gas station.

OK, while starting to panic I had one idea left. With the low-gas indicator lamp now illuminated I drove slowly back up the road towards the highway where I had seen someone enter a house as we turned off. I would have to go to the door and humbly ask if I could buy some gas. Surely someone would have a jerry can on hand for filling their LawnBoy riding tractor.

I pulled in to the driveway, got out of the car and made a conscious effort to try not to seem rattled. I know in Vancouver I don’t generally answer the door after dark if I’m not expecting someone. But this was rural Montana on a warm summer’s early evening. I knocked on the screen door. In a matter of seconds a young woman opened the door and then the screen. I said “Hi” and quickly stated my fuel crisis and asked if I’d somehow missed the gas station in this community. To my utter shock she said, “No, actually there’s a pump just down this road, towards the railway tracks.” I was stunned. I replied I’d just come from that direction and hadn’t seen a gas station. Apparently they do things a bit differently in small farming whistle-stops. The car-repair garage I had already seen did in fact have a single gas pump at the side of the building. No illuminated sign was needed because all the locals knew it was there.

“But,” I stammered, “it’ll be closed by now, won’t it?” I had seen no signs of life in any buildings besides houses.

“Yes, it’s closed, but as long as you’ve got a credit card, it should work just fine for ya.” I thanked her very much for the information and walked back to the car, hoping like heck she couldn’t detect that my legs were shaking.

Twenty minutes later we were back on the highway. Funny how much quicker that next 25 miles past.

The Old Homestead

Well, I guess the old adage is true; you can never go home again (or something like that). At least not to the house you lived in as a kid expecting it to be as good as you left it.

The White Rock house I grew up in is currently vacant, and is poised to be demolished. It sold again probably a year ago or so, and I was hoping against hope that the new owner would actually live in it. How quaint.

In this geographic location our housing market is still hot. It seems more common that an old house (in this case, built in 1957) will be bought for land value. You should see the new neighbouring monster house! In Vancouver you'd likely get 4 condo suites per floor, plus an underground parking garage in a building that size. Seriously, I’m sure there’s well over 4,000 square feet of living space per floor. Our old family home by comparison is about 900 sf per floor.

But back to the ol’ homestead. My Mom still keeps an eye on the old place from time to time, and about a week ago she told me there was a dumpster in the driveway. I happened to be in the ‘hood today so I stopped by. It’s funny what a magnet imminent destruction can be. Because once a house is gone, it’s gone for good.

I walked up the driveway, and sure enough the garage cladding has been stripped. It used to have hardboard panels, but over the decades they’ve been banned because they contain asbestos. Apparently they’re fine if you just leave them be; just don’t drill into them or take them down and handle them much. I would imagine a crew of hazmat guys removed them. I wonder if the current owner knows the whole house is clad with asbestos panels under it’s brilliantly bland grey vinyl siding.

I continued my site tour by walking along the front sidewalk to the front entrance door. It’s quite amazing how quickly a place can fall to ruin. I copied and saved the internet real estate listing photos last year, and the place actually looked quite presentable then. Now, not so much. What a dump!

To be honest, I walked through the yard about a month ago too. I thought that’d be my last chance to get a few photos before the wrecking ball fell. Today the house looked even a bit worse. I was standing at the font of the house and was about to leave when I noticed the front door was ajar. Evidence suggested it had recently been kicked in. Again I thought, “Once a house is gone, it’s gone for good.”


I went in, if for no other reason that I knew I’d forever kick myself for not seeing what my old room looks like now, 18 years later.

The only item I’d thought I might like to keep as a momento if given the chance, a decorative wrought iron emblem with a small hinged door that one would typically open to identify a visitor prior to opening the big door, had been smashed in, likely as a first B&E attempt prior to kicking in the door jamb.

Once in the house the first room you enter is the living room. Usually rooms tend to look much bigger when devoid of furniture, but this one looked smaller than I remember. The hardwood floors are still intact. I hope salvagers are employed to remove them. Old-style hardwood is still a classy find these days. I remember fondly logging (no pun intended) many miles with my Lego-built trucks along the "roads" formed by the black walnut (I think) perimeter accent wood strip of the hardwood creating the "guardrail" of the road.


On to the kitchen. To my surprise I discovered it has never been re-modeled over these last couple of decades. The ceramic tile floor is new, but that’s it. I remember I designed a new kitchen for my Mom when I still lived there and worked for a cabinetry supplier. It was mostly a design exercise for me, but it looked pretty cool on paper I must admit, especially the perspective views.

Down the hall are the 2 bedrooms. My immediate impression was that my old room reminded me of a circus tent. One wall is now blue, another pink, and another is a striped combination of the previous two. Ugh. And the view out the window into back yard is quite striking too, for all the wrong reasons. It used to have a lawn. Now it’s been completely overtaken by some sort of weedy vine, probably Morning Glory.

For some reason, all these years I thought interior renovations had been taking place. Apparently not. Aside from paint (and bad paint at that), nothing much has changed.

And as much emotional attachment as I once had for that house, I’m finding it surprisingly easy to let go and accept that it’ll all be loaded into a series of dump trucks pretty darn soon. But I do feel a twinge of guilt with that thought. It’s not like there weren’t any good times in that house. There certainly were. And yet quite simply, I’ve moved on. And rightly so; it would be weird and a bit sad if I persisted in yearning for the past. I’m happy with my position in life.

And just for anyone (i.e., Mom) that may have been thinking while reading this blog post that I was foolish to enter a vacant house, especially after having viewed previous signs of forced entry, I did have the briefest of thoughts of not doing so. However, I do believe there’s another old adage, something about curiosity...

However…I didn’t venture into the basement. The basement has always un-nerved me, even as an adult. Too few windows down there, and the few that are present are too small. Upstairs has an airy feel to it, with reasonably big rooms and no dark corners, but that basement has always creeped me out. I hated going down there at night (even as an adult). Therefore nothing was to be gained by going down there this day.

I’ve now exorcised my curiosity thoroughly. Last time I was at the house I’d been wishing to see the inside one last time. I even took some grainy photos through a dirty window. Now I’m OK with the re-development.

As long as it’s not a monster house.