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.

Change of Seasons

If I didn’t know better, I'd swear it was a full moon. What a cast of characters I have seen this morning.

To start, I was filling up our car at the gas station (Green note: I don’t normally drive to work. My wife was going to drop me off at the bus stop) and the guy from the car in the next bay returned to his car from paying in the store. He slid behind the wheel, put on his sunglasses (heavy cloud cover this morning, not a hint of sun), lowered all the windows and cranked his Rap (and I mean window-shaking-cranked) as he eased the car towards the street. Maybe it’s just me, but is anyone really impressed by enlightening lyrics such as, “I make a lot of money, I do what the f___ I want...”? Boomin’ bass, boomin’ bass, yet more boomin’ bass.

An obvious chick-magnet.

Observation #2: a dump truck with a trailer slows down in front of the gas station while I’m pumping gas. I’m wondering what his intent is as I see no obvious obstruction in his path. He starts to turn into the gas station. Oops, too tight a turn. Must back up a bit, halting traffic on Fraser Street, adjust front wheels, try again. He arcs the truck onto the paved approach to the pumps. I’m thinking, “He can’t fill that thing up here. Even if they do have a diesel pump there are facilities tailor-made for re-fuelling large trucks.” Sure enough, he parks it in front of 4 re-fuelling bays and leaves it idling while he goes in for a coffee-to-go.

Words escape me. And don’t even get me started about emissions concerning purposelessly idling vehicles.

Observation #3: while dump-truck-guy is in the convenience store, pickup-truck-guy pulls in, parks in front of the store, across the drive aisle from the series of gas pumps, with a lit cigarette! Don’t they teach people anymore (at a very young age, I might add) that fire and gasoline are a dangerous combination? How rare a combination is health consciousness and good judgement?

Observation #4: this occurred a couple of days ago on a construction site in Langley. After a short discussion with a site supervisor, I had returned to the truck to leave when a “grunt” (so-named for his discretion I’m about to describe) parked his forklift in front of my truck, with a lit cigarette in his mouth, and walked across the yard to pick up a jerry can of gasoline! Don’t these people get it? Fire/ gas/ bad!

Observation #5: as the bus approached this morning I was happy to see it wasn’t very full: I’d get a seat. I flashed my Farecard and walked in scanning for the best available seat. At the back, just up the steps to the rear compartment, two people were sitting on opposing benches, directly facing each other. I don’t know if they knew each other. The man was Caucasian, and in the glance I gave him I’d describe him as a cross between Burl Ives and a Sikh. Strange analogy I know, it was something about the beard.

The woman across the aisle was having issues of some kind. She was breathing in great sighs, and, again in the brief glance I gave her, she seemed to be swaying in her seat. Her appearance was dishevelled and unwashed. My seat did not face her, and I wasn’t about to turn around in an obvious move to analyze her further. I did note that no one else on the bus was seated anywhere near her. I was about to plug in my earbuds when I heard her ask the man across from her, “When is it? I mean, not what year, I know it’s 2011, but what month is it?”

The guy actually paused before he answered. Whether that means he didn’t know either, or he was reluctant to engage her in conversation, I don’t know. He did tell her it was September. She spoke a couple more sentences, but in a lower volume so I couldn't hear. A couple of stops later she exited the bus and I noticed she was barefoot. Last week that would have been fine, although a bit unorthodox for bus transit, but not out of line considering air temperature. This morning, not so much.

“What month is it?” Wow. I lead such a sheltered life.

Uni-athlon

I must admit, I had grand visions of participating in the Vancouver to Whistler Gran Fondo this year. But I talked myself into believing I'm a short-distance cyclist.

Now I'm thinking of myself, "What a wuss!"

The unicyclist in this photo is the same guy that's done the Ride To Conquer Cancer (Vancouver to Seattle) in oh-nine and twenty-ten. I didn't actually see him in 2011, but heard from other riders he participated this year as well.

If a guy can ride 120 km on a unicycle, I feel a bit sheepish for having wimped out. I was concerned I'd be out-classed since I ride a mountain bike.

This guy is indeed an inspiration to those of us that think we can't.

p.s. The newspaper article isn't quite accurate. This ride doesn't attract 7,000 riders each year, although it might in time. This is only the 2nd year for the Fondo in Vancouver, and last year the limit was 4,000 riders.

Blackberries; no, not hand-held devices, the REAL berries

It's blackberry season again! This is big news because somehow I missed it last year. Repeated declarations of "I want to pick blackberries this weekend" somehow never materialized. A classic example of time mis-management.

This year I vowed to partake in the harvest after our return from Winnipeg. The berries would be in full swing by then.

And so they were, but...after an usually wet Spring, right up into June and July, the blackberries were off to a slow start. I picked a few pounds last evening but they were much smaller than in past years.

Busy-work, as I would categorize berry-picking, is an absorptive task, sometimes so much so that I can "zone-out" to a degree. I mention this because last evening, after picking berries for probably half an hour already at my secret location in Richmond, I was "in the zone". Completely oblivious to distractions until a reflective flash of glass caught my eye. I realized that the massive thicket I was working on was actually concealing a large, long-abandoned greenhouse building. The whole thing was covered from one side t'other, including most of its roof. One can only imagine what it must look like peering from the inside out.

Right now all I'm thinking of is blackberry ice cream. Mmmmmmm.

Discovered Treasure!

I was walking our dog past one of our neighbourhood's more notorious dumpy houses a couple of nights ago when I noticed a change. The half hidden Jeep pick-up that's been stashed in a corner of the front yard for as long as I can remember (and we've lived in this neighbourhood coming up to 9 years) was gone. And there seemed to be a bit less foliage (i.e brambles) than I remembered.


I looked down the side of the house and saw a pick-up in the back yard. As you can see from the photo I took last December, there really wasn't much of a usable back yard. Almost all of it was covered in brambles. My interest was piqued. My dog and I went around the corner and down the back lane for a better look.

My guess is that the City received enough complaints that they came in and clear-cut the place. And wouldn't ya know it, there were 2 cars under all those vines and branches! I'm not bold enough to march into the yard to read the back license plates, but I'd really like to know what year is on the last insurance decals for both those cars. They're the current style of plates, but I'm pretty sure ICBC started issuing that style just before Expo 86.

The big Chevy has a large dent in the roof which would correspond to the fact that there also used to be a garage under all the overgrowth. You can't really tell in the photo. I guess the Chevy took the brunt of the roof collapsing, sparing the Datsun 510.

The pick-up is the one that used to be in the front yard.

p.s. I managed to see the rear license plates of both cars a couple of days later. The Chevy was last insured in 1987, and the 510 was parked at the end of 1991.