Skookum Chuck

I chanced upon Skookum Chuck by Stuart Edward White (he wrote mainly Cowboy adventure novels, naturalist, travel writings and his wife’s channellings…)  set in Vancouver and published in 1925. Here is the opening paragraph. Ignore the twee opening and note the final lines of that paragraph they feel so contemporary and relevant. They are also a common reaction that I encounter to the city from people who’ve recently arrived from elsewhere to settle.)  Two fascinating things about this book 1) it’s episodic 2) there are some pretty accurate weather descriptions in it, the following is not the best example of them.

On a sunny afternoon in early May a young man strolled along a back street of Vancouver. It might have been supposed that he—or any other human, for that matter—would be savouring the fine weather that marked the break of the long winter rains, or enjoying the sight of glittering snow peaks and the twinkle of waters on two sides of the peninsula on which Vancouver is so fortunate as to be situated. But if so, his appearance strangely belied him. He looked bored. Or perhaps bored is too active a word, implying too positive a mental state. Let us substitute. He looked uninterested, indifferent, vacant.

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Here are the titles of The Episodes in the book:

I.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE SUBLIMINAL QUACK
II.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE UNDESIRABLE GRAY BOAT
III.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE TRANSMOGRIFIED HARPY
IV.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE UNWARRANTED PRECONCEPTIONS
V.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE SESQUIPEDALIAN FISH
VI.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE CATACLYSMIC CAT
VII.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE TRANSCENDENTAL HAND LOGGER
VIII.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE SEWING-MACHINE POT-LATCH
IX.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE TEMPORARY PIRATES
X.	THE ADVENTURE OF THE ABRUPT TERMINATION

Of all the challenges I might have imagined my raising a teenager would bring, I did not envisage the auditory onslaught of Northern English accents my small Canadian male currently speaks in and medley of quotes from Top Gear and constant demand in said Northern accents “can we go to ASDA and buy some jaffa cakes”, not least because we live in Vancouver, Canada and I, who lived many years in London, can’t ever remember ever going to ASDA.

Even more startling is his invocation of Terry Wogan.  Eventually I will have to introduce him to Terry Wogan on youtube. Ironically the biggest stand off between my mother and her offspring was her insistence on listening in the car only to beeping Radio 2 and none other than Mr Wogan. I will never forgive Terry Wogan for standing between me and the possibility of listening to Culture Club.

I did have quite a jaffa cake habit in 1990’s Dublin, so perhaps that sailed down the genetic lineage.

Fortunately my son does not take my haphazard approach to baking and cookery — which will be a blessed relief to his tastebuds. I take my cooking instructions from him these days to better outcomes.

Yesterday we had a fire in our neighbourhood and I later learnt a fire engine had crashed en route to put the fire out. A charter bus appeared to hit the fire engine according to the report I read.

An acrid pancake smell permeated the air for hours afterwards.

First time Tule

I saw my first bout of Tule Fog (thick ground fog) on Saturday morning on Cortes Island.

Quite the beauty she was too.

American asylums documented

It’s that photo in particular, taken at the old Hudson River State Hospital in New York, that still confounds Payne:

“For some reason, everyone left their toothbrushes there,”…

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The unclaimed urns and autopsy room are equally stirring. And the general blankness of what is left and what was once.

Pickled herring and reading how to build a Canadian Woodframe House book (CMHC) at Refuge Cove, a place only accessible by boat, inside a house built by a woman using mainly hand tools.

On the way back in the boat I lay down in the hull and had jelly-belly bouncing across the waves.

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Oscar Wilde took a dim view on Tuesdays but they were kinda important to the French Revolution. Other than that they remain unremarkable.

An overnight low of 8 degrees, the culprit? North Westerly winds?

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I was just thinking how Tuesdays will henceforth forever be associated with a certain flatness, a risk averse day. I must research and find out what historic things of note have taken place on a Tuesday to see whether this notion deserves countering. Hmmm.

Sun bouncing on the water at Quadra Island. Bella, Bella.

Cu, mon chou, “American cars don’t like the bend, watch him, watch him, see, see, see he goes wide.” and a myriad of other mechanical observations.

Cold swims, knitting and the wind only evident in the tops of trees.

Perfection?

Yesterday I listened to Jack Layton get buried in French en route to and in the car park of a supermarket.

A woman sang Rise Up. I sat in a hot car surrounded by passing shopping trolleys.

It was desperately sad. Still it felt appropriate to be upset and mourn the loss of him amid getting on with the practicalities of the day.

Also, I recommend getting buried in French. Somehow it’s more satisfying.

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This week I also had cause to attend the Prostate Clinic. I learnt there are 10,000 patients at that VGH clinic.

I sat between 2 old men and felt pretty special. The place reminded me of Heathrow Airport.

I like my doctor very much and we both agreed it’s good I do not have a prostate.

I asked him how can we feel hopeful if Jack Layton who has full access to healthcare and appeared a fit, healthy man (to my eye) and excellent advocate for himself cannot survive it.

What hope is there for the man who smokes 40 a day and drinks a six pack and doesn’t go to the doctor? Says I.

They do die, he replied, you just don’t hear about them.

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