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Loss

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Photo by Andy Dawson ReidWay back in the mid-70s – when I was a considerably younger man than I am now (just about into my 20s in fact!), I had a friend with whom I have since completely lost touch. Given all that has happened since those far-off days (not least the fact that I now live on a different continent) that is really not very surprising.

At the time this friend was also the sound and lighting man for the first band in which I played. Handily he was – by trade – an electrician.

One day, when he and I were constructing something music related (building bass bins for the band’s PA, probably) he gave me a metal biscuit tin; the very one that can be seen in the illustration that heads this post. This tin was full of assorted screws and nuts and bolts that he had collected during his training and his time as an electrician. If ever I needed a screw for something all I had to do was to dig into the tin and I could be sure that I would find something that would be just the job.

The reason that I mention this now is because – as we were making progress with clearing out The Girl’s step-mother’s condo up in Nanaimo – we found some small jars containing random screws – the which I thought I would add to my collection.

As I duly did so it occurred to me that – though taking screws out of the tin is something that has happened repeatedly throughout the decades since the mid-70s – I have only very, very occasionally put anything into it. In spite of this – and here is where the magic comes into it – the level of screws etc in the tin is virtually identical to that which has been the case ever since I was gifted the collection more than fifty years ago.

Spooky – huh?!

 

 

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<a href="https://www.wannapik.com/vectors/18027">"This work"</a> is licensed under <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0" target="_blank" rel="noopener">CC BY-NC 4.0</a>As a matter of self-discipline I have for some years now tried my best to post to this journal at least once a week. Eagle-eyed observers will have noticed that I have – of late – fallen down on the job somewhat.

On this occasion there is good reason for such lacklustre performance. I hope that the gentle reader will indulge me if I meander around the houses a little by way of explanation…

Back in the dim and distant past – on March 7th 2014 to be precise – I posted to this forum a missive entitled ‘The Music of Time‘. As is my habit that post too danced around its true topic for a while, before heading for the home plate. The subjects of this creed were a pair of engagements on consecutive days in March 2014 with which The Girl and I had been involved. Remember that we were yet living in the UK at that juncture – and neither of us had reached the point of retiring (for the first time!). The key element of that posting ran as follows:

The first of the weekend’s events was the memorial service for a very long-standing acquaintance – my oldest-friend’s wife’s father – whom I have known for more than four decades. He was, of course, of my parents’ generation – of whom in our circle only a very few now remain. He enjoyed a good life and the occasion was very much a celebration thereof rather than being overly solemn. None the less, such acts of remembrance always invite a degree of introspection regarding the transience of our existence – this one being no exception”.

A dozen and more years have passed since that gathering and you will doubtless be unsurprised to hear that of those of my parents’ generation who were closely connected to us in the UK – by familial bonds or by mutual friendship – there are now none left alive. Little less surprising will be the fact that on this side of the pond – with a few exceptions – the same applies (The Girl is four years younger than I!).

Sadly there is now one less. Last week The Girl’s step mother passed away in Nanaimo here on Vancouver Island. This wonderful woman – at the age of 89 and having endured years of chronic pain – checked herself into hospital on a premonition that her time was approaching.

I met this splendidly independent and indomitable woman (who would think nothing of disappearing into the desert on her own for weeks at a time) when The Girl first brought me to Canada in 2006. She and the Girl’s father then lived in Nanaimo, but they had previously lived on Gabriola island (when not voyaging to Desolation Sound and beyond on one of their boats – ‘The Kindred Spirit’ or ‘Halcyon II’). The Girl and her step mother had a great deal in common and they were very close.

The Girl being the sole executor of her step mother’s estate we are now having to spend much time in Nanaimo, sorting out the issues of the estate. For her this we are happy to do.

Rest in Peace – Alice June Dawson.

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“We sailed for parts unknown to man
Where ships come home to die
No lofty peak nor fortress bold
Could match our captain’s eye

Upon the seventh seasick day
We made our port of call
A sand so white and sea so blue
No mortal place at all

We fired the gun and burnt the mast
And rowed from ship to shore
The captain cried, we sailors wept
Our tears were tears of joy

Gary Brooker – Procol Harum

One more song from the not so distant past…

…and one more anecdote concerning an aspect of our lives here in Canada.

There is an unattributed saying regarding boat ownership that runs thus:

The two happiest days in a boat owner’s life are the day you buy the boat and the day you sell the boat.

Now, a quick wander through Google reveals that being the subject of this saying annoys boat-owners considerably. Most refute the implication absolutely, eagerly extolling the joys and pleasures afforded by being able to get out on the water in short order. Such folk willingly accept the downsides (most of which are financial… author Kin Hubbard wrote “A boat is a hole in the water into which you pour money”).

So – is there some truth in these aphorisms? Do please read on – and decide for yourself.

Given the costs of maintaining a boat on the water we determined in advance that ours would live on the land. This restricted the type and size of boat that we could buy but also cut out considerable expense. The 20ft Double Eagle – with a hefty V8 and stern drive as power source – weighs a couple of tons on the trailer. One man on his own can float and recover this beast at the boat launch, but it is easier – and safer – should this happen to be a fit younger man. Such things become considerably more arduous as one ages.

For the first few years of ownership we adopted a compromise solution. Being unashamed fair-weather boaters we kept the boat safely on the driveway alongside our house during the winter and then rented a slip in one or other of the local marinas during the summer months.

At first this seemed to work out reasonably well. Then – around the turn of the decade – two things happened which interrupted our slow but steady boating progress.

Here at the southernmost extremity of Vancouver Island we do not get that much snow. Every now and again, however…! During early 2019 a fall of more than a foot of very wet snow split Dignity’s aging Bimini cover and dumped a huge pile of snow into the cockpit. The snow slowly melted over the next couple of weeks, but locating a company that could make us a replacement top took the next year and a half. It also took three different companies (one went out of business; one suffered an illness; the third did a good job!) and the loss of some hundreds of dollars in un-recovered deposits.

Then – no sooner than we were finally re-equipped with the necessary canvas – the COVID-19 pandemic struck. Now, one might not have expected the pandemic to have affected boaters that much, but several of our local marinas took the opportunity to close their gates to carry out renovations and upgrades whilst everything else was locked down.

By the time that we felt again inclined to mingle with our fellow men (and women) we were most of the way through 2021 and Dignity’s keel had not touched the saltchuck for nearly four years.

Things did not improve over the succeeding seasons. Several times I took Dignity to Seapower Marine for servicing – only to be informed that a variety of issues had arisen that also required fixing before the boat could safely be taken to sea. These issues naturally took time to fix – as well as time to accumulate the necessary funds. Amongst other matters that we dealt with were a cracked manifold, a dead alternator and starter motor, a sticking throttle cable, dead batteries and decaying high tension cabling.

By 2024 the cumulative effect of these various issues – along with the fact that I had now entered my 70s and must needs be aware of my physical limitations – led me inexorably to the conclusion that it was time to pass Dignity on to a new – and more enthusiastic (younger!) – owner.

As ever it took a while to get everything shipshape, but in the latter part of last summer – and with a heavy heart – I advertised Dignity for sale. I had serious concerns that the economic and political climate that now prevails would make this a difficult time to sell a boat; as it turned out I did so to the second potential purchaser who came to have a look. Dignity now resides in Port Alice – towards the north end of Vancouver Island – and I am delighted to report that the owner is a huge enthusiast for the Double Eagle.

I hope that it goes without saying that we were very sad to see the good ship Dignity depart – but I do know in my heart that it was the right decision.

As to whether or not I will ever own another boat (presumably a considerably smaller one!)… Who can say?

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Brigitte Bardot
1934 – 2025
RIP

For many young men growing up in Europe during the 60s and 70s Brigitte Bardot represented the epitome of sensual womanhood… long before most of us knew what that actually meant. For some – such as I – her recent passing might have introduced to us a fresh perspective on a complex life lived under the fierce glare the of the media attention that we could not hope to recognise or comprehend.

Brigitte’s later commitment to animal welfare might not have come as a surprise but many will have found her pandering to the French far right a far cry from the libertine image that had been (willingly or otherwise) constructed around her younger self.

Well – the sixties might seem (and indeed be) a long time ago, but there will be others like me who mourn the passing of an icon from our adolescent years that – for better or worse – made the world seem like a more thrilling and sensual place. Our fantasies might have been impossible, but at the time it felt as though the impossible might just – after all – be possible!

Rest in peace

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Sir Tom Stoppard
1937 – 2025
RIP

<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Stoppard_02.jpg" target="_blank">"This work"</a> by <a>Gorup de Besanez</a> is licensed under <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0" target="_blank">CC BY-SA 3.0</a>Those who are no strangers to rambling the raggle-taggle byways of this eclectic journal will doubtless have observed that I am in the habit of marking the passing of those who have – through their words, works or actions – had a significant impact upon my life and consciousness. For example, when Brian Wilson passed away earlier this year I wrote the following:

“Whenever I post one of these messages lamenting the loss of one of the great figures of my (or the adjacent) generation(s) I do so with sadness but also with gratitude for their influence as ‘hero’ figures throughout my formative years. My aim is to compose something that captures their personal importance for me. Sometimes, however, no words can be found that are truly capable of expressing the extent of the loss”.

That being said, until yesterday I had not experienced (since starting this blog back in 2012) the passing of one of the truly paramount figures that I have followed, whose influence has been as hard to calculate as their loss is impossible to comprehend. Some of our heroes just feel as though they ought to be immortal. Since hearing the news yesterday of the death of Sir Tom Stoppard the only term that I can think of that comes close to capturing my feelings on the scale of the loss of is ‘devastated’.

I first encountered the works of Sir Tom Stoppard – England’s preeminent playwright for considerably more than half a century – back in the mid 1960s. Tom’s breakthrough play – ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead’ was premiered at the Edinburgh Fringe in 1966 and at the Old Vic in London in 1967. Faber and Faber published a playscript of the work in 1967 and I came across it in the senior school library at my grammar school when I joined the seniors back in 1968 or 1969.

I had never read anything like ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern‘ and it completely changed my then ingenuous view of what theatre could do and what it might be. Tom was a brilliant thinker and writer and had the facility of approaching difficult subjects in ways that gave the impression that the ideas concerned were much simpler than they in fact were. He dealt with intellectual topics with humour and a lightness of touch that carried audiences with him. Amongst his many awards his Oscar for the brilliant screenplay of the timeless ‘Shakespeare in Love’ was well deserved.

in addition to reading and attending performances of just about all of his plays, I have directed a number of them myself, including The Real Inspector Hound, Every Good Boy Deserves Favour and The Real Thing. I would have loved to have directed ‘Arcadia’ – perhaps his masterpiece.

I was fortunate enough to have met Sir Tom twice – at first night receptions for ‘Indian Ink’ and for ‘The Invention of Love’. On the second occasion – reinforcing the belief that one perhaps might best not meet one’s heroes – I embarrassed us both by declaring that I considered him to be a genius.

I am finding it really difficult to contemplate a world in which Sir Tom Stoppard is no longer living and working. A precious light has gone out.

Rest in peace Sir Tom.

 

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“There is no harm in repeating a good thing”

Plato

My last post to this forum was entitled ‘Making a Spectacle’- and related the tale of the efforts that I had been obliged to make throughout the year in order that I might make use of the shiny new pair of spectacles that I had purchased back at the top thereof.

Should the gentle reader have seen that post he or she will be aware that the loss of a tiny screw had rendered the glasses unusable – and that it somehow took four visits to the optometrist to obtain a replacement.

Subsequent to that posting I found myself looking back over my missives from this time last year. This I do from time to time – to remind myself of all the things that we have achieved as well as the various things that we have not. I am repeatedly reminded that my decision to continue blogging – even since so to do fell deeply out of fashion – has endowed us with a truly useful archive of arcana covering the last decade and a half.

Anyway… what should I find in the archive from the middle of December last year – but yet another post also entitled ‘Making a Spectacle‘. What are the odds?

Now, last December’s post was not on the subject of the state of repair of one of our many pairs of glasses (why does one require so many as one grows older?). It was more concerned with whether or not we could actually find the said item at the point at which we needed them (and indeed whether or not we were in fact already wearing them upon one or other of our heads!).

I feel that I should probably be apologising for the inevitable repetitions that seem to go along with advancing years. I am rather hoping that – since those surrounding us are also getting on a bit now – they in turn will be forgetting that we have already covered much of this ground – and treat each new adventure as though it were the first time.

Cheers!

 

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Brian Wilson
1942 – 2025
RIP
Takahiro Kyono from Tokyo, Japan, CC BY 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

Whenever I post one of these messages lamenting the loss of one of the great figures of my (or the adjacent) generation(s) I do so with sadness but also with gratitude for their influence as ‘hero’ figures throughout my formative years. My aim is to compose something that captures their personal importance to me.

Sometimes, however, no words can be found truly capable of expressing the extent of the loss.

To those of us who reached the age of majority in the late sixties and early seventies and who harboured ambitions to become songwriters, Brian Wilson was – and will always remain – a seminal figure. Should the gentle reader be unaware of his greatness all that he or she need do is to listen to the music.

I need say no more…

Rest in peace

I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I’ll make you so sure about it
God only knows what I’d be without you

If you should ever leave me
Though life would still go on believe me
The world could show nothing to me
So what good would living do me
God only knows what I’d be without you

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Roberta Flack

1937 – 2025

RIP

<a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/52/Roberta_Flack43.JPG" target="_blank">"Roberta Flack43"</a> by <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Teddyyy" target="_blank"> Roland Godefroy</a>

Regulars on these pages will be familiar with the occasional but still all too frequent tombstones that mark the passing of those iconic figures who have been a part of all of our lives for so many years; whose passing leaves the world a smaller and sadder place.

It is not really for me to eulogise; there are many others far more qualified than I so to do and – save for that small number of heroes and heroines for whom I felt a particular closeness – I avoid so doing. It still feels important, however, to mark each occasion and to acknowledge that significant and far from inconsequential dimming of the light that each represents.

Were Roberta Flack renowned only for “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” and “Killing Me Softly With His Song” she would still be considered as one of the most significant soul/R & B voices of the past half century and more. Should the gentle reader inhabit any part of this beleaguered globe that is not familiar with the oeuvre of Ms. Flack I recommend this obituary in The Guardian as a reasonable place to bring your education up to date.

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There are cultures in which age, experience and seniority are acknowledged and valued. The elders of such societies are, by and large, respected and taken seriously; their advice being much sought after and their wisdom cherished.

In other cultures old geezers are regarded as merely being a nuisance and a ball and chain upon the ankles of the coming generations. These older folk are – often as not – the butt of all manner of jokes, particularly as they grow older and become more forgetful.

Who hasn’t fallen about laughing at the old codger who can’t find his (or her) glasses – only to to be informed by the mocking youths that he (or she) is actually wearing same upon his (or her) head!

Laugh? I nearly didn’t!

So – a few weeks back The Girl and I both had our own experiences of this phenomenon.

One day The Girl could not find her glasses – in spite of having just recently been using them. I helped her to look for them, carefully minimizing the application of such unhelpful queries as “Where did you last have them?“. We looked everywhere – particularly around our drawing room, where she was sure that she had recently been using them. Her glasses were nowhere to be seen… just mine – sitting on one of our coffee tables.

It was I that found them. They were perched on top of my head! I had picked her glasses up, mistaking them for mine – and put them straight onto my head.

No chuckling there at the back, there…!

Scarcely a couple of days later I couldn’t find my glasses – just as I was about to drive into College to lead a class. I could have sworn that I had been using them just a few moments before, but upon preparing to leave I could not find them anywhere. I searched all the obvious places three times, before breaking out a spare pair and heading off to work. When I returned from college and started to disrobe – the glasses – to my surprise – suddenly fell to the floor.

What happened was this… I was wearing a hooded sweat shirt. When I put on the sleeveless jacket that I often wear outside these days, I flipped up the hood to accommodate it. The glasses had clearly been on the top of my head already and when I lowered the hood again the glasses went with it. They had been with me all of the time in College – tucked into the hood. When I reversed the procedure upon returning home they fell out at the appropriate point.

Well – even I had to laugh at this…

Getting older – eh? What’s that all about?

 

 

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Quincy Jones

1933 – 2024

RIP

"This work" by David Shankbone is in the Public Domain, CC0Quite possibly the greatest and most gifted record producer of the age.

Definitely irreplaceable…

From the many, many obituaries and retrospectives published since his passing, this piece from the Guardian seems to me to illustrate best the sheer breadth and depth of Quincy’s talent.

Rest in peace.

 

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