Posts Tagged With: patience


PreviewWinter is coming! Winter is in full force actually, so I thought I would write about it. This post is dedicated to all who read my blog from Brazil. Big shout out to those in Brazil! I’m1280px-Flag_of_Brazil.svg not jealous of your climate at all! You lucky,lucky………..never mind. The reason I’m highlighting Brazil is because you are third in my reader stats, fellow Canucks make up my largest readership (how’s it goin’ eh?), and the Americans are second.

The topic of winter is interesting, it’s a challenge to explain to people from warmer climes how life enveloping a cold climate can be, it wants you to die. Really, winter tries to kill you, everyday. A typical Canadian winter is like a national disaster that lasts for 5 months straight, every year. The idea of winter is on every Canadian’s mind, even during a July heat wave. Winter is always coming, or your living through it.

IMG_1105Not every Canadian understands winter. If you live an urban Canadian lifestyle, never getting too far from natural gas heated malls and electrically lit, plowed and salted streets (salt is to melt ice); winter is a frosty weasel that bites your a** between the car heater and the pub door. A large number of Canadians are unprepared to meet winter on it’s terms. I see folks in the middle of a snowstorm getting out of cars wearing shorts and running shoes, shivering as bare flesh meets frigid air, totally in denial. I know this is the age of forced air heat, warm transportation, and cell phones; but the cold is a patient killer. Small mistakes can take away fingers and toes, large mistakes can take your life. The small mistakes are caused by frostbite, where flesh freezes solid. The life stealer is hypothermia, where your core temp drops below the organ failure limit; say g’night Gracie.

I will get to a couple of my own stories about frostbite and hypothermia, but I’m mostly wanting to talk aboutUnknown some of the little details about living in the heart of the cold, dark, north. Think about it, how would you live if you knew that a hurricane was going to hit your home on a date within three weeks; every year. Ok, a hurricane is more violent than winter, a gas leak maybe? Something that happens every year, is subtle, very sneakily dangerous, and lasts for 5-6 months. Your life must change for that time; how you think, dress, plan, and even live are hostages to violent weather. A blizzard can shut down everything, winter is usually a speed bump, but a bump  that can grow into a mountain range. I will try to explain, but as I carve these ideas into individual thoughts, realize that they blur together in a cold, northern, climate.


Unknown-2Darkness is a fact of life in a Canadian winter, it’s 5:10 PM right now and its been dark for an hour. It’s not the darkness per se, I’ve been near the equator and experienced dark at 6:00 PM, it’s not the same. When its warm and dark, the darkness caresses you like a lover. Warm breezes ruffling light clothes, the moon over salty waves. The darkness adds mystery to life; a romance if you will. In the imagesnorth, COLD darkness is like a sociopathic killer, waiting in the shadows, stropping it’s razor collection. The darkness combined with the cold become a phycological gargoyle that haunts; not a mysterious lover that stimulates.

I can only imagine what my ancestors went through, braving a long cold winter with only a cabin, a wood stove and flickering oil lamps to keep the cold and dark at bay. Before the age of the stoves and lamps, think of the Unknownmental muscle required by the indigenous peoples of the north. An entire community huddled around an open fire in a spruce bough shelter, surviving on moose meat and pemmican; for many months. In those days death held his bony hands to the same fire, a constant companion to all.

The coal fired plants pumping electric juice through a network of wires, and the pipelines shooting gas energy to all who can pay; makes life livable in a northern climate. Modern building materials and technologies push old manUnknown-3 winter out of spaces that become swimming pools and indoor playgrounds. Yes it is artificial, yes it is industrial, and yes it is energy intensive. Any person living in this climate that B000JO9440-1-smparrots the anti-industrial mantras of the so called “environmentalists” needs to reboot their reality processor.

The dark can add another unhealthy element, vitamin D deficiency. Vitamin D is produced in the body when skin is exposed to sunshine, even when one can get out in the sunshine, exposed skin can freeze; not conducive to sunbathing. The lack of light can bring about S.A.D (seasonal  affective disorder), listlessness, depression etc. Wide spectrum lights are sold to combat this (another need for that darn electricity)


Yes it is, very very dry. When one thinks of dry weather it brings to mind a deserts; cactus, sand, and the burningUnknown-1 sun. The cold, however, can suck the moisture out of the air just as quick as parched sand and burning sun. In a cold climate, all available moisture freezes, and is locked in the frost and snow. Cracked skin and bloody noses are the order of business in extremely cold weather. Wood shrinks and cracks. Static electricity from vehicles and carpets can ad a shocking element to winter. Our northern peoples, the inuit, used to slather themselves in fish oil to combat the extreme dryness of winter.


The blizzard is just a snowstorm; on steroids. High winds and heavy snow, and cold that can steal the breath fromUnknown-1 imagesthe lungs. The snow is so thick you can’t see very far, sometimes just a few feet in front of your face. The snow comes from the sky and the wind picks  up lose snow from the ground, the world becomes blindingly white; the whole world. There are stories of men getting lost and dying traversing the familiar distance from their house to their own barn. In more modern times the blizzard can humble all our modern technology. Roads drift shut, power lines come down, even rail service can grind to a halt. Modern cities have been temporarily paralyzed by a bad blizzard.


I can’t paint the whole picture as bad. There is an extreme beauty to winter, and a lot of fun to be had in the snow.images-1 The snow covered hills and hoar frost sparkling like diamonds in the trees looks beautiful, especially through a window, while sitting in front of the fire. The cold air brings a rosy to the cheeks, and an invigorating energy to get the outside chores done quick, so one can get back to blissful warmth. The elements add an extra cozy to the act of cocooning; and cuddling! Skiing, skating, sledding etc all require snow and cold to accomplish, and images-5nothing is comparable to winter sports. The cold is a challenge and a curse, but it has its pleasurable side.

I like living in this country,  northern winter is an extreme season, but it gives a definite punctuation to a year. Most outdoor work must be done before winter, the snow covers unfinished projects and shouts “you’re done with this, go in and read a book now”! Most of the worlds pests can’t stand the cold climate, poisonous snakes, nasty big bugs, even big rats; can’t hack it here.  It almost compensates for having to shovel snow, at least for the first six snowstorms.


Ive had the experience of having to work in the bush in extreme cold, it’s not fun, one must be careful. Hurtingimages-3 yourself, getting wet, getting lost; they can all be death sentence in winter. Usually when it is extremely cold, there isn’t a breath of wind, the silence is almost deafening. The only sound is the “squeak-crunch” the snow makes underfoot when it’s bitterly cold. An occasional booming crack echoes through the bush as an odd tree splits from expanding sap in the trunk. The moisture from your breath frosts on your eyelashes and hair tips, and inhaling to big of a breath can hurt, as the frigid air steals warmth from the lungs. It’s best to be out with others, so you can watch your partner’s faces for the waxy white spots that tell of frostbite on the skin.

UnknownThe worst frostbite Ive seen was on the toes of my son’s friend, after a few hours of outdoor skating on our lake. The boys were having fun, even though it was very cold, and they stayed out too long. By the time they came in his toes rattled on the floor like marbles when he walked, we were worried. At first the lad thought it was funny, after a few minutes soaking his feet in warm water to draw out the frost, the “funny” stopped, he was in extreme pain. Frostbite causes the moisture in the cells to burst and circulation is impeded. Lucky enough, he didn’t lose the toes, just all the skin on the tips, bad enough. Once a person gets frostbite, circulation never returns 100 percent, and one is more susceptible to frostbite next time.

My only encounter with hypothermia happened to a fellow forestry worker who was from Jamaica. I don’t know if his genetic origin had anything to do with his susceptibility to the cold, maybe he just wasn’t dressed good enough, or had skipped breakfast that morning. This didn’t even happen in winter (it was early May), but we were at a high elevation and it was windy and sleeting (mix of snow and rain). At first he was complaining, his oaths barelyimages-2 perceptible through his chattering teeth. I kept telling him to just be tough, we had to get the job done so we could go back to camp, I almost missed it. He stopped complaining, his teeth stopped chattering, and he started acting funny. His words were slurring slightly and he kept dropping things, I suddenly realized what was happening, he was slipping into hypothermia.

I had read about this, and had been trained as to what to do, but we were in a bad spot. we were on a hillside cut-block, no shelter for a long ways, I decided to head for the ATV’s and get back to camp. I made him munch down some granola bar, then helped him down the hill. Thankfully it was only a 5 minute ride back to camp, where I made him get out of his wet duds, then crawl into his sleeping bag. I brought him some hot chocolate and he recovered. I probably didn’t do things absolutely right, maybe we should have found the closest sheltering trees and built a fire, if camp would have been further away I would have. The other thing I’d been taught is to strip down the victim, and yourself,  and crawl into a sleeping bag with them, warming the victim with your body heat, I wasn’t going there unless he was half dead!images-4

Unknown-1I could write much more of the curses(and magic) that is winter, from beautiful frost patterns on windows to how tired one gets of having to “bundle up” just to walk out the door, but you get the idea. To get more of the emotion of winter, look up the poetry of Robert Service, he spent much time in the far north; and fell under it’s spell.

……..Talk of your cold! through the parkas fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze, till sometimes we couldn’t see; it wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam Mcgee… 

Taken from The Cremation of Sam Mcgee, by Robert Service

P.S. Oh yeah…..The people that have the delusion of man made global warming? they can kiss my winter chapped, winter bleached, frost bitten, goose pimpled, Canadian a………never mind.25


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Spring, I think

I haven’t been posting very regular lately due to business that must be taken care of during this time of year.  Its hard to find writing time when responsibilities just seem to pile up.  Things are starting to slow a bit, and the weather has finally improved, so I thought I would post a few pics of what has been keeping me busy.IMG_5103 Yes it is calving season, and yes, the weather has not been co-operative in that endeavour. Now I don’t have very many of these t-bone production units, but even having a few cows to look after when the weather is so cold means one has to stay vigilant. Many beef producers(with large calving barns) plan their calving in January, so the calves have maximum selling weight in the fall.  Calving in January outdoors (in this country) is brutal.  I had hoped that April would have been a tad warmer but it was not to be; global warming my frostbitten backside!

One of my calves was a little retarded at birth and I had to teach it how to suck, even had to help it find mamma’s teat.  He’s a big guy and may have spent too much time in the birth canal and didn’t get the blood supply to his brain while traversing his way into the world.  The operation involves getting mama cow in a squeeze then carrying the moron to the lunch counter and helping him find the spigot.  If you have never tried to do this let me tell you it takes all the patience you have not to whack the calf on the head and eat veal for a week.  They are dumb, but oh so obstinate! You push them forward, they back up. You push their head down to the teats, they throw their head up. You get the teat in their mouth they spit it out and suck mamma’s hair! arrrrrg!  Finally, after many attempts (while your IMG_5104brain processes those veal recipes) he gets it right and settles in to feed, his tail switching with contentment. This process must be done a few times till he gets enough nourishment to have a functioning brain.

Going out to look at your own herd of cows can be quite addictive, I mean your checking on them to see if any are going to calve out, their feed and water is good, etc; but you end up just watching them IMG_5122for the sheer pleasure and contentment of it.  The older calves running, playing and exploring and the younger calves still tottering close to mamma.  The interaction between the older members and newcomers in the herd is fascinating, if one takes the time to stop and watch them.  I remember when I was a little boy, out with my Grandpa while visiting the farm, riding in the old truck checking cattle.  We would stop near the herd and Papa would light up a smoke and just watch.  I always wondered what he was looking for (he was all farmer, but no talker), I imagined that he must have a wise reason to study his herd and was analyzing that data to come to a conclusion of sorts.  Finally I would ask,  “Papa, what are you looking for?”  He would turn and look at me as if he had forgotten I was in the the truck and say; “Oh; just lookin’ at em”  where upon he would swivel back to studying the cows and smoking. I always thought that we were out there for an important reason, that studying cattle was a special skill that Papa just couldn’t articulate.  I think I understand now, it is important to check your cows during a cold and snowy calving season.  As the weather warms up, however, I find myself out there more and more; just lookin’ at em.

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Topofil secret and what’s next

If you haven’t read the last post you won’t understand the next couple of sentences, it concerns a device I used that tested my patience. Feel free to scroll to my last post about patience at this time and then come back.

The sneaky way that machine was snipping my thread had to have a cause, besides the excuse of driving me crazy.  I knew when I got back to camp I was going to take that box apart and find the means by which the possessed machine was committing its destruction of its own line. There had to be a logical reason that the topofil was doing this, and I found it.

Remember I had mentioned that the when threading the topofil the string had to pushed through glass tubes?   The glass tubes were there to mitigate the friction on the thread whenever the string changed direction in the box or passed through the metal and plastic frame.   If I remember correctly the tubes were about a quarter-inch in diameter and attached to the box with rubber and metal clamps.  I do remember, cause that’s where I found the problem, that the ends of the glass tubes were flared slightly and had a thickened edge for strength.   On the thickened edge of the first glass tube I found that a tiny chip of glass had fallen out.   There was no crack in the glass like it had been struck, more like an impurity in the glass had fallen out.  The hole that was left was angular and the tiny edges sharp. The chip was hard to see even with the box disassembled. I fixed the problem by very carefully removing those sharp edges with the corner of my sharpening stone, then filling the tiny hole with candle wax.   Doing this fix while sitting in a damp tent gave me a chance to exercise that patience I was talking about.  The secret is now revealed.

I am toying with an idea about what I want to write about next.  I am thinking of stringing together some thoughts under the title “Grinding your own grain in a wonder-bread world.”   Not that I am actually going to make flour with a grinder, I could write about that as I’ve done it, this is more on the theme of 818593_originalthought processes.  In this day and age so many of our thoughts, ideas, impressions, etc about life are given to us like slices of processed white bread, all impurities removed and vitamins re-injected.  Individuals can make a sandwich, choosing their own filling, but the sandwich is still framed by the slices reached for in the plastic bag.  Starting out with wheat berries and finishing with real bread is imageshard work,  results can vary.  The process  is the key, think of all the things to be learned along the way.  In your own thought life, do you want hollywood or Madison avenue telling you what to think?  Life is more than just the end sandwich.   Any thoughts out there?

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Patience-part 2

Patience- Part 2

Unknown   So, round two, on patience. Everybody being patient about it?  All three of you ha ha. In the last post I mentioned how it’s possible to think that patience is only required when dealing with our fellow man, (or women, in the case of the coupon lady).  I alluded to a story of lost patience which occurred when I was completely and totally alone.  That particular story will require a fair bit of history if it’s to make sense.  Hang on for a bit while I weave the tale.

I am a ticketed forest technician with field experience.  Back in my dim past, I was working on aUnknown-10 forest management crew.  On this occasion the crew’s job was to supervise a private contractor, and his hard working hirelings, in the endeavor of planting tree seedlings in an area that had been logged the previous winter.    Our crew, working for the government, didn’t actually have to crack the whip, so to speak, but we had to be sure that the terms of the contract were carried out as to planting density/quality etc.    In order to locate our randomly mapped out test plots, one needed to use a compass, to find direction, and be able to measure linear distance (the GPS system was not in commercial, or personal use at the time.)   The linear measuring device we used (invented to measure distance and patience, I’m sure), was called a topofil, which is the inanimate character in my story.

images-9   The topofil utilized a cone shaped spool of thread, the end of which wound its way through a tensioner and around a wheel.  The end of the thread (about the same size as sewing thread) was tied off at the start point, and as you walked the uncoiling thread would turn the wheel, which kept track of distance like an old fashioned odometer in a car.  This was the theory anyway.  Like all machinery the topofil had its quirks, and all of the quirks were infuriating. If the tensioner was too tight the line would snap, to loose, and it would slip on the wheel and stop measuring.  I could speak at length about all the idiosyncrasies , extreme cold, badly manufactured string, wet string, abuse of the previous owner, etc; that could cause topofil frustration.  Having to work  with these devises day in, day out, you learned all the tricks to keep on keepin on.  The tricks all failed on the day of conflation.  The day my patience snapped entirely, and left me ready to commit topofil murder.

I suppose even more backstory is required lest you think I am not at all qualified to even mouth the word patience.  This particular story takes place during what my coworkers and I were beginning to call the shift from hell, and I had a few extra handicaps that assured me I had reached the hubs.  I had mentioned earlier how remote the location was, allow me to explain. Most people today who camp, or venture beyond the normal confines of civilization feel that they are “remote” when they lose cell phoneHelicopter sling load signal. This was far out and beyond that, I was in a truly remote location, by helicopter, a long ways.  All our supplies; tents, trikes (yes trikes, it was that long ago),food,fuel, etc was choppered in using  sling loads.  We slept in canvas tents and ate our meals around the fire. I know this could be a wonderful experience in the right situation, but not this time. The only time it quit raining was when it was sleeting and early hatchings of sandflies and mosquitos brave enough to fly were a constant plague.

We were swamped (literally and figuratively).  The weather continued to deteriorate, the choppers forestry campcouldn’t get to us, and we were running out of all supplies, even food.    We ended up working hard, in bad living conditions, and bad weather, for twenty four days in a row.  I think I can lay claim of least having an inkling of what being “bushed” feels like.  On top of these challenges, we all faced personal hardships. I had planned to go south and visit my girlfriend.  when your twenty, seeing your girlfriend is rather important.  I also had a raging case of, what I now know was, pinkeye, and the worst thing of all were my boots (whining? I am not whining, just letting my readers line up all the facts).

I had bought a brand new pair of rubber boots (what else do you wear in weather only suitable for arctic dwelling amphibians) for this shift, and the boots Unknown-7completely fell apart.  Both sides of each boot split vertically from the sole to the top band; bad rubber, bad timing, and positively nasty thoughts imagined.  Thoughts of where I was going to insert those boots when I went back to the guy who sold them…………..never mind.  My feet were wet, cold and nasty for 14 days straight, from the time I rolled out of my damp sleeping bag till I crawled back into it.  I couldn’t fix the boots, tried to no avail.  If I would have had a couple of rolls of duct tape I could have fixed the boots no problem.  We had some duct tape, but I had to leave a little on the roll for fixing leaky tents.  I kept the boots together using flagging ribbon, which helped a bit, but it didn’t seal the boots from water, grass, bark, spruce needles, bugs, etc.  Maybe the bugs were hatching in my boots come to think of it, but at any rate my feet were damned uncomfortable for a time just short of eternity. To this day the closest feeling to heaven for me is a dry, clean, warm pair of socks. Let’s move on, to the day of my meltdown.

Unknown-1    I was up, dressed in damp clothes, scavenged some food from a dwindling supply,  and had traveled (one creek and two muskeg crossings) to my first cutblock by mid-morning.  I slung on my gear and my shotgun (bear protection) and tied my topofil line to the marked corner of the block. Looking up the slope of the cutblock I could see this was going to be a rough slog. The cutblock had been blade scarified during the winter to prepare it for planting. The slash, deadfall, and tree tops had been heaped in long rows, in no particular pattern.

Here’s the thing with compassing and measuring your way to a particular point, you have to walk a straight line, and that meant I would spend much time climbing those piles.  If you ever get an urge to climb over an eight foot brush pile; don’t, just go lay down somewhere till the urge goes away.  Unfortunately I had to climb, not just this pile, but many others, all day.  Climbing those piles went with the job, so I took a compass shot and started out briskly, at the very least in an effort to keep warm.

When you walk with a topofil in your hand you can feel the vibration of the thread turning the wheel, hence you know you’re measuring your linear movement.  When the time comes to climb a brush pile however, its slow, and all you feel is precarious.  When I reached the top of the pile I looked down at my topofil, and no thread could be seen. I looked behind me,  there was the broken end drifting away from me in the rain.

images-3I moaned with frustration and climbed down again to grab the end of the thread. Sitting down on the sopping ground, trying to shield the innards of the cursed device from the rain, I opened up the topofil hoping to find that the string had broken just inside the box.  I could then knot the broken ends  together and carry on; no joy.  The end of the thread was next to the roll, it would have to be re-threaded through the topofil’s innards. The thread had to be pushed through various holes lined with glass tubes, wrapped twice around the wheel, re-tensioned, then pushed through the side of the box via another glass tube.

Sound easy?  Try doing all that in the rain and sleet while slapping at bugs, and, oh yeah; if the string gets wet it sticks to the sides of the tubes.  If you do get the string through the damp labyrinth, the wetness causes the string to slip on the wheel.  I was good at this though, plenty of practice, only slightly distracted by the flying insects wearing winter parkas and snorkels.

I am going to be merciful and cut these frustrating hours to a shortened and condensed version.  This happened over, and over, and over.  I can’t remember the exact ratio of how many times the thread broke while on top of a brush pile, compared to when the thread broke while slopping across level ground (which I felt right away), but the statistics were not conducive to mental health.

When I did reach a target plot I had to mark off a set area to do my job.  The job was to do a plant count in the plot and dig up a percentage of the trees to record the quality of the planting job. These duties were carried out in the intermittent rain/sleet, and growing frustration.  By mid-day I was definitely feeling picked on by karma/cosmos/GOD/luck or whatever; not that I was really analyzing what was plaguing my existence on the planet, but I must say I was feeling rather sorry for myself.  I guess that is an understatement, I was reaching a stage of insanity.  Rubber room, huggie jackets and all that.  I tried every combination of tension settings, reeling off yards of thread and throwing it away, changing rolls with fresh ones; you name it!  images-15

I had a coworker that swore you could make the machine work flawlessly by wrapping the thread twice around the wheel,making sure to cross the threads .  I told him his theory was pure superstition, as the threads would not stay crossed, he just replied that it worked for him.  Let me tell you I tried it that day, several times.  I tried triple wraps with crosses; hell, if a squirrel would have got in my way I would have sacrificed it on a stump to what ever unholy demon was possessing my topofil.

The final whiff of human reason left me late in the afternoon, while cresting a particularly bad brush pile.  I saw the thread snap and fly away at the same time I lost my balance and I tumbled down the far side.  The hated topofil flew out of my hand and clattered onto the top of a large rock just even with the ground.  My body was contorted and in pain, various  limbs integrating with the chaos of slash; I could hardly move, then my sore and bloodshot eyes  locked onto that hated devil machine laying on the top of that rock.  There was a calculated slowness with which I extricated myself, still staring intently at that orange box; there was no doubt in my fevered brain, it was going to die.

images That #**%$@ box of hardware was going to die a violent, painful death.  I was going to obliterate it in some way, then dig a deep grave with my bare, cold hands.  I was going to bury the hated remains, then tramp the dirt down hard with my shredded, slimy boots.  All my miseries, problems and woes  focused on that square orange box.  It was toast, I would see to that!   I began to unsling my shotgun, the plan forming in my head to blast the topofil to confetti in a hail of gunfire.

A sliver of sanity showed me a picture of buckshot ricocheting into my shins so I started to look for a rock as a means of topofil destruction.  No luck, a nice big log, wielded as a club, became a popular fantasy for mayhem, and I scanned the brush pile for a suitable cudgel.  The bleached top-end of a deadfall caught my eye and I grunted asimages-6 I headed for it. Tearing and pulling at that log gave me the only moment when I honestly think I understood the concept of “a red haze” of anger.  Even the bugs were scared of me and kept their distance, the cold rain seemed to sizzle as it lashed my face. In a word; I was pissed off!   Before mayhem could ensue, events conspired that stopped me cold.  In the physical world, the fierce weapon  I had chosen to demolish the topofil, fell apart, showering me in rotten bark splinters and diseased softened  pine wood.  At the exact same moment the log was disintegrating, I was overcome with how ridiculous I was acting, and began to laugh.  With the laughter came a clarity of thought (I told you I was a little bushed.)

I guess you could say after this I pulled myself together and carried on. I don’t remember if I actually  tried to use the topofil after that incident, but I remember going over and picking the topofil up, it had become just a machine housed in a plastic boxUnknown-5 again.  I don’t remember the rest of the work day, because it became a day of reflection.

I had to ponder the status change of the topofil, where was the real target of my anger?   To whom, or what, was I throwing the tantrum?  Life?  That is too general.  The cosmos?  Gimme a break.  I may as well of been throwing handfuls of that rotten log toward heaven shouting: “WHY are you doing this to me God!” I know it sounds shocking, but let’s face it, everybody who hasn’t been there…….will be eventually.  I think I found that place, inside of ourselves, where patience is found.

It is not a popular concept today, but the idea held sway for centuries, it’s found in the concept of the fear of God. Now wait, just hold on, this is not a sermon, just need to give credit where credit is most warranted.  The actual well from which one draws true patience is found in our own humility.  Humility is a by-product that flows within when we acknowledge the awesomeness of our Creator.  We can get around a “higher power” and simply make jokes of ourselves in order to cope, and lets face it learning to laugh at ourselves is good medicine. However, that medicine by itself, has limits to it’s healing power.

Unknown-11 We have some sad tales in our popular culture, tales of depressed, but talented comedians. They are tales of fear and loneliness being covered up with jokes that make other people laugh, and it made the comic feel good for awhile. The tragic ending to some of those comedians tells us that the funny bone is not the organ that needs healing.  A session of laughter, especially at ourselves, however, is important in the battle against self importance. Self importance kills the humility we need for true strength, patience, and inner peace. Something was missing in the lives of those famous comedians that went down the road of self destruction, and the missing ingredient was not humor.  These talented and funny people weren’t short of popularity either, they were loved, and even worshiped by the media, and the masses. It makes one realize that society may need to re-think the theories on the importance of self-esteem.  Maybe we’ve mixed destructive pride into the popular teachings of self-esteem.

Again we find ourselves at an unpopular topic,  nobody likes to even think about how our own pride leads us into trouble.  Nobody wants to talk about it yet we live in a world filled with the consequences of runaway pride. The majority of our societal woes can be traced back to pride, through pride’s children.  Greed, lust for power, envy, etc, are all the offspring of uncontrolled pride.  We have an entire society wanting to blame somebody for all the trouble, dammit!  Its not fair!  It’s not Right!  I’m going to sue/go to the press/pass a law/get a gun/pound your face in! There are also agitators in our society that have learned to stir up, and then control the power of the self-righteous and angry mob.  Chanting, sign waving, rock throwing crowds are a powerful weapon if they are controlled, I think Lenin called them “useful idiots.”  If you find yourself in such a crowd, lets hope your emotion is coupled with a great depth of understanding, unless you like being aimages-7 pawn, and a fool.

Yes, a fool, another word hardly used today. Strange that it isn’t used more as our culture seems to be filling up with so much foolishness.  The word “fool” is found throughout the bible, but one quote ties in nicely to our theme on patience.  It’s found in the same book of the Bible that inspired the Byrds and Pete Seeger to write the song “turn,turn,turn (to everything there is a season), the book of Ecclesiastes.  Verses eight and nine of chapter seven (along with my crude interpretations) go like this:

Better is the patient spirit than the lofty spirit. (Lofty, as in, you know, pride, maybe?)  Do not in spirit become quickly discontented, (don’t get all warped over things without thinking it through).  For discontent lodges in the bosom of a fool.  (a permanently self-righteous hothead is an idiot).

Of course there are reasons for passionate, or even righteous anger.  May God give you wisdom if you reach that point, God forbid if its because somebody 129038553240534380cuts you off in traffic.  On that miserable day in the rain I discovered the power of humility, and its ability to keep us sane. I was by myself, it was stupid to be mad at a box and pointless to be mad at God.  There is only one question that I’ve thought about.  If a materialistic minded atheist could understand my anger towards that topofil, and wanted to help me smash it to bits, who or what would they be upset about; Darwin?

BREAK/BREAK/BREAK- To all you technical guys out there saying:     OK, FINE, whatever. The question I have, is what exactly was WRONG with your topofil?

I know the secret and I’ll give ya all the details………… send me twenty bucks. Just kidding, but ya gotta read the next post.

Categories: patience | Tags: , , | 2 Comments

Instant patience

images-1“LORD, grant me patience, and I need it right now” the old joke goes. It is only humorous because of the sad truth in it. Let’s face it, the patience in our culture is sadly lacking. We have become a people who can do almost anything instantaneously. Any activity that normally takes drudge time, like washing dishes, has  inspired the invention of a machine to take care of it. That leaves us more time to microwave a meal, start the coffee maker, or catch the latest news from our friends on Facebook.  Wanna buy a car? No need to save for years, just get an insta-loan. No time to cook?  Thats ok, plenty of fast food places, you don’t even have to walk in, just breeze past the drive through and be on your way. Maybe you do feel like cooking? Great! The modern mega-store is positively stuffed with every kind of super quick meals that imitate real food. If one entered our arena-sized grocery stores and inventoried the food that our ancestors recognized (like flour, salt, sugar, potatoes, meat, coffee, tea, lard, etc) the selection would almost fit in the mom & pop store of yesteryear.

No, unlike some starry-eyed romantics, I’m not going to advocate going back to the “good ol’ days”.   Nobody want’s to do laundry on a scrub board (I’ve done it).  There is, however, a question that needs to be asked in our land of infinite convenience.  Why, oh why, are we so damned impatient with one another? Why doesn’t our inner voice talk to us like this?  ” Oh? You want to cut into my lane cause yours is blocked? Thats ok, my dishwasher is doing my dishes and I have supper in a bag on the seat beside me.  I have plenty of time to let one or two cars in ahead of me, it will give me at least 5 more seconds to listen to this entertaining program on my satellite radio!”  Or how about, “Look at that bank lineup! There must be at least 6 people ahead of me! But this is not a problem, my laundry is getting washed in a machine at home, and when I do get to the counter the staff can move my finances anywhere instantly. I can pay all my bills without addressing an envelope or licking a stamp! Besides, this is an excellent time to check my emails on my smart phone.”  Unfortunately, sadly, this is not the case; the complete opposite is true.  As a society we are at best just plain nasty to one another. At worst, people have become literally murderous because someone got “ahead” of them. In an ironic twist of quirkiness, it is the speedy automobile that has inspired killing rages, not the pedestrian craving to “be in front”  inspiring “sidewalk rage”. The question of why we aren’t more patient, being the society blessed with the most conveniences, deserves a little pondering.

Now lest anyone think I am some calm guru, sitting on a sunny mountain top, knitting doilies out of my excess inner peace; I will tell you what burns my biscuits. Its those same mega-stores I was mentioning earlier. Those nightmare- sized stores make my patience disappear like ice cubes in August.images-2

It starts out with the list my sweet wife has given me to fill. I mean there is nothing wrong with the list, its short, detailed and neatly written. In fact it’s EXTREMELY detailed, like “2nd generation super zip floor cleaner, lemon scented (get the one with real lemon added) blue cap not purple (purple is super zip LITE) 12oz not 14oz, get the one on sale (there should be a tear-off coupon on the shelf). Doing ok still patience-wise, I whistle as I navigate the B-52 hanger sized building and wonder if they have GPS coordinates to the soap isle. I have a vague idea of where I stumbled onto that particular aisle last shopping trip and I tell myself walking is healthy. I don’t even have a cross feeling toward the people who run into me or stop in the middle of the lane with their cart sideways cause they found just what they wanted in mid-turn; morons.

I’m ok though, still fine, its just a little shopping trip, nothing a little mind over matter won’t cure.  I finally find the soap isle after navigating half the store; twice.  I’m sure it wasn’t on this side last week – must take a lot of work to shuffle a thousand tons of merchandise twice a week.  I look down the isle as it disappears to a point in the horizon, and muse to myself if there was a deer at the far end I don’t think I’d try a shot, and its ALL soaps and cleaners. I look again at my detailed list and feel like Indiana Jones searching for the Holy Grail amongst the deadly fakes.  For a short time frustration leaves me as I am in awe of the shear number of different cleaners.  There are not just different brands but a variety of  specialities, sizes, sales, consistencies, scents, colours, containers and dispensers. Soon though, frustration returns, as my feet are getting tired, time is slipping away and I’m still pushing an empty cart.  The once awe-inspiring mega selection is now starting to enrage me as I cannot even catch a fleeting glimpse of anything like Super Zip (blue cap or PURPLE), 2nd generation or otherwise. “Is civilization really better off having so many choices in the war against grime!?” my inner voice snarls, “do we really need fruit bowl detergent in three scents, four delivery systems, nine different sizes, liquid, powder and freaking gel?!!  Why is this necessary?”  No sign of anything even  remotely zippy so I quickly grab a floor cleaner with a purple cap (I was sure the list said purple) and plod on to the next item on my list, some kind of rare himalayan spice in a shaker, not a can, and not brand x.

imagesThe rest of the shopping-experience-from-hell became a blur and energy drained rapidly, even my inner voice has become exhausted and the only noise it makes is a quiet sob. In a moment of mental weakness I flirted with the fantasy of finding a stock boy to get directions, my cynical mind-voice roused itself to moan out, “You’re serious? There are no stock boys!  The shelves are stocked at midnight by sadistic orcs. The orcs trade their labour for the opportunity to shuffle the entire store  layout every second night  and video tape the suffering customers during the day!”  Eventually I start toward the front of the store to find the checkouts, the contents of my cart somewhat resembling the items on the list.   Even with the sight of long lines I can feel a faint wisp of a restored humour as my task is nearly accomplished. This faint inkling of humour allows me to view the fact that there are 27 cash registers and only six tellers with some (slightly bitter) mental detachment. Not only that, but my mind is waking up to the fact that it’s time to play “the game”.

The game. I’ve been playing this game for years, and I usually lose. I lose a lot, but somehow the the game itself gives me the allusion that I have a crumb of control in the psy-op of consumerism that is grocery shopping. The game is called “pick the fastest line” and there are enough variables to give a compulsive gambler the chills. One must study the tellers, lined up customers and their cart contents, and of course, length of each line.  The line length is obvious, but how high the carts are heaped change the parameters.  The tellers are studied for age, experience and level of exhaustion as well as general attitude. Each line is evaluated for customers and cart contents. Mothers with small children are to be avoided, not that I don’t like mothers and children but their carts are usually full and the mothers distracted.  I’ve sometimes thought about offering to mind the mother’s children while she does the groceries but a criminal record would interfere with my life too much (note to fathers of young children: if you spend your checkout time staring at the magazine celebs while your wife runs the groceries through, don’t ask her why she’s grumpy when you get out to the car, trust me.)  Carts piled with fresh fruits, vegetables and bulk bin bags are also slow. Kudos on eating right but all that reading of tags and weighing takes time. Seniors; some are all efficiency and some are slower, so it evens out over time.  Fast is fast, that is, fast food not only cooks fast, but those frozen pizza boxes, plastic cheezits bags and over-sized coke bottles simply wiz over the scanner.images-5

Some of you are thinking: why doesn’t he go through the self checkout and eliminate the teller variable…..not a chance.  I tried those electronic conveniences -from-hell once, and got into a furious argument with the infernal device over whether or not my recently scanned roll of tinfoil was in the bag or not.  Apparently, my heated discussion with the overblown son-of-a pong game caused a disturbance. About the time I got to the part where I was telling the lying sack of microcircuits how I was going out to my truck for my tools and just prove who was man and who was machine, a snip of a girl in a store uniform came over and took the machine’s side!  I know exactly the type of techno-loving quisling she is. When the computers and machines finally take over she’ll be the one in a uniform checking your name off as you’re herded to the protein slurry grinder for final elimination.  I keep my distance from such folk.images-7

I took in all the line variables, gave my sub-conscience time to process, and made my line choice. There were four ahead of me in line and three more carts quickly pulled in behind me. I was starting to relax being happy with my line decision and the people in it. The man at the front of the line was almost through.  The next couple had a half-full cart of fast food, and the older woman directly ahead of me had a mixed cart, but a determined and efficient look. I noted the teller was college-age, but seemed to work with a speed that said a laser scanner was no stranger to her.  I would be free soon! The couple had reached the belt and started piling the boxes and packages while my chosen super-efficiency teller expertly made change with the man in front. I noted that as the couples groceries rolled to my teller she gave them a perky greeting while simultaneously flicking vacuum pacs of lunch meat across the scanner like a vegas expert dealing cards. I almost started to hum a happy tune as I began to casually glance at the pictures of the pretty idiots on the magazine covers.  Suddenly, to my horror, I noticed the lady in front of me open her purse and pull out an obscene sized wad of coupons circled with a fat rubber band.  A coupon lady, I might have known, but I didn’t lose hope as the woman’s efficiency in shuffling through the stack spoke of orderliness and speed. The line progress halted briefly as the fast food couple paid their bill and his bank card didn’t swipe the first time, second try was successful and I breathed again. The woman in front of me started putting her items on the belt and placed coupons on top of the products that matched.  It all  seemed orderly until my super-teller picked up the first coupon, then everything stopped dead.

“What are these?” said the perky teller to the coupon lady, turning the coupon around and around like she hadn’t seen one before, “It says sixty percent off, that can’t be right.”

“They’re manufacturers coupons dearie,” said coupon lady, “I use them all the time.”

“I don’t think we can accept these,” said perky teller and the coupon ladies eyes narrowed dangerously.

“They are acceptable anywhere the product is sold young lady, just read the back.” As the cashier girl begins to read the back of the coupon (having to hold it an inch from her nose to read the fine print) the last of my happy thoughts are blown away by the resurgence of my inner cynic.  “I can hear it now!” it rasps hoarsely, “in about 5 seconds she will get on the intercom and ask for a lawyer on cashier number 4.  We’ll spend the next 19 minutes watching a legal debate between coupon lady and perky girl.”  Actually it was worse.

images-8“Brenda, hey Brenda!” hollers perky to an older cashier two lines over.  “What do I do to enter these?” she’s holding up the offending piece of coloured paper, and I get some satisfaction seeing Brenda’s line stop dead. Brenda now comes over to look, earning dirty looks from her customers in line.  Maybe others do play “the game”,  I thought.

“You’ll have to ask Sandy” concludes Brenda after studying the fine print like it held life’s secrets, “but she’s on break.”

Oh just great!” my inner voice moans, “lets all go join Sandy in the break room and watch her finish her hot chocolate.  Since “Sandy the magnificent” is the only magician that can unlock the secret of the coupon we can’t be in a hurry or anything!”  Another line stops dead when the pair are joined by another teller and a coupon conference ensues. I am forced for my own sanity to study the chewing gum selection and ignore everything.   Just as I am beginning to mentally measure my cart, wondering if I could use the toilet paper pack as a pillow and curl up amongst my groceries to nap, the group think-session ends and the coupon is entered into the system.  I should feel grateful it only takes typing six lines of code for each coupon. I look at the other moving lines and am too weary to care that I’ve lost “the game”, again.

I have somehow picked the slowest line.  Glaciers and snails could pass this line and live a full life and I will be stuck here in grocery purgatory. I am past the point of feeling sorry for myself and into the land of humour now, the comfortable numbness of bemusement beginning to creep in.  When you’ve reached the end of the rope, and started practicing your knot tying, you can at least tell yourself it can’t get worse.  When it does, the audible snap of a rope breaking above you may as well be the severing of the link to sanity.images-6

Coupon lady has got all her groceries through the scanner and the cashier has given her a total and my toes are curling up in my boots as coupon lady pulls an official looking cheque out. My inner cynic/psycho begins laughing hysterically, a madman’s version of bemusement, as perky shakes her head and I hear coupon lady ask for a manager. “A MANAGER?!!” roars the inner voice. “There are no managers in these places, the manager is just a rumor started to keep these gals working and the stock-orcs in line, any form of a manager would have to be flown in from the east coast.  Just look at that cheque, I’m sure its in German.  It is probably drawn from a seedy cash store in Brussels. Why, why, why does this ALWAYS happen?” At this point my choices are limited, I could flip out and trash the gum rack, unleash the inner voice on a fellow human being, curl  up on the floor and sob uncontrollably, or, find some patience.

images-3You can probably now tell from my slightly exaggerated tale that I am no saint.  I am far from it.  I have no secret of tranquillity that works all the time, its why I live in the country instead of the city. What I want to explore is the idea of “finding” patience within, how does one do that? What is the process and where is it “found”?  You’re probably thinking that I am short-tempered in the city because I think I am better than the other people, that I live in the bush because I  imagine myself somehow superior to the general public. You may think if I held my fellow man in greater regard and got off my high horse that the patience would just be there, but that is not the case.

My next post I will tell another story  where I had to “find” patience, and I was very much alone at the time and many, many, many, miles from anything resembling a city.  So I throw the question out to y’all: “What is the place that one reaches down to to find that thing called patience?”  


Categories: Wisdom | Tags: , | 4 Comments

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