Just a Jot

Just Who Is Charles Rodenbough Anyway?

2011-12-13T08:21:00.001-08:00

I am Charles Rodenbough and beyond my role as husband, father, and grandfather, I suppose I can characterize myself as a writer and teacher, both capacities I have enjoyed since retiring from being a business manager. Many years ago I was aware of what I enjoyed doing but I let others convince me of my “responsibilities” and I gave up the desire to be a college professor. I don’t begrudge the choice nor do I regret what might have been. In my retirement I am getting to catch up on the avocation that I had continued even while functioning as a businessman.
History is my genre and my concentration has been associated with North Carolina. I chaired a Sesquicentennial Celebration (Madison, NC), organized Historic Districts, county chaired the National Bicentennial, Presided for the Historical Society, planned for a county museum, and all the while I read, researched, and collected for a time when I could write. When that time came, I was not starting from scratch but ready to compose from what I had assembled.
I like to structure my writing on the bare facts but I like to create beyond into the logic or lack thereof in how people, individually and collectively, accommodate to their circumstances. History writing is always interpreting the circumstances of one time or generation to another which sees through its own prism. The historian has to convey facts and situations in such a way that the reader begins to perceive in the historical moment. I have written biography, history, and historical fiction.
Most recently, I wrote a biography with my grandson that could be read and appreciated by multiple generations of readers. Stealing Andrew Jackson’s Headwas published this year by All Things That Matter Press. My wife, Jean Rodenbough, is also a published author with All Things That Matter Press.
Currently, I am involved with a project with the University of North Carolina, studying a unique common thread of slavery from Africa, through the West Indies, Virginia, North Carolina, Indiana and Canada over a hundred year period.

Stealing Andrew Jackson’s Head
http://www.amazon.com/Stealing-Andrew-Jacksons-Charles-Rodenbough/dp/0984651799/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1322169788&sr=1-1

Who Is Mark Lewandowski Anyway?

2011-12-06T08:21:00.001-08:00

I did not go to Alaska because I wished to live deliberately; I went to make money, hopefully enough to fund a trip to Sweden. The plan was to work in a cannery for the first half of the summer, and then fly to Stockholm, hometown of Hans, a college buddy from the University of Kansas. Things didn’t work out that way. When we arrived in May salmon wasn’t running yet; jobs at the fish processing plant in Homer were scarce. By the time the jobs arrived at the end of June, Hans, his girlfriend, and her brother had given up and left Alaska. I stayed on for the rest of the summer, sometimes working 18 hour shifts “sliming” salmon for many days in a row. I never overslept, even though I didn’t need an alarm clock. Before I went to bed each night I popped some Tylenol. Like clockwork I’d wake up five hours later, once the Tylenol wore off and the pain returned to my hands. By the end of the summer things so striking before, like the bald eagles as common as crows in the Lower 48, or moose lumbering down the main street, clogging up early morning traffic, had become the norm to me.

In August I started a Master’s of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Wichita State University. I arrived in Wichita in the middle of the night, about four hours before Orientation was to begin. The second story I wrote for my first workshop was called “The Slime-Line Queen.” It became the first story in my collection, Halibut Rodeo. Like all the other stories in the book, “The Slime-Line Queen” was inspired by the jobs I did, and the people I worked with at Seward Fisheries.

That was 1988. I planned on going back to Homer the following summer, but in March 1989 the Exxon Valdez spilled its load into Prince William Sound, setting back the Alaskan fishing industry for years. Seward Fisheries had no immediate use for slimers. Full time residents found work scrubbing oil off of sea rocks with paper towels. I never returned to Homer. But I continued to visit places outside my comfort zone. I lived in Poland as a Peace Corps Volunteer, and in Lithuania as a Fulbright Scholar. I travel just for fun, too. My experience traveling infuses all my writing, both short stories and essays. I like to believe that I have a keen eye for “place.” In all my narratives setting plays a primary role.

Now I am an Associate Professor of English at Indiana State University, with a modest list of publications in numerous literary journals. Halibut Rodeo came out 22 years after that summer in Homer. When I think of how much time has passed, I recall a conversation I had with a single dad I worked with on the Slime-Line. He had just finished his first year of classes at the local community college:
“You know why I’m going to college?” he asked.
“Why?
“So I can get a job where no one looks over your shoulder and tells you to go faster.”

I think I took his words to heart.

Buy the paperback version of Halibut Rodeo:
http://tinyurl.com/2bdpwgn
Buy the Kindle version:
http://tinyurl.com/275ycpz
Read my blog:
http://halibutrodeo.com

Who Is Robert Rubenstein Anyway

2011-11-26T08:24:00.001-08:00

I am the author of Ghost Runners, and The White Bridge, soon to be published by All Things That Matter Press—but not for everyone. A trilogy, finishing next year with a treatise on Howdy Doody and the nuclear bomb is sure to raise eyebrows, but not book sales unless you are also compelled to make sense of the time that had the greatest influence on our lives. In the White Bridge, my flapper gal reporter, Ginger Lee Smythe concludes that truth is nothing, and nothing is truth. My uncle, Jack Ruby, is given a play as a street tough in old Chicago. Buy my books because he was my uncle and I, his nephew? I don’t think so. Maybe I am lying about that, you say. Well, maybe I am.

Most of my life anyway I was told to hide that truth—that’s why you will not see my middle name, Jack, on my books. But Uncle Jack did have a point. My first reaction when I heard Lee Oswald was shot dead was,”thank you, uncle jack, it’s good for the bastard.”

I grew up with television and learned to write history from Crusader Rabbit, Rocky and his Friends, and Fractured Fairy Tales. I believed in Dudley Do Right and Mighty Mouse. When I was three years old, I crawled onto the tenement fire escape and spread my arms to the heavens. “I want to fly like Superman,” I told my mother.

You see, now you are getting closer to why you should buy my books. I believed in fairy tales. I hid under my mother’s skirts when I saw the infamous “Bambi,” in the movie theater. I was shot dead with three – D. Hondo’s rocks that came hurdling out of the celluloid screen to put a dent in my head. I was attacked by King Kong and Godzilla. I am in therapy to this day because they shot John Lennon.

I grew dizzy in the fifties, and I have seen Nazis ever since. Every man should be required to say his prayers about what he has witnessed and what was the cost of the history he bears. I am fortunate to be entering the twilight years, a little wiser and not yet suffering from Alzheimer.

I know I was lied to, and was traumatized by the country I never left, and fought to change, though I heard voices during the hearing test and was deferred from serving our nation. I said, “boo hoo,” that I did not kill or maim anyone in Viet Nam. But I sure wish I could wear a cool hat to say I was a war protestor.

The Olympics are coming—seventy-five years since an outrage occurred. Ghost Runners is about American anti-Semitism and sports. It is about the heart that can conquer hate. It is the same thing with The White Bridge. Why should you buy me?

I am, as old as I am, representative of a new breed of writers that sell our wares by way of a small independent family of authors who are quite good and avante -garde. I have seen that the rest of our little group can pack a mean, competitive pen.

I believe my parodies are vital to the understanding of racism and history; they are, though fractured, but vital about knowing who we are, and where we are going. There is no living room conversation with smart – sets about the Olympics without Ghost Runners. There is not a complete understanding about racist America without The White Bridge. Taken together, you will be inoculated forever.

Buy me because it took me a lifetime to get to this declaration. There is sometimes a great notion as Ken Kesey said. If its warped history you seek—horror, hysterical and uproarious—I think I may be worth the price of admission. If you don’t like my books, I’ll pay you back … someday.

Can’t wait to begin the last book of the series with your support … “in a red – bricked classroom, a little five year old boy crawls under a desk filled with inkwells, trying to protect his little head from the shards of glass of the window that he was told not to view. If I were a good boy, and kissed my dog tag that would survive me, I would go to heaven, the teacher cried, when the nuclear bomb came. This is a drill now, she said, but you willbe dead very soon, anyway.”

The Boy Who Looked Through A Crack In The Window ends my trilogy. Why should you buy my book? Because you are the future, and I would like to scare you a little—you see, I still see clearly because I have studied the past through Howdy Doody’s eyes.

Robert Rubenstein

http://www.amazon.com/Ghost-Runners-Robert-Rubenstein/dp/0984621652/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1317343885&sr=1-1

Who is Jesse Hanson Anyway

2011-11-22T08:21:00.000-08:00

Asked by my publisher to write a piece about who I am, for our in house blog tour, I experienced mixed feelings. It was naturally enlivening because I saw a chance to introspect and perhaps learn something about myself. Strangely, on the other hand, I felt somehow vulnerable—the private, guarded part of me felt that way. You see, I knew that the general theme of my description had to be spirituality, and speaking of one’s self as a spiritual being, a spiritual seeker, strikes me as risky business. There’s a lot of room for self-aggrandizement in any forum in which an artist speaks of himself. Having always been taught that true spirituality is for the humble...

Ironically, the flip side of the pride vs. humility issue is the fact that a great percentage of the population is entirely cynical, as regards spirituality and those people have a tendency to view people like myself, as rather self-deluded or otherwise deluded dreamers.

Nevertheless, and at the least, Jesse S. Hanson is a person who has a great deal of interest in spirituality. It is the backdrop, the undercurrent, of all my writing, and it has become my most true identity. My piece here has taken the form of a mini memoir, because it seems to be the only way to explain such an identification. I have had, through no merit of my own, the greatest fortune throughout my life, to be inspired by and to spend time in the company of certain profound beings Who have highly—I would say fully—realized their potential as human beings. I must say I am not one of them.

Truly speaking, there are so many other ways I have attempted to identify myself. I was born into a devout Lutheran family in the agricultural, sparsely populated, southeast corner of North Dakota. There, I found identity in the freedom of the open land, roaming the countryside on the backs of horses, then later as a high school wrestler, a singer and songwriter of sorts. More generally, I think I viewed myself in relation to my family, friends, and girlfriends. In the background was my loosely committed relationship with God, through Jesus.

My college years also proved to be an exercise in identity swapping. Before I could even get serious about any kind of academic pursuits, I was exposed to elements of the prevalent counter culture. Soon I saw myself as more of a Bob Dylan, Neil Young wannabe than as a student. Here my relationship with Jesus was eventually challenged, though not entirely broken. I bounced from one major to another, switched schools altogether and, by the middle of my second year, dropped out.

I went back and lived in my little hometown for a couple of years. Once there, somehow, a few young people created a kind of identity for me. I became some kind of false counter culture celebrity to a certain group. They'd come up to my apartment and we'd listen to albums, watch Star Trek and smoke pot. I was fortunate that that particular identity didn't land me in jail. Anyway, having lost all recognition of myself, after a while I got depressed and, on the advice of my family pastor, admitted myself (more like: turned myself in) into the nine-week "drug" program at the state hospital. In the admission process, I was told it was not really a "drug" program, as there were not even any junkies in North Dakota. Apparently, they called it the drug program to distinguish it and to physically separate its residents from the much larger program for alcoholics and criminals who had managed to avoid real prison. It was designed for kids, boys and girls both, who needed to get their lives back on track. Some had been busted for misdemeanors—dope dealing, shoplifting, etc.—which were often related to a variety of substance abuses—gas and glue sniffing, etc. There were a few cases of heavier type crimes, such as car theft and certain acts of violence. In any case, immediately after my admission process, I was put on a locked ward with the alcoholics and the aforementioned criminals. But it was only for a week, to make sure I was drug free and then I was brought to the slightly more liberal drug ward.

I learned a lot there: not only did I learn that the majority of the staff members were using drugs, while rehabilitating us, but I became aware of residents who got sent to prison from that floor for such crimes as smoking a joint or having a drink of contraband alcohol. I know snitching was encouraged; I don't know if it was rewarded or not. This was the also the place where I first learned about spirituality. One of the counselors, Daryl, was an initiate of a Master from India: Kirpal Singh. This kind, humble, and honest counselor began to hold "spirituality meetings" in the general activities room. These non-mandatory meetings were attended by almost all the residents (it was something to do). Interestingly the soft-spoken counselor somehow held the attention of the whole group. We were quite fascinated by this person's anecdotes concerning his remarkable Master.

At one point, a really wild character was brought onto the floor. Short and stocky, long dark wavy hair, wild eyes, and a very fierce demeanor. I admitted to the girl next to me that that fellow made me kind of nervous. "Just don't let him know it," she advised me. I heard rumors about it taking six or seven aides to subdue him in the solitary confinement area where he had just come from. Later, I became good friends with the wild man, Mark, and it turned out that he was already involved with this Kirpal Singh and was planning to get initiated at some point in the future. He said that when he was in solitary, Daryl was the only person who came to visit him. This is notable because the hospital was in Mark's hometown.

Well, we were some mixed up kids, I suppose, but we weren't crazy. That was yet to come in my life. Upon leaving the hospital, I decided to move to Seattle, Washington. Mark had an apartment there, in the University District, and offered to share it with me. In Seattle, I worked a variety of jobs to make a living as I took to my new identity as a street musician/song writer/spiritual seeker. At least I thought I was a spiritual seeker. To attempt to make a long story short, during the years I spent in Seattle, things went from good to better to worse to really bad. Eventually, after falling in with some strange company and repeatedly experiencing the schizophrenic glories of LSD I lost it. I began to hallucinate when I wasn't on the stuff. When I shut my eyes it was a non-stop scrolling of horror, like an old-time movie reel running down my field of inner vision. That lasted for a period of a week or two, I believe. I didn't sleep. I assume that exacerbated my condition. I'd been in some tight spots before, while hitchhiking, being drunk and vulnerable, etc. but I figured this might truly be my undoing.

It wasn't to be. During this time and the time leading up to it, in my desperation, I'd also taken my spiritual seeking to a new level of sincerity. I'd begun to read everything I could find about spiritual experience, including The Bible, The Bhagavad Gita, The Koran, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, Varieties of Religious Experience. Modern things also—Autobiography of a Yogi, Be Here Now, The Lazy Man's guide to Enlightenment, and so forth. Most of these books frightened me further. Only Kirpal Singh's books gave me hope and encouragement. But Kirpal had left His body recently. I was stranded. One day, my friend, Mark came by; it was a long time ago now that we had lived together, but we were still friends and He was left in the lurch by Master Kirpal's passing also. There had been a magazine, published in English, for the disciples of Kirpal and it was still being printed after He left. This issue contained a very short, two or three-paragraph article, with the title, "A Possibility". It was about a man from the Rajasthan Desert of Northern India. Someone had reported that this man had shown up at Master Kirpal's funeral and when he spoke of Kirpal his eyes turned into Master Kirpal's eyes. That was the gist of it. Upon reading this little article, I felt, somehow, very moved. When I shut my eyes, no hallucinations.

That was the beginning of my identity with spirituality and it was the beginning of a long relationship with Ajaib Singh. Many more wonderful and mystifying experiences have been a part of my existence from that time forward. Mostly, these things are quite personal. The personal nature of a relationship with a God realized person makes it, for me, unsavory to speak of it openly. I've done so, very briefly, on this occasion, in the hope that some people will come to understand that my fiction is based upon reality, as I know and experience it. But my genre of choice as a writer, whether it's songs, poetry, or prose, is fiction. In fact, my perception of prose is that it is another form of poetry—that one shouldn't tell a story but that the story should unfold for the reader, as life unfolds for us without explanation or commentary. I have set myself a kind of personal mission to help expand the role of spiritual fiction in literature.

In terms of writers dealing with spirituality, my style, although contemporary— even experimental—in form, is rather old fashioned, in message. There’s a lot of fluff out there, from self-made gurus and spiritual guides, etc. My book, shows spirituality as a gift from God. In Song of George: Portrait of an Unlikely Holy Man I have created a character who is the spiritual benefactor of men in a federal prison mental facility. The interesting thing is that he has no idea how he came to be selected for this service, since he himself has severe mental issues and has spent much of his life as an addict/derelict. But the idea is that the only kind of person who can reach the poor souls in this institution has to be one of them. An allegory, you see: even as the great spiritual benefactors throughout history have come as one of us, though they are in truth, much more.

Since my meeting with Ajaib, I've lived in quite a variety of locations, been through two devastating divorces, fathered children (now grown), had many occupational and artistic identities, and remarried, finally, in my fifties to the woman who is seemingly my soul mate. Master Ajaib left the body several years back and I was again devastated. But recently I have been so fortunate as to once again come into the company of the Master, in the form of Master Sirio Ji, of Italy, a devoted disciple of Kirpal and Ajaib.

My novel is published with All Things That Matter Press. My folk-rock band,The Primatives, for which I am the songwriter and guitarist, has two CD's: The Lovers of Kali Yuga and Primitive Spirit. I am working on a new novel and have aspirations to publish a collection of my poetry and song lyrics. I have had short works and poetry published in a few magazines, including Reach Poetry, Dawntreader, Sz Poetry, etc.

the book in paper back: Song of George: Portrait of an Unlikely Holy Man

the book on Kindle: Song of George: Portrait of an Unlikely Holy Man

Those interested in learning more about Song of George, as well as my other work and interests, can find me on my blog at:

http://jesseshanson.wordpress.com/

and on Goodreads at:

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3960918.jesse_s_hanson

You may also contact me directly by email at: dragonssong100ml@yahoo.com

Thank you so much for your time, dass, Jesse

Northern BC Business.com

2011-11-09T10:33:00.000-08:00

My new book, #9 Grundpark Road is featured on Northern BC Business's website. It's worth checking out!

Who Is Abe March?

2011-10-31T09:45:00.000-07:00

The full name is Abraham FirestoneMarch. My mother, a very religious person and prayer warrior, took thename Abraham from the Bible. She gave me her maiden name Firestone as my middlename.

My name Abraham has been a blessingand a curse, depending on where I happened to be. When I worked in New York, itwas a blessing. In some areas, it was not a plus and I began using only the nicknameAbe, as in Abe Lincoln.

My feet have trodden the earth in morethan 30 countries. I have seen the sun rise over the Persian Gulf and the sunset in the Canadian Rockies. I sunbathed by the Mediterranean, roasted inRiyadh and dined in Damascus. I was beggar-beseeched in Baghdad, short-changedin Saudi Arabia and saw blood shed in Beirut.

I have been called Mister, Monsieur,Herr, Sayyidi, Kirios, Signor, Sir and other names.

I have eaten with Bedouins and dinedwith Royalty. I have also been rich and I have been poor. I like to think thatI have a world view on many subjects and that I have a certain amount ofwisdom. My experiences are reflected in my writing.

At ATTMP, my book, TheyPlotted Revenge Against America was inspired by America’s invasion ofIraq. My book, Journey Into The Past was inspired by mylove of hiking and exploring ancient castles in Germany.

They Plotted Revenge Against America

http://tinyurl.com/3bomrdl

Journey Into The Past

http://tinyurl.com/3ghv6xg

Who Is Jessica Chambers?

2011-10-20T08:11:00.000-07:00

Soon after Jessica was old enough to walk and talk, her parents realized two things.

The first was that she had an incredibly vivid imagination. Unlike many small children, she was content to spend hours at a time amusing herself, inventing ever more dramatic games of kidnap, runaway orphans and wicked stepmothers. When she wasn’t playing, she could often be found listening to an audio book, Roald Dahl, perhaps, or her favourite Enid Blyton, becoming lost in the tales woven by others. Even as a child, Jessica cherished a dream that one day she would be a writer herself. Always a shy person, she reveled in the ability to escape into another world, something that remains true to this day.

The second thing which gradually became apparent to her parents was that there seemed to be something wrong with her sight. She was forever tripping over toys left lying around on the floor, or being chided for sitting too close to the television (“You’ll get square eyes if you don’t watch out.”) It took several years of appointments with specialists, of brain scans and visual tests, but when Jessica was five years old, experts diagnosed her as having Retinitus Pigmentosa, a degenerative disease affecting the retina.

At school, Jessica’s teachers did everything in their power to make life as easy for her as possible, including providing her with a CC TV and computer. However, as she approached her ninth birthday, her sight had deteriorated so severely that the teaching staff no longer felt equipped to meet her needs. It was decided that she should transfer to Dorton House, a weekly boarding school for the visually impaired. For Jessica, this was a dream come true. Having devoured all the boarding school stories she could lay her hands on, from Billy Bunter to Mallory Towers, she couldn’t wait for her own adventure to begin.

Of course, her time at Dorton House wasn’t quite the round of classroom pranks and midnight feasts she had anticipated. Nevertheless, her nine years there were extremely happy. In addition to the standard subjects, she learned to read Braille and to use a computer with speech output, was introduced to talking kitchen scales and white canes, and mastered countless every day skills to help her adapt to life as a visually impaired person. Outside of lessons she tried her hand at horse riding and archery, fell in love, and had her first painful dose of heartbreak. When she left at eighteen, she did so not only with top grades in her exams, but most importantly with the encouragement of her English teacher, which gave her the confidence to pursue a career as a writer.

Perhaps as a result of going away to school, spending more time in the company of her peers than her own family, Jessica developed an intense interest in people. Everything about them fascinates her. She loves to observe the ways in which they interact, their steadfast loyalty and tendency to hurt those closest to them, their capacity for both cruelty and kindness. It’s this understanding that makes her such a skilled writer. In the words of multi-published author Molly Ringle, “Jessica has an amazing talent for creating true-to-life characters, throwing them together in a gorgeous setting and letting the sparks fly.”

This insight into the best and worst aspects of human nature comes to bear particularly strongly in her novel “Dark is the Sky”, soon to be published by All Things That Matter Press. An emotional read fraught with tension and unexpected twists, the novel follows a family’s struggle to come to terms with the past. Twelve years after tragedy tore them apart, the Camerons reunite for the first time since that terrible summer’s day. Far from being allowed to lay their ghosts to rest, however, a shocking revelation almost destroys them for a second time.

Want to know more? Keep up to date with all Jessica’s news, including the release of “Dark is the Sky”, by joining her Facebook fan page

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jessica-Chambers/177537202257347?ref=sgm

or subscribing to her blog.

http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify

For more information about Jessica and her novels, visit her website

http://www.jessicachambers.co.uk/

It's official - #9 Grundpark Rd is Available!

2011-10-07T08:39:00.000-07:00

Well, #9 Grundpark Rd is finally available. It`ll be another week or so before it`s available through Amazon, Kindle or Nook. In the meantime, you can check it out at http://allthingsthatmatterpress.blogspot.com/ or http://allthingsthatmatterpress.com/buynow.htm

Let me know if you need any more info and of course I`m always interested in minions who will do my bidding. :)

#9 Grundpark Road

2011-08-22T19:40:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the night. After months of effort by me and my editor, we’ve decided that my novel is ready for publishing. I did one final check and sent it in to my publisher, ATTMPress. I can’t wait to deal with the cover. Although you can’t read a book by one, it sure makes an impression.

Tree in the Woods Conundrum

2011-08-13T10:41:00.000-07:00

If a tree falls in the woods and there’s no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? This is an old question that I took literally as a child. As a writer, I realize that this might not have been a question for actual pondering, but metaphorical instead. Here I sit thinking that today I have nothing of value to share. I haven’t blogged in a bit and the mundane day to day requirement s of life seem to have taken over.

As I write this blurb, I wonder who, if anyone will read it. Not many, I imagine. Though this tree has fallen, I find myself speculating whether or not I have made a sound.

Will Ereaders Eventually Replace Physical Books?

2011-08-10T08:03:00.000-07:00

I never imagined how fast things would change. As a child growing up in the 70s, I listened to LPs. Later I listened to 8 tracks, tapes,CD’s and now we buy our music almost exclusively on line. When my daughter was 5 (in 1995) we gave her a little set of Barbie accessories. It included a turntable and record. I said, ‘You know what this is, honey? It’s a record.’ She said, ‘No it’s not, dad. It’s a CD.’ We’ve watched beta and vhs disappear and I still have several sets of encyclopaedias on my shelf that neither I nor my kids use.

When we’re a few years older, it’ll be easier to see what’s really going to happen. No matter how comforting a physical book is, it may not represent the same comfort to future generations as it does to us. After all, you don’t really need a light to read a kindle.

Visiting the Northwest

2011-08-07T22:07:00.001-07:00

The family and I took a little road trip this weekend. We left Vanderhoof early Friday morning and drove west toward the coast. We stopped briefly to see a pretty view of Moricetown Canyon (http://www.northbceh.com/smithers/moricetown.htm) and then off to The Village of Hazelton (http://www.village.hazelton.bc.ca/) before finishing the day at Hyder, Alaska (http://www.stewart-hyder.com/hyder.html) where we took pictures of grizzlies feeding on salmon in Fish Creek.

We stayed the night in Stewart, British Columbia and decided to leave early the next morning right after breakfast. Well that didn’t pan out so well. The only restaurant open early enough was the local watering hole and it was already filled to the point of bursting. Everything else was closed until 11 a.m. We chose to have breakfast in the next town...4 hours later. Needless to say, we were famished by the time we sat down to eat.

We spent the following day in Prince Rupert, British Columbia where we enjoyed fresh seafood meals. The weather was great and we stocked up on halibut and prawns before returning home on Sunday morning.

As tiring as it was, the scenery was breath taking, the locals were entertaining and the food was delicious.

#9 Grundpark Road

2011-08-04T13:34:00.001-07:00

Today was a neat day! I received another query about my next novel. I can’t express how gratifying that experience is. I can only hope that sort of thing continues to happen and that interest continues to grow. Most importantly, I wanted to thank all of you who have read my first book and I wanted to let you know that it shouldn’t be too long before “#9 Grundpark Road” is available.

Thanks again, everyone!

Censorship in Schools

2011-07-31T15:28:00.000-07:00

Censorship in schools—now that is an emotionally charged issue. I am a teacher as well as a writer and I do not advocate censorship. I’m a proponent of common sense, the not so common kind, it seems.

In my twenty years or so of classroom teaching, I have seen the odd lynching and it’s a phenomenon that every teacher usually does the utmost to avoid. Whether or not any given resource is appropriate classroom material is irrelevant.

I don’t think that all materials should end up in the classroom, but those that do, ought to be justifiable. Several things need to be considered when choosing a resource. How does the material relate to the curriculum? Is this the best resource for the lesson? What is the nature of my clientele? A teacher can’t ignore the fact that every student in the class is someone else’s #1 concern.

A seasoned and intelligent teacher will not ignore these issues. The appropriate information should go home explaining the nature of the project and maybe even a sample of what students will be exposed to. A portion of that letter should explain how the lesson cannot be taught without the use of the selection. Finally, parents should sign at the bottom denoting their approval.

Parents who are adamantly opposed might be reasoned with or be given other options, but unless the opposition is a screwball looking for a fight, confrontation should be able to be avoided.

Why do I Write what I do?

2011-07-29T08:44:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I was thinking about this thing called writing. I don’t think it’s a term that adequately defines what it is that I’m doing. Everyone who has gone to school and learned to scrawl his name is a writer. I ask myself, what is it that makes me a writer and another person not a writer?

I think that we should be called expressers or creationists or idea makers. I can’t think of a good word right now, but there must be an eloquent phrase that describes what it is we do.

What we create has very little to do with the market place. I create because I like to. I enjoy it. It’s taken a long time for me to come to terms with criticism and I think I’ve made the journey. I know that the value of my writing cannot be reflected by market trends or any other kind of popularity contest. If I’ve expressed myself well, then it’s up to other individuals to respond to it. Maybe they'll buy it, maybe they won't.

I do hope that one day I’m able to sell enough to make a living, but that doesn’t really matter. My writing is how I express myself. Any idea that I might claim to be unique or have a smidgeon of truth, can only be called such if it comes from within me as an interpretation of my knowledge and experience. It can’t come from a chart or graph or someone who claims to know what will sell.

Protocol

2011-07-27T08:20:00.000-07:00

Some years ago I ran onto an old book at my grandmother’s house. I believe it was called Answers to Questions (printed in 1926). There was an entire section on etiquette. There were questions such as:

Does a woman precede or follow her escort down a receiving line?

When stepping by people already seated in a theatre, should a man face the occupants of the seats or the stage?

When a couple leaves a street car, should the woman go first?

Should a young lady ask her escort to come in when he brings her home from the theatre or from a party?

How long should a formal call be?

These were only a few of the questions and when I first read through the book, my thought was that they were the oddest things to worry about. But then I pondered it awhile and I realized two things. The first was that, most of the answers were simple logic—for anyone concerned about others. The man in the theatre should avoid knocking knees with those already sitting. When leaving the street car, the man should get off first so that he can help the lady down.

In 1924, there seemed to be a concern about the rule, but not so much about the why of the rule. That was interesting to me as well. But when I thought about it, it seemed that in many cases the answers were not necessarily straight forward. Should food be passed to the right or left? I realized that one important advantage to observing protocol is that reduces the chances that any person is inadvertently embarrassed. Again, something very important to someone concerned about the wellbeing of others.

I think that what we have lost over the years is actual caring for our fellow man. We may claim it. We may send $24 to an orphan in Africa or help out at the homeless shelter now and again, but what do we do to protect the feelings of others every day? These are concerns worth revisiting.

Combat Criticism

2011-07-23T12:23:00.000-07:00

One haunting question that writers have is, how do I withstand and rise above criticism. Criticism comes in all kinds of forms. It can come from a family member who doesn’t think you’ve got what it takes. It can come from a reader who is offended by or doesn’t like your subject matter. It can come in the guise of a critic who challenges your writing style. It can even come from an editor or agent who questions your skill.

Developing a thick skin is not the solution. One cannot become impervious to negative feedback. The real coping skill comes from understanding criticism and embracing it.

Family members do not always have it in them to recognize you as a writer until you’ve already become successful, or persevered. You are the only one can know whether you are a wannabe writer or not.

Getting past the armchair critic takes only a keen ear. These critics don’t have the writing skill necessary to offer any depth to their ideas. They usually hate your writing or love it. Neither of these positions is helpful to the writer if there is no solid reasoning to back it. The hater is easier to deal with because we naturally want to ignore groundless negative criticism, as it should be. But we should also ignore the armchair critic who praises without substance. As nice as it is to hear an ‘at-a-boy’, what use is it if it carries no substance?

Good criticism contains an element of reason. Since writing is all about reason, writers should be able to listen to criticism and judge the value of it. If a writer validates a particular point of view, then heeding that perspective can only strengthen a project and therefore improve a writer’s skill.

Listen with your own critical ear and act accordingly.

I've Returned

2011-07-22T15:35:00.001-07:00

I’ve been gone a long time and I’ve probably lost every reader I’ve ever had. It’d be great if you’d prove me wrong and join my blog. In the meantime, I’ll work at writing new and interesting articles. I hope you enjoy, comment and then ultimately—stay.

Human Rights

2010-12-06T14:49:00.001-08:00

As I walked around town today, I couldn’t help but notice the silhouettes of women attached to many doors. I stopped and read of few of the tags attached to each that informed passersby of the issue of abused women. Let me state simply that I think women’s rights is a very important movement, but I think we need to move passed that.

We ought to be thinking in terms of human rights. In any given situation where one human being usurps the rights of another, a crime has been committed. That’s a simple fact. We live in a world where a crime is more severe depending on the person committing it. For example, if a woman were to hit a man with a baseball bat, the general question would be, what did he do to deserve that? It may be what you’re thinking right now. If a man were to hit a woman with a baseball bat, the perception of the crime is astronomically worse.

I propose that we have one set of rights. We already have a title...human rights. Every situation should be able to fall into those rights. They should include every visible or invisible minority. They should include all men and women and all gays or lesbians. If a crime is committed, it should be a crime committed by anyone. Reverse racism should be just as bad as racism.

On the playground at school people aren’t supposed to play favourites. If Sally comes in complaining that Johnny called her a name. And Johnny’s complaint is that Sally hit him. The solution is not to figure out who did what first. The solutions are that Sally is reprimanded for hitting and Johnny is reprimanded for name calling. We often feel justified in retaliation, but if we bought into the idea that every action deserves a reaction, then road rage would be a justifiable solution to being cut off by a bad driver. If the roles were reversed, the consequences should be equal as well. It is the same bad to hit someone or call someone a name no matter who that someone is. We don’t need labels. We just need one set of rights that applies to everyone. We are all equal and we need to be treating each other as such.

An Article Promoting "#9 Grundpark Road"

2010-12-05T14:34:00.000-08:00

Here is an article from Northern BC Business. Enjoy!
http://fb.me/MrE0eP6f

#9 Grundpark Road

2010-11-15T13:31:00.001-08:00

Well, my new book, #9 Grundpark Road has been accepted for publishing by All Things That Matter Press. It’s about Daniel, a foster child, who is sold by his foster parents. His new owner forces him to work in a secret mine on the property. Daniel discovers much more than gold and is determined to find a way to escape.

Gun Registry Vote

2010-10-04T22:53:00.000-07:00

In Canada, 75% of the population live within 100km of the southern border, a statistic provided during a university geography class I once took and a significant fact when considering where in the country a vast proportion of the population live; certainly not where one is likely to spend a whole lot of time hunting. This bill will never be defeated if the urban population does not develop a realistic perspective on the issue.

Guns are divided into three categories (prohibited weapons, restricted weapons and non-restricted weapons). Here is a simple breakdown.

Prohibited weapons are simply illegal to own. When they appear on the streets a crime has already been committed. These are all fully automatic weapons and many modified weapons such as sawed off shotguns. The gun registry has no impact on the use or distribution of these weapons. Only criminals do.

Restricted weapons include handguns. In Canada, providing a handgun is legally obtained, the only way to transport it is with a permit. Any civilian using a handgun in public is also automatically committing a crime.

This leaves non-restricted weapons, or weapons specifically designed for hunting, the only kinds of weapons anyone hunting in Canada may use. These guns are not typically the ones we hear about in the news.

The question that every mother and father living within 100km of Canada’s southern border should be, what benefit does the gun registry provide me and my family? Other questions that should be asked are, how many lives have been saved by the registry that would not have been saved without it, how many police investigations have been aided by it, how many times did the registry accurately determine the number of guns in a household, and what is a reasonable amount to pay for such a program?

Anyone who says it is not a cumbersome process has not completed the course, applied for a Possession and Acquisition Licence or tried to change the ownership of a rifle. When a PAL expires, it means that the holder is no longer licensed to own guns. Does that make this person a criminal?

Am I for or against the registry? Against it, of course. But, how about I say that I’m all for common sense and the wise use of government funding? How about we enforce the laws that already exist to keep handguns and automatic weapons off the streets?

One Stupid Interview of Ryan Miller

2010-03-01T11:29:00.000-08:00

In times gone by, the Olympics have been tainted by stressed or broken political alliances somewhere in the world. It has always been ‘sometimes the case’ that one country or another cannot bring itself to compete in the Olympic Games. But during most years, most countries agree to put aside their differences and compete under a common set of rules laid down by the International Olympic Committee (IOC).

Once upon a time, each country was responsible for its own Olympic programs. Countries strong in a particular discipline would invariably dominate in their specialty at the games. These days, borders are blurred when it comes to the Olympic Games. One Japanese competitor gave up her citizenship in order to train in Russia and then compete for Russia. A Canadian hockey player with dual citizenship competed for Germany.

Competitors do what they must in order to win a berth at the Olympics. They train where they must and wear the colors available to them on game day – the colors of the country that will embrace them.

Men’s hockey is strangely reversed. Men who have built professional alliances must now put those alliances aside in order to compete. Americans playing with Canadian teams and Canadians playing with American teams in the NHL put all of that away to play their best for their mother countries. They play their best, of that I have no doubt, but the rest? I know that they do not forget who their friends are when they are battling it out on the ice, all the while Canadian fans scream their support for Canadians or boo for the Americans. These men do not have differences to put away, so I can only imagine how difficult it must be for them to pretend to forget their bonds. As they shook hands and gave each other their manly hugs once the game was over, it was clear that nothing had been forgotten or put aside.

It is with this complexity in mind that I voice my disappointment in the CTV newscast at the end of the gold medal game. It is sickening to hear a question like, “so how does it feel to lose your family in a plane crash?” This kind of question is not as uncommon to hear as it ought to be and it is detestable. Yesterday a CTV reporter took Ryan Miller aside to ask him how he felt about the final goal. This question was inexcusable. How do we think he felt? It took nothing more than a glance at the American team to see their disappointment. Anyone who has ever played a team sport knows that every loss is a team loss. No matter whom they would like to blame or what circumstances might have been, the fact remains… the whole team lost.

What determined that win was not the dominance of one team over another or one country over another. The end score was simply a result of the day. The game could have just as easily turned the other way on any other day. The men from both teams are highly skilled professionals who provided us with an incomparable emotional ending to the Olympics. The emotions would not have run so high had the teams not been so nearly equally skilled. There as no ass kicking; there was no pounding. Canada won. Hurray. But, let’s not forget the sportsmanship that we are supposedly known for. And sportsmanship does not include kicking an opponent when he’s down. I for one am glad that Ryan Miller won most valuable player. CTV should not have singled him out to ask him such an insensitive and stupid question.

2009-12-17T18:12:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe that a kid who looks the way this one does is capable of some of the things that he is. Just a few days ago, he and a buddy of his went into a salon in Vanderhoof. They strode up to the nail technician and peircing expert to make an appointment. While this young hooligan distracted the woman, his partner grabbed her purse and left the building. The moment she finished making the appointment she noticed her purse was missing and called the boy back inside. He came, but when she told him that she was calling the police he took off running.

A Good Samaritan came out of his store just across the alley and ran after the boy. He didn't catch him, but he did retreive the purse. Unfortunately the deposit for the day had already been stolen - a sum greater than $600.

The story doesn't end here. The police were called and they did eventually arrive. They were provided with the boy's name and this picture, but nothing has been done. In the space of this year the salon has been broken into or vandalized five times including this instance of theft. What has the response been from the RCMP? They say, you are located in an alley. You should expect this sort of thing. This excuse seems ludicrous. Every business on main street has an entrance in the alley. And every business (like the salon) is fortified with steel bars or the like.

A cliche is 'to serve and protect'. Maybe the phrase means to serve citations and protect criminals. I can't help wondering whose rights I may be infringing upon by posting this. I am certain that those rights are more important than the rights of the innocent.

I know that the slogan for the RCMP is 'he always gets his man.' That's easy to do if there is never anyone on the list of criminals to apprehend.

Unfortunately for the ladies working at the salon, they are held responsible for the actions of others by the virtue of the location of building they work in. For the RCMP, the simplest way to ensure success seems to be to have have low expectations for themselves. In that sense, the RCMP in Vanderhoof excels. When a crime is reported, the RCMP is very good at following up to let you know that the criminal is known, but nothing can be done at this time... Maybe next time.

'Get out and go home' seems to be the subliminal message for these entrepreneurs. Personally, I'm not even sure why they continue to pay for a business license. There doesn't seem to be any benefits.

Get a Life

2009-07-06T20:45:00.000-07:00

What is the perfect example of a waste of time? Let’s say you have a game of scrabble which allows you to play against the computer and you combine that with a website that allows you to find the best word possible under each circumstance, thereby allowing you to cheat against the computer. Now, that is a consummate waste of time!

Carrying On

2009-06-26T18:11:00.000-07:00

I don’t know whether I should blow steam off on the world or count my blessings. I guess I should do the latter. Around me wonderful people die every day. Others live their entire lives with disabilities so great that it’s difficult to comprehend how they cope from day to day. Comparatively, I have nothing to complain about.
Until recently, my medical file consisted of maybe four pages and a few x-rays which served to prove that nothing was wrong with me. Now I’m faced with one physical crisis after another and feeling like my body is sabotaging me. Here, on the other side of the better half of 40, I’m faced with the prospect of living with a permanent disability. What I have learned in the last two years is that from the moment we are born we begin a journey of slow deterioration.
Some of us are lucky enough to live our entire lives having avoided the genetic pitfalls potentially inherited from our mothers and fathers, the follies of our youth, our poor habits as adults and every other mishap that could leave us relying on machines to communicate, to get around or even to live.
I’ve taught hundreds of children and raised one daughter (so far) with the hope of helping others avoid mistakes that might steal away their enjoyment of life as adults. Maybe I’m hypersensitive to the issue since I feel as though I’ve made so many unnecessary mistakes of my own. So many times I’ve been too stubborn to learn from others.
But not everything is avoidable or foreseeable. Even when a person lives the very best life style, there are no guarantees. We must simply persevere.

The Ever Changing World

2009-03-16T13:51:00.000-07:00

It feels like an odd year for cold and snow. Here we are in mid March and we’re just coming off of a -30 C cold snap. It snowed in Victoria BC and at least as far south as Oregon. Maybe I’m just more intolerant of colder temperatures now that I’m middle aged.
I know that as humans we are having an unimaginable impact on the planet. One only has to look at night photos taken from space to see how much of the world we have managed to light up. And maybe the time of modern man will be one of the shorter periods of the earth’s history. We are consumers and we are consuming the planet.
Wisdom and action are two different things. Recent infusions of bailout money in the US make me wonder what kind of wisdom is at play here. What makes change necessary if there are no consequences for poor business practices – like…hmmm…I don’t know…bankruptcy? I imagine that in a year or less the auto companies and banks that have received this cash and survive will be vying for market share with unreasonable promises and easy credit all over again.
Just a jot.

More Challenges

2008-10-11T20:50:00.000-07:00

I feel it was dumb luck that I survived my aneurism while I was visiting in the US, but the care I have received in my own province since I returned has been less than what I hoped for or expected. Now I face hospital bills that no insurance company will touch, though I carried all the insurance I should have needed.

After spending almost three weeks in the hospital – most of that time in intensive care – they released me and I eventually returned home to Vanderhoof British Columbia with instructions to get a follow-up CAT scan and see a neurosurgeon within two weeks. As soon as I got back I made an appointment with my family doctor who ordered another CAT scan and worked to get me a follow-up with a neurosurgeon. The report from the scan stated that I was recovering normally and everything inside my brain looked fine. My family doctor is a general practitioner and relies heavily on reports from specialists in situations like this one. We didn’t find out until much later how wrong the report had been. Doctors expected recovery to take a long time, so I chalked up my nausea and other symptoms to medication and the healing process.

The earliest appointment I could get with a neurosurgeon wasn’t until November 2008 – over eight months after my original emergency. In the meantime, the Oregon Health and Science University offered free follow-ups. I was still very sick so I took a copy of my CAT scan with me when my wife and I went to the US to discuss my health concerns with someone who was familiar with my case. The surgeon was immediately concerned when she viewed the scan. Even a layperson could see the large space of air inside my skull (approximately the size of two golf balls) caused by a hole somewhere in my sinuses that allowed air to be drawn inside. The doctor wanted to have another CAT scan done immediately, but when I explained that we were from Canada she suggested that I get another scan as soon as we got back to our own country. Again, she told me to see a neurosurgeon as soon as possible. The CAT scan was easy enough to take care of, but finding a neurosurgeon proved no easier than it had been before.

Meanwhile I was getting sicker and sicker. I required continuous care at home because I might need emergency care at any time. My wife stayed home with me as much as she could and my parents were especially helpful looking after me when my wife couldn’t. Every time I got nauseous and threw up, I ended up in the emergency room with an IV to combat my dehydration.

As a teacher I receive wages only during school year months and this made the summer very difficult to bear. We had little income and our expenses were beyond normal. As a result it’s going to take most of the year to rebound from the cost of the numerous trips south. Combine that with the expenses associated with sending an eighteen year old off to university and a newly adopted daughter, we are finding our situation quickly becoming unmanageable.

The second CAT scan revealed that my situation had not improved and my brain was becoming inflamed from the constant exposure to the outside world through the hole in my sinus cavity. My risk for meningitis was ever present as well. My family doctor was becoming more and more concerned and he increased his efforts to find help for me. Though he reminds me that he did very little for me during this time, I will always appreciate his efforts and concerns in light of the fact that even as a doctor, he does not have the authority to act on my behalf because he is not a neurosurgeon.

Yet again, I traveled again to the US for another appointment taking along the second scan which I gave to the doctor immediately upon my arrival. He left the office and when he returned, his first words were that he was scheduling another surgery for the following week. It was obvious that he considered my condition an emergency. Why couldn’t the medical system in BC see the same urgency? I asked about the list of questions we had brought with us but he said that everything I was experiencing was likely due to the air and that the surgery would alleviate all of the symptoms.

I accepted the appointment thinking that between my travel insurance, my BC medical insurance and my extended health insurance I’d find a way to be covered, or I would find a way to get help in BC before the surgery date. None of that came to pass.

I called my various health insurances and contacted our local MLA. All the insurance companies denied helping. My doctor managed to get the appointment with the BC neurosurgeon moved to late September, but my surgery was scheduled for August 4th. I thought that I might be able to hold on when suddenly I came down with some kind of flu and I ended up spending four days in the local ICU. The hospital released me just a few days before we were scheduled to be in the US again. We were out of options and I felt like I was out of time. Every day I was getting sicker and I knew that any unlucky turn for the worse could be my last.

The phone rang in my Vanderhoof home just three days before my scheduled surgery. I thought it might be good news at last. My doctor could put me on a life flight to Vancouver to see a neurosurgeon. I accepted the opportunity, packed and went to the hospital. Things were not as simple as he thought however. There were no beds available and if I went to Vancouver I would be seeing a surgeon for a consultation only. After hearing my case, the surgeon decided that he did not want to try and deal with the problem because according to him the original surgeon aught to do the second surgery. He suggested I borrow the deposit for the surgery and go to the US for care. To me, this was a least a statement that care could not be provided in BC and that if I might be able to have the surgery covered by my medical service plan after all.

I drove to the US. The surgery was a success and two months later I am beginning to feel more like my old self, but the loan and outstanding bills are now making it impossible to carry on my life normally.

Thanks to our local MLA, BC Medical has agreed to look at my case retroactively provided that a neurosurgeon from British Columbia fills out the appropriate forms and submits them. Unfortunately, no surgeon is willing to make a judgment on a case and surgery that they had nothing to do with - regardless of how compelling the evidence is. We are out the cost of the initial fee and are receiving new bills every day. We had just sold our properties and we were looking forward to purchasing a new home when this happened. Now we are ineligible for a home loan and we are currently staying with my parents who have been very gracious. They remind us that we can stay as long as we need to.

I am an insured BC resident who has lived in this province almost my whole life. I went to university here and became a teacher. I’ve been employed by school district #91 for almost twenty years and have maintained a healthy lifestyle along the way. I did nothing that would increase my odds of having an aneurism and I waited for as long as I could possibly wait for the care that I needed. Health insurance means nothing if when there is an emergency no help is available. I needed immediate help and my only option was to go where it was available. British Columbia effectively denied me care by the impossible bureaucratic expectations amidst an urgent situation that could wait no longer.

The Saga Continues.

2008-09-03T12:16:00.001-07:00

The worst of the ordeal is over. The last surgery was a success. They opened my head up using the same scar and opened a hole in my forehead over my right eye. Inside there was a hole in my skull about the size of my small fingernail. Taking a piece of muscle from the side of my face, they filled the hole.
My problem was two fold. The shunt was working superbly and the hole in my sinus cavity created an endless supply of outside air. This combination created the airspace inside my brain, about the size of a golf ball and a half or two golf balls. My brain had become inflamed around the edge of the space. They removed the shunt and covered the hole with a small titanium plate.
Now the real fight is going to have to happen and I’m glad that I’m feeling stronger every day. The soap opera plays out like this. I had travel insurance, regular health insurance and extended health insurance. At this point BC Medical is refusing to pick up the bill because I’ve never seen a neurosurgeon in British Columbia. Extended medical won’t do their share unless BC Medical agrees that the procedure was imperative. Travel insurance won’t cover it because they claim that it was a pre-existing condition.
The kicker is that I’m on the mend and my first appointment in BC isn’t scheduled until the beginning of October. In all honesty, we did reschedule, but that was because the September appointment was scheduled a month after my final surgery in the US – six months after my original bleed.
My current plight is simple. I believe that my life was in imminent danger. The services and concern for my wellbeing were not available in British Columbia. I took our a loan to pay for the surgery at the suggestion of my family doctor who had been in contact with a couple of neurosurgeons – neither wanted to deal with my case. I’ve been paying into the healthcare system for years with no significant illnesses. Now, with everything on the line, there is no support. I feel betrayed by the system and am now carrying a debt I should never have had to endure in the first place.We need to do something about our medical system. Care is not available equally to those covered. Had I been living in the lower mainland, I would have had access to necessary services. Of this, I am certain. If you’ve had a similar problem or have any suggestions, drop me a line.

British Columbia Health Care

2008-08-19T17:26:00.000-07:00

In British Columbia, we would like to believe that we live under a security blanket of insurance and medical professionals. Our insurance is affordable and under most circumstances care is just a phone call away. Sadly, that blanket is a thin sheet offering little warmth. Much of what our doctors come across is the mundane day-to-day ailments a small community produces. The question is, can a person living in the north survive a serious illness in our province? In my case, I’m not so sure.

On April 2nd 2008 my wife, Wendy and I were visiting my parents-in-law’s near Portland Oregon. I had just stepped out into the hallway after using the restroom when a strange painful sensation of moving fluid, started in my upper shoulders and rolled over the crown of my head, overcoming me. I had never felt anything like it before, but I knew immediately that it was bad. Awareness was slipping away and I wandered down the hall to find someone who could help. The first person I came across was my mother-in-law. “I need to go to the hospital right away,” I remember saying.

She asked me about what I was feeling and I remember saying that I was experiencing the worst headache of my life. That wasn’t entirely true, but I knew that I didn’t want anyone to waste time trying to help me. They called 911 immediately. My mother-in-law helped me to the sofa where I lay face down with my face resting over the edge. It seemed only moments had passed before the paramedics arrived. They moved me to the ambulance and rushed me to the nearest hospital. A neighbor and a retired surgeon, I was told, recognized my condition immediately. He phoned ahead to the McMinnville Medical Center to ensure the hospital was prepared.

My memories at this point are sketchy at best. I remember arriving in the McMinnville hospital, but very little other than that. Someone, I don’t remember who, told me that a helicopter arrived to Life Flight me to Oregon Health & Science University, but due to a malfunction, it never left the tarmac. Instead, the team and I boarded an ambulance and made the trip with sirens blaring.

During the weeks that followed I underwent numerous scans and tests. I spent weeks in the ICU and remember making a concerted effort to distinguish night from day. I tried to use my wife’s visits to help figure out the time of day, but since she spent as much time with me as she was allowed, her coming and going didn’t help with this particular problem.

After arriving at the hospital on April 2nd, I was surprised to learn that the major surgery to put a shunt in for the spinal fluid buildup did not take place until April 8th. After that, memories are clearer. I was able to spend one day on the regular ward and this was great. Visitors were no longer restricted to one or two. Unfortunately, I cannot say that I was a good host. I slept when I was tired and visited when I could. At least some family members, who do not have much of a chance to visit, did.

The following day nurses loaded me onto a stretcher and took me back to the ICU. Although I was one of the healthiest patients in the ward, my condition was not as stable as they would have liked.

I feel lucky to have had this emergency in the United States. Care was immediate. I shudder to think of the series of events that the Canadian system of health care creates. An ambulance would have been called and the distance from dispatch could have meant a half of an hour wait. I could have spent an hour or more waiting to be seen at the hospital - through no fault of any of the competent general practitioners. Once they recognized my condition I more than likely would have been sent to the next largest centre. Unfortunately, there they are not equipped to deal with brain trauma.

After having spent hours in the system I may have been transported to Vancouver British Columbia. If I was lucky enough to have survived the trip without suffering irreparable damage, my treatment would have begun then – possibly a full day after the initial bleed. I have little confidence that if this worse case scenario had been realized that I would have survived.

I spent another week in the US recuperating before traveling back to Canada.

When I arrived home I made an immediate appointment to see my doctor and he scheduled a follow-up CAT scan. I received a copy of that scan and one was sent to a specialist in Vancouver British Columbia as well as to the neurosurgeon in the United States. My wife scheduled an appointment in the US because the hospital offers free follow-up for three months. Upon seeing the scan, my doctor in the US was immediately concerned. I explained that we were from Canada and reluctantly she released me saying that she wanted us to get another scan right away when we returned. She hoped that the healing process would close whatever hole was allowing gas to enter my brain.

The next CAT scan didn’t occur until July. In the mean time my doctor advocates in Canada were working hard to get the specialists in Vancouver to understand my plight. They informed me that I had an appointment scheduled in November. In the mean time the gas in my head was causing me to be nauseated. Every time I got sick, I ended up in the hospital dehydrated. Toward the end of July I came down with some kind of virus and because the doctor was afraid that whatever it was might move to my brain, he admitted me into the hospital. More contact with the surgeon in Vancouver finally bumped my appointment up to September – a month away as I write this.

A second follow-up appointment in the United States showed that the space inside my head was not getting smaller. Some of the smaller spaces seemed to have disappeared, but the main space, that I figure was somewhere between 50 and 100 mL, was larger if anything. There was a white ring of inflammation along the edge of my brain. I was getting scared.

The doctor arrived after looking at the scan ignoring the list of questions I had written down. He said that the symptoms that I was experiencing were probably associated with the air pressing against my brain. He informed me that they were scheduling an operation immediately. When the appointment was over, the surgery was set for a week later. I left the office and went back to Canada.

My first order of business was to try to get one of my four insurances to cover the upcoming surgery. All declined.

The day before I was scheduled to return to the US I received a call from my family doctor. He said that there was a doctor available in Vancouver and they could life flight me there to see him. After discussing the issue with my wife, I agreed to take the flight, mostly because this route would be covered by my insurance. I quickly packed and was driven to the hospital. When I got there, my doctor was still discussing the issue with doctors in Vancouver. The final verdict was that I should go ahead and borrow the money and have the operation in the US, so the next day we loaded into the truck and began our trip south.

Where am I now? I am currently at my in-laws in the United States and recovering well. Yesterday was my first day without medication and most of the pain I am experiencing has to do with recovery. I am confident that the problems I’ve been facing since April are behind me. When I get home my priority will be to find some way to pay for this life saving procedure. In the meantime, I’m just happy to be alive.

My Meager Publishing Experiences/Wisdom

2007-10-17T05:52:00.000-07:00

Publish America has received some very bad press and not all of it is justified. However, some of it is.
The good things:
I got my fist book published.
There was no cost to me.
I learned valuable lessons:
- The writer is the first and most important editor. Trust no one else with this task lightly.
It's so important it bears repeating.
- The writer is the first and most important editor. Trust no one else with this task lightly.
- It provided me with a real life publishing experience that I didn’t have to wait for years to have.
The book is available and does have good qualities.
They did do everything they said they would, unfortunately for some authors this has not been the case.

The not so good things:
It won’t be in bookstores no matter how hard you try (I believe). I was shocked to find out (because they never told me) that bookstores (at least in Canada) get a five percent discount on the books. This doesn’t cover shipping, so they can’t/won't bring the books in.
Authors outside of the US are at a disadvantage because Publish America won’t accept returns from other countries.
There is confusion about whether Publish America is a vanity press. It’s not in the sense that it doesn't charge fees, but it is POD.
Publish America does not have good author support.
There are many disgruntled Publish America authors because they feel they should have received more. This might be true.
Note: I did look this company up with the Better Business Bureau and what they said is that this new company has had no more startup problems than any other new company has. They have actively dealt with issues that have arisen. A further note: issues on the web tend to be written in stone, one disgruntled individual can seem to knock around forever, stirring things up. There are a half a dozen people who have been so angry and frustrated that they’ve posted on many different forums – and still do.
They should have two departments and don’t. They should have one department that accepts only serious manuscripts with a solid support staff for these authors. The second department should be for those people who have a very small audience – like family and friends – who never intend to be serious authors.
Further Note: If I ever publish with Publish America again, I would not bother with their editing department. They failed miserably at this task (spell check, and not even a good job at that). I should have never let them touch the manuscript.
As a Publish America author, you are a part of a very large group of writers, many of whom are mediocre at best. (I may be one of those, but you can decide that for yourself.) Because they do not have high standards for acceptance, it affects the reputation of all other authors published under their name.

How to decide:
If you’re a serious author and have high expectations, don’t choose Publish America for your book. There is little support, cover prices are set high, there is little respect from the writing community (though few of these critics form part of your readership), and there is no exposure in stores or promotions that you don’t organize yourself. However, this has been a good learning experience. I’m finished my second novel and working on the final draft. This is probably true only because I’ve been through the experience once and have learned some meaningful things about the publishing industry. I wouldn’t have any experience if my book was still a manuscript under the bed.
If you have a cookbook, a book of poems, a family heirloom, or anything that is not mainstream literature, this might be a good option that does not cost anything.

One other lesson:
Never before published authors don’t realize that a publishing or agent contract is a two way street. They might be eager to publish and any cost. Becoming a published author should not cost you your reputation or your bank account. There are many publishers and agents who have few scruples. Learn about the industry and what the standards should be and do not enter a contract that is not going to serve you well.

I got a lot from having been published. I AM an author - something I didn’t really believe I could do before. That by itself has been worth it.

Happy Birthday

2007-02-13T08:48:00.000-08:00

Several days ago (prior to my birthday) I was kicked in the head by a nasty virus. Once it got me down it decided to bash me into the curb until every muscle in my body ached.

Then it was my birthday. :) I can tell you that it was quiet and relaxing during the times when I wasn't trying to choke up a lung.

Things progressed as you might expect. The nasty thing migrated from one sinus cavity to another, then to the throat where it used its heavy artillery and now it sits heavily in my chest where every cough threatens exit through the top of my skull.

Yesterday was an auspicious day (depending on your definition of luck). The morning was about to begin. I woke and made the call to work, letting them know I wouldn’t be there. It was then that my daughter came upstairs informing me that there was a flood in the basement.

Naturally, I went down there to assess the situation and since the lagoon has been a problem in the past, I started there. My brother came over with an ice auger and we crossed the fence onto the snow-covered surface of the sewage-filled hole. The snow was only few inches deep and it didn’t take long to scrape it down to the green tinted ice below.

We got to work immediately and before long, there was a growing pile of ice shavings. Even these gave off the same odor that you would expect from any open sewer line.

Fifteen minutes later and through eighteen inches of ice, we hit water. I satisfying, yet perplexing result. The problem was not at the lagoon.

I arrived in the house to discover the house had begun its normal routine. Maybe they thought I had solved the problem or possibly, it was a response similar to turning lights on during a power outage. My daughter was the unfortunate one for the second time that morning. While earlier she had gotten her socks wet, now with shoes on she expected to avoid any unpleasantness. She did not know that the water was now significantly higher and the shoes she chose were inadequate. She had some choice words and I doubt that I would have responded any differently.

I arrived in the house to chaos only a panic strickened household can create. The problem that had seemed a minor one was quickly getting out of hand and I did not have to suggest that everyone in the house should stop using water.

The next step was to go to town. I needed a wet/dry vacuum cleaner and an auger that I could run down the pipe to see if I could clear the blockage or figure out what it was. By the time I arrived home, it was after noon and the house was beginning to smell as badly as you might expect.

The first task was clean up some of the standing water, which had now begun to soak into furniture. That task took some time and by two o’clock, I was threading the snake into the cleanout.

By three, two things were obvious. The clog wasn’t in or near the house.

I’ve never made an insurance claim before, but this impossible mess got me thinking about that. Wendy got on the phone to our insurance provider, who immediately reprimanded her for not calling sooner.

After an afternoon of being on the phone, all the wheels were finally in motion. The insurance adjuster had arrived, a cleanup crew was on its way and the backhoe was pulling into the driveway. It looked like some kind of strange house party, but not one you want to be having.

It’s morning now and the basement is almost gutted. I’m at home... still sick. I’m going back to bed now.

Newspaper Article

2007-02-01T16:32:00.000-08:00

The Omineca Express in Vanderhoof British Columbia is featuring me and my novel. Look for the story on page two in the February 7th issue. Look for a copy of that story on this site soon after!

The Banderman Odyssey

2007-01-27T08:21:00.000-08:00

The Banderman Odyssey has been released - on my daughter's birthday, no less. It is available from the publisher or from Amazon. In the case of Amazon, make sure you pick the right country to order from. It's doing very well and has spent a lot of time over the last month in the top ten best sellers of the all of the the books in print from the publisher. That means that when it was #6, it was 6 out of 18,000. I thought that was pretty good for an unknown author.

If you're local and know me, I can get a signed copy for you. You can be local in two places - the Salem Oregon area or the Vanderhoof British Columbia area.

check out the website: www.randykwallace.com
email me for the book: bandermanodyssey@randykwallace.com

A Higher Power Stepping In?

2007-01-20T17:11:00.000-08:00

We do a ton of things while we’re in college, but we hope things will just fall into place when we have all that education behind us. More often than not, I suppose, it doesn’t – fall into place.

All during my university years I’d come home to warm welcomes and since the superintendent was once my principal he was always telling me how loyal the district was and how much he was looking forward to seeing me on staff. One practicum was at the local high school. I was lucky enough (not) to work under a controlling woman who at one point stated that she was my future employer because without her good comments no one would hire me.

Interestingly enough the vindictive hag did have some impact on my career, but it was relatively short lived.

When I returned from school that summer the principal of the high school that I’d hoped to teach at was gone on holidays. I didn’t see him until he showed up to get pictures developed at the one-hour lab that I worked at as a summer job. I knew that there was an opening at the school and as far as I knew, it had not yet been filled. You can imagine my surprise and disappointment when he made the announcement there and then that the job had indeed been filled and by someone I might know. (You need to understand that my majors were in theatre and geography and this job had those very needs. If there was such an opportunity to support a local boy, there would have been none better.)

Of course, I was disgruntled. I spoke with the superintendent, who informed me that he was not the one who did the hiring. Then I spoke with the principal and challenged him. He claimed that he knew what my teaching was like, though he had never been in my classroom (the jerk), and as far as he was concerned, had made the best decision. Since I had a little saved up (from an investment that I’d made from what was left of my lottery winnings, which I used to put myself through university) I decided to go to Montreal with my wife who was born there.

Off I went.

After arriving, the school board informed me that there were no teaching jobs available and there was no use applying for substitute-teaching work either, as those too, were full time positions in Quebec and were all filled up.

It didn’t take long to use up the funds I had available and as things became more and more dire, I began to worry. It didn’t help that the wife was a high-strung French woman who was more prone to yelling than helping.

And this is where the job story starts.

My wife told me about a temporary jobs from a place called Express. I didn’t know too much about such things, but the bottom line was that I could get daily work. All I had to do was show up. So at 9:00 the next morning I arrived at the door to see 50 people in line. I made my way to the office window and after some time made myself understood to the French woman behind the counter. She informed me that if I wanted to guarantee myself work each day, I’d have to be there when the office opened. I took my seat and waited along with everyone else. The hours trickled by and at 1:00 o’clock in the afternoon I was called with a group of others. We were told to meet back at the office at 3:00 and a van would pick us up, where we’d go out to a work site. “Dress warm”, she said, because we’d be working in a refrigerated room.

I a drove home - a 45-minute drive – got my stuff and was back in plenty of time. Again, we waited. Finally, around 5:00 the van showed up and we were hauled across town to a vegetable packing plant where we chopped vegetables until 11:00 that night. There was no van to take us home when we were done, but we were able to catch the last bus and I arrived back home at 2:00 in the morning.

A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. I slept a bit and then was back in the car by 4:30. I got to Express in plenty of time and was one of the first in line when the office opened. The lady could see that I was willing and ready to work, but she was disappointed at the clothes I chose to wear that day. “If only you’d brought a pair of boots”, she said with some disappointment. “If you had a pair of boots, I could put you to work all week.”

“They’re in my truck”, I replied excitedly. The idea of working for a week was mouth watering.

"You have a truck?" she stated even more impressed. Apparently she wasn't used to such high class clientelle.

An hour later I found myself at a pressed board finishing factory. It was my job to unwrap bundles of raw pressboard and keep the area clean. I was working alongside an eighteen year old.

We worked hard that day and the next. The boss came by to inform me that he was moving me up to the line – an unheard of promotion for an Express employee. He confided that usually Express employees were given jobs where they could neither hurt themselves or damage the product since most of them were druggies and drunks.

In the next few days I was advanced several more times, until one day the supervisor approached me. He broke the sad news and stated that he wasn’t allowed to promote employees hired from Express. Without further ado, the eighteen year-old took my place and I took up a broom once more. My new job was to clean the debris from around the equipment and sweep the floors of the entire complex. I got right on it.

The week passed and they requested that I work there again the following week. It would be the last week, as working any longer would mean that I would need to become a union member and since it was against the rules to hire from the Express pool, I was soon to be history.

That day, as I was working, contemplating my bleak future, but working hard nonetheless, a tall man in a dark perfectly creased suit passed by. I smiled and off he went on his way. Later that day, he returned. “You know”, he said, “these floors have been swept many times, but this may be the first time they’ve ever been swept. You know I started the way you are now. If you keep this up, one day you’ll be where I am.”

I have to admit that my thoughts were somewhat sarcastic. After all, I did have a teaching degree.

Later that day the supervisor called into the office. He wanted to know why a guy like me, with a bachelors of education, was working for Express? Well I told my story and you’ve heard it already. Then he confided, though it was policy not to hire workers from Express, there would be a job for me at the end of the week.

Now you would think that this is the perfect ending to the story, but it does get better.

I returned to work and was quickly moved along the line until finally I was running the stacker. Then one day the supervisor called me into his office once more. He said, “You know, my wife is a principal and I know for a fact that there is teaching work out there. Let me see what I can do.”

A day or two slipped by when I was interrupted to take a phone call. It was a principal from one of the local schools. “You know,” he said, “I have a job and I think it would be perfect for you.” He then went on to describe the teaching position which was a limited duration position that would start in January and end in April. It was November at the time. He paused at the end as if not knowing how to say good-bye and then went on, “Now I know I’m shooting myself in the foot, but I know of other position and it starts right now and goes to the end of the year.”

He gave me a number to call, which I did immediately. I wasn’t sure about much other than to go directly after work to the school board office downtown Montreal. I told the man that I’d be coming from work and in less than ideal attire for an interview, but it made no difference to him.
I arrived at the board office more aware than ever of my foul stench. I spoke briefly to the secretary and then was escorted to what I was soon to find out was the superintendent’s office. Asit turns out, he was most impressed with the story he’d heard. Of course, the only way he’d heard it is through the grapevine from supervisor, to wife, and so on and so on.

He invited me back for a further interview the next day; it was to meet the teacher I’d be working with. As it turns out, the teacher and I got along very well and I began my new job teaching for the Montreal public school system the next day.

Although that is the end of the story, I hope that you are amazed at the series of events that took place and the number of individual who knew nothing of me, yett helped me anyway.

The story didn’t quite end there. I did have further problems getting work in my hometown. Apparently, one of the assistant superintendents was closely involved with the hag who promised me her ill will. I returned to Vanderhoof after having applied for numerous jobs (I had gotten myself on the mailing list at the board office). I spoke with the new superintendent and she wanted to know why I waited so long to apply for work. I explained that I had applied for many jobs and had sent in my resume with each application. Hmmm. How can that possibly be...

Regardless, I was hired by summer’s end and still work in my hometown.

More on War - How about Peace?

2007-01-20T09:19:00.000-08:00

It sounds to me like the UN needs slightly more power. Veto should not be an option. If the UN's job is to solve conflict, you don't allow the warring parties to veto. The US shouldn't have more influence in the UN because it invests more money. That’s like letting the rich kid rule the nest.

Of course it’s not working. Power needs to be yielded to a group where every member agrees to the same kinds of solutions.

Countries need to agree that one body will determine the direction of peacekeeping. The decisions made should be based on a set of rules and then apply those rules worldwide. All countries need to be involved in supporting the peacekeeping process working.

A country that invades another is wrong –simply wrong. Period. No exceptions.

In the case of Iraq, Saddam made promise after promise and ignored each directive. He was wrong. Simple.

But when the British and the US invaded, together, yet without the support of the rest of the world, they were in the wrong. They were acting as vigilantes.

Canada was also in the wrong. When it had the opportunity it should have supported the cause, as should have everyone else. It was time.

The correct thing to do is to unite countries to stand against crimes against peace. It is not a war when the teacher steps in. It is not a war when the world acts as one to correct a problem before it escalates.

What’s going on in Iraq is still perceived as children squabbling because it is not the US’s right, whether it can or not, to usurp the power and influence of the rest of the countries.

Again, imagine if the richest and most powerful kid ran the classroom and was able to control the actions and decisions of the teacher. It doesn’t make any sense and is certainly not going to be a sound practice.

To remake a point from above, the United Nations has to operate in a workable and responsible manner. It has to command the confidence of the world and all countries need an equal share in decision making regardless of wealth or their size.

World Conflict Simplified

2007-01-19T11:29:00.000-08:00

Is it a question of escalation?

Let’s put it in context.
As a teacher, I often deal with these kinds of issues and frankly, I prefer using the classroom as an example of human interaction to my family. With 24 – 30 kids to deal with, I see and deal with a wider variety of issues.

I think we need to have some ideals. Let’s agree, for the sake of argument that:
1) people are good (which puts someone like Saddam in a whole different category. There is no excuse for genocide.)
2) people want to protect themselves.
3) people will act on their beliefs.

You have to buy one idea more. Kids experience frustration and anger for the same reasons that everyone else does.

What causes a conflict in a classroom?
a) a right seems to be infringed upon
b) an action is misconstrued
c) a pre-determination is made about the other party’s motive or interest.
d) Others?

I have found that in only a few cases (and these few cases represent those kids that you worry will grow up to be ax murders) kids are not mean. They express needs that they cannot meet – however ineffectually.

If you buy all of this, I would like to say that adults are like little children. The greater our fear that we will loose rights, freedoms or property, the greater our capacity to behave like children. We throw problem-solving skills out the window. We are not concerned about why there is conflict. We want to retaliate. Our first step is to position ourselves politically and then if that fails we leap right to step two - all out war.

And like children, there is no figuring out who was right or wrong at the end of it. We pick up the pieces and carry on.

If you listen to two children who you’ve pulled apart, each will know exactly why they are in battle. They know exactly what the other did. Usually, they cannot express what it is that they did to get them there.

My solution has been to discover where the conflict became unacceptable. Conflict is normal. It is only the outcome that determines whether it has been acceptable or not. That moment is the first act of aggression. That’s it.

Kid number one called a name, broke a pencil, pulled some hair. Kid number two retaliated. They are both wrong. I make it perfectly clear to each kid where it was that he or she went wrong and we go from there.

What role does the teacher play? Big brother? Do we have an organization that is supposed to deal with these kinds of issues on the world’s stage? I think we do. The United Nations?

This is why countries should not unilaterally invade other countries. In the world playground, countries are kids trying to bash out solutions to their problems. It didn’t work when we were kids. It won’t work now.

From Whence came the Wench?

2007-01-18T12:30:00.000-08:00

The wench we had, to us was lent.
A courier came and requested rent.
But sad to say, the rent, we'd spent.
And far worse still, we’d shared the wench.

How could we know she would be queen,
Betrothed to Harry Mold, a king?
Who said our limbs he’d gladly rent
If we did not return his wench.

King Harry came, and well prepared.
He found our gate in disrepair.
Aligned beneath the cot we cowered,
While the keep, king Harry scoured.

He found us all beneath the bed,
Then saw his wench and shook his head.
He called her out and out she came,
Disheveled hair, a happy dame.

He would not take his wench that way,
So his betrothed he chose to slay.
A bribe we tried, without success,
Since rent was owed… but I digress.

The drawbridge winch was severely broke,
And from it he removed some rope.
A watchman’s bench stood closely by.
Up she went and then let fly.

And so her grave became the trench.
We’re sorry now, there was no wrench.

One Damn Cold Winter

2007-01-12T15:42:00.000-08:00

Let me tell you about BC.I remember back in ’95. That’d be 1995 for you older folk who might be under the impression that I’m speaking about a time long before yours. (You read this with an old timer’s drawl like I’m some old fart who only has a few lucid moments and those only now and again). Anyway, it was October. The fall was rainy and that prevented me from getting my wood in. I had an old 4X4 Ford Ranger, 1987, but the tires were getting bald and it was easier to get around when the mud wasn’t as slick as a freshly dropped ice cream sandwich. (Don’t ask why I didn’t get my wood in during the summer. I have no excuse for that, other than the fact that I was an idiot.) So the wood wasn’t in and I didn’t get it in.The months passed and the snow continued to fall. Winter piled up outside and what there was of a woodpile steadily diminished. No worries though, Christmas was coming.When I was a kid, my mom would sometimes ask me, “what are ya doing... waiting for Christmas?” That was when we were kids and though I’ve always been a procrastinator, up until then the answer had always been no. This year, however, I was most certainly waiting for Christmas.Lest you have forgotten, I will remind you that I am a teacher. We are a fortunate lot and so I bided my time and stretched the wood as far as it would go, waiting for Christmas.Christmas came that year and it was ushered in with the coldest temperatures that I can remember (-45C). For those of you more familiar to Fahrenheit, that would be -50F. Let me tell you that it was crazy cold. I wore long johns, jeans, my snow pants, a pair of coveralls and a winter jacket after that, one over the other and still I could feel the cold all the way though. Let me say that I did as little as I could outdoors. But chores still had to be done.The Christmas holidays trickled by. The truck (which was a diesel) sat frozen in the driveway. It had more sense than I did. I waited for as long as I could.On January 1st, with only a few days from having to return to the classroom, I could wait no longer. There was no wood left in the shed and the whether had still not let up. Thankfully it had warmed to a balmy -35C and I set about coaxing the truck out of its hibernation. It was none too pleased and the most I could get out of it was a slow idle. The situation was dire, and so dressed in my getup and piled into the driver’s seat with the seat back as far as it would go. In this way I was able to get my legs, with all of the extra padding, under the steering wheel. And off I went.The truck never did get over an idle and that was just as well. I’d been in a vehicle once when the cold wind reduced the engine temperature so much that the car wouldn’t run at all. The solution was to drive in low gear with high rpms. That wasn’t a problem today. I could develop neither speed nor rpms. Thankfully the truck puttered along.In the early afternoon I reached my destination and left the truck running while I sawed up enough wood to fill it high above the racks. It gets dark at 3:00 in the afternoon and so I puttered home in the pitch black night with the temperature steadily dropping.My parents met me in town, worried sick that I was stranded out on some logging road, but other than that, the whole adventure was uneventful.I know you were hoping there’d be some sort of climax, and there was. I got home and filled up our wood stove, opened the damper right up and celebrated by heating the house as hot as that fire would make it – chimney fire be d**mned. The house didn’t burn down and I didn’t run out of wood again until spring.The Truth.

The Banderman Odyssey - Progress!!

2007-01-04T14:20:00.000-08:00

The Banderman Odyssey is only a couple of weeks from being available to the public. It's been a long process and a hard wait. Of course the only way to make the process of waiting easier is to busy yourself with something else. This is just a way to suggest temporarily forgetting about whatever it is that is so exciting.

Oh well, the waiting is nearly over and whether I've waited with patience or not, it has not eased the excitement, anticipation and fear of what is about to happen.

A book will arrive on the market. Some will choose to purchase it, others will want to for no other reason than it is my first. I thank you!

Will you like it? Of course you will! Tell me all about it regardless. In a couple of weeks it will be available for order from any bookstore, Amazon.com and from PublishAmerica.com. You can also request a copy from me. Keep an eye on my website for further information about this -
www.randykwallace.com.

Thank You!

2006-06-14T11:45:00.000-07:00

The driveway sign is back. It’s a bit crooked, but it’s back and attached to the post.
My imagination is running wild about the conversation that must have taken place at the culprit's home, but regardless, the return of the sign is welcome and my faith in my community has been somewhat restored and my fears, though aroused, have been laid to uneasy rest.
Thanks to you for making the effort to return the sign and for reattaching it to the post. It would have been easier to toss it in the ditch and I am glad that you didn’t!

Don't Blame ME

2006-06-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

I had a road sign at the end of my driveway. The key word here is ‘had’. During grad weekend, someone came and tore it from the post. It was amazing really. The bolts were sheared off cleanly and the post remained firmly set in the earth. How this was accomplished, I have no idea.
I am torn by the fact that someone came onto my property and took something that belonged to me, but at the same time I recognize that my loss is nothing compared to what others have suffered. Still, it makes me stop and think about the conditions we live under.
Not so long ago I had a conversation with a friend. We talked about the pros and cons of keeping our houses locked. Until now, I’ve been a firm believer that my personal freedom is more valuable than the risk of having my house broke into, but according to my friend, unless you lock your home it is not considered by authorities or the insurance agency to be breaking and entering.
One of the reasons that I’ve refrained from locking the house up is that the doors and windows have a significant value by themselves. If someone really wanted to break in, a pane of glass is not going to stop them. It would only add to the cost of the break in and if weather is particularly bad, that could cause further damage to the house.
All of this is a matter of semantics and really only the background for the point I’d like to make. The question is how is it my responsibility if someone comes on to my property and takes something that belongs to me, regardless of how easy the theft was?. If a purse or briefcase is snatched, does it make the crime any less of a crime if it was sitting next to the person on a park bench than if it was held securely in their hand?
We, the collective, buy into some idiotic ideas. One of them is that we have an obligation to protect ourselves at all times. I question this thought. While it is beneficial to make good decisions like staying out of Central Park after dark, I firmly believe that I should not be held responsible for a crime committed against me.
I propose a simple amendment to our way of thinking. It is the individual who is solely responsible for his actions. While there may be extenuating circumstances that may lead to some form of forgiveness, it is the shooter who kills, the pick pocket who steals, the one who swings the bat, thrusts the knife or pulls the trigger who is responsible for their own act.
It is not the home owners fault for being vandalized.
It is not the party host’s fault that a guest drove away and killed someone in an accident.
It is not the woman’s fault she was raped.

Where does fault lie? PLEASE, let us avoid blaming anyone or anything except the person or people who actually perform the crime. We are singularly accountable for our own actions, period. We are not responsible for the deeds of others.

Chivalry is not Dead - Just Very Very Sick

2006-05-16T10:03:00.000-07:00

Our office is more like a refrigerator than anything else. Those of us who work here every day make sure to bring an extra sweater to offset the effects of the heating system.
Today a teacher came into the room to work at a colleague’s desk. She was unprepared for the weather and within a few minutes goose bumps began popping up and turning her arms into course sandpaper.
One of the men - and I’m sad to admit that it wasn’t me – offered his coat and it was gladly accepted. This act of kindness was immediately noticed by one of the matrons in the room. She pleasantly stated that chivalry is not dead.

The diseases that afflict this poor beast are apathy and distrust. In a movie like Kate and Leopold, Leopold would never have been accepted as he was. A man running around in period clothes with impeccable manners would come across as a psychotic unable to apply simple social skills acceptably. More than likely he would be shunned or even institutionalized.

Guns in Canada

2006-02-15T13:14:00.000-08:00

We Canadians contribute to being members of a pathetic nation. That may be a harsh thing to say and maybe it’s not a popular opinion to state, but it is nonetheless true. What better place to live where major government expenditures and changes are made without any consultation from the people? What citizens from a first world country would sit back and allow its government to spend billions to remove its people’s freedoms? And all for the sake of popular vote! Sounds like Canada to me.

I’m speaking of the firearms laws. Is there anyone out there with a shred of common sense that actually believes that further control and limiting of the freedoms of law-abiding citizens will reduce crime? We have spent billions to make it more difficult for people to purchase firearms. Have we really made it more difficult for criminals to get them? Wouldn’t have those dollars been more wisely spent on health care?

I have taken the training, paid the fees and completed the requirements that give me the right to purchase unrestricted firearms, something that any Canadian citizen without a criminal record can do. When it comes to importing unrestricted firearms, according to the ONLY publication that is available at any of the border crossings in British Columbia, a person simply requires their Possession and Acquisition License (PAL) and the willingness to pay the appropriate fees in order to import the non-restricted firearm. The efforts we as individuals put into attaining the PAL are supposedly the key.

I was afraid that it couldn’t be that simple so I got online and looked up all the information I could find. Everything corroborated with what I already understood. I didn’t stop there though. I took the time to go over the issue with a customs officer. I showed him my PAL and he verified that it was indeed as simple as the pamphlet stated.

Fearful, but confident, I bought a hunting rifle while in the US and brought it across the border prepared for success. To make a long story short, the rifle is sitting locked up at the Sumas border crossing waiting for me to complete the appropriate paper work (paperwork that I as yet have no access to and have no information about). When I asked if I could get the forms to fill out, I was informed that they were not available and it was not the customs official’s responsibility to provide them. So far, I have been unable to locate the mystery forms.

According to published propaganda, the customs officers are there to help you solve customs issues in the citizen’s best interest. I hate to say it, but there is nothing further from the truth. In my personal experience (and I cross the border about ten times a year) every case where understanding or help has been sought, the solution has always been confiscation, fees and, in some cases, fines.

Hopefully, when I am finished my research I will be able to find the forms that only this one customs officer seems to know about, fill them out and then drive the sixteen hundred Km round trip to retrieve something that is already rightfully mine and something that I already have the right to possess and transport. In the event that this customs officer is mistaken do you think our government will be willing to reimburse my time and the cost of my travels? If you as a Canadian citizen cannot see that it is unjust to arbitrarily change laws and then without informing anyone that they exist, begin to enforce them, then I am truly afraid for the future of this country.

If the purpose of the new gun laws has been to streamline the system and to correctly identify those people who are and who are not a threat to society, it has been a multibillion-dollar failure. We are pathetic because we would allow billions to be spent on setting up a system of laws and bureaucracy that doesn’t do what it has been set out to do. We stand dumbly by and shrug while our hard earned dollars are stripped from us and then spent, not in our best interests, but by a government whose only interest is in increasing its share of the popular vote.

In Canada we find it so easy to blame everyone but the guilty individual. That’s why if my car is stolen or if my house is broken into, I am asked first if the doors and windows were locked or whether the keys were readily available. It is as if by letting my guard down I am somehow responsible for someone else’s criminal behaviour. Why can we not place the blame squarely on the shoulders of those who deserve it? In Canada I don’t have to wait to be a criminal to be punished and discriminated against, I can do that simply by being Canadian. Shouldn’t we who are innocent and law abiding be able to live with the utmost freedoms? Isn’t that the main reason we choose to live in Canada? It certainly isn’t for prosperity.

Crazy North America

2006-01-25T12:46:00.000-08:00

Recently the NAFTA (North America Free Trade Agreement) was in the news again. I can’t help laughing about the whole issue.

I have dual citizenship and travel frequently. The reality is that many American citizens have no idea that there is an issue. Apparently, it just isn’t news worthy.

Obviously, protectionist lobby groups don’t want to see products hitting the US market cheaper than they can produce them. The net effect? For every dollar that is taxed against products coming into their country means that the people of the United States pay a higher than necessary price for the goods they use every day. These include lumber, poultry and beef, just to name a few.

Right now the most bazaar situation is happening. Over and over again, each appeal made by the US, which essentially claims that Canada is dumping cheap products unfairly onto the US market, has been overturned. The latest development is that the US government has supported NAFTA, the very agreement they entered into in the first place. Now the cattle industry in the US is suing the US government for infringing on their constitutional rights. Unbelievable!

Of course the Canadian government would love to see this dispute, which has plagued NAFTA since its inception, concluded in their country’s favour. To top the story off, the Canadian government is now supporting the US government in this strange lawsuit of the US government vs their own cattle industry.

Outrageous!