An Old Video?

 

Exploring History

It was my birthday. I don’t recall exactly which year, but probably nineteen seventy-six, seventy-seven. I had no plans for the night. Just hung out in the basement on McKay until it was late at night and the urge to move hit me.

I’d learned to trust the urge, as it had sent me down some very interesting paths. This night, it sent me out on my bike, as it was one of those warm nights following the kind of smoking hot late-summer day for which Winnipeg is renowned. I love the late-night, late-summer rides the best. Little traffic, no wind, and the scent of humidity that would be burned off by ten the next morning, to be replaced by the flinty hardness of another scorcher. In my, I don’t know, shoulder-bag, purse, pouch, yeah, pouch, I carried a half-mickey of Southern Comfort for old time’s sake, and a harmonica. I wanted to see the river.

Fraser’s Grove Park wasn’t far away, and the banks of the river were low there, intimate. In springtime a little too cozy with the river, which would take it over all the way up to Kildonan Drive and beyond. I walked the bike into the park, not wishing to brave the irregular ground in the dark at anything above a walking pace. Uncharacteristic caution on my part, I know, but I certainly wasn’t in any rush. I wandered down the bank to where the grass gave way to the river silt and flotsam of the last spring flood. The moon provided plenty of light and glistened on the water in a most inviting way, but a swim was out of the question. Ick. I slid down next to a particularly inviting elm tree and just sat for a while, enjoying the silence and thinking about nothing.

After a while of this, I had a sip of Southern Comfort and played some harmonica, just noodling away without any goal for awhile until I was interrupted by the somewhat surprising arrival of a rent-a-cop. He told me that I’d have to vacate the vicinity as no one was allowed in the park after dark. While this struck me as rather a strange rule, I wasn’t about to give him any grief about it and prepared to move along. We chatted for a while, brothers in arms, as I’d done my time as a security guard the previous year and well understood the loneliness that goes with a dead-end job that compels one to curtail the fun of otherwise law-abiding citizens late at night. Granted, my great claim to peacekeeping consisted entirely of rapping on the inside of the window of a locked-up K-Mart, attempting to shoo away the kids on the other side of glass who were sitting on the dime-a-ride pony. They treated me with the respect I deserved, gave me the finger, and moved along. So I did, too.

I rode along the streets that follow the river, over the Redwood Bridge, and through the northend, something I wouldn’t recommend nowadays. Through some circuitous meanderings, I ended up in the Wellington Crescent neighbourhood and figured I’d see if Danny was around.

Dan’s basically my oldest friend. I’ve got a few months on him, so when we were about four and five, I was the old guy. To him, of course, this was a great challenge, so he’d attack me at unexpected moments and attempt out-wrassle me. Having a bit of height on him worked to my advantage, but by sheer persistence, he’d occasionally get the better of me. We could go for years without seeing one another as I roamed about the prairies and he around the world, but the threat was always there, and continues to this day. I expect that one day we’ll run into each other and he’ll try to tip me out of my wheelchair.

In any case, he lived with his childhood sweetheart in the Wellington neighbourhood, so I parked in the street near his second-floor apartment in a stately old house. It had, as mentioned, been smokin’ hot that day, and those old walk-ups tended to get equally hot, so leaving all the windows open over night was mandatory. I pulled out the harmonica and noodled away for a couple minutes until his head appeared at one of the casements and he said, “Ya got any liquor?”

I waved my little bottle in the beam of a streetlamp and he was down in the street in a few moments. Susan was probably upstairs fuming at that moment, so it was best that I not go up. There was a history of, ummm… conflict between us due to the chemistry between Dan and me. He toasted my birthday and we did a little catching up before jumping on our bikes for a leisurely cruise around the neighbourhood.

Dan’s grandparents had once lived around the corner from where we were at that moment, so we drifted over in that direction to check it out. Charlie and Rae had been the housekeeper and handyman for the Richardsons, one of Manitoba’s preeminent families, and had a nice little house on the property, a bit back off the street from the main mansion. On this night, however, most of the old house was missing, as some sort of major demolition was underway.

Unbeknownst to us, the matriarch of the family, who had been the last holdout in the palace, had died a while previously and had bequeathed the land, some of the most prime real estate in the city, to the city, to be made into a park for the enjoyment of all. Nice lady.

What this meant to us, though, was that the properties, big and small, were unoccupied and apparently unguarded in any way. We entered the “servants’ quarters” through the back wall, or what was left of it. Dan’s grandmother had died in the front room, resting comfortably in her La-Z-Boy lounger and simply sliding away into the next world. Standing in that so-called living room was quite poignant and we gave it a few minutes to settle in, but we had other things on our minds.

Having more or less grown up in this house, we kind of knew our way around and, while it was a nice house, other adventures perhaps awaited us. We went down the basement stairs, not knowing whether the set-up was the same as when we were kids. At the back of the basement was a passage, still open, that lead through a tunnel to the gymnasium-sized garage. This held room for a dozen or so cars but was thankfully vacant or we may have gotten into a whole different kind of trouble. Something more than the straightforward trespassing we were engaged in at that moment.

No, where we were headed was a bit further down the tunnel, closer to the main house. It was always off-limits when we were little, but of course we always sneaked in just because. And there it was. The pool was not only there, but it was full. I don’t know how big an Olympic-sized pool is, but this thing was huge. It had not been neglected for long, as the water was clean and clear, but rendered chlorine-free by time. Well, nothing for it but to doff our duds and dive right in. It was glorious. Right up until I did a spinning cannonball off the middle-height diving board and got slapped in the nuts by some extremely hard water. Damn, but that hurt. I made the standard squeaky noises once I caught my breath and squatted on the edge of the pool until I could trust my legs. Once I was mobile, we explored the various change-rooms and spas that surrounded the pool area until we found our way into the main house.

This was definitely new territory for us, but it was fairly easy to find one’s way around as it had been pretty much gutted. All the fine wood and marble, the fixtures and fittings had been removed down to the studs, so you could see from one room to the next, indeed you could see the outside world, and the sky was beginning to brighten up a bit. We went upstairs to see what wonders the upper storeys held and, indeed, it was spectacular. The roof had been mostly removed, most probably to obtain the substantial amount of copper that had been used in its construction. It was quite the place.

Standing on the joists of the third-floor roof and holding the chimney for balance, the view was astonishing. That cool, blue haze that signals the coming dawn gave the city a magical look. From this height it appeared to be a vast forest with only the occasional building thrusting up through the foliage and the mist. The river could barely be made out meandering among the trees that had survived the ravages of Dutch Elm disease.

Closer at hand, we could see down, almost straight down, to Wellington Crescent and the long sinuous drive leading from the street to the house. This drive was currently occupied by a slow-moving convoy of construction-, or in this case destruction-equipment coming to finish the demolition of the house. The house on whose third-storey roof we were standing. We were, naturally, buck-naked because our clothes were downstairs by the pool, and our bikes were back at the remains of the little house. Time to skedaddle.

We retraced our route and managed to reclaim our belongings without incident, climbing on our bikes and riding calmly past the curious crew of workers assembling in the drive. We waved jauntily and got the hell out of there. We had harmed nothing during our explorations, but we didn’t relish the prospect of explaining what we’d been up to all night, so best be on our way.

Within a few days the houses had been levelled and that piece of history was behind us. Memories.

My Questionable Sense of Humour

Anyone who knows me well will be all too familiar with the kind of jokes I throw out there. Your blank stares and pitying sighs notwithstanding, I know that y'all truly appreciate them and wish to encourage me in my quest for the perfect knee-slapper. My favourite part is the delayed reaction as what I've just said percolates through and you realize that, “Hey, he's trying to be funny.” I live for it.
I suppose it may have something to do with the gypsy existence I led for the first part of my life. Our family moved around a fair bit thanks to my dad's government job, and the longest we stayed anywhere was about four years. This meant that I was frequently the new kid in town and had to figure out ways to make contact with like-minded individuals. A good joke is sometimes an excellent ice-breaker, and I made a point of collecting a few favourites to drop into conversations. The main problem with this approach is that, after I had thrown down some of my best stuff, all too often I would be rewarded with some sort of “Little Johnny” joke; contrived, filthy, and seldom funny. Worse yet, a grossly racist and sexist “Rastus” or blonde joke. It was through repeated disappointments that I came up with a few short one-liners that were so weird that only the most discerning individual would attempt to respond. Most people would just chuckle uncomfortably and begin to sidle away.
I met a kindred spirit this way when Curt, who I had only just met, said, “I saw the Buddha running a hot-dog stand, so I said, 'Make me one with everything.'” And we were off. We pulled together some exceedingly odd “Finder” jokes and generally made nuisances of ourselves honing them carefully for maximum effect. Example: Jean-Paul Sartre sat down at a café. When the waiter asked if he'd like anything, he responded, “I think not.” Then disappeared. (I told that one wrong for an embarrassingly long time.)
Once, I said to a guy at the bar, “ You know what the white stuff is in chicken shit?... It's still chicken shit.” His response took me somewhat aback. “ Actually, it's uric acid,” he said, and explained in exquisite detail the excretory functions of birds and their differences from mammals. I knew that this was someone I could spend some time with.
So the next time I drop one of my painfully convoluted puns into the conversation, stopping it cold, I'm just on the lookout for a connection.

Over the years, the question has come up surprisingly frequently, “So, how do you size a ring? Do you, like, stretch it or something?”
No, we usually don’t stretch them, although very occasionally will stretch a plain band up by a tiny amount. It is risky and makes the ring thinner, so we’d prefer not to.
No, what we do is, generally, cut the ring and either remove enough material to size it down, or add enough material to size it up. The length of material necessary to raise or lower the size is just over 2.5mm per, or the thickness of two dimes. When asked what we do with the gold that we cut out of down-sized rings, this number will help to reassure customers that we’re not making out like bandits on each sizing; most of the cost of sizing is in the labour. It takes time to do it right.

The simplest sizing is one where the ring is being sized down, is still in good shape, and the back of the shank hasn’t been thinned out by wear. The ring is cut and filed so that there will be no obvious seam, then closed up, maintaining the original, circular shape as much as possible. It is then soldered, cleaned up, and polished. Would that it was always that simple, but that’s the basic gist.

Sizing the ring up involves opening the ring to the correct size, ensuring, once again, that the basic shape is maintained. The opening is then filed so as to present two parallel sides, a piece of gold filed to fit, and the repair soldered and finished as before. The sides of the opening need to be parallel so that the new piece will be held in place while soldering, otherwise it pops out as it’s heated and burns a hole in your shirt. Don’t ask me how I know. I am, of course grossly over-simplifying the process, but I haven’t got all day.


Where the process gets complicated, is when the back of the shank (the ring part of the ring) is so thin that, to size it up in the normal manner would render it ridiculously thin. This can be due to wear, or built in to the structure of the ring by shabby manufacturing. If the latter, little can be done to improve it, but if it’s just the back bit of the ring, then extra material can be removed, out to where the shank is a bit thicker, then a more substantial piece of new gold can be soldered in. We try to send stuff out looking better than when it came in.

If there is so much wear that the ring is thin more than half-way around the shank, then a full shank replacement will be necessary, but that’s a story for another day.
Just a note about solder. When we talk about solder in the industry, we’re not speaking of lead solder, which is the most common type that people think of. Horrible stuff used on electronics and copper plumbing. Our solder is actually karat gold (10K, 14K, 18K) that has been alloyed in such a way as to lower its melting point. Properly used, it makes an invisible joint that is as strong as the original material.
Thus endeth the lesson. For more pedantic fuckery, stay tuned.

Begats

And, lo, it came to pass that, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-five, there came into our lives a Plant. A schefflera arboricola, by name. Also known to many as the dwarf umbrella and parasol, and to the Taiwanese as the Hainan. And as a Plant, it was Good. And it was Fruitful. Well, not exactly fruitful, as it bore no fruit, but it certainly knew how to go forth and multiply.

The original plant five years ago, about seventeen years old. As it got taller, the top foot or so would be unceremoniously lopped off and disposed of.

One day I decided to try a make a new plant out of the cutting, rather than simply chucking it and, boy, did that work.

This was taken a couple years after the initial planting, when it had already been shortened several times. The root base was filling in nicely, sort of clutching the soil. The pot is quite small, so the roots need to be pruned back every couple of years.

Whether I used a cutting from this plant or the original, I don’t recall, but I wanted one for the office downtown. I didn’t have any artistic motives, at first. Just a potted whatever to bring some life into the shop. Preferably something more or less indestructible. This thing fit the bill. It’s actually so dull that I have apparently never seen fit to snap a photo of it. It looks pretty much identical to the original.

That plant thrived (throve?) in the abundant sunlight, as well as the bright fluorescents at the office, and it  was time to start chopping it back. Well, waste not, want not. I brought a nice flat pot from home and started yet another cutting. So now we’ve got the grand-child of the original. This one also took off like the proverbial bat and got chopped back repeatedly.

A few years later, when the people who looked after the plants in the hallway of our building managed to kill the one outside my office, it was time for another iteration, the great-grand-child.

This is actually the first one that I didn’t personally repot. It was done by Joan and Chris, my apprentices, while I was off on holidays. They apparently did a good job because this is what it looks like a couple years later. It’s the bushiest one of all and hasn’t been hacked back at all yet. That top section is starting to look a little, ummm… uppity. Might be time to let it know what’s what.

Back home, now, I hear tell that Kristin is moving into a new house and, as if she hasn’t got enough plants already, I figured she could use one of these puppies. Besides, the first son was, once again, getting a little gangly. This was probably the most aggressive chop-job yet, as I took the entire top of the tree off and potted it. The old base looked pretty sad for a few weeks but, hey looky. The first little leaf has popped out the side and we’re off to the races once again.

Now we come to the reason for putting this whole thing together. Kristin contacted me last night and told me that her plant was already getting too big. Now, granted, I tend to plant these things in fairly tight pots, unless they’re going to be decorative plants rather than pseudo-bonsai, but it’s only been a couple weeks. Kris has always had a way of helping plants to thrive, so this doesn’t surprise me overmuch.

It’s choppin’ time.

Cheater Specs

Born as I was with an extremely near-sighted left eye, it has always been my contention that I was predisposed to be a goldsmith or an engraver. I have been able to work at very close quarters with my right hand without my knuckles getting in the way. Check it out.
This also meant that I sucked at sports, due to the complete lack of depth-perception, which was good, since it meant that I had more time to spend in my tiny basement workshop, honing my skills.
I only wear one contact len, which is seldom a concern, but the onset of something resembling old age has brought about a new development. Upon occasion, I require reading glasses. Carrying these around in a bulky old case is not my favourite thing, and not using a case just results in crushing said specs.
A while back, my buddy Russ and I were having lunch at the Second Avenue Grill downtown and it became obvious to our server, the lovely Natalie, that we were having trouble deciphering the bill. She showed up at the table with two of the coolest pairs of reading glasses, and we got to keep them. Once again, the problem of keeping them handy and protected presented itself. These specs were so slim, however, that they fit into a cigar tube, and my friend James recently gave me a Fuentes stogie for my birthday, the container of which worked perfectly. Whipping this out in a restaurant or at the symphony raises some eyebrows at first, but soon my brilliance becomes apparent.
It will, however, make you a little bit uncomfortable if you're familiar with Papillion, the memoir of Henri Charrière.

Back in the mid-seventies, after having cut off the hippie hair and decided that I was, indeed, a goldsmith, I had reason to enter Ben Moss Jewellers in Winnipeg. This was before I had discovered the concept of profit when pricing the stuff I was making, and I was buying chains at retail and selling them, at a loss, to my customers. This is still, somewhat, the story of my life, so it is with some regret that I think back to the job offer I received from Sid Trepel.
Sid was, as I learned later, not just a salesman or store manager, but the CEO of the whole shebang. His father-in-law, Ben Moss, had started the business in Winnipeg in 1910 and Sid took over in the late 'fifties. He was in the process of expanding the business and, for some reason, had set his sights on me. Problem is, he wanted a sales person and I am most emphatically not one of those, but now I realize that I may have missed an opportunity to learn more about, you know, business.
Ben Moss, the business entity, and I parted company from there on as I pursued making jewellery for people, rather than the masses. I often wonder whether a little bit of discipline and knowledge of the inner workings of the retail industry would have changed the way I do business for the better, or to the detriment of the kind of work I do.
I've never thought of myself as competing with retail jewellers, although what they do definitely affects the way I need to work. The fashion changes over the years, from white to yellow gold and back again, the swing from practical to flashy, bulky to delicate, have meant that my people developed different needs, to which I have had to respond.
Ben Moss Jewellers tried to respond to their customers in their own way, but the great toll of competition finally beat them and they are closing their doors after a hundred and six years. I just wanted to say thanks for the chance, Sid.
I'm still standing.

Apropos of nothing, I hereby present a piece of long-lost trivia from a bygone era.
We were moving a bunch of boxes around, preparatory to having some painting done, when I came across a box of old records. It has been necessary over the years to do an occasional cull of my record collection and whenever they turn up, it behooves me to have a look at my past.
In a boxed-set of Donovan's “Gift from a Flower to a Garden”, a truly gag-worthy pile of hippie tripe, I found this old 45.
The memories came flooding back, as memories do, and I figured it was absolutely imperative that I immortalize the flipside for posterity, as a tribute to the ingenuity of our rural folk. (I couldn't do the the Wabash Cannonball as the trial software I downloaded for the purpose limited me to a single track. It is, however, excellent software and I have paid for it, but finding all my login information seemed way too cumbersome. It's called LPRecorder/LPRipper and works great.)
The record was a gift from a friend from way back who grew up, to the extent that any of us grew up, in Nicollet, Minnesota.
In Nicollet, by all accounts, they like to kill things. This is the story of the Eden Valley Fox Hunt which concerned the winter recreational event of a neighbouring county. Rather than donning the pinks and pursuing the hounds in a display of spiffing horsemanship and jolly good sportsmanship, these yahoos wait 'til winter so's they can release a panic-stricken fox on the stark white snowscape. They give it a headstart, then proceed to run it down with snowmobiles.
As I recall, the final verse of the tune goes something like:
"Did you ever wonder how it feels,
Bein' chased by twenty snowmobiles,
Dragged underneath the bogie wheels,
And bleedin' all over the snow? Oh! Bleedin' all over the snow!"

Whether it was the isolation or the inbreeding, the sense of fun in the town was exquisite. One of the local fellows had a trapline and dogteam, in keeping with their desperate grip on a disappearing pastoral culture.
Feeding a team of sled-dogs is never an easy prospect, and when finances get tight, as they will in a small town at any given moment, one needs to get creative. In a mixed farming neighbourhood, there are always, shall we say, disposal issues.  Most especially in winter when, should old Bessie, the prize milker, unceremoniously croak, it's damn sure tough to dig a hole in the frozen ground to give her the dignified burial she so richly deserves for all her service to the family.
No, best you should call up buddy down the road who will respectfully load the deceased into his half-ton and cart her away to a finer place. Whereupon Bessie, now frozen stiffer than a wedding prick (a phrase I picked up from Wayne) is chainsawed into manageable chunks and flung over the chainlink to the waiting huskies.
So, what if your daughter's beloved Shetland pony, purchased on the cheap due to rather high mileage, becomes sad, lame, and incontinent? The twenty-two calibre out behind the barn doesn't seem to be quite the solution, so you call up buddy down the road.
Lies having been told, the pony is loaded into the reeking half-ton. "You'll give Shelby a good home, won't you?" pleads the tot. Uncomfortable and not being entirely accustomed to live livestock, the boys assure the little girl that all will be well, slam the tailgate and get back to the homestead to give the problem a bit of thought.
Now, this being a beloved family pet, it seems only fitting to do the job with a sense of style. After some cogitation, consultation, and beer, one of the boys comes up with an idea, as well as a small, eight-point rack. These antlers, having been removed more or less intact from the skull of a none-too-large buck, turned out to be the perfect fit for old Shelby. A little baling wire to secure them in place and the hunt is on.
Now, I've seen the shaky Super-Eight film of this debacle, and it truly is a wonder. Sad, really. In a kind of hilariously surreal way. They placed the bewildered little nag in a woodland clearing and she looked around curiously, antlers askew, as the boys skulked into position.
They took up a tactical pincer with the wily beast at the focus of the crossfire. On some inaudible signal, Super-Eight being very primitive visual technology, they all opened fire.
Shelby took it well and dropped unceremoniously where she stood. Typical trophy still-shots were taken to immortalize the moment; grinning buffoons astride the majestic eight-point shetland buck.  I don't have any pictures or films, but if I can figure out how to get an MP3 of the foxhunt up here, it shall be done. Further bulletins as events warrant.

 Disclaimer: Management neither supports nor condones cruelty of any sort. The above is strictly a matter of historical record. So there.

Tremors and Upheaval

My buddy Mel of Regal Imports once complained that Swarovski was selling glass as though it was diamond, while our industry was selling diamonds as though they were glass.

The trend over the past several years has been an unfortunate race to the bottom for the manufacturers of jewellery and, while I can understand the need to make a profit in a monstrously competitive business, it seems to me that the magic and legacy has been lost. Jewellery used to be (and in many cases, still is) an important part of the great events in life. It was not something purchased lightly and was expected to last, if not for generations, at least for a lifetime. This would no longer seem to be the case in mass-market jewellery.

With the popularity of white gold came what we call “beige gold”, an alloy that was conducive to large-scale mass production, but entirely unpleasant in colour. This lead to widespread acceptance of rhodium plating to make the jewellery acceptable to the public. Customers take it as given that their white gold rings need to be “dipped” periodically to maintain the colour, and are actually being told by sales staff that white gold that does't require replating does not exist. This is misleading if not fraudulent. Now, I understand that this practice has led to a secondary income stream for retailers that they would be loathe to give up, but it erodes the trust that has been a mainstay of the jewellery industry historically.

The recent development of CAD design in the industry has cut costs and design time for manufacturers, but has also accelerated the use of micro-pavé. Not being in the repair industry, this phenomenon hasn’t affected me overmuch, aside from much mean-spirited hilarity, but I am terrified of the day when these rings start falling apart in great numbers and the remount business is confronted with a multitude of near-invisible diamonds that a customer expects to be reset securely into a new piece.

CAD has also led to innovative techniques, such as “Invisible Setting”, which further promotes the use of marginal stones in what amounts to disposable jewellery. When these invisibly-set stones fall out, which they inevitably do, they are all but impossible to replace properly and securely. My friends in the repair industry hate doing “No Guarantee” work, but are forced into it by the inherent insecurity of the modern setting techniques. We like to stand behind our work, but if the basic structure of the piece is compromised, there is little recourse.

Granted, I've drifted away from the initial subject of diamonds, but I get all enraged sometimes, and my mind wanders. I'll come back when I'm more focused.

The Pool

Our little pool may not be suitable for extended laps, but for cooling off after a day of wandering around or shopping, it can't be beat. It's chilly, but not unpleasantly so.
My only problem with it is that the tiles have been laid in a fairly haphazard fashion so that, in some spots it's more like very, very coarse sandpaper, where the edges of the individual tiles are raised slightly from the plane.What this means is that, if you're not careful and inadvertently rake, say, your toes across the side or bottom, they end up looking like this.
Truth be told, I can't hold the pool entirely responsible for the condition of said toes. My standard entry method involves rolling in from the end and kicking up, refreshed if not slightly stunned. As mentioned, it's chilly.
This method causes no difficulties thanks to the unadorned
wall of the deep end, but the side of the pool features a somewhat meaningless semi-ledge a few feet down and it is against this that I scraped my poor toes. Of course, my beloved wife tried to warn me against rolling into the pool from the side for just this reason, but I didn't hear because I was in the process of rolling into the pool from the side. Story of my life.

Here's a picture of Josie sedately enjoying the pool.

Zoning laws? We don't need no steenking zoning laws.

We were somewhat trepidatious about coming down here right now for several reasons, not the least of which was that the owners had informed us that there was some construction going on across from our condo. To their credit, they discounted the price of our stay by fifty percent or so, but being as how our plan was to get out of Dodge and get some major relaxing done, this gave us pause. Ah, well. Mexico has never been what you could possibly consider a quiet getaway and, besides, we needed to get away and get away now.
A look at Google Earth confirmed that the view from our suite would have been spectacular but by the time we got here, in the place of the vacant hillside was a rather attractive four-storey, twelve suite condo, the top floor of which obscures, quite effectively, our view of the ocean. Now, granted, should you lean over the edge of the balcony and  strain your neck just right, you can get glimpse of a trapezoid of Baia Banderas, but it's not what you'd call a glorious vista. That being said,  it does beat the hell out of the view from the balconies opposite. This is what you see if you look over the wall on the other side of the pool. Four levels straight down, with barely a meter between the railing and a blank wall. Granted, this is the rear end of the individual suites, but geez.
The noise during the initial stages of construction must have been spectacular, and it is still irritating during the day. Today, since they stopped work at noon, is truly blissful. Tomorrow will be nothing short of heavenly.
I can only imagine what has happened to the value of this condo  unit since construction, since it is really the only one so affected. Apparently the one above, while its view is somewhat truncated still has some view of the bay, and the ones above that are relatively unaffected. Apparently, this sort of development happens all the time around here and the individual owners, should they be one of the many absentee owners, can be taken by surprise.
Anyway, here's what it looks like from our balcony now.

PV Up and down

The trip to Puerto Vallarta was, aside from the necessity of arising at four AM, uneventful. All the usual hurry-up and wait, a quick but terrifying cab-ride from the airport, and boom, we're here.
The first trip to procure supplies, however, gave us some idea of what the rest of the trip was going to look like. It was going to look like a lot of stairs, is what it was going to look like.
The first “flight” to the street turned out to be about eighty steps but, thanks to the rugged landscape and the vagaries of the Mexican construction industry, no two steps are exactly the same, so who's to say? The next flight, down to the beach, was another eighty or so, plus a long raggedy inclined sidewalk sort of thing. So let's round it off to a hundred and sixty.
Now, using my back-of-an-envelope cipherin' skills, and assuming about eight inches a step, this works out to just over a hundred feet, or eight to ten storeys.
Try that hot and tired. Or drunk.  In the dark.

Down to the beach

Up to the condo

Le Plonge

I don't know if y'all are afflicted, as I am, with sluggish bathtub drains, but due to the odd configuration of the plumbing in this house, it becomes necessary from time to time for me to carry out the time-honoured procedure known as "Plunging".
Plunging a tub, which would seem to be a fairly simple operation, is complicated by the question of airflow. Problem is, the necessary vent above the drain prevents quality tub plunging unless a near-perfect seal at the vent is achieved. What this usually involves is a helper holding a wet cloth over the vent which inevitably results in annoying sounds like the air bubbling through the imperfect seal, or “Maybe we should just call a plumber.”
When recently it became clear that it was time for another plunging, rather than, ummm... plunging right in, I gave the matter some thought. This is a rare admission for me, being rather the plunging sort. What if, I thought, one had more than one plumber's helper, or at least two helpers that would take a less complicated view of job at hand?
Fact is, I do have two, count 'em, two such devices in this very home. This, of course, occurred to me in the middle of the night, so that simply meant that I was condemned to perform the operation repeatedly in my head rather than sleeping.
At the very next opportunity, I brought the new team together and, much to my delight, it worked. It would have worked well enough with the help of my additional, more animate plumber's helper (that would be Mrs. Paulson), but as it was, I was able to brace one plunger over the vent, holding it with my knee, whilst performing the duties of the animate plunger.  It worked a treat and soon my right foot was ankle-deep in the black, murky water that indicates a successful plunge.
It is, therefore, my pleasure to share with all and sundry my great success. Oh and a photo, as if my overactive prose didn't present an adequate picture in your head. I just like words.

Cycling

Having just sloughed the final scabs that resulted from my most recent tumble, I have pause to reflect on my relationship with the bicycle.

I got my first two-wheeler when I was eight or so in Dauphin, Manitoba. It was red, which was good, and had a narrow racing-style saddle, which was also good, but had regular sit-up-and-beg handlebars, which weren’t so cool. It was also way too big for me. My folks, in a display of frugality that would continue to affect my life over the years, bought me a second-hand bike that I could “Grow into”.

Unable to reach the pedals at all from the seat, I was forced to learn to ride under-bar. I simply assumed that this was a standard technique, but apparently I was alone in my experience. It wasn’t a comfortable position to ride in, with the cross-bar alternatively crushing my ribs and hips, and the handlebars clutched asymmetrically to overcome the lack of balance. Not relaxing in the least, there was no opportunity for resting or wool-gathering as all attention was crucial to simply remaining somewhat vertical. High speed riding was more or less impossible, which was fortunate since the dismount was seldom graceful.

As I grew, I was able to ride astraddle the bike, but not stand without the cross-bar smacking me in the testicles. This didn’t help when it came to perfecting the dismount, so I took the simple expedient of leaping from the bike to the boulevard (lushly lawned, as I recall), and leaving the bike to carry on without me. It would clatter to the pavement a little further down the street where I would pick it up when I had regained my composure. The parental units didn’t quite approve of the process but didn’t appear inclined to correct me. This was, of course, in the golden years of child-rearing before things got all dangerous.

They did, however, in a continuing campaign to keep my bike from being the least bit cool, attach a basket to the front. Practical, I know, especially in light of recent events, but uncool in the extreme.

My older friend Jerry (born August 2 versus my August 20. Times were tighter then.) used to get out our bikes whenever a nice day presented itself and ride around all day, often far out into the countryside. From anywhere in Dauphin, the countryside was always quite close. We would load up my basket with sandwiches and drinks and spend the days exploring. Our favourite haunts were the verdant banks of the Vermillion River, where we would catch and torment the amphibious and crustacean inhabitants, and the dump.

Hill’s Paradise, it was called, after the family that undertook the care and frequent extinguishing of the heaps of refuse. They would allow us to roam the less hazardous areas, but otherwise leave us be. As I say, it was less dangerous then. We didn’t even have to wear helmets, for god’s sake. Madness.

The other thing we never worried about was theft. You could leave your bike virtually anywhere in town, secure in the knowledge that it would be there upon your return. Not so much so in Winnipeg, where we moved when I was nine. The old bike carried me far and wide in Winnipeg with no major problems until I turned thirteen or so. As with many boys of that age, I was in the process, a process which would carry on for a couple more decades, of becoming progressively more stupid. I tended to leave my bike unattended in the old manner, even doing so in the downtown area. At this time in its life, Winnipeg’s downtown was not the dangerous and unpredictable hellhole it was to become, but it was still an unlikely place to find your bike if it was left alone for, let’s say, five minutes. I lost two bikes this way along with the bicycle locks attached uselessly to the seat-post. The last one was reclaimed, thanks to the attention of the Winnipeg police, for which I thank them. I have the utmost respect for the members of the Winnipeg Police Department; they never hung a beating on me that I didn’t richly deserve.

In a vain attempt to render my bike more cool, I impulsively ripped the fenders and chain-guard from it, thereby rendering it simultaneously useless in the rain or while wearing trousers. It also reduced my Dad, a soft-spoken and reasonable man, to speechless rage when he discovered the fenders and chain-guard crumpled in the garbage. Oh, he was cranky. I still rode the bike for several years after that, but I suppose that was the original basis for my fair-weather preferences that exist to this day. Never much cared for the prospect of riding in the rain, or snow, god forbid, so it didn’t affect me much unless I was surprised by the weather. Luckily, that never happens in Winnipeg, as everyone knows.

Gitane

It was to be several years, I think I was nineteen, before I owned my first proper bike. I picked it up at Joe’s Cycle in Saskatoon and rode the hell out of it. This was to be an on-going trend with cycles from Joe’s, but that’s for another day.

This was a Gitane, a sort of low-rent ten-speed from a small, unknown manufacturer. That’s the way I seem to like it. Unusual and rare always gives me a feeling of exclusivity and sophistication that far outweighs the inconvenience of not being able to obtain parts or even tools to fit said parts. It’s made me a tinkerer of great patience and little accomplishment over the years. I could tear down and re-pack the bearings on that beast with my eyes closed, and I did so way more frequently than was ever necessary. It was a fine-tuned piece of information and I loved it to death. In attempting to remove the crank from the bottom bracket, I kind of buggered up the threads to such an extent that the bearings would come loose every fifty kilometers or so. They even have a name for this condition, brinelling, so I guess I wasn’t the first. Had I had the correct tool for the job, this would not have happened and, as new parts were unavailable, the bike was rendered somewhat useless.  My ne’er-do-well soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law took over ownership of the poor abused creature after he lost the privilege of driving cars. Not a moment too soon, might I add. The last I saw of it, it was in the basement of my sister’s place with electrician’s tape wrapped around the brinelled bottom bracket, as well as the back tire. Must have made for an interesting riding experience.

Monshee

After retiring the Gitane to the loving care of my brother-in-law, I went to Gooch’s (my favourite bikeshop name, ever) and found myself a lovely Monshee in the most unlikely hue of orange. Like I said, I never went for the easy-to-replace or repair models. It was sleek and shiny with brake cables that ran through the frame to lessen the clutter and shifters on the very ends of the handlebars so that you didn’t have to move your hands to shift, as long as you were in the down position, but were otherwise a pain in the ass.

One of my favourite times to ride the Monshee was late of an August night, when the day had been steamy and relentless as only a summer day in Winnipeg could be. With virtually no wind to contend with, the conditions were perfect for high-speed cruising through the newly constructed neighbourhoods near my Grannie’s place. I was living there at the time, barely employed and sleeping at odd hours, so midnight rides seemed to be just the thing.

One particular housing complex consisted of dozens of sets of townhouses, about five to a set, laid out at angles to one another so that the roadway through the neighbourhood presented a smoothly pave sort of slalom course. In the middle of the night it was well-lit and unoccupied by vehicles so I felt confident. On this particular night, something had changed, unbeknownst to me. The people in charge had apparently grown concerned at the speed of traffic through the complex and had seen fit to install speed-bumps across the pristine, linoleum-smooth pavement. Without telling me.

I came around a corner, fully leaned into the curve and already anticipating the next turn, when the first bump appeared where it most emphatically oughtn’t to have been. I hit it and went airborne. It’s surprising how clear things become in situations like this. As I flew through the cool night air, I was already deciding how to land. Not doing so in the presence of the bicycle, with all its hard, pointy bits was paramount, so I kicked out of the pedal-clips and prepared for landing.

Upon reaching the ground, it was evident that I had sufficient momentum to continue along for quite some distance, so landing on my elbows and knees as I had was simply not on. I rolled to my back and waited until the flight had taxied to a full and complete stop.  The blessing of the brand-new pavement was that there was very little gravel to add insult to inevitable injury, but my T-shirt was definitely not going to be wearable after this. This particular mishap didn’t require a visit to the hospital, so hardly merits inclusion in this series, but it was fairly spectacular from a scab-formation standpoint.

Much as I loved the Monshee, it was an ill-fated relationship and the bike was stolen one lunch-hour not too much later, from a closed garage. Not locked, though. Stupid stupid stupid.

It sure was a pretty bike. Perhaps too pretty.

BRC

I did have the sense to insure the bike, so heading back to Gooch’s was not as onerous a prospect as it might have been. There I found another red bike, a BRC by name.

The BRC was nice, but unremarkable when compared to the cat-like Monshee, but it had the benefit of randonneur handlebars. These are similar to regular ten-speed style bars, but are a bit narrower and sweep up slightly before continuing around and down to the ends. This made for a very comfortable ride, as I could ride with my hands close together on the bars in a very relaxed position (my favourite for cruising), or slide them outwards and up a little to rest on the boots of the brake levers. This lifted my head a bit and made for a more alert position suitable for riding in and among the Winnipeg drivers. They’re all trying to kill you, you know. Once you’ve accepted that fact and your position as prey, it sharpens your perceptions and forces you into a more defensive mode of thought. Fact is, I should learn something from this observation; I have never had an accident involving another driver.

I was out traffic-jamming on Portage Avenue one Saturday afternoon, on the homeward stretch, so about twenty K in and feeling pretty sparky, when I pulled up at a traffic light next to an older gentleman on one of those little fold-up style bikes with the tiny wheels and tall seat and handlebar posts. We nodded to one another in quiet appreciation of a fine summer day. When the light changed I pulled away and didn’t really give him another thought.

At the next light, he was right there beside me and said, in a fairly thick Austrian accent (which I sort of recognized because I grew up with them), “If I thought we was going to race, I would have brought my road bike.” And he took off.

As I tried to make up for the low-gear torque advantage he had on me, I had occasion to observe the hard knotting muscles in his calves. In addition, the little bike he was riding, on closer inspection, was a very high quality piece of information. The chain-wheel was the size of a pie-plate and led back to a tiny three-speed hub. We rode along for a while and chatted at the stops, but then turned off onto more lightly traveled streets to carry on our conversation.

As it turned out, my companion had been an Austrian cycling champion in his youth, about the time I was born. He gave me some very poignant advice about cycling that I remember and use to this day. Using the gears so as to maintain a consistent cadence, as well as gearing down a bit to keep said cadence a bit quicker has made riding much more pleasant over the years and kept the memory of our encounter fresh in my mind to this day. 

The problem with learning how to ride better, for me at least, is that I’ve never learned to ride smarter, and my tendency to crash continued undiminished. I was riding home one night in the rain down Main Street in Winnipeg which is a stack of stupid right there, and failed to notice through my rain-splattered glasses (can’t see with them, can’t see without them) that one of the parked cars was equipped with trailer mirrors. They protruded into the lane just enough to catch my handlebar and send me flying. I generally only ride as fast as can, so it sent me flying a fair ways.

I made an unfortunate three-point landing—knee, chin, and teeth, apparently—but was up in seconds and scrambling my bike out of the way of the oncoming traffic. When I regained my composure, I was not at all pleased to realize that I’d knocked out some front teeth. Up ‘til this point in my life, I had been blessed with really nice teeth. So much for that. Everything else seemed fine, though, except the front wheel of the bike, so I started walking. My knee hurt some, but the five mile walk home in the rain left me with ample time to reflect on my idiocy.

On arriving home, I pulled off my soaked boots and realized that there may have been more to the pain in my knee than I thought. My left boot was kind of full of blood. Despite only a tiny scrub-mark on my jeans, there was a two-inch long gash on my knee that would require substantially more than a Band-aid to deal with. Off to the emergency ward we go.

The attending physician was disarmingly relaxed about the whole process, exclaiming gleefully, “See that! That’s your patella!” It took some internal stitching and eleven external sutures to close up my knee, and three for the chin. The missing teeth were beyond his abilities, so would have to wait. He asked what sort of bike I’d been riding, and when I described it, he said, “Wait a minute. You did this on a ten-speed?”

Miyata

The BRC was the bike I had with me when I moved to Saskatoon and this is where I really started to ride. My buddy Clare would run to my place on Saturday morning, a distance of about seven K. I’d get my bike and ride alongside him back to his place, where we’d pick up his bike and ride over to McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin and OJ. Then we’d ride.

We’d scoot around for most of the day, riding fairly aggressively all over the city. I didn’t have an odometer at the time, but I am very curious as to what sort of kilometerage we were amassing. Did I mention that Clare was fairly fit?

Naturally, we’d end up at one bar or another at the end of the day, usually Mr. Steer’s. This was a cowboy-themed steakhouse owned by Greeks and run by a German guy. The food was fairly standard chicken-and-ribs fare cooked up by the Korean chef. An international sort of place.

We’d stop by for a small glass of water and a large glass of beer or two and then go our separate ways. This was before the place really got rolling and earned the nickname Alcoholics Unanimous, then we’d never leave.

It was on one such day that I rode home after a couple and, because I was going out that evening, locked my bike up behind my apartment building, rather than inside, under the stairs, where it belonged. This would prove to be a grievous error because, sure enough, after a bite to eat and a change of clothes, the bike, she was missing.

Joe’s Cycle, where I’d picked up the Gitane lo, these many years ago, was still in business, so it was thee I headed with my meagre insurance settlement. Nothing particularly caught my eye at first glance, but there was one lithe and stealthy looking steed that could be adapted. The baby-blue handlebar tape could easily be changed, but the matching seat definitely had to go. I couldn’t get the randonneur bars that I’d grown to love, but all in all she was lovely. The ultra-skinny wheels made it look like it was going fifty just sitting there. I’d learn to hate those wheels over the years, as the rims would bend with the slightest provocation, and the streets of Saskatoon are nothing if not provocative.

It did go like stink, though, and I rode the hell out of it for nigh on twenty-five years. Bought it while I was courting my soon-to-be-bride, and still have it on rollers in the basement thirty-one years on. The Miyata went into the basement a few years back when I scared my lovely wife half to death when I crashed on the way downtown one morning.

I’d been accelerating for the sprint down the Broadway bridge when, for reasons unknown, I changed my mind. I hit the brakes and slid over towards the sidewalk where I would be safe from the early morning traffic. Slid being the operative word. The pea-gravel in the gutter, left over from the spring, made an otherwise innocuous maneuver rather more complicated. I managed to maintain control for the first part of the slide, but with stately elegance, down I went.

When I regained my composure and took stock, I realized my pants were ruined and my thumb was cocked over at an extremely uncomfortable angle. It wasn’t broken, but it was sure as hell dislocated, so I gave it a tug and popped it back into place before it started to swell. A gentleman in an SUV pulled over to see if I was okay and, being the observant sort, saw that I was not. He helped me throw the bike in the back and gave me a ride to the hospital. Not only that, he called my wife and, later in the day, dropped my bike off at home. Sweet guy.

When the thumb felt a little better and my lovely was less jumpy about it, I went out looking for a new bike. And a helmet. Yes, up until this juncture, I had refused to wear a helmet. There’s nothing like the feeling of freedom of the sun on your face and the curb in your hair.

Wind. I meant wind.

Marin

The guys at The Bike Doctor had been doing a great job of maintaining the Miyata for the past while, as I couldn’t find the time to do it myself. Besides, they tuned it up in a way that I just couldn’t seem to match. When I picked it up after a tune-up, it would just dance under me. In a good way.

Jo insisted that I buy a bike more suitable to my advancing years, as I had recently turned fifty, so if I couldn’t act my age, I could at least give myself a fighting chance at achieving a few more good years. She appeared to be under the mistaken apprehension that the cause of the whole falling-down thing was the narrowness of the tires I was riding on, so we were looking at something a bit more substantial in the rubber department.

I tried on a half-dozen different breeds of bicycle over the next few days, I’m sure trying the patience of Greg, the owner of the shop. I’d stated early on a ball-park price range that I had in mind and, naturally, found that the only bikes I really liked were somewhat more expensive. Story of my life. There was one Italian cyclo-cross that almost had me, but the ride was a little too harsh for my liking, and the price was just beyond stupid. I finally settled on my Marin. Lucas County ALP, by name. I think it stands for Aerodynamic Light Performance, or some such, a kind of hybrid with luggy tires that are not too wide, a welded aluminum frame, and excellent gearing. Turns out it weighs somewhat less than the cat-like Miyata, as well. As it turned out, even with all the switching of parts and customizing of the bike, it came in on budget, thanks to a monster discount given unbidden by Greg. Love that man.

The more substantial tire/wheel combination didn’t manage to slow me down much and definitely cut back on the number of bent rims that needed repairing. The bike definitely felt more stable, which was nice, but probably gave me a bit too much confidence. That, and the helmet lent an air of invulnerability that would surely lead me to grief. I did know the way, after all.

This leads me to the events of last month, on the eve of our thirtieth wedding anniversary. I was bringing roses home to my bride, preparatory to going out for a pleasant meal. A couple blocks from home, accelerating from the Stop sign, at which I had dutifully come to a full and complete stop, the paper wrapping on the flowers, which was clutched to the handlebar in my left hand, ripped. The flowers fell to the street and, as I watched them recede behind me, I hit the brakes. The front brakes. As I felt the rear wheel lift, I realized that things were not going to go well from this point on.

I was right. When I came to my senses, or mostly, I saw that a guy was standing there watching me flail around on the ground like a fighter on the eight-count. He looked very concerned and asked after my condition. His little girl seemed quite unbothered, but then I wasn’t paying attention at this point. They helped me gather my things and walked me the last couple of blocks home.

I was mildly concussed, thoroughly road-rashed and quite contrite. The result of my high-speed headstand is a sore neck, and apparently I was punching the road with both hands as my knuckles are a mess. 

The bike has been put away ‘til spring at this point, but I’m looking forward to getting out there again at the first opportunity.

So that’s the way it stands for now. I’ve spent many of my happiest hours on my bike, and some of my scariest, but that’s kind of the story of my life. Like a bicycle, I have no reverse. Headlong and care-free is the way it’s gotta be.

Lake Agassiz wants to reclaim its place in the world.
One of the few lessons I remember from grade-school geography was the existence of an ancient glacial lake that covered a huge area of central Canada and down into the US. I suppose that, as a kid, this seemed very cool due to the fact that Winnipeg, where I lived at the time, would have been smack in the middle of  it. Its southern-most beach, or marshland delta, more like, would have been near present-day Fargo North Dakota. To The west, it covered most of eastern Saskatchewan, and to the east extended far into Ontario.This ancient shoreline is the source for the huge deposits of potash, left by the receding lake, that fuel much of Saskatchewan's economy. Much earlier iterations of the same geological features are responsible for the deeper deposits of shale oil comprising the Bakken formation.
More to the point here is the fact that the south-western portion of the lake pretty much defines the area that is currently being submerged by the rising waters of the Assiniboine River. This is the one currently causing such problems in southern Manitoba and, to a lesser extent, southern Saskatchewan. The once-in-three hundred year flood plain is threatening to become an annual event and, if the inflow exceeds the outflow for too long, something that looks a little like old Agassiz will be the result.
Doesn't speak well of the real estate values in Winnipeg, but properties on the shore of an inland lake in the Prince Albert area could be a good investment.

The incessant rain is getting to me a little, and if I hear one more person say that it's good for the farmers, there will be blood. I thought I was starting to show signs of aging when I noticed grey patches in my hair where there shouldn't be grey patches. Turned out it was just mildew. This is BC weather, and I mostly hate BC weather.
It does turn the city several delightful shades of green which change with the seasons. I've been through the droughts, and this is preferable to the sad and dusty hues of the dry years. The spring gravel has been more or less flushed from the gutters so, when I do get to ride my bike, I can relax a little  as it's not like riding on scattered marbles. Trust me, when you've absorbed as much subcutaneous gravel as I have, it's nice to see it go.
The other advantage to getting some rain once in a while is the cleaning of the sidewalks. I walk to work down Broadway most days and am becoming quite adept at stepping around the inevitable splashes of party vomit that blossom late at night or, more likely, early in the morning. The content, frequency, and directionality of the individual messes provide clues as to the source. I can see, for example, that the guy (and it is indubitably a guy) was moving towards 8th Street after barely making it out of the bar with his load, stopping here and there to heave.
Now, I grant you, a bit of celebratory spew is much to be preferred  to the frightening blood trails that appeared frequently along the same route in years gone by. These spoke of a different, more frightening attitude on the part of the Yo-boys who frequent the area, but still provided me with fodder for speculation on my way to work. Most specifically: What were they up to, and how did it go so wrong?
How I got here from the weather is another mystery, but some thing are just destined to remain so.

What I can't figure out is why this guy ate a CD for supper. Or perhaps this is a comment on the quality of the music. Who's to say?

I've been dinking about with the layout of the blog and, dull as it is, I kind of like it. I'll try to update it more often than I have lately, and maybe add some pictures.
My lovely has a blog of her own (http://jogoldenword.blogspot.ca/) and is working on a website, so stay tuned. In my capacity as staff photographer for the site, I have been snapping pictures of the various views of this, the most beautiful city in the whole wide world. I'll throw a few in here as well because it's fun.
Like this one.

Well, the 40% probability of rain turned out to be in my favour, so I went outside for my first skirmish with the yellow-headed hydra that is my lawn. I have no illusions concerning the long-term efficacy of manually digging dandelions, but there is something satisfying about levering up six or eight inches of carrot-sized root, never mind that the tiny shard left deep underground is just lurking. Oh, I'll be back, it says.
I've thought about getting one of the stand-up weeders that purport to yank up the evil bastards with a simple foot-stomp and a little wrist action, but working at a distance like that means that I may not hear the satisfying snap as the top-most part of the root comes up. I can imagine the screams as I rip the plant asunder, tossing it in the bag with its mangled cohorts, all on their way to the compost heap.
Oh, they'll be happy for a day or so, revelling in the rich, fertile compost until, once again, I foil their plans and re-bury them to await the killing heat of the fermentation process. To soil they shall return, giving up their nutrients to feed the flowers, the vegetables, our friends.
But they'll be back.


I hate dandelions.

Why we do what we do.

I make jewellery for people. Simple idea, but it bears some analysis to really clarify the statement. I make the jewellery. Now, granted, I do farm out some of the jobs, the ones that I would suck at. I'm not a diamond cutter or a lapidary, so stone-cutting is out. Casting is too much like baking for my particular style, so I send that out. I see it as more of an industrial process, best done by someone properly set up to do it. But I make the jewellery. The process is, in some ways, the best part. I like to start with a lump of something and make it into something beautiful. Wax carving has allowed me freer rein to bring the pictures in my head to three-dimensional reality, but there's nothing I like so much as starting off with bar and plate and wrassling it into a piece that looks nothing like bar and plate. There's a magic in that. The thought of laying out a ring on a computer screen and having a machine put it together has a certain appeal, from an intellectual stance, but I think the reality of it would bore me. Of course, it might just frustrate the hell out of me, which I sometimes mistake for fascination, but I digress. I make the jewellery for people. The evolution of my business has been based on this simple concept. I'm not, as such, a designer. I have, through years of experience, become a combination of counsellor, salesman, and police sketch artist. Most people who come to see me have a picture in their head, and it's my job to render that in a two-, and then three-dimensional way. These are the easy ones. It's just a matter of listening carefully and keeping it simple. Some people don't know what they want, exactly, even though it becomes obvious after a bit of digging. A blank piece of paper sitting there between two people is a scary thing indeed. The customers that give me the most trouble are the ones that don't want to spend the money. I'm not in this for the money, as will be obvious to anyone who's seen my accounts, but I do need to be paid, and the industrial jewellery concerns have perverted the industry. Blahblahblah... I'm just rambling now.
Later.