Books, Wonderful Books

I love books and everything to do with books – which includes the "three Rs," namely, reading, reaching, and relaxing. And I am very happy to say that I have inculcated the love of reading in all ("all," as in the boys, too) my kids. In addition to that, all my girls have worked at, or do work at, the local library here in Foremost. I serve the community by sitting on the same library board. I have no idea how many books we take out each week.

Reading is probably not the most "cool" pastime of our culture. In fact, a person who reads a lot is considered a bookworm; I personally would rather be known as a book stallion. Is there such an animal as macho speed reader? Didn't think so.

I would literally feel as unprepared for a trip if I didn't take a book or two as I would if I forgot my shaving kit. The only exception would be if I were being billeted by someone who had an extensive library and I knew I could mooch off, uh, enjoy their library. And that I have done many, many times. (To the best of my recollection, I'm sure I've returned all borrowed books.)

Speaking of libraries: There are a number of people in my circle of friends who are known as 'bibliophiles' (biblios, book; phileo, love – hence, lover of books). We often share books, book titles, and even recommend book series. Not the hunky stuff of real men, I suppose, but someone has to provide balance in this world, don't they?

I often thought that with the onslaught of the Internet, the place for books and all its related enterprises (publishing houses, bookstores, libraries, etc.) would decrease with time. I suggest the opposite has taken place. The instant access of the Internet has proven to be quite a hook for many – actually, far too many – and a good book still has an appropriate place in our daily lives.

Let me suggest why this is so:

1. Books are portable. You can carry them by hand, or stick them where even the thinnest laptop couldn't go. In other words, they can simply be moved around with limited regard for their space and your convenience. Books are like a classroom without desks, teachers, and homework.

2. Books are versatile. You don't have to boot them up, plug them in, or even learn how to operate them. If you do, you have other issues. Reading books has always been for the excitement of the child, the curiosity of the teen, the respite of the middle-aged, and the friend of the old. In a pinch, you can always use them to prop up furniture.

3. Books are durable. You can fling them, drop them, stack them, and shelve them – adding no danger to their longevity. Myself, whenever possible, I buy hardcover books; they just tend to last so much longer than paperbacks. It is one those rare possessions that can last a lifetime; you can't say that about a computer.

4. Books are affordable. Even a good hardcover can be had for under $20.00 from the right used bookstore. If we are still contrasting books with computers (and we are), there is no comparison to what $100 will get you (many books) and what it will not (essentially next to nothing current).

Everyone has their favourite author, and I am no exception. Do you recognize the names of Archer, Bell, Brouwer, Bunn, Christie, Grisham, Lewis, Wodehouse, et al? Even if you didn't, you are neither better nor worse for it. Taste in books is very much a personal, subjective matter – not unlike movies, television, and music.

However, I must admit that I am shocked at how few people, usually on the male side of our culture, do not read books. It is actually a double-shock because these same people are often quite proud of it, though there is absolutely nothing to be proud of.

You see, it is the reading of books that expands our horizons, increases our vocabulary, and simply balances us out nicely. While it is good to read the newspapers and magazines and even surf the 'net, the real advantage is in books. You can always dig deeper, travel further, and think greater when you have consumed a good book or two.

So as we head into the fall, the season of back-to-school, nippy evenings, and a slower pace, I suggest to you that you renew your love affair with books. Try snuggling up to a laptop while curled up on a couch, drinking coffee. Possible, but not sensible.

And next time you have a bath, leave the PC on the desk. "Green Eggs and Ham" will do just fine between the bubbles and the rubber ducky. I know that for a fact because I read it in a book.

Precious Water

What oil is to the far north, water is to the deep south. Granted, you can't run your car on water, nor can you command $125.00 per barrel of water; but, on the other hand, without water you can't irrigate your fields, service your garden, or even perform simple household tasks without water.

Water in the ground must become water out of the ground in order to be useful, via such exciting toys as pumps and pipes. At any given time, when any one of the individual pieces fail, there is a water crisis.

We have are having such a crisis, and it started last past week. When the gurgle becomes a screech, you know you are in trouble. Fortunately for us, we were able to re-route the water from the well to where we could actually still get water into the house, without using the jet pump to bring it in from the cistern.

It is a temporary fix, but at least I can now take care of all the personal affects, namely washing, brushing, shaving, and showering. Not that you care, but you might if you had to sit beside me on a bus for a few hours.

My point? I have learned (or perhaps I am still learning) that we tend to take our easy access to plenty of water for granted. With this current setback, I have found that I don't run the tap like I once did; I am selective in how much water to use when washing the dishes. (I even offered to not brush my teeth for a while, but that idea was shot down.)

Water in the third world is literally a matter of life and death. From my perspective, those who go into these countries as what we call missionaries would be well-advised to have some well-digging, water-cleansing techniques up their sleeve. I think it would advance their cause: They might save some bodies as well as some souls!

Until we are faced with a water crisis on a personal – not national – level, we probably won't buy into what wags call a water conservation programme. We have to personally be confronted with bad water, limited water, or, heaven forbid, no water at all, before we act more responsibly. We have heard for years how we must cut down on water consumption, but few of us ever act on it. Water meters, one of life's ultimate intrusions, would be one way to go, but who really wants that?

I am not sure if the alarmists are right when they speak of a coming water shortage, presented generally in the same breath with the alleged global warming crisis. The trouble is, like the boy who cried 'wolf' too many times, we may discover that there is some truth to some of these warnings – but it may be perilously late by then. I think we could avert some of the problem by acting (= washing, brushing, shaving, and showering) in a prudent manner now.

I suggest that we should at least enjoy the ease with which get our water. Many of our grandparents used outhouses, drew water from outside cisterns, and showered irregularly due to lack of facilities. They knew little else, to be sure, but at least they survived.

In the meantime, I have a few plans to conserve water. Shave using water leftover from cooking your vegetables: You will then have that natural fragrance, with Eau d'Veggie Tales as aftershave. Drink rainwater after you have distilled it; it will turn that outside feeling to an inside one. And shower less, but use deodorant more; it may not help you, but it will certainly help the local economy.

For myself, I brush my teeth now when I have a shower. I tried it recently, but I got the Crest and Pert mixed up: Now my bald spot is pearly-white and I have no dandruff in my gums.

Holidays in Excess

I was in one of my favourite pre-owned clothing stores the other day, when I got the shock of my life. I stared at what I thought was a monster. I asked myself: Are my progressive lenses acting up again or or are the clerks here getting uglier? I stopped short in my tracks when I saw some headless freak poised to serve at the end of the till. It was then that I realized that if this was August, then it must be Hallowe'en at V---- V------.

It was almost enough to make me do the "Monster Mash" on the roof of my van.

You've read my rant about the morbid darkness that Hallowe'en brings out in many of us, and my rant about seasonal events a season or two early, so I won't go to either place again. In fact, I don't think I have any rants in my pants today.

If I can pull out the philosopher card here, I would suggest that holidays, seasons, events, traditions, and anniversaries (of all sorts) are healthy for the culture – and obviously for those who comprise it. I think where we err is in the excess and indulgence of it all.

Take Hallowe'en as an example. What is wrong with a mask here, a costume there? The answer, of course, is nothing much. After all, goalies wear masks and costumes, uh, uniforms. It is the excess and indulgence, the getting-carried-away of the thing that I lament.

Christmas, too, comes to mind. When one scrapes away the presents, the drinking, the food, the money (just for starters) – all the excesses, if you will – you will find very little of what Christmas is really all about. Regardless of your religious persuasion, your historical persuasion should tell you that that first Christmas does not resemble last year's Christmas.

The philosopher's card I spoke of is to analyze why we get carried away at, say, a Super Bowl party, a New Year's Eve party, or, heaven forbid, a stag party. It seems that we are under some sort of restraint, some sort of set of emotional shackles, so when there is an opportunity to let loose, we do -- in a very big bang sort of way.

Why?

Again, in and of themselves it is great for guys to get together for the Super Bowl game at someone's house; I did it for years during my stint at Kamloops. Even New Year's Eve can be a time of significance, namely, meaningful visits, and an evening of reflection and anticipation. Stag party? The term is a little crude, but why not get together and celebrate one of the most meaningful events in a man's life, but without the cheap bawdiness of a strip club atmosphere?

I think if I saw some of my readers right at this point in the column, they would be making 'square' symbols with their hands. (Notice I said 'they' and not 'you'? I know you wouldn't do that.) However, I don't think I am all that square; in fact, I might be considered well-'rounded'. It's just that certain trends alarm me.

So, got an anniversary of sorts coming up, one of those annual events? Celebrate and commemorate, even commiserate, if you must. Carry on, but don't get carried away; let go, but don't let loose.

In fact, I might just head back to that favourite pre-owned clothing store to celebrate something myself; I just to make sure which clerk to talk to.

Here Lester....

I'm not sure if you have ever executed chickens before, but it is, well, a bloody job. As you know from my previous writings, I am a city boy learning to become a country man. Killing, then eating, defenseless little birds is not on my list of things I want to do before I die.

Speaking of dying, it is a ritual we do here at the Back Seventy Estate every year. At least a couple of times each year, I'll have you know. Well, actually we don't do the dying – it's those gutless chickens who do it. And even then, they're not all that gutless. You ought to see what we leave on the floor, in the bucket, and under the table. Fortunately for them, they only do it once, but we seem to have an encore performance every year.

What we do to chickens, we do to cows each year, too. We generally butcher two a year; – one for great cuts, one for hamburger. For whatever reason, I end up naming all our four-footed beasts, and that includes the young cow we slaughter every year. My thinking is if we name them by meat cuts, it makes it easier to kill and eat them. So that's why we have had such ingenious (my word) monikers as "Meatball," "Sir Loin," "T-bone," and this year's witty rendition, "Baron."

For the record, we do not name our chickens.

If we did, I think I would find it harder to kill them. After all, there are so many of them I would run out of names. Another reason is that they all look the same to me ("Good-bye, Lester – or is it Randolph?").

I think one of the other differences I have noted between butchering cows and chickens is that someone else does the dastardly deed for the cows, whereas we do it for the chickens. By the time I get up to where "Stew" is hanging, it is just meat – nothing more, nothing less. The chickens, on the other hand, are very much alive and well, moments before the executioner - we'll call him Layne -– makes the final plunge.

Some people I know have very strong views on eating meat, or, in their case, not eating meat. I respect their choice, though I would draw the line at any ethical or moral or Biblical reasons for vegetarianism. If one wants to quibble over the inhumane way animals are butchered in slaughterhouses, let's talk. Just don't get sidetracked for some alleged reason, when all along it is is a simple quirk (see last week's column).

Meanwhile, back at the cutting board... The butchering process involves both good timing and good luck. "Catch me if You Can" is the name of a book and a movie; it also sums up the taunt of a chicken. It is nothing less than sheer humiliation when a stupid, idiotic chicken can out-smart and out-run a human. (Just where does that place the human on the IQ scale?)

Once caught, they get beheaded or decapitated (better stated: they simply lose their head over this butchering business). From there, it becomes a skinning (or is it an unskinning?) process. The second station is the gutting (or is it de-gutting?) procedure. I know if chickens could talk, at this point they would say something like, "I'd do it all over again if I had the guts."

Quality control is the final station, where the lifeless, headless, skinless critters are wrapped and weighed. It's nice but the whole process has to be repeated thirty or forty times per butchering, multiplied by the number of butcherings in the summer. Too bad they all couldn't just chop, strip, and wrap themselves. I could even handle a snap, crackle, and pop. I suppose that could be called the ultimate self-checkout.

I don't know if my record has whetted your appetite for farm-fresh, free range chickens or not, but if it has, give me a phone call. Don't "squawk" over the price, please. It might get my blood "broiling."

Let the phone ring for quite a while: I'll be watching "Chicken Run." Also, make sure you ask for Lester or Randolph.