A Manly Question

If I were to smoke, I think I would smoke Marlboros, entirely because of the marketing.  (Is there really any other reason people smoke?)  The Marlboro Man is someone I'd like to emulate even though I know absolutely nothing about him.  What do I need to know really though, besides the fact that he emanates masculinity, which is something that I would like to do to.  The problem of course is that the price of cigarettes would make me ill, not to mention that I highly doubt that smoking Marlboros will automatically render me a "Marlboro Man".  As both Randy Jones, and more recently Ang Lee have shown us, being a cowboy is not necessarily what masculinity is.  If it's not the Marlboro man's cigarette nor his hat and rugged features, then what is it?  Or, more broadly, what are the differences between masculinity and femininity?  ("Great pun Ed!"  "Thanks, I was afraid you would miss it.")

That's a problem that has been in the back of my mind for what's likely close to two decades but more recently I've been giving it a lot of thought.  When I was young I liked to view the world in relatively simple terms.  The easiest way to see gender is male and female.  With two categories it makes for easy understanding.  Males are tough, physical, rational, strong, and aggressive.  Females are soft, emotional, compassionate, sensitive, nurturing and dependent.  The nice thing about this view is that it was easy enough to find corroboration in countless places.

There are of course cracks in the simplistic view.  At first with a bit of selective vision and selective interpretation, the view was defensible.  For example, everyone knows that only boys fight physically because they're aggressive and girls aren't.  Of course the occasional fight does break out between girls but that's because everyone knows that they're catty.  (Thank God I'm male and don't have my own friends stabbing me in the back.)

Unfortunately the view got harder to defend as more and more counterexamples appeared in my life.  As I had my view challenged I sought to find an explanation that could account for all the corroboration of my old gender views but allow for all of the exceptions.  I was unsuccessful so I sort of ignored the problem, or at least never looked at it head on.  I would affirm what I assumed to be truths about gender and then affirm other facts despite apparent contradictions.  If the contradiction were pointed out I would likely have affirmed it too.  The easiest solution to all the exceptions of the traditional male female gender roles is one that I was never willing to embrace: that gender traits are only social constructs and that is why they don't work.

The last little while I have been thinking a fair bit about what masculinity means and was also struck by an interesting entailment on my assumption that there is such a thing as masculinity, and that is there must be such a thing as femininity.  Not being able to figure that question out by introspection, I've asked several of my women friends what their thoughts on it are.

The question assumes that gender is a defining characteristic of people.  I think it's a defensible assumption and can argue why, but will forebear doing so because I assume that most are happy to allow for the assumption.  The question I asked was,  "What are some of the defining traits and characteristics of femininity that you relate to as a woman?"  I was not prepared to assume that there are certain traits that are exclusive to one gender while universal to another, but I thought that maybe there are some that are generally more common to, or more strongly embodied by one gender.

I received some good replies, though perhaps the most interesting was "why is this so important to you?"  Not the what is femininity question, but gender in general.  I think I stuttered out some sort of answer but the succinct reply was "I don't know."  I didn't know, but it caused me to think.

The website The Art of Manliness defines manliness as the not the opposite of femininity but rather the opposite of boyishness.  I think that this is perhaps part of the reason why the question has been important for me, especially of late.  As a student, though I'm in my late twenties there's not a lot that separates me from my adolescent life.  I don't have any of the stereotypical trappings of adulthood, career, family, or mortgage so how do I know I'm an adult?  Well I'm an adult if I'm a man so I need to know what it means to be a man.

That's just part of it though.  I remember as a young boy driving home with my dad.  I had the option of traveling with my mom in the other car but I remember that I really wanted to drive with my dad.  I don't remember anything except for the fact that I was very happy to be spending time with my dad, talking "man to man".  I felt that my masculinity was affirmed and that affirmation was very important to me.  Now as an adult I think I'm looking again for that same affirmation but I don't know where to look because I don't even know what masculinity is.  So I guess my answer is that the question is very important to me because it is important to me.

Anyway, I was really happy the other day because I think I've answered the question of what gender is.

Why I Listen To Jay-Z

A while ago I noticed a copy of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People in a used bookstore.  I had known of the title for some time but had never read it.  Since being more effective is something that I strive for, and since I feel it's one of my strongest weaknesses, and since I love used books, I bought it.  Really all I wanted was help in figuring out how I could best get schoolwork done with less procrastination but I was happily surprised to realize that the book provided considerably more than that.

Certainly there are mainly valuable lessons contained within, I'll mention one that really stood out.  Much of the advice contained deals with how to navigate various relationships and of course communication is invaluable regardless of the type of relationship.  One of the points the book's author Stephen Covey makes is that one should always First Understand, then Be Understood.  When I first read this it seemed so obvious that it doesn't really bear stating.  It is just too cliche seeming, like a commendation to "walk a mile in his shoes."

However, the problem is that comprehension is always done through one's own framework which necessarily skews understanding.  The suggestion then, is to really seek to understand the other person's point of view, by considering not just the information being presented, but why it's being said.  This involves questions and rephrasing so that both parties can be certain they're on the same page.  Only when you understand the other person's point of view do you present yours.  Then seek to have the same level of understanding.  So often disagreements stem from people who are arguing different things.  Here's an example.

A while ago my friend Calvin loaned me a book by Jay-Z called Decoded.  It is part autobiography and part discussion of his rap lyrics.  It was perhaps surprising that Calvin loaned me the book because historically I've been dismissive of rap, not being overly fond of the sound and outright contemptuous of the lyrics.  The lyrics are after all, hopelessly materialistic, violent, misogynistic and based solely in shock value.  However, I decided to read a bit.

I read about Jay-Z's start in the projects selling drugs but later skipped over to his explanation of the only song of his that I knew, 99 Problems.  I had heard the song before but the only lyrics I knew were of course, the chorus.  "If you're having girl problems I feel bad for you son, I've got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one"


In the book he discussed the lyrics from the second verse:


"The year is '94 and in my trunk is raw
In my rear view mirror is the mother fucking law
I got two choices y'all, pull over the car or
bounce on the double put the pedal to the floor
Now I ain't trying to see no highway chase with jake 
Plus I got a few dollars I can fight the case
So I pull over to the side of the road
And I heard "Son do you know why I'm stopping you for?"
Cause I'm young and I'm black and my hat's real low
Do I look like a mind reader sir, I don't know
Am I under arrest or should I guess some mo?
"Well you was doing fifty five in a fifty four"
"License and registration and step out of the car"
"Are you carrying a weapon on you, I know a lot of you are"
I ain't stepping out of shit all my papers legit
"Do you mind if I look round the car a little bit?"
Well my glove compartment is locked so is the trunk and the back.
And I know my rights so you gon' need a warrant for that
"Aren't you sharp as a tack are some type of lawyer or something?
Or somebody important or something?"
Nah, I ain't pass the bar but I know a little bit
Enough that you won't illegally search my shit
"We'll see how smart you are when the K-9's come"
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one
Hit me"


The thing that surprised and impressed me the most was the chorus.  "I've got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one" isn't misogynistic here, he's talking about the drug sniffing dog.  Granted I'm a sucker for puns, but that's where my perspective changed a bit.  Looking back through the rest one can see the what life is like for a poor, black man from the projects.  The power tripping and racism of the cop, the prejudice, and the us versus them mentality is all there.  I can complain about his dealing drugs but in the absence of any other opportunities it's difficult to lay too much blame on that.  


Now I wouldn't say that having a rough background justifies all rap lyrics.  Some of them are truly horrible, but I don't see how anything productive can occur if offended, middle-class, white people mount a censorship attack on their art without really understanding what's being said.  From the little I learned about living in the projects from the book, the mentality is that it's a dog-eat-dog world and you can only look to yourself to overcome the trials.  Maybe the lyrics about having the Bentley, the diamonds, the champagne and all the rest is the justifiable pride that comes from starting with nothing and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps to success despite the fact that countless others do nothing by try and pull you back down.  Maybe the glorified violence, materialism, misogyny and all the rest are just a contrast of the life in the projects to the life on top.  Maybe at the heart of the lyrics is a glorification of what's been overcome.  


I don't know to what extent that's the case, but I'll never know if I don't learn how to understand and be understood.  I imagine that without any of that understanding my criticisms will be understood as "You're evil and threatening and so is your culture and you should be more white.  I didn't care about you when you were growing up in a neighbourhood of drugs, fear, violence and lack of opportunity and the only reason I care about you now is because you offend me."  Hardly possible to have meaningful dialogue.  


I'm not ready to go out and buy a bunch of rap albums; even if I loved the music I still find the lyrics too offensive to enjoy.  That doesn't mean I wouldn't listen to them though, how else could I come to understand?

Karen Gomyo: Epilogue

This feels like the height of egotism with a splash of laziness, but I think I can justify my actions.  A cousin of mine mentioned that he would like to reread the posts and of course, I'm all too happy to comply.  To some extent, I've been keeping a blog for about six years, most of them largely forgettable.  However, there was one topic that for me, and probably the majority of those few people who read my posts, that will be forever associated with my blog.  I'm referring of course to the posts about the lovely Karen Gomyo.  Since the majority of the events occurred five years ago, I'm going to repost them here.  That's where the laziness comes in.  I'll have to trust that you aren't as lazy as me, because all together it makes for a long blog post.  At the very end comes, as promised, the exciting epilogue.  


The story begins back February 18th, 2007.  Due to the proximity to Valentine's Day I had already written a post or two about how being single was not only the state I was in, but the state I was happily in.  Then my roommate Calvin came back from a date with his girlfriend to the symphony.  (evidently the date went well, they're now happily married)  He described how they had listened to Sibelius' Violin Concerto and how the soloist was a beautiful, young woman.  I looked up her picture online and,  instantly suffering from a celebrity crush, wrote this post on my myspace blog:


In my head I can already play it all out. It'll start with the fan letter that I'll write her. In it I will invite her out for coffee. She is, of course, always surrounded by fawning admirers and and demanding managers and conductors. I will provide a breath of fresh air for somebody living a life of stress and demands. 

Over coffee I will be friendly, funny and charming, she will be sophisticated, alluring and exotic. I will provide a window of normality and calm, she will provide a breath of excitement.

We will enjoy several days of bliss as we experience infatuation and attraction of a hollywood romance level. Then her busy schedule will beckon and she will be off on a road trip to New York, London and then Tokyo. I will be back to work installing doors, casing and baseboard. She will be my foil, awing audiences with the beauty of her sublime playing. The most perceptive critics will wonder where the new found passion in her playing came from. Every memeber of the audience will tangibly feel the love and pain of separation singing from her violin.

We will both rack up exorbitant long distance phone bills, with me short on sleep from spending hours on the phone in the early morning hours to make up for the time differences. She will relate her feelings on bearing the weight of heavy expectations and I will comort her with jokes. Perhaps I will quote "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning" to her. I will surprise her with a visit to one of her concerts in Paris. It will be awkward though, both wondering how long this can last.


Perhaps it will start when I, in exhaustion, will nod off while on the phone with her. Perhaps there will be a handsome cellist with perfect pitch who can better understand her life. In any case a slow decline will occur. Her life and mine will be too different; we both know how the script ends before we arrive there.

I will lose Karen to the demands of the road. However, one day many years from now she will be long since retired. Then she will look back on her career, remembering the standing ovations in Carnegie Hall, the glamour of exposing her soul through music with the best musicians in the world. She will then remember the only person who treated her as a person instead of a commodity. The only man who gave more than he asked for. She will remember this and wonder if she made the right decision.

Then she will pick up her Stradavarius and play a tune so mournfully that the angels themselves will fly down and incline their ears to the tune. The tears they shed will fall as drips of rain and in that moment the world will stop and all hearts will beat with the same rhythm, and all hands will drop their weapons, unclench their fists, and join hands and cry for the terrible beauty and tragedy of love.

I thought that the story was over except for one of my other roommates mentioned that Karen (spoiler alert!  Yeah, we're now on a first name basis) also had a myspace page.  Probably under the influence of alcohol or worse, infatuation, I sent her a short email with a link to the blog.  A terrible thing happened.  She replied!  She complimented my writing and all in all, was very friendly about the whole thing.  There were a few more emails, I later posted this next blog, on June 4th of the same year:  


She's Playing Me Like a Violin


For those of you who followed my previous myspace blog you'll be aware of the blog I wrote about Karen Gomyo. 
As you may know, I was surprised to receive a reply from Karen who also had a myspace profile.
Now when I wrote the first blog about Karen it was totally tongue in cheek. I had no intention of contacting her, nor did I expect ever think of her again. When I learned that she had a myspace profile I sent her a link to my blog but didn't expect her to read it. Well she did read it and then she wrote me a reply setting into motion an unfortunate chain of events.
The first problem was that I wasn't lying when I wrote that Karen Gomyo is beautiful. Nor was I lying when I said that I find musical women attractive, and Karen is a professional musician. The next problem is that I suffer from the same disease that most guys suffer from, basically if a girl pays attention to me I optimistically think that she's interested. The final problem is that Karen perfectly fits into the category of girl that I always fall for, unattainable.
We kept up a correspondence for a little while and likely she was just kindly sending out a few emails to a fan. I however, feel that she had a more devious plan in place.
The first email that she sent was short, a polite reply to the blog I sent. She ignored my reply and I thought that I had heard the last of her. Then a couple of weeks later, out of the blue, came another email much longer and more personal. I was very surprised. I wrote back but she did not reply; not for a couple more weeks anyhow. I replied but this time I was kept waiting, and waiting. There were no more replies.
A few weeks later I went to write her another email and to my surprise she had deleted her profile. I was quite shocked, this time I knew it was over. I was quite disappointed and not just because I wanted her opinion on some violin recordings that I discussed in one of my blogs.
A week later I received a myspace email from someone named Karen. Her profile was completely blank except for her name, age and location. It was her, or perhaps someone playing a cruel prank on my, giving her opinion on the recordings. She had read my blog, and then created a profile solely to write me. This time I didn't know what to think.
The thing that she managed to do was write me an email just when I had lost all hope that I would hear from her again. I would always got through the same cycle of surprise at an email, hope for another reply, followed by disappointed resignation. Each email that she sent though, would further the reason for hope and those emotions would grow stronger with each cycle.
The problem is that now I see the pattern of receiving an email only after I've given up hope. Now I've lost hope that I'll hear from her again yet I know that it is in this time that she sends an email so I am unableto give up hope. She's got me stuck in an awful limbo. Obviously she is just toying with me for fun. Miss Havisham would be so proud.
The other thing is that I've got so many questions to ask her. "Is there time to sightsee when playing in foreign cities? Do you enjoy traveling so much? Have you visited the John Lennon Memorial in Central Park? Do you have the Stradivarius at your house when not touring or is it locked up? Will you marry me? What does Ex Foulis mean?
Man if she knew what she's done to me.


I don't like this last post as much, largely I think for one reason.  I received an email from Karen apologizing for her actions, but between the lines also a "I don't know who you are or what you want, but it's starting to get weird and I wish you would stop" message.  I felt bad because I just wanted to make people laugh, but perhaps the facetiousness of the message is lost for those who don't know me well.  I wrote back to her apologizing and suggested that if she preferred, I would not contact her anymore.  She replied that she would appreciate that.  I sent  one final email, asking that she would pardon this last blog post:  (Which of course I linked in the email)

And So It Ends

Since I began blogging there have been a variety of subjects that I have broached on multiple occasions. There were the indecisiveness blogs (I'm ready to write another of those), the pacifism blogs, and of course the blogs about my internet friendship with Karen Gomyo, professional violinist.

I must admit, the first blog I wrote about her, the tragic romance story is one of my all time favourite blogs. However, I did try reading it to my mom and failed, I was too embarrassed and Lisa had to read the last part. I couldn't quite vocalize the whole "angels flying down" or whatever part. It was a little too over the top, to employ generous understatement.

I really liked some of the other blogs of the same subject. For one thing, I always found them very easy to write and satisfying afterwards. A conclusion of mine, based on no actual evidence, is that they were among my readers' favourites as well. Well this shall be the last blog on the subject because it's all over.

I think things first started going downhill after she left myspace. I think that my first blog was actually quite prescient because the story played out very similarly to real life except for a few minor details. In real life there was no meeting for coffee, blossoming romance, new found passion in her playing, no late night phone calls, nor a trip to Paris, no wondering on how things can continue and the cellist with perfect pitch finally ending things was actually just me, writing too many emails that were too akin to creepy, stalker emails.

In the end, each party involved, her, myself, the police and the judge, decided that it would be for the best if I stopped contacting her, maintain a 750m perimeter from her at all times and attend counseling. So I guess that's that.

I read once that people generally date and marry those of a similar level of attractiveness. I guess that most people automatically pursue those of a similar standing as themselves. Maybe I need to learn to do this because I obviously was way out of my league. But that's OK, I learned from my mistake. No more professional musicians for this guy. What's more, in a serendipitous stroke of luck I stumbled across Jessica Simpson's email address and I think that armed with my new knowledge and awesome moustache I should have a pretty good chance.
On a totally unrelated subject, does anyone want to buy a half carat, VVS1-VVS2 diamond solitaire ring?

Epilogue:

That blog was posted on October 1st 2007 and until just recently, it was the final word on the subject.  (Except of course during parties when we would play Deep Purple's My Woman From Tokyo and I would get misty-eyed and have to excuse myself from the room because I had some dust or something in my eye.)

Fast forward to March 3rd of this year.  The symphony will be performing Beethoven's Violin Concerto and the guest soloist is of course, the lovely Karen Gomyo.  The concert would have been tempting anyway, with our tempestuous history I couldn't resist.  I bought tickets and a friend and I attended the event and it was fantastic.  She can really make that Strad sing.  Beautiful.  Plus, she chose the Nathan Milstein cadenzas, which I think are rare due to the fact that the wikipedia page doesn't even mention them.  

After the concert there was a Q and A with a couple members of the orchestra interviewing Karen.  I say interviewing, but really it was more of a "I think this blah, blah blah, don't you agree Karen?"  A little bit irritating. What they should have asked is, "What's the best fan email or blog you've ever received?"  

After that most of the audience filtered out save for a few people who asked for autographs.  Then I saw my chance.  I walked up and introduced myself to her.  If that sounds confident and perhaps suave I should probably qualify the statement.  I walked up and stammered some sort of apology/explanation of who I was.  She looked at me without comprehension until I mentioned a blog and email.  Suddenly she remembered, and God bless her, smiled at me.  (beamed really)  She shook my hand and all was right with the world!  Then I invited her out for coffee.  

Just kidding.  Then I said I enjoyed the concert and left.  I've grown past these childish romances.  

Just kidding.  There's a part of me that hopes she'll read this blog and contact me.  Besides, I've since talked to a friend of mine who plays in the orchestra and she said that Karen is really nice.  

Well, what I wanted most already happened.  I always felt that she had a negative but flawed impression of me and I feel like I finally exonerated myself.  I did after all, wear my good shoes.  

Old Philosophies Are Sometimes Best

Once, while mindlessly surfing the internet, I came across a website that would predict your death.  After inputing information such as age, sex, location, and certain lifestyle habits, the website would then use some formula to give you your date of death.  There was nothing meaningful about the date of course, but I got the creeps regardless.  That's because accompanying my date of death was a clock which was counting down my remaining time.  I knew that the day predicted and therefore the clock was almost certainly incorrect but there was absolutely nothing incorrect about the seconds that I saw ticking away.  Whether I live to be a hundred or die tomorrow, each second counted down was definitely one second closer to my demise.

Death doesn't scare me but for the fact that I'm not ready to die.  I've always assumed that I'll do something worthwhile with my life, but I'm also a horrible procrastinator.  One of my New Year's resolutions this year was to spend my first and last waking moments of each day reflecting on the gift that each day is and to pray for an appropriate spirit of thankfulness.  Not only is ingratitude an abhorrent trait, I was hoping that reflecting upon what sort of amazing gift another day of life is would help propel me to do more things of worth.  It's easy enough for me to spend hours playing video games, unless I'm conscious of the fact that those hours are gone forever.  It's an easy way to spend time, but the fact of the matter is that there are, when I think about it, any number of things I'd far rather be doing, and things of far greater value.  The only appeal of the video games, or mindless surfing the internet,  is that they're easy and immediately rewarding.  

I've recently been reading Aristotle's Nichomachean Ethics.  He espouses a teleological view.  Coming from the Greek word telos for end, it is a theory for figuring out how to judge things.  An example is a knife.  What makes a good knife?  Well first you figure out the telos of a knife.  Once that is determined it is possible to figure out the arete, or virtues of a good knife.  Obviously it's to cut things.  So a good knife is one that is sharp, keeps its edge well, and has a handle and blade length optimal for holding and  cutting.  That's easy to figure out, but the trickier question is what is the telos for humans?  What is their arete?

Aristotle, somewhat unsurprisingly, thought that the telos of humans was to think rationally so the arete of humans is thus to be a philosopher.  That's debatable, but the philosophy is one that I've been interested in considering for the past while.  What is my telos?  What is my purpose?  If I can figure that out, then I can also easily figure out what qualities I should embody and tasks I should undertake in order to fulfill my purpose.  It's an excellent question to figure out because not only can it provide my life with focus, but I feel that having a purpose is a necessary characteristic for a healthy person.  Why else was it torturous when the Nazi's made jewish prisoners repeatedly dig and then fill in holes?

Another interesting, and appealing philosophy concerns sleeping and resting.  I've been using an old copy of the Anglican Church's Book of Prayer and it contains prayers for morning and for evening.  Of of the morning prayers contains the line "Put away from us worry... that... we may, now that night cometh, receive as from thee thy priceless gift of sleep..."   I like the idea that sleep is a gift.  I've gotten into the habit of reading before bed and then when the time comes for bed it's a blessing.  I can put aside my worries and cares and sleep.  When I was a kid sleeping was a chore, it got in the way of playing.  Now however, assuming I've accomplished the tasks of the day, it's a blessing.

Another gem from Aristotle is the argument that we do not labour that we might rest, but rest that we might labour.  Whatever the telos of our life is, rest is an essential part of it.  I don't have to feel guilty if I play video games, so long as it's for the purpose of refreshing and recharging me to carry on the important tasks of my life.  It's unhealthy and possibly impossible to be continuously committed to one's true purpose so periods of rest and relaxation are necessary.  It's one of the Ten Commandments that we take a day off work.  Jesus later states that this isn't for God's sake but our own.  Suddenly there is so much freedom in a day off after a week of work or a holiday after several months of labour.  It's not an indulgent treat, but a necessary part of continuing on in the labour to which we are to do.  

I hope to reach the stage where I can have a full understanding of what my purpose in life is so I can spend each day working on the tasks and virtues necessary to fulfill my purpose.  Then I can also spend each night and Sabbath resting comfortably in the knowledge that by doing nothing I'm furthering my efficacy.  That to me, seems like a recipe for a successful life.  

My Finest Writing

Sometimes I get a bit depressed when I consider what I've done with my life so far.  There are many people who've achieved great success in life by the time they reached my age but so far I'm just plugging along.  However, it may also be somewhat of a mixed blessing achieving greatness early in life because for the rest of your life you have to try and surpass the lofty heights already reached.  I haven't reached lofty heights, but I do have the curse of knowing that it's unlikely that I will ever be able to write a finer story than one that I've already written.

I stumbled across a copy of it this evening while looking through some old mementos at my mom's place. It's called "The Snake" and I wrote it in grade two.  I think you'll enjoy it.

The Snake

by Eddie Smith

Dedicated to Graham, and Janna and Lisa.

Once upon a time there was a rattle snake.  She was a smart snake.  She could tell things apart.  She could even tell two wasps apart.  But she could never answer this question.  Guess what it was?  How to have a baby.  She did not like that at all because everyone wanted to know how to have one, so they asked her.  She did not want to be embarrassed, so she would say that she was busy and go on her way.

One day she was slithering along when she saw a male snake.  He looked very wise.  So she asked him how to have a baby.  This is what he said.
"Please show me your house and let me live with you and I will tell you."
So she let him live with her.  She was pleased to have him in her house.
One day she screamed.  The boy wiggled as fast as he could into her underground room.  And there were some shiny white eggs.  He was proud to have some children.  He counted one, two, three, four, five, six seven, seven shiny eggs.  The male said that you have to mate to have babies.

One day the male was out hunting when he caught a mouse and swallowed it whole.  Then he went home.  When he got there he saw seven little baby snakes, four boys and three girls.  They loved to be strong.  But they always were aware of a hawk or an eagle that may be flying around.  They grew up healthy and lived happily ever after.

The End.

There are some fine illustrations as well, but you'll just have to take my word on it.

Planting Cons from a Pro.

Several years ago, partway through my fourth season of tree planting I did something that at the time seemed nothing more than a passing amusement but in retrospect turned out to be one of the most notable things that I've done in my life.

I began tree planting the way most people did, in complete ignorance. My cousin had gone the previous two years and came back boasting of the money to be made. Eager for new adventure and the promised cash I applied and was hired. Having done two summers of tar and gravel roofing in the heat of the Okanagan Valley I thought I knew what miserable work was, but that was when I was still young and naive. Tree planting presented days of absolute torment although liberally interspersed with times of fun and laughter.

In hindsight it was somewhat surprising that I had made it so far as fourth season. I made decent money but certain not enough that planting would be the obvious choice of summer employment. I persevered partly because somewhere in the midst of the off season the painful memories would fade away leaving only the memories of the fun times. By the time the next planting season began I was positively excited to get out there. (The excitement generally lasted until about the third tree)

The other reason I kept it up was because the notion of quitting never really seemed a viable option. (Which was strange because I had made quitting a bit of a lifestyle with things such as piano lessons, chemistry 12, a woodworking course and grade nine.) I had shared in the laughter as we made jokes about the other rookies who had quit because of a "sore back" which is a euphemism for "not tough enough". I had no good reason not to quit and quitting due to not liking it was the same as admitting that I was a sissy. So there I was, in the truck driving home in the middle of my fourth season, more experienced than all but my foreman.

I realized then that it just wasn't worth it for me. I realized through experience that there was a good chance that I would forget and wind up planting again so I decided to put into writing my motivation to not plant again. I did it in the form of a letter to myself listing exactly why I hated planting. Surprisingly this little action, that was as much a way to pass the time while getting a laugh as it was a serious letter became something of a legend. (A very humble legend of course) I have been shocked though by the number of people who mention this letter that I wrote years ago. The surprising thing for me is that the majority of the people who bring it up never even read the letter themselves.

I am on the cusp of starting my eighth season planting so obviously the note failed. I'm looking forward to the season so maybe I should give it a close read. Here it is, complete and unabridged:

Dear Future Ed,

When you read this you will have forgotten about a few things concerning planting. Please read the following before considering season five. Planting sucks. It REALLY, REALLY, SUCKS.

There are lots of bugs. Mosquitos, no see-ums, black flies, and the annoying flies that circle your head forever. The plants are no better. Devil's club, stinging nettle, branches that trip you or stab you in the eye, mouth, nose or crotch. There are errant shovels into the knee or shin. The job is really boring and you always need to plant more trees. There are camps to set up and take down and of course reefers to unload. There are gong show days because of course no one ever knows what is going on.

Of course don't forget rain days. They are much colder and more miserable than you remember. There are trucks that get stuck or have flat tires. Some days are unbearably hot and others that are unbearably cold. Morning come too early and are far too cold. The weeks are long as are the days because there will be blocks that need to be closed off even if it means staying several hours late. The work is out of town so you will miss the best part about living in Kelowna, the summer. Baggin up in general sucks. Wet bags in the morning suck. Wet boot suck. Gettting out of the trucks in the morning sucks. Rocks, stick mat, grass mat, roots and creamy red rot that you can't plant suck.

Planting makes the whole body hurt but nobody gives any sympathy. Sometimes you go really hard but mistakes happen and replanting really, really, really sucks. You are always stuck in camp and days off are far too short. I've mentioned it already but rain days really suck. There are snow days, hail days, and sleet days. There are steep hills to plant and long walk ins. There are wasp nests as well. This list is not conclusive because there is too much to list. Don't be persuaded by promises of big money because the money isn't worth it.

Dangerous people to watch out out for are Lee Keller, Justus Smith, perhaps Clint (All whom are previous foreman who might have tried to get me to plant again) but most of all, ignore what Ed Smith tries to convince you. You don't remember. I am here and the job sucks. Please don't plant next year.

Sincerely,

Ed Smith

Large Medium Art

The building slowly retreated into the background as I walked into the woods. There’s a mysticism about nature, of which I am sceptical. Many choose to unreservedly champion the grandeur of nature, but I’ve spent too many hours working outdoors to hold such a position. Natural beauty is manifold and immense, but rather like the stripes of a tiger, sublimely beautiful but deadly if admired too closely. The beauty of nature is exquisite, but not unconditionally so.

It was not surprising then, that as I looked around me the thought crept into my head, “it’s not so beautiful here right now, it’s almost ugly.” Undoubtedly a few weeks ago the forest would have been alive with colour and majesty. The colours of autumn can alight the landscape in an unmatched visual cornucopia. The leaves now however, lay underfoot, already decomposing and creating a soft, brown carpet. The landscape was almost entirely brown, with only the early morning frost to add a touch of colour to the monochrome.

The sound of a creek drew me in. I stepped down the sides of the bank, feet almost touching the iced over water. An empty bucket in the centre of the creek, trapped by a rock dam, blighted the scene. I stood there for a moment considering whether it was worth attempting to retrieve it but my mind wandered and the thought was forgotten rather than rejected.

I looked down and noticed that there was a layer of ice at the bottom of the creek and then water flowing over top. The white of the ice contrasted with the brown creek bottom, perfectly visible in through the silt free water. I watched as some air bubbles flowed with the current, trapped beneath the glassy layer of surface ice. The bubbles would flow together, lazily meet and disperse. It crossed my mind that although stunning natural beauty was absent, there was still a poetry to the area. A small fish lazily flapped his fins in order to maintain his position in the stream. A second later he disappeared. The water was perfectly clear but the camouflage was too clever for my eyes. Only due to his movement as the current pulled him downstream was I able to make him out again.

Turning, I faced the bank. The sides of the bank rose several feet above where I was standing so I was able to view the sparsely treed forest at almost eye-level. The light of the morning sun lit up countless shimmering spider webs. The underbrush, now devoid of leaves, were tinselled in these threads of light, constantly moving and changing. The light would climb up and down the web, illuminating it and then leaving, and the strands would disappear. Many strands glowed white, one, a vivid indigo, leapt out from the rest. Then I caught sight of two rose hips still clinging to a bush. These splashes of red against the varied hues of brown offered a consummate counterpoint. A fallen tree blocked the sun, but its light gleamed on the underside of the log, a flash of brilliance captured by a thick cobweb.

I considered the scene. The sound of the creek rippled in the background, the chill air cleansed my pores and awakened me to miracle being alive. My breath was a cloud of glistening, tiny diamonds that swirled before dissipating into the frosty air. Deer tracks underfoot and blue sky above; I turned my head half a degree and the scene adjusted anew, revealing another perspective of majesty. In each half a second the details altered, offering up a new treasure, like an artist unable to finish a painting because with each passing second new inspiration would compel the brush to canvas. The forest which had first appeared dead to me, now was alive, brought to life by the light of the sun. I could not escape the resplendent beauty; it stretched out near and far in all directions.

As I left the sanctified setting my eyes involuntarily swept upwards. The sky, empty of clouds, was rich blue. The moon, distant and beautiful, half peeked out from the shadow of the Earth. Doubtless the beauty of the Earth remained even as my eyes now fixed themselves on the moon’s glory. My mind was unable to cope with the splendour and I was obliged to offer a prayer of thanksgiving to the artist capable of creating on such a scale, and with perfect harmonization from all the senses. I beheld but a portion of a cosmic masterpiece that changes through time, not dying, but being reborn.

As I walked back to the lodge the world reverted to its mundane normalcy. The divine sparks so evident before now retreated. My eyes, minutes earlier alert to every consecrated detail, were blinded once again. I mentally began composing these words to describe the experience, knowing that with time the emotions would fade into a two dimensional memory, like a snapshot of a mountain rather than the mountain itself. My mind, at work crafting sentences, was distracted by a squirrel running through the trees like an invitation; the divine may always be seen, if I but allow my eyes to be opened.