Through the Looking Glass: 21. High beam Headlight Hemorrhoids

Saturday, December 1, 2012

21. High beam Headlight Hemorrhoids

As a recent transplant from Alberta I can smile at comments such as 'I don't understand Albertans penchant for braking through every corner and curve?'. As an Albertan I did the same for drivers from Saskatchewan who were simply lost when the roads were not straight.

I have driven in suburban and rural areas through winter blizzards and summer squalls. I have done long hauls in the dead of night as well as through twilight and dawn. During those adventures I have been courteous and received courtesy from those I shared the road with. Occasional forgetfulness was forgiven and outright stupidity was never forgotten.

Driving regularly through rainy nights to and from work here in Nelson I often find drivers following me with a dual set of over bright lights set to high. Nine times out of ten they are driving testosterone inspired half tons with over sized tires and 'look at my 4x4 decals'. As they attempt to caress my exhaust pipe I wonder about their intentions and sanity. An occasional blue beamed fool coming my way is less disconcerting than an overpowered idiot trying to kiss my subcompact bumper and insert themselves into my tailpipe. The ten year old and loving friend who often accompany me agree.

I personally think neutering such alpha inspired ingrates would satisfy me, but given my penchant for Canadian politeness I would suggest that these terrible twits be forced to memorize the drivers manual in regards to driving at night.

Failing success with such strategies I am considering an obscene digital messaging system viewable between my tail lights... or perhaps a simple button controlled 200,000 Lumen back facing photo flash would be simpler.

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Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.