This Old House

It's a rainy Sunday afternoon . . . dark . . . coolish . . . sleepy . . . reflective. I'm thinking of the house I worked on last week, built in 1879 as the James Alexander Saunders home in Woodlands, New Brunswick. It left the Saunders name when it was sold to Billy and Tishi (Wilkins) Plume in 1946, and was subsequently sold to Bud and Agnes Harding in 1953. It is a storied centerpiece to a vanished community, at one time even housing a vibrant post office, which probably amounted to little more than a desk in the parlor. The farm was first purchased by, or maybe granted to, John and Letitia (Patchel) Leslie on March 12, 1845. John and Letitia raised six children in a log house on the property before moving into the comforts of the newly erected home of their daughter Margaret "Jane" and her husband James Saunders. Jane and James raised eight children in their new house.

John and Letitia were Irish immigrants, and James was the son of Thomas and Sarah (Thomas) Saunders, both Welsh immigrants who arrived in Saint John aboard the Albion on June 11, 1819. I have documented this in greater detail in The Woodlands Book which I published in 2007, along with co-author Agnes Harding.

The relevance: John and Letitia were two of my thirty-two Great Great Great Grandparents.

It was the first framed house in Woodlands, built in the post and beam style commonly used for barns. The first and second floors were added to the open structure, and voila, the barn styled frame became a house. The hand hewn, 5" x 5" post and rafter framing is on 44" centers, and the corners are strengthened with wooden angle braces held in place by the combination of mortise & tenon joints and wooden pins. The house is sheathed with boards that are a full one inch thick and range from 10 to 16 inches wide, all nailed in place with hand cut square steel nails. Customary to the era before insulation, double lathe and plaster was used to trap dead air in the space in the walls, one layer directly on the inside of the board sheathing, and another layer to create the interior surface similar to how we use drywall today. The exterior is both pine or spruce clapboards, 3 1/2 inches to the weather, and mostly original. Although showing the expected signs of wear and tear, the house is in remarkably good shape for being 137 years old. With a wee bit of periodic tlc, this house can live on indefinitely.

Sir, Your Fridge Is Toast, I’m Sorry

OK, so maybe your washer or your dryer or your fridge or your freezer is six or eight or ten years young, chugging along merrily enjoying the prime of life. It’s not new nor is it old, and the troublesome teenage years are distantly ahead. Should have another fifteen or twenty trouble free years before the gates of landfill afterlife, right? Then out of nowhere one sunny morning it coughs, sputters, jiggles around a bit and wham, a 911 call to a repairman. He arrives, takes the cover panels off, hums and haws a bit, suggests you take a seat while he tries to read your mood, and delivers the tried and tested and way too often parlayed prognosis. It’s toast, kaput, flat-lined, and not economically repairable. “This just can’t be!” you exclaim, “I just bought it yesterday!”  

We’ve all been there. “They ain’t what they used to be” is more than a colloquialism. The white appliances that we need to make our lives run smoothly are junk, period. Honest sales people have long since struggled to impart confidence in their products. A whole lot of eye rolling ensues when you ask how long it will last, or even more to the point, is it any good? The sales person will carefully select safe words like, “They all last about the same” or “This one has this feature and that one has that feature” which are subjectively noncommittal and really don’t tell you squat about life expectancy and product quality. Of course there’s always the sales people who defy what you’ve already gleaned from Google as they smilingly tell you that their appliance will last you through to your retirement, which only plays true if you’ve recently signed the papers and have one foot out your employers door. 

By contrast, our old Viking chest freezer has been chugging along handsomely for fifty-five years; a fine example of yesteryear quality and bulletproof design. Back in the day, quality, price, and long life expectancy were integral to a manufacturer’s triumph in the marketplace. Manufacturers stood behind their products with pride. Warranties were not a selling feature, as the need to exercise a warranty seldom emerged, but when it did, support was there. More attention was paid to the design room than the board room. 

CBC’s Marketplace did an expose on white appliances a few weeks back. The comments by repair technicians in regard to product quality were nothing short of humorous, as were the comments of sales people. Both held no punches in that the products in today’s market are inferior. Over the years, most of the old tried and true “go to” brand names have cycled through bankruptcy to be reinvented in name only by a couple of very large manufacturing conglomerates. In short, this lucrative sector is no longer kept honest by the powerful forces of competition. A few companies make all of the rules, so the field is decidedly tilted in their favour.  

Long ago, top executives were well compensated to manage the success of the company, and they were held responsible for failures. Salaries were high but realistic. Now, the company is managed solely to ensure the financial success of top executives. It is not uncommon for executives to be paid one hundred to four hundred times the amount paid to on-the-shop-floor management. I am a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist, but this is obscene! To the consumer’s detriment, capitalism is evolving to the point where it is no longer sustainable in some cases. The unanswered question becomes, does the excessive executive compensation return good bang for the buck? Maybe a “management team” that is paid in a more realistic compensation range could refocus the business back to the product and profit from meeting the needs of the consumer. A novel concept indeed.    

Time for change. It’s time for quality, longevity, and economy to return to the major appliance marketplace. I don’t expect to see this change rise out of the current, overwhelmingly non-competitive, environment of this sector, but it could rise through a cooperative solution. Guided by the cooperative principles, a model could grow to design and produce the solid, quality products that the marketplace is asking for, while returning good, competitive salaries to the employees. Cooperation means one person, one vote and cooperation means reasonable compensation, from the shop floor through to the board table. An idea worth organizing? Maybe?

2014 Review

Memories of 2014 

2014 was a memorable year indeed, if for nothing more than unsettled weather. Winter started during the last week of November 2013 and the last patches of snow fell to ol' sol at the end of April. It wasn't an exceptionally cold winter, but it delivered continuous wallops of heavy wet snow and ice and it was longer than a sled track.

Sue and I bolted from this one horse town for a short visit to New York City to see the Allman Brothers Band at the Beacon Theater on March 7. Seeing the ABB (for a second time in a year, I might add) was a bucket list thang for me, and for it to be a "Beacon" performance was the stuff of blues dreams. Sue went because we both enjoy NY. She can take or leave the Allmans. This was the final year of a 23 year spring residency for the band at the Beacon, and for all accounts, the finale at the Beacon on Oct. 29 was the last time we will see the band play, period. They are finito.

We coasted through the late spring with great anticipation for the relief of summer. Spring came so late that I chose to forego planting flowers and my small garden. First time ever for no hanging flower baskets . . . no annuals . . . no garden . . . zippo . . . nada.

Things were shaping up nicely at the camp, and the welcome mat was rolled out for summer's arrival. In June I poured a (long talked about) concrete deck alongside the camp and an octagonal pad close to the lake for our new chiminea fire place that we ordered from someplace in the states during the Arthur power outage. 

At the end of June, Sue and I were more or less residents of Davidson Lake for the summer . . . and then . . . on July 5, "sub tropical storm" Arthur came to visit. Don't let the sub tropical part appear to diminish the intensity of this sob. It was Saturday, and Wag and I awoke at the camp to heavy rain and wind. Sue decided to stay home and not come out as planned. By 9:00 or 10:00 am, our power was out and trees were leaning. Power went out in Douglas around noon. Wag and I packed up and headed out in the early afternoon as the trees started falling. It was surreal. Power was out in Douglas for seven days, and 11? days at the lake.

We had one humongous spruce fall across the front veranda roof at the camp. Amazingly, no structural damage, just some cosmetic scarring. For the remainder of summer, I yarded, blocked, split, and ranked Arthur wood, almost four cord, finishing on Thanksgiving. It is to say, summer didn't roll out the way I had envisioned. On a positive note, the absence of hydro evoked a grand opportunity to hone my skill on the BBQ, for all three meals many days. Danny arrived home one day with a big bag of chicken wings that were in need of either a freezer or a recipe. Since we too were sans freezer, we had two huge feeds of wings, Q’d to perfection by moi.

I tended the generator each day from about 5AM to about 11PM. Every 4 ½ hours, 6 litres of gas (or maybe it was 8 litres). It seems strange that the monotony of sourcing gas and tending the generator and BBQ would be so tiring, but when the power came on, I crashed. The sound of a generator now triggers a whole variety of emotional responses, all negative.

Harvest Jazz & Blues in September is (and has been for a long time) the highlight of my year. I love music, and I especially love the blues. We've been so fortunate to have had many, maybe even most, of the big name blues men and women right here at Harvest. Well done Freddy. I buy a festival pass, and I make it pay! As a Harvest side note, it is common knowledge that musicians have a difficult time wrapping their heads around the fact that Harvest is made possible by dedicated volunteers. No corporate ownership, and no one profiting a windfall from its success. This is unheard of in the American market. This is a world class, big budget, community supported, volunteer run, blues festival.

The weekend after Harvest was the 40th anniversary reunion of my FHS Graduation Class of '74. So many old acquaintances renewed. The organizing committee did an exceptional job with it all, including the reception Friday evening, and the dance Saturday evening. Many hugs and smiles all 'round.

Although it seems there was hardly enough time to do any productive, customer-paying work in 2014, I managed to have another successful year with my custom carpentry business, RH Schwartz & Company Inc. I am more than half way through the tenth year of this adventure, and I truly enjoy helping customers realize their visions. I don’t work every day. When there is work in the hopper, I sprint through it. When there is no work, I enjoy the camp, or guitar, or my shop . . . whatever.

2014 is ending on a down note for me, brother Doug, sisters Marilyn and Charlotte, Dad (Herb), our families, and our extended families. Mom has been at the DECRH for two weeks, and in palliative care for almost a week as of today (Dec. 27), and we have been keeping a bedside vigil here throughout this time. She has lived 85 good years plus one year of declining health. Life is one big ball game, and as Mom is in the batter’s box making her final swing at life, the family that she and dad created moves one step closer to the on-deck circle. Eventually, we all get to bat. I am writing this at her bedside.

Junk Mail

Dear "Whoever you are who sends me junk mail",

Thank you for thinking about me. It’s always nice to get mail this time of year. We don’t know each other, do we? I ask because my name and address are typed on all of the enclosed forms. Generally speaking, I prefer to offer my “headstone information” to people I do business with or at least to people who don’t p!ss me off, and I generally reserve its use completely around people I do not know.

You are shifting very quickly from “people I do not know” to “people who p!ss me off”. Although I have no indebtedness to your company, I am feeling festive, and I must share a money saving tip, expecting nothing in return, because that is what giving is all about. I can save you the cost of future postage on mailings to me, because there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell, not even a wee tiny tiny iota of a shadow of a chance, that I will do business with anyone who has made a choice to use my name and address on a bulk mail application form without my permission.

Your friend
Roger

Cool November . . . way cool!

Feeling unpleonastic this afternoon . . . the remedy . . . a few minutes on the blog.

Outside bagging the rest of our leaves earlier this afternoon, I darned near froze. Its not that its that cold, just that the toggle switch in my head is stuck in summer position, early fall at best . . . and its not. Having said that, its not winter, nor is it summer, and if fall means apples, lots of colour, and Harvest, its not that either. They're dimming fast in the rear view mirror. Once the winter coat comes out, there's no turning back, so I stubbornly resist. This awkward transition happens each year, and I suspect its an inherent part of mandom. We are complicated . . . not. We train easier than Labs.

For the seven warmer months, the wood heater in the family room collects dust and books and whatever needs a place to be for a while, but now its commissioned to service for another winter, ne pas bookshelf 'til April. I love wood for its combined offering of inner and outer heat. It warms the soul. Centralizing around a wood stove flips the mind back to a simpler time, like when the kids were younger and we'd eat supper by oil lamp, just for fun. By its very nature, a wood stove radiates a false sense of security . . . or maybe its not false . . . come and get me winter . . . see that wood stove? . . . you can stay outside and freeze for all I care!

Its a bit overcast now, dusk at 4:30, dark at 5:30. I built a fire in the furnace and stoked the small heater in the family room. Probably could have gotten away without the furnace fire, but it makes the basement nicer, and I'm reluctant to crank the baseboard electric. (See above comments re the stubbornness/mandom link). I spend the latter part of the afternoon in the man cave. Always enjoy picking music to match my mood. I've got everything stored in my iTunes library, so all I need is my Apple TV remote, my chair, some time, and I'm "with the music". A lazy arse I've become. I don't have to get up for anything. No vinyl to flip and no tapes or cd's to insert.

This afternoon, its Rick Fines. I love his work. A masterful bluesman and a true gentleman. He's been to Harvest in Freddy probably more than anyone, and returned in September for a couple of memorable sets, plus a week of Blues in the Schools. He was a Harvest regular back in the early days. A real pro for sure. His craftsmanship comes through in all of his tracks, but the intricacy in Riley Wants His Life Back is nothing short of pure art.

A bit coolish . . . maybe time to throw in another stick.

Bill The Bomber by Robert W. Service

The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist;

The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist;

And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame;

'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came.

'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink,

For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think.

So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream

Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream;

But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke:

"Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke.

We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead;

But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead,

Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound,

And it's odd--we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground.

And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew,

How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through;

So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin,

And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in.

And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run,

A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one."

Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm,

For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am.

I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because

I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was.

We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer;

Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near;

And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew,

And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two."

I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see,

And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me.

And I'd lost me 'at and rifle--but I told you that before,

So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more.

But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet,

And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set,

And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead,

And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead;

When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee,

And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three."

So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that,

And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at;

And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said:

"If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead."

And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs--that was the 'ardest blow,

To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe.

And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad,

And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad.

And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again,

Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain.

Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot,

And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got,

I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out

Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out;

And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at;

And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat;

And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad,

Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad.

For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere

This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear.

Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain,

So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain;

And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me,

And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . .

And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear;

And now they're all excited like, but--I am drawin' near;

And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . .

Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game.

And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin',

And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame.

Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole,

And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole.

And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell,

And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell.

And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive;

We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five.

And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay,

For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away".

Robert W. Service

Please welcome . . . Lynyrd Skynyrd

Lynyrd Skynyrd was at CasinoNB in Moncton last evening . . . and so were we. Skynyrd has been one of my southern rock & roll staples for as long as I can remember. I’ve got all of their classic stuff on one form of media or another. I first saw them live May 18, 2001 at Harbour Station in Saint John, along with Ted Nugent as opener. Ted is a story unto himself. At that time, the band enjoyed the presence of Gary Rossington, Billy Powell, and Leon Wilkeson, who were all founding members as well as survivors of the deadly plane crash in 1977, Johnny VanZant, Ricky Medlock, Hughie Thomason, and Michael Cartellone. Although Medlock and Thomason weren’t part of the original lineup, they had played guitar off and on with Skynyrd for so many years that they passed as family. Thirteen years have passed, and so have Powell, Thomasson, and Wilkeson. Peter Keys plays keys where Billy Powell once sat, Mark Matejka has replaced Thomason on guitar, and bassist Johnny Colt, who immigrated to LS from the Black Crowes, fills Leon’s space on stage left.

Skynyrd is both nostalgic and current. Under the guidance of Gary Rossington, they’ve kept the flame lit for forty-plus years. They have history, and they have cred, but buying tickets to a show like this is often done with more than a wee bit of trepidation. Are they over the hill . . . have they still got what it takes . . . are they mere shadows of their past . . . are they worth the price of tickets, meals, and a night in a hotel . . . am I nuts? Admittedly, they’ve lost some key personnel since 2001. There are certainly unknowns, but the internet seemed to have viewed them in favourable light, so we were in.

Show day . . . rained axe handles the whole drive to Moncton . . . northern NB got snow. Got checked in and fed, then off to the venue. After ACDC’s Thunderstruck defined the opening, the band came to the stage snapping with fire. They played a set list of their classic hits, and man, they were good. They beamed enthusiasm and professionalism and showmanship. Ricky Medlock is bigger than life. What a stage presence! Thank you to Johnny VanZant for wearing a poppy, and dedicating Simple Man to the Canadian Military. Peter Keys, on keys, has “the persona” with long, dark, flowing hair, long beard, top hat, and awesome lighting. He demo’d his playing ability on a couple of short features. Johnny Colt, carries on Leon’s “mad hatter” tradition, alternating through a trunkfull of hats . . . big hats . . . top hats . . . fur hats. Mark Matejka is the fabulously capable third guitarist. One of Skynyrd’s hallmarks from the beginning has been three front line guitars. Gary Rossington has always been very unassuming on stage. He’s rarely “in your face” and seems quite content to let the band happen around him. You’d never know that he is “the brains” of the operation, and that he has written or co-written many of their hits. Such talent.

They closed the show with Sweet Home Alabama. There wasn’t a person in the house, short of the crowd of young girls that shows up at every concert knowing squat about the band, or even that there is a band, who didn’t anticipate the encore would be Freebird, and it was, and the house came apart. At every concert, there is the guy that predictably yells Freebird in the middle of a pristine vocal solo. This is the only time where that idiot gets his wish. All in all, it was a fantastic evening that I will score as “exceeds expectations”.