It seems as though Ken never stops walking. We see him every time we walk the beach – and we walk at all hours of the day.

Tall, tanned, well-groomed and always wearing shorts despite the weather, he strides along the 2.2 kilometer promenade with the air of a man on his way to somewhere important. As the ever-present gulls hover overhead, we say “Good Morning” or “Good Afternoon” and Ken returns the greeting briskly in a british-tinged accent. Sometimes we just nod. Sometimes we raise a hand in a casual, regular-beachwalker salute.

This morning was cool, grey and threatening rain. Debbie and I wore sweaters, jackets and, in my case, a knit hat. Ken was wearing his shorts, as usual. We never talk, but each time I see him I’m reminded, as I was this morning, of the night the three of us sat, as strangers, in the White Rock city council chambers with a group of concerned and angry citizens. (continue reading this post …)

The thing looked like a designer kitchen utensil – like half an egg-beater sporting additional mysterious appendages and missing a handle. Although clearly made of metal, glinting as it did in the afternoon sun, the circle of thin graceful flame-shaped blades at one end appeared to float in the polaroid blue sky – the tops seemingly too thin to otherwise successfully support themselves. It was beautiful in a streamlined yet asymmetrical way. It was both magical and clearly mechanical. The four star-like projections under the metal flames were supported by two sets of delicate bracing arms, suggesting that without them the craft might fold in on itself and fall from the sky. There were clear and detailed markings under the long flat body. One of the shots was a close up. Neatly centered and laid out like a copyright notice on a Henkel knife – the unreadable characters were accompanied by small crests. Or were they vents? The four photos were astonishingly clear but their subject was too baffling to allow interpretation of the finely captured details.

“Charlie”, who had sent the photos to a national radio show but wished to remain anonymous, said he just wanted to know what the craft was. He was worried that the humming noise it made – “like” he said, “when you’re near very large power lines” – was detrimental to the health of his wife and their unborn baby. He would only say that he lived in Northern California.

In ten minutes I’d found a perfect CGI video recreation of the craft, moving around on a makeshift background – ostensibly proving that fakery was probable. Five more minutes took me to a website where a collection of disparate photos of the “Dragonfly Drones”, as they were now calling them, had been assembled – all slightly or significantly different from one another and all from supposedly unrelated sources. One set of photos depicted a craft of such confusing complexity that I grinned with delight. Why would anyone, terrestrial or otherwise, create such a byzantine mass of tangled airborne technology and what possible purpose could it serve? I flipped from my browser to check my mail.

Of course, it didn’t need to serve any other purpose than the garnering and sustaining of attention. The whole idea of the dragonfly drones had held mine for over half an hour. I downloaded the mysterious “CARET documents” that appeared to tie-in with the under-body hieroglyphics. They were beautifully drafted and intelligently presented. The diagrams were high-tech art – marred only by two penciled question marks and a few roughly drawn circles and arrows. I opened Photoshop and removed anything that appeared to be of human origin. I printed the five pages and stood them up against the wall at the side of my desk and then wondered what I would do with them.

It’s September 4th and I guess the summer is over. I’m sitting at Gate C at the Regina Airport. A couple of weeks ago we did 5 flights in four days. The week before, we did eight flights in five days. We’ve pissed away a lot of the summer in airports. We flew the day they arrested the liquids-and-gels terrorists. Don’t get me started.

There’s been way too much going on this summer. We were supposed to do a CBC TV show with Mark Kelly from the National. He was going to travel with us for a week and document our crazy reality on two TV shows. It was all set up, flights booked and plans made. And I bailed. Too damn much going on.

Debbie’s father died. My Uncle Ray died.

Frankie gave his notice. He could no longer balance his high paying real job with his wild and crazy Trooper gig. We got wind of this when he told us he wouldn’t be able to swing the frighteningly imminent first 20 show of our summer tour. Our old friend Lance Chalmers saved our bacon at the eleventh hour. We began looking for a new drummer. Dave Hampshire finished up his contracted year as our Tour Manager. In a bizarre example of rock and roll irony, he is leaving his position with the band to concentrate on becoming a better drummer. We began looking for a new Tour Manager. Last night, in Regina, was Frankie and Dave’s last night with the band.

At one level (because there are many) it’s been a summer of loss for me. First Alex – who still refuses to return, regaling us with stories of hockey victory – then Uncle Ray, and now, in a significantly less final version of loss – Frankie and Dave. Much of my activity this summer has been in response to losses. We’ve seen more of Debbie’s Mom. I’ve increased the value of my life insurance. We’ve redone our wills. Smitty and I searched, successfully I hope, for a new drummer. We have searched, unsuccessfully so far, for a new Tour Manager. I’ve glazed-over a bit with Trooper business. Too damn much going on.

I’ve fantasized a life that is less concerned with loss, either recently incurred or potentially imminent. i have a quote on my powerbook desktop that reads; “Worry is the misuse of imagination”. I strain, as I drive by, to catch a glimpse of the old tarnished Airstream parked in the brambles behind the house on 16th Avenue. Debbie and I went to Protection Island for two days. We’ve gone to the bank to see how much money we could muster to fund an as yet undefined getaway.

The shows have been beautiful. When I walk onto a stage, there is nothing but the music and the audience, and I have floated euphorically, every night, in the sweet spot between the two. We have broken attendance records at every fair we have played this summer. The crowds have been large and loving. I do love my job.

I don’t want the responsibility or the expense of an Airstream. I don’t want to learn how to back one into a campsite, or have to perform regular trailer maintenance, or be the guy holding up a two mile line of traffic on the highway. I would just like for Debbie and me to wake up together in our own place and be the only ones in the world who know for sure where we are.

They’re unreasonably expensive and it’s not like we need the Rolls Royce of trailers, but I think it has to be an Airstream. It’s a romantic notion that’s worked its way deep into my mythology. I’d like to “fix it up”, whatever that means.

There’s nowhere in particular I’d like to take it. Lord knows I’ve traveled enough and seen enough. I think a WalMart parking lot would be fine – or someone’s back yard. I’d want the retractable awning. Here’s the picture:

It’s raining but warm. We’ve got the awning deployed and we’re sitting under it in folding chairs. We’ve just returned from a long walk and beat the rain. Maybe we have Coronas. We’re watching the WalMart shoppers going to and from their cars and we’re discussing their purchases.

Funny how memory works. I remember that we were sitting high atop a buckboard, in the rickety wooden two-passenger driver’s seat – in the open air. Of course this can’t be true. I’ve never ridden in a buckboard. Maybe in Barkerville on a holiday there – but not with Uncle Ray. Not this time.

I don’t remember how old I was: older than twelve and probably younger than fifteen. I know I had reached puberty. It was the topic of the conversation.

There were three boys and a girl in my Dad’s family. Jack, Dad, Fernie, and Ray, in that order, age-wise. There was a nine-year difference between Dad and Ray. Ray was the baby brother, and my Dad loved him fiercely.

Grown-ups were very different in the sixties. There was a clear and dramatic difference between childhood and adulthood. Demeanor, attitude, sense of humour, point of view, clothing, hairstyle – all different. Not at all like today where that line is blurred. Uncle Ray was a singular grown-up. He didn’t talk down to us kids. He told us jokes. Best of all, he could belch louder and longer than anyone we knew – and would bust out these spectacular prolonged burps at impressively inappropriate moments.

I remember thinking later that I’d been set up. That Dad had arranged for Uncle Ray and I to be alone together in his car. He was self-consciously squirmy in a way that I’d never seen. His face was red and he was having trouble kick-starting the conversation.

Maybe we were on our way to a motorcycle rally. Dad and Uncle Jack gave up their bikes when they married, but Uncle Ray continued to ride his Harley, and our family would attend GVMC events to watch him compete. I can’t imagine how Dad arranged for the two of us to travel together alone – Ray was married with a family at the time.

They used to call it having a talk about “the birds and the bees”. When Uncle Ray stammered into his introduction, I remember feeling a little annoyed that my Dad had passed off this right-of-passage duty to someone else. Uncle Ray was clearly not enjoying the experience either, but he gamely forged ahead.

Dad was an introvert. He expressed himself with his art, or when he played his mouth organ. He could tell good, dependable stories with beginnings and endings. He prepared follow-up stories so he wouldn’t be caught short without one. He was charming and kind with people but essentially shy and uncomfortable in the spotlight. I think Uncle Ray shared Dad’s core shyness, but he blustered on through with courageous bravado. The jokes and the funny stories broke the ice.

Dad named me – his first child – after Uncle Ray. Uncle Ray named his first child, Harry, after my Dad. Their great love and admiration for each other was obvious to anyone who saw them together.

“So, uh … how much do you know already?” Uncle Ray was looking to minimize the discomfort of the task at hand.

“Uh, you know … pretty much everything.” I lied.

He brightened.

“Ok, well, is there anything you need to know?”

I scrambled. There were many things sexual that were still a complete mystery to me. I needed to pick one and put us both out of our misery.

“Uh …” I muttered hopefully, “what’s a hickey?”

At the ‘celebration of life’ that we held after Dad passed away, Uncle Ray spoke about what a great brother Dad had been – how most kids would shun a sibling that was nine years younger but how Dad had taken him everywhere with him – made him toys – helped put together his first motorcycle. Listening to him speak, I was reminded once again that he was my favourite relative.

My Uncle Ray died suddenly of a heart attack on July 19th. He was seventy-six.

I have an excellent last memory of him – jamming with Connor and I and my brother Gary in our living room. He was playing his heart out on his harmonica as we played along on guitars – broad smiles on all our faces.

My sad, but perfect, memory of him took place a few days before Dad died, as he sat at Dad’s bedside and played him ‘Old Shep’ and ‘Danny Boy’ on his harmonica. ‘Old Shep’ and ‘Danny Boy’ were my Dad’s two favourite songs.

Alex wasn’t nuts about me when I first showed up – and I was just scared shitless of him. He was a strong, athletic Police Inspector who looked like Mr. Clean and I was a skinny longhaired rock singer who looked like Charles Manson. It’s ironic that the cop ultimately taught the hippy all about adaptability and flexibility.

Alex was a shining example of what a man could do if he set his sights, and his forthrightness and honesty inspired me. He also made me laugh. A lot. He was a powerful and profound influence on my life – a second father and a trusted and beloved friend. I cannot believe he’s gone.

Alex Andrascik, my father in law, passed away on July 2nd, 2006 at Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster while awaiting heart surgery.