Archives for category: manifesting dreams

Be Prepared

A.V. Walters

girl-guide-pin

When I was just a kid, ten or eleven, “they” started a Girl Guide troop in my village. I was elated. The Boy Scouts—the male version of our Canadian youth organization—did all kinds of cool stuff. They hiked. They went camping. They learned sailing and essential survival skills. I wanted in.

But, Girl Guides was a major disappointment. We met regularly, paid our dues and stood around in formation. There was a lot of discussion about earning badges—and we all eagerly researched the requirements in our Guidebooks. There were no nature hikes, no tips on identifying wildlife, no talks on campfire safety (and, needless to say, no campfires.) Oddly enough, there were tips for the application of cosmetics. And, they emphasized the gentle arts of knitting, crochet, sewing, and swapping patterns. If I’d wanted that, I could’ve simply signed up for Home Ec, at school.

Just once, we had a promising project. We made camp stoves out of coffee cans, which were to be used with beeswax candles as fuel. Of course, when we’d finished with the tinsnips and wax, some of us decided to light the damn things. Our Girl Guide leader had a total fit. You’d have thought we were trying to burn down the building! “Who brought those matches?!!!”

I was a problem child. So, naturally, I complained. The organizers, a trio of women from our village, told me to be patient, that they were just getting started. But, I was bored. To amuse myself, I did handstands against the walls. My concerns (and restlessness) stirred up the other girls, inspiring them to look beyond handicrafts and sock-puppets in their expectations. We started practicing gymnastic moves when the meetings were slow or disorganized. Our leaders didn’t approve of gymnastics. (Admittedly, it’s difficult to keep your Girl Guide uniform neat and tidy while practicing gymnastics.) Consequently, I earned demerits, and was soon regarded as a disciplinary problem.

Meanwhile, the Boy Scouts continued their outings to neat locations, like the local Provincial Parks, and did nature hikes. Could we do that? The response was a “hike,” but not in a park. It was through our village, and down the local highway—marching. Marching In formation. We did about six miles. The other girls groaned. This wasn’t anyone’s idea of fun. Essentially, the entire troop was being punished because of my entreaties. I considered quitting.

Before giving up, I started asking the girls from next town over what they did in their Girl Guide meetings. Needless to say, their troop was far more active and interesting than ours. And, their dues were only a dime a week, while ours were a quarter. Of course, I pressed further, asking other girls, even farther afield what they paid in dues. Always, the answer was the same—a dime.

Finally, I brought it up at one of our meetings, pointing out that other troops paid a lot less and got more out of Girl Guides. Our leaders seemed a bit unnerved at my public questioning. They weakly explained that the excess was used to purchase their uniforms and to cover “incidental” costs. They were volunteers, after all! I retorted that we had to pay for our own uniforms—and we were just kids. I had done the math, and pointed out that uniforms for the three leaders could have been fully paid in three to six months—but that the imposed surcharge had gone on for nearly a year. (Obviously a young girl, like myself, had no appreciation of the cost of a used coffee can.) I knew it wasn’t like we were talking big money, but it was the principle of the thing.

At the end of the meeting, I was unceremoniously kicked out of Girl Guides. Gone. I should have, but I sure didn’t see that coming. I guess I wasn’t cut out to be a Girl Guide. Our motto was, after all, “Be Prepared.”

Needless to say, it was no real loss; it wasn’t much fun, anyway.

 

A couple of years ago, I joined Facebook. As an indie author, I was told that social media was an important part of our “branding.” So, I put my blog feed through Facebook and accumulated a wide variety of “friends.” Though I enjoyed it, my Facebook page never did much of anything from a marketing perspective.

In 2015 and 2016 my Facebook activities widened to include political expressions. I wrote on issues of food and agricultural policies, climate change and the upcoming elections. I joined groups and made even more “friends.” My topics of discussion included resistance politics, protests and, of course, the elections.

Occasionally, I was trolled, challenged on my positions. Some politicians and political organizations were using paid trolls in their programs of disinformation. In my posts, I was always civil and thorough. If you challenged me, you’d best have your facts straight, because I was ready with mine. I’d research the trolls and, in pretty short order, could tell who was a legitimate person, and who was there just to make trouble. Real people had real friends, and they had longtime Facebook accounts, populated by photos and comments and, well, lives. I attracted the trouble-makers.

One day, recently, I tried to log-in to my Facebook account and was greeted with this:

“HELP US IDENTIFY YOU-

We’re working hard to make sure everyone

on Facebook can be their authentic selves.

We don’t allow accounts that:

  • Pretend to be someone else
  • Don’t represent a real person

From time to time, we check to make sure

it’s really you with a few short questions

before you log into Facebook. It won’t take long

and it helps keep Facebook safe for everyone.”

What? I’ve been booted off Facebook?!

The successive security screens informed me that, in order to regain access to Facebook, I’d have to upload a copy of a government-issued, photo ID. Some troll (or trolls) had fingered me! Of course I’m a real person. My posts were always thoughtful, cogent and informative. While I’m shocked that the exotic Facebook Algorithms couldn’t recognize my obvious humanity, I’m equally appalled that it is so easy to silence the voice of someone with whom you might simply disagree. I have a “liberal’s” extreme distaste for Big Brother tactics and I’ll be damned if I’ll provide ID in exchange for access to cat videos, photos of restaurant food and trolls. Make the damned trolls show their ID. For no clearly articulated reason, I’ve been kicked off Facebook.

They talk about Facebook withdrawal. Admittedly, I spent too much time on the site. It’s a major mind-suck. And, like any junkie, I’d talked about cutting back, or quitting, altogether. (“I can quit anytime I want. I’ve done it a million times.”) Hell, a recent study even suggested that low doses of LSD can eliminate Facebook Addiction! But I didn’t see this coming, either. I’m out—cold turkey. I’ve completely disappeared from Facebook. It’s as though I’d never existed. Gone. And, there is no way to communicate with the minions of Facebook to question why I vanished, or to explore other options.

There’s a recurring theme, here. I guess that in my own way, I’m a born troublemaker.

So, I’m recovering my personal time and enjoying it. In any event, the lesson is clear: Be Prepared.

 

 

 

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Dreams, Anxieties and Outcomes

A.V. Walters

b3

Ready to go!

When I was very little, my father dreamed of owning a sailboat. Saddled with five small children, it wasn’t a dream that was on his horizon, but a man can dream. He had the big blue book of sailing, Piloting, Seamanship and Small Boat Handling. It lived on the shelf in the living room, and he’d take it down from time to time and study it—while bringing my mum up to speed on the tips and best practices he’d learned. The closest we got to boating was an 18 foot, molded mahogany canoe. It was big enough to hold the whole family for day excursions, though in rough water the waves came dangerously close to the gunnels. Five little tow-heads with guarded, wide eyes scrutinized those lapping waves.

I understand the lure of the long-term dream. I’m approaching a number of mine—living in the country, building a home, and keeping bees. I have to keep pinching myself. In my mind’s eye, I also always wanted play a musical instrument. I cannot sing (or so say those around me) but I love music and throughout my life I wanted “in” on that secret language.

That’s how I think my father felt about sailing. His grandfather had worked the lake boats. He grew up on stories about the big lakes. When he retired, it was time. He didn’t need a fancy boat or a fast boat. He wanted something stable; after all, he was a beginner in his sixties. He settled on a MacGregor—a bit of a tub, with an oddly avid following. To pinch his pennies, he searched for one that needed work. (Sound familiar?) It was not seaworthy when he got it. He spent a couple of years upgrading, and, being a woodworker, he added a lot of nice little touches one wouldn’t expect on a beginner boat. As completion approached, he pulled out the big blue book and he and my mom drilled on small boat handling. As a landlubber, she was cautiously enthusiastic. Her father had been an expert boat pilot, both in the Coast Guard and during his 1920s exploits as a rumrunner in Detroit.

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We have finished the banjo restoration. I say “we” because a project this cool attracts volunteers. Rick could not resist, and it became our joint endeavor. Really, how hard could it be? It took many internet consultations. Rick re-machined some of the damaged parts. There are You Tube videos on how to stretch a calfskin banjo head. (Of course, beyond the general, no two of them agree on how it’s done.) We picked a natural calfskin (not white) because it’s most likely what would have been put on the banjo when it was first made, back in 1928. We were a little intimidated by the mounting process. Basically, you learn what you can—and then you throw caution to the wind and let common sense guide you. Then you have to set the tailpiece and the bridge, so that you can install the strings. Suddenly, it’s a banjo! It’s not rocket science, but I’m grateful that there were extra hands in the crunch. It’s beautiful, fully restored to its authentic 1920s glory. It has a rich, warm resonant tone—with just the right amount of steel-string twanginess. I am smitten.

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My father only sailed for a couple of seasons. He loved his boat. He had a vast book knowledge of how to maneuver it on the water. But he hadn’t counted on seasickness. Both of them. Even if you think you know the ropes, it’s hard to master sailing if the Captain and the crew (of one) are both incapacitated, hurling over the sides of the boat. In the calmest of conditions they could handle the motion, but of course, the calmest of conditions don’t include wind. Wind is a necessity in sailboat operation. They floundered. It became a bit of a joke in the Harbor—these two eager, elderly sailors, flailing at the task. More than once they ran aground, because neither of them could see beyond their nausea to steer to safety. My nephew (who apparently takes after my grandfather and can sail like a pro) tried to help. In the end, all he could do was to watch, laughing. I understand their predicament because I, too, am plagued with motion sickness.

My father did well on the sale of the boat. After all, it was in mint condition with many, many, lovely little upgrades.

Now it’s time to walk my talk on the banjo. I’m a little nervous. The instrument itself is so awesome that I feel like a fraud, holding it. It’s unnerving, to get that close to your dreams. All I need now is a pitch pipe, so I can start up with the proper tuning.