272: The Good Book

Above: Hardcover (left) and leather-bound edition with inset coin (right).

Until our flesh-and-blood baby arrives later in the winter, current "baby" status has been pinned to the commemorative history book I designed to celebrate the 75th anniversary of the company I work for. The 272-page tome is, by far, the single largest project I've tackled in my professional career. The project used solid eight months from conception to completion, roughly 550 man-hours of time, almost 100,000 words, over 20 rounds of revisions and at least a couple decent freakouts to ship one 3.4-gigabyte PDF to the printers in July.


Above: I lobbied hard, but alas, a scrapped cover concept.

Though large in scope, a solid design structure was established early and the book design flowed smoothly after the first hundred pages or so, becoming a fairly efficient operation as the production schedule was ramped up during the later stages. Considerable time was spent in the company library, poring over suitable archival photos and documents, then scanning and cleaning images in every worn-and-torn format used by mankind from the 1930s to present day. It was interesting to see and compare the level of care put into the photography during the first half of those 75 years, versus the hideousness of the Polaroid era and the full-flash, everyone-has-a-camera 1990s (the 1970s and 1980s were particularly hard – as rough shape as those photos were in, the fashion sense of people was far worse).


Above: Six of the 272 pages, sized so small you'll need to buy a copy of the book to read 'em.

For such a large project, the crack squad assembled to produce it was thankfully kept quite small: in essence, an author, an editor, a production manager and a designer (not to discredit the multitudes of other contributors involved in providing input and advice). An unfortunate perfect-storm scenario arrived in the spring – when I was gone for a month while the project reached a crucial production point – and I was hard-pressed to consider which outcome was less appealing to me: exhausting the global supply of midnight oil to play catch-up, or handing the book off during my absence. A schedule was crafted that could accommodate the former.


Above: Editor Meg and I squeal, the day the books arrive.

The author is a scientist (and essentially, the client) and we were on board early with the realization this book would be academic, orderly, grid-based (my words) and without too much "designerly fluff" (his words). A muted palette of primary colours (plus green) was matched with shades of warm grey. Typefaces selected were Gibson (gotta support the team) and Bembo, with Pompadour used for chapter numbers. A vector pattern by Von Glitschka was used sparingly for page accents. Colour was also supplied through photography, as selected images gained more and more vibrancy as the chronologically-arranged book neared its present-day wrap-up. But I'm a fan of strict organization on the printed page; I've been at this 14 years and can't deny it now. This book is ultimately a reflection of that.


Above: A happy ending in Calgary. Lookit me, I'm wearing the suit.

Now for sale, the book was produced as two editions: a hardcover version with dust-jacket, and a leather-bound issue with inlaid silver coin from the Royal Canadian Mint – which I sorely wished I could have also played a role in, but the government, I figure, doesn't like folks touching their stuff. The book was officially launched late in September at a function in Calgary, where our small and dedicated team was feted.

I'm proud of this book – but it's left me hungry, too. It's hard to return to meat-and-potatoes work. For all its trials and tribulations, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

271: Acme

I have no idea what kind of dad I'll be. 

I'm pretty quiet. I watch. When talking with kids I talk to them like adults, and ask them questions. I'm fairly patient with their response, and with kids in general. I need to loosen up. I'm not a rough-houser, but can learn. I've never given a proper piggyback ride. I was never tossed, squealing, off the end of a dock, so I'd like to try that. There's so many things I've never learned in my time, that I can now simultaneously experience from scratch with a tot by my side. I'll be a good dad, I'm not concerned about that – I have lots of love to give – but I'll be a constantly-in-training dad, too. I don't think I'll ever be able to remove that label.

I hope I'm not too panicky. Babies make me nervous – I've held maybe a half-dozen or so in my life. The first baby I held was Kerry's nephew, when I was 25 years old; he was so squirmy and hot, I was soaking underneath my sweater. My own niece I met for the first time when she was six weeks old. We had a photo shoot, I remember, on a bed where she fidgeted and quietly watched me the entire time. I could barely make out anything to her above a whisper, I was so scared. The moment seemed so fragile.

That will change, I'm sure. I hope. I'm decent with swings of things, once things become established. This baby of mine and I will have plenty of stare-downs, plenty of feeling-out periods. But we'll become good friends. We'll start to talk. I'll figure out that piggy-backing thing. We'll start to roll my blue, red, and white rubber ball to each other across the living room floor (and in time it will become kiddo's blue, red and white rubber ball).

I'll want to take my kid outside. I'm so excited to introduce someone to the world, showing them how things work. Showing them a curious ground squirrel, letting them chase gulls from a beach. Feeling a pussy-willow bud or a foxtail, and poking at a dead crayfish with a stick. Running through the woods with a rotten piece of deadfall, pretending it's a speeder bike blasting through the forests of Endor. I want to show my kid how safe most things out in the world really are.

But I'm not prepared. I suppose no new parent really is. One day my kid will be sick, and I can't guarantee I'll have any flat ginger-ale on hand. That I'll make it upstairs quick enough with a bowl for them to harf into. But I can stay up late at night and stroke their forehead like my mom did, change their sheets and wash their mess even if I have to peg a clothespin to my nose. I'm prepared for that. I'm saying it to myself, anyways.

Even idiots have babies, is one of our few relatable mantras. They seem to turn out all right.

It just breaks my brain though, to contemplate a person – yet to exist – who will have their earliest memories ingrained with something innocuous in our house. Some tchotchke, the painting of Beeker on the wall or the smell of muffins that Kerry makes. Of a song I like, and play ad nauseam. Or a dorky Threadless t-shirt I might wear. Or of me without grey hair.

One of the oddest concepts to consider is that some day my kid may actually read this. So I have to ensure there's no typos, and that the value of the written word and good storytelling is paramount.

So. I have somewhat of an idea what kind of dad I'll be.

PS: Kid, I really hope you're not allergic to peanuts.

Summerlong

It's summertime, and I'm elsewhere. But I'll be back on the air soon, with some things to say. Enjoy the days, friends.

270: Artsy-Farts Europe

While in Europe this spring, I could not help but look at things in black and white. I loved our vacation for many reasons, but one was definitely exploring new environments – particularly urban environments – and being absolutely flabbergasted by camera-worthy scene after camera-worthy scene of potential greyscale goodness. When we arrived back home, I slowly got to work sifting through my stockpile of images and scoping out ideal candidates for conversion to black-and-white. There were so many. And these are them.

So if'n you have a couple of minutes/dos minuts/due minuti/dvije minute… take a gander at some of the output.

269: Festival Express

Top row (left to right): Beth Orton, Bahamas, Royal Wood. Middle row (left to right): Casey Laforet, Mark Sasso. Bottom row: Melissa Mulholland and Justin Rutledge.

This year's Winnipeg Folk Festival was only the second one in which I ponied up for the entire weekend pass (the other, 2009's all-star edition with Neko Case, Josh Ritter, Iron & Wine, Patrick Watson, etc.). I've attended 20 versions of the festival – Kerry notes that there's been more summers in our lives with time spent at the Winnipeg Folk Festival than without – and even if the dynamics have changed over time, it's always a good, good time. And it's always searing, searing hot. God must like the Winnipeg Folk Festival – not like the seedy, soggy Red River Ex, or the bedeviled Teddy Bears' Picnic.

I enjoyed catching up with a lot of our favourites like Justin Rutledge, Bahamas and Elliott Brood (who earned hardest-working-band title for soldiering on despite blowing the circuits twice). Reacquainting with big-shots who cut their teeth here, like Feist and Iron & Wine. Getting a taste for new-to-me stuff in Royal Wood, James Vincent McMorrow and The Head & The Heart. Finding out Beth Orton has recovered enough from motherhood to rediscover her performing chops.

But the place just makes us happy. And exhausted. After so many years it's developed into a kind of old comfy shoe sorta thing. And when it's finished, like last night when the sun finally let up and Bahamas just would not quit with the encores, it's sad. The next day is always a working Monday, but it's only 364 days until next time.

268: Here's The Deal

We spent the Canada Day long weekend at the lake. It was our first chance to get up to Kerry's parents' cottage this summer, on the west side of Lake Winnipeg.

Kerry spent entire summers of her childhood at this place. She swam in the water and played here as a kid, while I spent summer Saturdays at the beach with my family on the other side of the lake.

She wrote a poem about this not so long ago. It's beautiful. It makes me think there was invariably a moment when as a gangly little boy I stood on the beach scanning the horizon. On calm days you could squint and see the other side.

And on the other side, she stood on the steps of the gangly, gaunt pier at the end of her place's gravel road and squinted to see my side of the lake.

Now we sit together on a still and humid night in the verandah. Store-bought firecrackers are going off. She's playing solitaire and I watch through my camera.

267: Away

It's been ten days since we returned from our lengthiest vacation ever – four weeks for me, three months for Kerry – and what strikes me now is how average this weekend seemed. I'm churning out freelance work. We painted the bedroom. Planted the veggie beds. And tried my hardest to cling to the reality that 11 days ago we were tired and trundling the streets of Barcelona. That two weeks ago we were ascending and descending the cliffs of the Amalfi coastline. That three weeks (and more) ago we were twisting our tongues around the Croatian language, just competent enough to ask for bread and beer. And that 36 days ago, I popped out of a 12-hour series of flights in an entirely foreign airport, hoisted my bag off the conveyor belt and proceeded through the sliding doors where Kerry was hopping up and down, waiting for me.

The time away really worked. Even though it was our first large-scale vacation where we remained fairly connected to the outside world (a fact that both irked and saved us), the distance and the difference from our routine, in almost every facet of our days, was remarkable. Our formula of not packing our days (or most days), breaking the time into installments unique from one another (big city, small city, island-at-the-end-of-the-world, mid-sized city, coastal/rural hiking marathon, big city), was honed, making each section feel almost instantly weeks apart from the previous.

Barcelona, a bustle and blur, a jump on summer, toasty and sun-dappled. A world center with certainly enough pavement to pound to last more than the week we could offer the city. We walked everywhere, the journey just as anticipated as the destination, each day out. We found noise and colour, in busy squares, raucous May Day demonstrations, squealing parrots and (figuratively) cheese-filled fountains set to television and movie anthems. And we found quiet, in hilly forested parks, at galleries and on our tidy little beer-friendly home street.

Dubrovnik, with its dollhouse old town, like a living, breathing theatre set. It was here we crashed for three days and first dipped our toes into a country that admittedly knew little about beyond a pair of recommendations and a well-worn, hand-me-down guidebook. An easy transition, Dubrovnik is a decidedly kempt, visitor-friendly scene. We spent our time here in and around quaint, cobbled alleys, the lushly treed and bizarre just-offshore island of Lokrum and pacing many times up, and down, the 337 steps from the town to our apartment overlooking the Adriatic and the early May super-moon.

Far, far from the hectic urban scene of Barcelona – even the postcard-like Dubrovnik – we departed for the soothing centerpiece of our time away, the distant Croatian island of Vis. It was here for five days, during the thick of our trip, we disconnected entirely. The island still felt very much a genuine and unexplored place, particularly in the summery heat of the (decidedly) off-season. We developed a routine here – sleep, lounging, reading, jaunts to the grocery and bakery, gawkings off our ocean-front patio, belly-scratching the apartment owner's dog, and beer o'clock. Of all the places we visited, the sheer do-nothing-ness of our time on Vis may have it resonating for a long, long time.

Next back to the mainland to acquaint ourselves with the port city of Split, our last destination before leaving Croatia. A working and honest city, Split's core is a lab-rat maze where generations upon generations slowly claimed, and reclaimed, squatter's rights within the remnants of an ancient Roman emperor's retirement palace. We roamed single-file lanes and markets, dipped into the still-intact basement, and looked behind doors (including one in the old-town cathedral where Kerry surprised a nun doing her morning ironing).

Our finale, a one-week self-guided hiking tour of Italy's famed Amalfi coastline, began with a manic, mostly airborne, late-night taxi ride through the dark and rickety streets of Naples (the single, greatest taxi ride of my life). But it was hardly representative of our time in Italy, which was even more airborne – seemingly – as we snaked and laddered the cliffs, old mule tracks and stony staircases of Amalfi over a six-day sojourn through gravity-defying towns and hamlets situated in the nooks and crevasses of an almost impossible landscape – all the while peering down on endless dictionary definitions of Mediterranean blue. These days – along with their thousands upon thousands of stairs – culminated with the famous, well-trod trek on the Sentiero degli Dei into Positano, and celebratory seaside prosecco.

Bachelor Exercise No. 3

Bachelor exercise number three: documentation of a rarely-seen event – that of a modern bachelor wallowing in low, low, rock-bottom culinary standards. Peanuts & Corn Records' founder/producer/rapper mcenroe provides the soundtrack. Accompanied by a bowl of original shredded wheat bricks and brown sugar, a competent mix that provides the daily dose of both fibre and teeth-rotting sweetness.

So, milk carton is emptied. Fridge is bare. Bag is packed. And I. Am. Outtahere.

Addendum: add one more song to the list established in bachelor exercise number one.

Bachelor Exercise No. 2

In preparation for my trip overseas and anticipation of my reunion with Kerry, I underwent the process of bachelor-beard removal via three steps. It's not quite the 12-step opus of recovering alcoholics, but a man's return to civilization via grooming is no less important. Step One (above) is possibly the most important: Acceptance. Acceptance that not all men are created for beard growth – case in point the two months it took to even concoct this scraggly thing.

Step Two (above) is Denial. Chiefly, denial of beard failure as displayed through a final fling with one of facial-hairdom's most shunned and misunderstood creatures: the porn-star look.

Step Three (above) is Cowboy. This step needs no further explanation beyond the fact it is awesome.

266: Red Sky At Night

I almost missed this year's nocturnal owl survey. Anyone who's been around these parts knows it's one of my favourite rites of spring (as evident here, and here, and here, and here). This year the stars weren't aligning, as buddy Jason couldn't make it to town in time to squeeze into the early April window the survey results rely on. Too bad, since the astoundingly early spring would come with excellent road conditions – after our 2011 survey fell short due to heavy snowpack on the route we take.

But we learned on Friday that late-April results would still count so we made a go of it, building in an early burger run to Blondie's. The evening was incredible. Shoe Lake, a popular canoe launch in Nopiming Provincial Park where we typically stop and wait for sunset, was completely thawed. In our ten previous owl surveys the lake ranged from slushy to completely frozen, even in the warmest of springs.

And there was lots of activity. Our 20-mile route resulted in 18 owl recordings, among our best years on record. The results would have been more fruitful had the pitch-black forest not been inundated by thousands of calling spring peepers and wood frogs (especially because normal interference from geese, ducks and grouse didn't seem to be an issue). But no cause for complaint; even in years where numbers are low it's a treat to stand stark-still on an empty logging road in the dark and listen to the sweet nothing that envelopes me. Or the slap of a beaver's tail on water, which can darn near empty my bowels. Either way, it's cool.



And of course, we are not above spoiling the serenity of it all (photo by Jason).

Want to take part in the Manitoba Nocturnal Owl Survey? Head here. And stay out of the Nopiming – that's our turf.