Into the Witness Protection Program © by adrian

Well, not exactly. I mean after all, would I really be writing a public blog if I was in the witness protection program? Actually I ended up not quite in and not quite out (a not unfamiliar position for me).

What I actually went into was a mostly unknown plan in Canada that is quaintly named the Voluntary Disclosure Program. For some strange reason the many government tax ladies and gents I eventually ended up dealing with (they called themselves my handlers) just seemed to think it was thigh slappingly funny whenever talking to them I referred to the program they let me into as the witness protection program, so I'm sticking with that name. Believe me; making government tax officials laugh and slap their thighs is a lot of fun...

I've mentioned previously that I was a hermit. I more or less dropped out of society many years ago and have lived a Spartan life by choice ever since.

Here's how it all came about.

Around 1975 or so in my career, I worked as a personnel manager for a large chain of camera stores and was paid oodles of money (see my story In praise of Bill Gates). When I quit that job I just bummed around and took it easy for a year and didn't work at all. I vaguely remember something about smoking a lot of dope, but I could be wrong on that one. I guess if I could remember that part, it wouldn't be true at all...

The year after that, the government of Canada noticed I hadn't filed any tax return for the missing year and so they assessed me for taxes owed based on what I earned earlier. I didn't notice this though because next to answering phones and responding to doorbells, opening mail has never been high on my list of things I must do.

So, I found out about the assessment when it was too late to file an appeal. Even though they eventually did acknowledge that I was unemployed and had no income that year, they still insisted that the incorrect tax assessment had to be paid in full because I had missed the appeal deadline.

There were letters back and forth, threats and demands made, but nothing that made any sense to me so I ignored it all. Then they started randomly garnisheeing my bank account. Government garnishees stay in effect for ninety days, so even if you have no money in the bank when they hit it, any deposits made in the next ninety days after that get automatically sucked up by them too. This presents a rather difficult obstacle in meeting other financial obligations like mortgage and car payments.

I started making visits to their office which was on Front Street in Toronto. That didn't produce any more results than the mail did and they just insisted I had to pay even though everybody agreed I technically shouldn't owe any money. Appeal filing deadline rules were unshakable. So, at my last appointment with them I explained that I was leaving now. I told the rather shocked tax agent that I would happily hang around in the laneway downstairs for five minutes. If they wanted to send the guys with baseball bats down to talk to me that was fine, but after five minutes I would be gone and they would never find me again.

Just like that, just like in the movies! All balls and bravado, nothing frightened me when I was in my thirties. So I dropped out and became invisible. Hiding, as is said, in plain sight.

I ordered a phone in my dog's name and used that to start building an identity. I almost tripped up when the Bell person taking the phone order unexpectedly wanted to know my first name. I quickly thought "Furry" but stopped myself in time and chose "Harry" instead, (I also resisted the temptation to spell it Hairy). I became a new man (or puppy, as the case may be) and quickly disappeared from the tax records.

Now, for all you moralists out there who may think it's atrocious and unpatriotic not to pay the tax man (person?), try getting hit with a tax bill for a few thousand dollars you don't owe and then let me know how moral you feel about it.

I'd also like to clear up a potential misunderstanding. It is definitely illegal to file a false tax return, but there is nothing illegal in simply not filing a return. The tax people will get mad at you, but no laws have been broken; lie in a return you file though, and you're in trouble. I always filed and paid my business Retail Sales tax every month and even though I used my real name for that (not my dog's) nobody ever noticed that I didn't file anything else.

From that day more than thirty years ago till now I've kept all my receipts, T4 slips and miscellaneous tax information in what has now grown to be many, many large boxes. I always felt if they kicked my door in I would be able to point to the boxes and insist I had all my records available. Pick any day or year from the past thirty and in no time I will be able to produce a receipt of how much I earned or spent that day.

When it finally came time for me to apply for my old age pension I thought the jig was up. I just knew that as soon as my forms arrived on some official's desk they would reach for the red phone they all must have and let the guys with the baseball bats know that they had finally found me. Surely they have been driving around Toronto night and day looking for me for the past thirty or so years. This was finally the big chance they'd been waiting for to get their revenge.

Well, it didn't happen.

Instead, a few months later I got a lovely letter from the government thanking me for living such a long life and promising to send me five hundred dollars a month from then until I fell over dead. They even said that I was going to also receive a second cheque from the Canada Pension Plan. I had applied for CPP but seeing as I had contributed such a small sum in my documented working career I thought I would be lucky if I got anything more than $1.69 a month (I thought old Harry the dog was entitled to more than me). As it turned out though, once again they put me on the fast track to riches and hooked me into an additional monthly cheque.

I was curious as to how they arrived at the number they had for the CPP amount, so I went over to their office to inquire. I explained I didn't object, in fact I loved what they were going to send me, I just wanted to know how they got to that number. Was a scientific formula used or did someone simply throw darts at a board with numbers on it? The clerk took my information and went to one of their office machines. A moment or so after punching in my data a printout was discharged from the beast. She stared at it for a minute and then she came back and handed me a printout of all the money I had paid into the system, (not much, as it was). She leaned over the counter and whispered to me "If I were you I would just shut up and go back home, I have no idea how they decided to even give you a penny." So, I shut up and went back home.

I was rich, the money just started pouring in and all I had to do was stay alive. Then in 2007 the government decided that they would now allow income splitting to apply between spouses (one of which I am). However, seeing as I still hadn't filed any tax returns since 1976 my bride Linda thought it best if I just "shut up and went back home."

By 2008 the potential savings for Linda's taxes if we split our incomes was just too large to ignore, so I decided to turn myself in.

The Voluntary Disclosure Program is set up so that the only way in is to write a confession to the government listing your tax crimes, declaring why you did it, and get this... you also need to tell them what you think would be the appropriate penalty they should impose on you for your wrongdoing. If they like your submission they will let you in and if you're honest and disclose everything you did that was bad, they potentially might forgive you. If they don't like your confession, now that they know everything about you, I guess we get back to the guys with the baseball bats (I mean after all, they need to earn a living too).

Linda and everybody I knew insisted I shouldn't do it. When I looked up information on the Web every opinion available also insisted that if I did it without legal assistance, I was a fool and would loose everything I ever owned and spend the rest of my life behind bars. Of course, all those opinions came from lawyers. So, what the hell, with that much encouragement, I just couldn't resist writing up my confession and sending it in.

Now, it may come as a surprise to you my treasured readers, but I'm not very respectful when I get presented with idiotic things and this struck me as very idiotic indeed. So I wrote my confession and extensive list of crimes with the light touch of insanity I felt was befitting such silliness. How could I not?

About two months later I got my welcome aboard the Voluntary Disclosure Program admission letter.

My composition had been accepted. I had supplicated myself in a manner that was deemed worthy. My confession was adequate and I had passed! I now had my own ID number and was given temporary government immunity and the names of my handlers in the St. Catherines tax office to which all future communication was to be directed.

Seeing as I now had government immunity, I filed my 2008 return, the first in thirty years and we split Linda's income. The tax office promptly thanked me and sent me a large tax refund cheque. I convinced Linda that she should re-file an amended return for 2007, I would also file and we would again split our incomes. Sure enough, I got another thank you and a larger tax refund cheque this time. I had tapped into the mother lode. Life is good!

Eventually my handlers decided that just filing the past ten years was more than enough... oddly, they were starting to loose patience with the sarcastic new nutbar they had inherited.

I phoned the Ottawa tax office and ordered up fifteen years of tax forms prior to 2007. I felt filing the extra five years would be an extravagance worthy of my effort. While I was waiting their arrival I got all my old receipt boxes together. After taking them outdoors and cleaning the mouse droppings and spiders out of them I started sorting fifteen years of T4 slips and related stuff.

Originally I had been granted ninety days immunity from any prosecution. I thought that was not enough, so I wrote them explaining that I was an old addled man that needed more time, so they gave me an additional sixty days to complete my class assignment.

When everything arrived from Ottawa we tossed all the boxes in the car and drove to the Laurentians where I sat naked in Linda's cottage and had an extremely sacrilegious and fun time filling out my tax forms. In fact it went so smoothly, we both started to feel disappointed I wasn't doing them all the way back to 1975.

When I had them finally completed I put them all together and mailed them in a large priority post box to my St. Catherines handlers.

About a month later I got a terse official notice from the team leader of the enforcement branch of their office stating they found from my recent tax filings that I had not been bad enough to be punished. I quote from their letter:" therefore a penalty would not be appropriate in your situation" (I detected a note of disappointment) and they had decided to just send all my crap on to "the appropriate taxation centre for regular processing".

So, my stay in the witness protection program was terminated. Linda and I are still waiting for the letter that says I can finally throw away all those old receipts.

Ah, but it was all worth it. I have finally redeemed myself and am now an upstanding and up to date, I might add, member of society.

Getting into the swing of things © by adrian

Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice

I swear this is how it happened. I still insist I was totally innocent...

Up till the mid eighty's I lived a quiet monkish life in my studio without much regard for the outside world. During that time there were about a half dozen or so lovers who would occasionally drop by. Some white, but mostly black women. Long time holdouts from the black period of my life, (see my story Accidentally black) who still liked to drop in for what my ego referred to as tune-ups. There were also new ladies along the way who would become interested in me and start dropping by. Just enough sex so that I was always able to keep my nose in other peoples business, as it were. Overall though, nothing too complicated.

As usual, it all started with a simple photo session. When she came in I had no idea this was the beginning of a new phase in my life. I thought she was good looking, but she didn't arouse me much at all. She had a delightful girl next door charm and that was about all I felt about her during the photo session. Until then I had been mostly drawn to dark, mysterious and exotic women. Yet somehow, that casual photo session managed to turn into twelve years of almost constant sexual arousal.

Every person I've ever dealt with had a story to tell me, some explanation or reason for why they ended up in my studio instead of the Sears portrait studios. Hers was a little different but not unique. She was leaving her husband and the fellow she was leaving him for was getting nervous. She wanted some sexy pictures to help remind the new fellow of her charms.

After the session I gave her my standard impersonal hug and told her I was sure we had made some great shots in the sitting.

I always phoned my clients the day after a sitting. This call served more or less as an "I still respect them in the morning" sort of call in case by the next day they felt they may have gone a little too far during the shoot. As a bonus, of course, this also kept the client firmly connected to the excitement of the sitting.

So, as was my fashion, I called her the next day to let her know how delighted I was with the way her session had gone. This was just a brief call, but I knew immediately that there was something a little different happening here. A nervous tremor in her voice suggested some future promise. Some excitement I hadn't noticed or paid any attention to the night before.

I should mention that I never made a sexual pass at anybody who interested me until the business end of our transaction was completely finished. Not necessarily out of any moral principles, simply that I find it difficult to extract money from someone I'm carnally involved with (unless we're role playing some game that involves my partner leaving money on the dresser to pay me for my services). My landlord, to whom I needed to pay my rent every month, totally endorsed this very practical business approach.

Her photos were ready a few weeks after the shoot and she arranged to come in and pick them up. I thought when she came by I would make my move and ask if she had any interest in getting together. Disappointingly, I had to scuttle my plan when she looked through the shots and decided to order a couple of 16 x 20 enlargements from the sitting. She gave me a deposit for this new order and went on her way.

I had my own colour lab so I immediately went down to the darkroom and started to print them. I was becoming quite interested in the possibility of getting some more of her and the sooner I could get our financial dealings out of the way I would be able to find out if she had considered or would consider exploring any future contact with me.

When she came to pick them up the following week I suggested that if she needed a temporary refuge from the demands the current changes in her life were making, she was more than welcome to call me and we could have a quiet dinner together if she wanted. As it turned out, she wanted! A few weeks later she came over for dinner and ignited the beginning of a long, new chapter in my life.

For the next few months or so, whenever she found the time she would call me and drop over to the studio if I was available. We would spend a few hours exploring each others bodies and then she would go back to work or disappear into the night. During this time she was still looking for a place to move to with her young daughter so they could start living on their own and she could make the final break from her husband. I had seen some photos of him and he was a big burly bear of a guy who drove a Harley Davidson bike. She was also still seeing the boyfriend who was now becoming less important to her.

As luck would have it, the apartment above my studio became available to rent. At the time we both thought it would be great fun to have a fuck buddy nearby and would be kind of neat to have an available lover living upstairs or in her case downstairs, so she decided to move into the apartment.

During this time my lifelong friend Bill did his best to convince me that there must be an easier way to commit suicide than the path I seemed to have chosen. He was sure the biker dude who was twice my size would inevitably try to kill me. Rational thinking has rarely gotten in the way of mankind's sexual interests, so naturally I helped her move.

After moving in she continued to see her husband. They hadn't become enemies, they just didn't want to live together anymore. He never presented any difficulty to our relationship and in fact turned out to be a gentle prince of a guy who I got to know a bit over the next dozen years.

During this time her boyfriend set up a threesome for her with another girl and himself. This was more about his fantasy than anything else and although it didn't excite her much, it did pique her interest. So we started talking about trying out things she and I could do together that would interest her more.

After months of talk and debate about what we wanted and might like to try, as well as exploring how we felt about the concept of jealousy, we joined "Club Eros" which was the only swingers club in town at the time.

As far as jealousy is concerned, that part for me was easy. I simply have never felt jealous about any companion I've been with. I always enjoy that the woman I am with is coveted by other men. I also never compare myself to others; I know there will always be many smarter or richer men with bigger dicks or more adept tongues than mine, so I just don't care. On the other hand, it has always proved to be much more of a challenge for my companions... I dealt on a daily basis with gorgeous women that were scampering around my studio with their clothes off, so the women that sign on for a trip with me have to be pretty sure of themselves to be comfortable with that.

Anyway, the club ran weekly theme party dances at a private bar that many people would frequent. It's not quite as archaic as the old "key clubs" from the seventies, but swinging is certainly a unique and alternative approach to sexual activity. At the bar people mostly swim around each other (just like singles bars I would imagine) and zero in on couples that appeal to them for whatever reason. If interest proves mutual then arrangements are made to meet somewhere "off premises" for those that are in a hurry or to get together at another time for the more patient in the crowd.

I have this theory that your partner can actually be thought of as additional bait in the swinging culture. If that's true, then it's no wonder that I was originally an extremely useless piece of bait. I can't dance, am totally tone deaf, couldn't find a beat if my life depended on it. I hardly drink at all, and hadn't been in a bar in about thirty years. So I sat there rather somberly trying without success to look cool and casual. There's little doubt that I was not exactly viewed from across the room as the most comfortable choice to get together with. My features are fairly angular and I have deep set dark eyes, so even at the best of times when I'm my playful child self, I look pretty severe. I eventually learned from people I got to know that many were surprised I didn't have a chainsaw resting on my lap. The overall consensus was that I just didn't look very inviting. So after a few unsuccessful visits we tried ads in adult newspapers instead.

When you run an ad with unusual requests, this is what you can expect to get in the way of replies... About one third will be thigh slapping funny and utterly impossible to consider, one third can be put in a pile that you will call if nothing else works out and a third can be considered possible. We started with about sixty replies, so initially we had about twenty potential victims, ah, I mean couples, to meet with and sniff out whether we wanted to get together on a more intimate level.

We started filtering what we could by phone and had a few casual meetings at coffee shops and bars, but nothing really clicked for us. We were getting pretty fed up with it all when we finally met with a couple who seemed to be exactly what we had set out to find in the first place. They were novice swingers and because we were too, nobody felt intimidated. We all decided this would be the ideal way to start off and satisfy our curiosity. We set a date for dinner at their place a few weeks down the road.

The whole idea was very exciting for us and thinking and talking about it for the next few weeks proved very horny indeed.

This could be where I interject some anecdote about how the evening went awry, but it didn't go wrong at all. The whole evening turned out to be a spectacular success. We got together and sat around on the floor in the living room chatting about everything and nothing. This was late nineteen eighty but it was just like being in the sixty's or seventy's again, the only thing missing (fortunately) was disco music and the fondue pot. We then had a comfortable dinner and talked about everybody's expectations and needs. After dinner we returned to the living room floor and continued with a lot of verbal foreplay.

I don't know which one of us proposed the obvious, but I think it was probably me. I'm generally the first one in any crowd to remind everybody why they got together and in this case I suggested that this would be a really good time for everybody to get naked and start exploring the possibilities. Well we did, and everything was far better than we had hoped it could be. The experience was very exciting, sensual and exploratory. It would not be misleading to call the whole evening intensely exotic.

I found it extremely horny to watch my companion blow our new found friend and she too was turned on watching me explore his partner. There were some confused amateur moments when nobody knew what to do... it was sort of like being in a candy store that you owned. It seemed the choices were unlimited and sometimes it was very difficult to decide what to do (and to whom) next. Although we were lost in the excitement of these new people, we also remained very aware of our own partner's needs. We both had agreed before we got there that we would not abandon each other, no matter how much fun we were having with the others.

Fatigue eventually got the best of all of us and by about four in the morning we decided we were satiated and couldn't take (or give) anymore. When we went home that night we talked about how we were so used up that we would probably need a month to recover before we could be able to enjoy each other again.

Well, were we ever wrong about that! It turned out that evening of exploration made us so horny that we couldn't stop talking about it or keep our hands off each other over the following months. Over the next year or so we continued to have dates with that first couple. In the next dozen years we made many new intimate longtime friends as we became converts and proponents of the swinging lifestyle. We eventually even held seminars at some Club Eros and other swinger conventions.

Last I heard she and her new partner were still very involved in swinging and although I now live monogamously I still advocate for the lifestyle. I don't miss it, but still think it is a great alternative for those who have strong relationships and are willing to be more adventurous in expanding their circle of friends in such an intimate way.

There's litter everywhere © by adrian

The squirrel whisperer Episode #4

I assumed when I started writing this blog that I would regale my hoped for audience with many titillating stories of travels behind the spotlights and in the darkrooms of the world. I foresaw lust and sexuality dripping from as many pages as possible. A few readers who have written me with comments have suggested they also looked forward to that very same thing.

Alas, this photographer and current writer-poser has become stuck in the rodent trap, as it were. What I am serving up for now is another visit with Rusty and her six baby squirrels from my previous story A lot of litter The squirrel whisperer Episode #3. This will be more along the lines of what used to be called a photo essay, with a lot of pictures and not much, as the squirrels would say, squawking.

Like juveniles and adolescents everywhere, the squirrels already seem very independent and quite full of themselves. At the same time they have developed an extremely affectionate and apparently loving relationship with each other. Whenever they meet up with another of their siblings they poke noses and hug as they pass each other on their travels. It's not uncommon to look out and see one with their arm around another.

They occasionally tumble and wrestle briefly together and then go on their own way.

Sometimes brushing noses seems so boring and commonplace so the only sensible thing to do is just grab the other guy and plant a big sloppy kiss on them.

Once in awhile they follow another to see what treasure they might find together, but mostly they move about on their own now.

As we watch the squirrels lay about in a pack on their house porch it's apparent they have perfected the art of hanging about and doing nothing. Their porch sometimes looks like someone from the prop department of Walt Disney's studio has come by and sprinkled a bag of miniature squirrels all over it. More like caricatures of squirrels rather than the ones we're used to seeing scurrying about everywhere.

The laying out is always punctuated with one of the crowd starting to groom another.

Judging by the look on mom's face, she seems to be a big fan of having her ears chewed. I have occasionally suggested that her and I get behind the tree and give it a go, but so far she has declined. When I remind her I used to scratch her dad's ears and he loved it, (see my story The squirrel whisperer, Episode one: Lurch) she insists that as far as she's concerned that would be carrying this cross species thing way too far. I think she's just playing hard to get, so I will persist.

Ear chewing and cleaning is certainly a favorite, but occasionally one will roll over on his back so the groomer can give his feet a good going over.

Leaping to and from the bush is also great fun and they never miss an opportunity to experience the thrill of flying through the air.

The raccoon I mentioned in my previous story did manage a mini raid on the house one night but she must have been driven off quickly by the activity of so many bodies and she didn't get to inflict too much damage. The children were able to immediately turn the pulled out bedding into a new toy.

Rusty spent all the next day moving everybody out to somewhere else, sometimes carrying the children on her back.

The baby that I mentioned in episode three who I thought might want to eventually stay living in the house refused to leave, really pissing mom off. She tried dragging, pushing and pulling but the baby has a mind of his own and refused to go with the rest of them. He ended up sleeping over in the damaged house by himself that night.

The next morning we watched as the little one who wouldn't leave made up with mom when she came by for a visit and all was forgiven.

Rusty then moved all the others back to the house. They spent the rest of the day tidying up the remaining mess (overturned lamps and end tables I would guess) and have been living together in the house ever since.

The children are now quite comfortable coming to our porch to get a drink of water from the dish we leave out for them.

Occasionally they do stop to ask if this is also the peanut house, and if so, would it be too much trouble for us to get them one.

Anyway, that's about all I can tell you for now, but the children did want to send out a big high five from the rodent clan to all you two legs.

A lot of litter © by adrian

The squirrel whisperer Episode #3

I've never heard the Mermaids sing, but I have talked to the baby squirrels.

Rusty has finally begun to display her litter to us. She is now allowing her infants out of the drey (a squirrel house) so they can start hesitantly exploring life on their own.

Rusty, you should understand, comes from the finest rodent stock in our valley, so we are very excited to see her reproduce. She is the progeny of Lurch (see my story; The squirrel whisperer © by adrian Episode one: Lurch) and Missy who was the squirrel that lived with Lurch and helped care for him after his accident with the big wheels.

Squirrels have very pragmatic names in general and because of her colour, she insisted on being called "Rusty". I remember one of our visiting squirrels who was the most adorable rodent we had ever seen. His name was "Tiny Perfect", but after he had an accident and most of his tail was ripped off he quickly explained to us that he had decided to change his name to "Almost Perfect".

Most two legs don't realize that squirrels lead very tragic lives. Not only must they remember not to play in the street with the big wheels, but they are constantly pursued by a myriad of predators. As well as dealing with the children who love to chase them, they need to stay alert for dogs, cats, raccoons and large birds that all seem to be constantly on the lookout for inattentive squirrels. They are also not averse to having some fairly serious squabbles among themselves.

We knew she was pregnant at the beginning of the year when she started hanging out for hours on her porch. At the time she seemed very reflective and rarely left the drey. She always had a look that seemed to suggest she didn't quite understand how this had happened to her. A sure sign to a squirrel whisperer that there is definitely something in the wind.

She is living in our backyard in the same house she grew up in a few short years ago. She was just an infant and now she has become the grande dame of the valley.

During the past few months we would occasionally see her stagger out the door onto her porch where she would then spend the next twenty minutes trying to clean the spittle from her belly and now huge teats. As soon as she was finished, she would lie down exhausted and doze off to sleep.

Until just the other day we had seen no other signs of life. And now the infants are everywhere.

A tiny face and then a small body emerged hesitantly from the opening one day. A bird chirped and the tiny ball of fur threw itself back inside immediately. A few minutes later the face slowly started to push out onto the porch again but a gust of wind startled her and she was back inside in a flash. This was repeated over and over... slowly emerging and then running back inside in an instant. She was determined to get out and look around and apparently filled with wonder, but at the same time everything she saw or heard terrified her. Every time she emerged a bird would fly overhead or a car could be heard on the street below and she would scramble back inside. Now of course, she would be armed with scary stories about the outside world she could share with the others in the house.

Soon another face and tiny body joined the first on the porch. Immediately a third stepped forth and they began to frolic with each other, then a gust of wind resulted in a flurry of tails disappearing into the house. Hours later we looked up and saw another we had not known was there. Rusty had been hiding four babies from us, and today was the day for them to start their squirrel journey.

The tree house I built many years ago is wide, deep and very long, so we knew it could easily accommodate such a crowd, but it still amazed us that Rusty had been inside nursing four babies for almost ten weeks before we knew positively how many were in there. During that first day they would venture as far as the porch and only for the briefest bit of time. Anytime there were more than two on the porch, they would play wrestle with each other, but mostly the top order of the day was to pull and play with the others tails. If mom showed up she was groomed constantly by the infants. She would lie down on the porch and one would lick her ears as another sat on her back and a third would pull at her foot.

Suddenly Linda and I realized we were now watching the antics of five babies, another had added himself to the pack without us noticing.

It wasn't too long before we realized that the five had become six and it was now impossible to keep track of them or the constant flurry of motion... At times the tree was a beehive of activity with baby rodents constantly running everywhere in different directions. Rusty had been nursing a total of six babies during the past ten weeks! She produced one grey, three golden greys, and two black. Surprisingly, it's not unusual for black or grey squirrels to have black and grey in the same litter.

I've grown into the role of Jimmy Stewart in the movie Rear Window. I sit at our bedroom window with my camera and binoculars at the ready, minutely examining every move the infant rodents make, squealing to Linda to come quick and look at the cute things they are doing. This is how I spend my dotage now. Linda spends her time down the hall in her office on the internet. I hope she's looking for some place where we can rent an intravenous feeding setup for me so I won't need to leave the window area to eat.

There are long periods with no activity at all, and then all of a sudden they come out of the house and start running everywhere on the tree again. There is almost non stop activity for about a half hour or so and then they pile back inside for nap time. All of this is mixed with periodic bottlenecks at the door as they flee to safety if anything startles them. On a rainy day like today Rusty comes down for her handout but we don't see the babies at all. We assume mom keeps them inside and explains to them that days like these are craft days.

As far as predators go, raccoons are the worst. Since building the house it has been a constant struggle to outsmart them and at the same time let the squirrels have easy access to the tree. If a raccoon can get up the tree it will pull out all the stuffing (think pillows) that is in the house and kill the babies if it can get to them. Adult squirrels can easily get away, but of course the babies can't.

The latest invention that has successfully deterred the raccoons has been surrounding the tree trunk in those slippery flat plastic sheets that kids use for sleighs. The raccoons haven't been able to get past the plastic apron yet, but sooner or later they may, so our only hope is that we can hold them off until the babies can fend for themselves.

Grown squirrels and even the juveniles can easily leap to the hedge or back to the tree, but the infants have to be taught to do that. They haven't gotten to the ground yet, but they are practicing their leaping, something they will need to master before they can get off or back onto the tree. You have no idea how the neighbours carry on when they see me throwing myself off the tree to the bushes below yelling all the while, "follow me, follow me!"

Squirrels are just a nuisance to many people, but I find them full of excitement and curiosity. If you get to know a bit about them you can easily see they also often display a great deal of empathy to each other, (as long as it isn't feeding time). I've certainly had a lot to do with squirrels in my day, but I've rarely seen anything as fascinating as watching this litter develop in such an accelerated time frame. Over the years we've had other juveniles grow up in the house. Rusty, as mentioned, grew up there, but this is the first litter that was actually born there. All the others were brought from some secret place and moved in once they were large enough to travel on their own.

In another week or two they will start to go their separate ways and set up their own living quarters somewhere else. Some will make our back yard a stop along the way in their daily travels and we will see them every now and then. Sadly a few may not even make it past the juvenile stage, but they are here now and will be in this story forever. Rusty will probably move on soon too and maybe she will come back to live here next winter. Inevitably one of the litter will stay on to live in the house, usually the philosopher of the bunch chooses to stay. The porch lends itself to lying out and contemplating the world and being able to watch it go by from a safe distance.

After Rusty and her siblings grew up and went their separate ways, Rusty's brother Smudge decided to stay on and he lived in the house for about six months after the others left. We see him every once in awhile now, but don't know where he lives anymore. Occasionally we see him coming across the wires from the big Condo in the trees further down the valley, but we're not sure if he has an apartment there or not. Generally squirrels live communal lives in the winter; there is something fundamentally practical about a lot of warm bodies snuggled on top of each other in the cold. We did see Smudge up in Rusty's house about the same time we realized Rusty was pregnant, and we assumed he had just dropped by to pay his respects to his sister.

Anyway, I have my money on the greyest one of the group staying on, so far he seems to be the most reflective of the bunch. We often notice him just sitting there away from the others, daydreaming. It's still a bit early to tell yet, we don't know their names, but I suppose when they come down to formally introduce themselves the one who might be named Socrates will tell us he's decided to stay on for awhile.

Thank you, Leonard Cohen © by adrian

Linda and I started to watch an edited version of "Leonard Cohen Live in London" on television the other night.

Leonard probably wasn't even half way through his first song before we both realized that if he ever showed up at our front door, there would be an enormous skirmish in the hallway as we jostled each other to see who would get to him first.

This man has dramatically and single handedly raised the bar for those who would never have previously considered being intimate with an old guy.

As soon as we started watching the show it was obvious that he owned the crowd. Lord, I can barely imagine how many women later that night in bed must have accidently screamed out "Give it to me, Lenny!" For that matter, I'm sure even the occasional man (much to his own surprise) let bellow the same refrain.

I can picture younger guys rushing to make appointments at the dermatologist to have extra wrinkles injected into their face lines so they will have a chance to be able to compete with us old wrinkled up guys. As they stand waiting in long lineups going around the block they can work on trying to perfect his elegant stoop. His studied caressing of a microphone or anything else he touches.

I'm a mere sixty nine, (see my story; I'm a 69er © by adrian) and old Leonard has set a new benchmark for us all... He's five years older than me, so at least as far as age is concerned, I know I'm good now until I'm at least seventy four.

I've certainly got the wrinkles. I think if I scream out "Give it to me, Lenny!" often and loud enough, I may even be able to get a tiny bit of the raspy voice the man continues to delight us with.

Anyways, I must rush off and get to my vocal lessons. Oh, and by the way "Give it to me, Lenny!"

A little boxed in © by adrian

The re-construction of our house has finally been completed since the disastrous flood we had six months ago. (see my story; From the dumper to the dumpster © Part 1 of 2 and From the dumper to the dumpster © Part 2)

All the items that had been stored in the cube in our driveway were recently brought back into the house. The last construction worker left and we have been unpacking and sorting ever since.

If I ever find the box my computer is in I will get back to some writing. Come to think of it, have you seen which box the desk is in yet?

I will be back as soon as possible.

In praise of Bill Gates © by adrian

Back in the late seventies I was the operations and personnel manager of a large chain of camera stores. No, really I was.

Dun and Bradstreet, among others, would often hold seminars and training sessions for personnel managers that usually cost three to four hundred dollars a pop and I just loved going to them. Other attendees would generally be personnel managers that looked after a staff of three to a half dozen employees. In those days with my long hair, goatee (don't forget the earrings) and wearing a suit I was certainly an incongruous sight at any Dun and Bradstreet function. The other much neater and shorter haired clean shaven suits (male or female) that were in attendance would always slide away from me as I sat down with them in any of their groups. Eventually, whoever was the bravest, had lost the bet, got the shortest straw or whatever would ask why I had come to a function like this, as I didn't quite look like I was in personnel. I always assumed that as far as they were concerned, I didn't quite look like I was even employable.

What, you may ask, has this got to do with Bill Gates? Well,

you just keep watching and I promise you I will manage to slip him into this fluffy little story before I'm finished with it. In fact, you stick with it and I promise I will even slip in a cute little squirrel picture.

I would explain that I ran forty-five stores and managed a staff of over one hundred and twenty people and five supervisors to operate them. I was responsible for hiring all the store staff and then would personally run a five day training class to get them up to speed. I would oversee all the staff operations, salaries, appraisals and eventually termination if that was necessary. We used to call it firing in the good old days, somehow that still sounds more humane to me than termination. Termination always suggests someone strapped to a gurney waiting for an injection whereas firing is mostly just a case of "I'm sorry, but this is not working out, give me your keys to the store, get your belongings, and get out." I appreciate that to the person being fired it can pretty well feel just like the gurney experience, but that's what I worked at for a period of my life.

These were all large walk in stores that had same day photo finishing. They were double staffed and open twelve hours a day, so there was quite a lot involved in the administration of all this. My lifelong friend Bill ran the photo-finishing lab, and I ran the stores. We both made an obscene amount of money for the times, but we also earned every penny of it. Whenever I've worked for other people I always made oodles of money (far more than I ever came close to when working for myself) but there was always something missing, let me think for a moment... Oh yes, I remember now, it was my soul that was missing! That business about owing your soul to the company store fits doubly when you are the upper management of the company store.

Part of my administrative duties was being keeper of the keys. With one hundred and twenty people, the staff often rotated around to various locations as they traded shifts and sometimes stores. On occasion we would also get a call at head office from a customer wondering why a particular store wasn't open and then we would discover that some disgruntled staff member had quit and forgot to mention it to us. I would locate an available employee and dispatch them to the store and then usually go there to meet them. I would open up the store and then be the counter clerk until the replacement arrived or just stay and work the shift if no one else was available.

One of the keys to making this all work successfully was in fact, the keys. We used a numbered security key system in the stores that had locks with an interchangeable key core made by the Best Lock Company. The keys could not be copied by regular locksmiths and could only be duplicated by the Best Lock Company using special security codes. I could change the lock in a store in moments by simply inserting a special key, pulling out the core and then slipping a new core with a different security key code number into the lock cylinder. Whoever then had legitimate right to be in the store would be issued keys with the new code number.

Somewhere along the line a maintenance company we hired lost a complete set of keys and so every lock in all the stores needed to be replaced with new cores and key codes. The replaced cores and remaining keys came back to head office and all their corresponding key codes were cancelled. About thirty years ago the photo-finishing company Bill and I worked for went out of business and I inherited the discarded keys and cores and have used them in my various studios ever since.

So, enough with the background already, I will now finally get to the point of this little meander...

A few stories back I wrote about the cottage my bride and her sister bought from their parents (Little Adri’s big adventure © by adrian) and that I had inherited the maintenance of said cottage. During the forty years their parents owned it everybody in the local area as well as friends and many people no longer remembered had ended up with keys to the cottage. It also seemed that anybody that had ever gotten a key had made a copy and given it to somebody else. So I decided that the easiest way to regain control of the "key situation" was to switch the locks at the cottage to the Best Lock Company system, get a bunch of extra keys made and distribute them as needed. This way we would always know who had a key and we would also be the only people able to have copies made.

I soon discovered there was just one tiny flaw to my plan. The Best lock Company was no longer in business (lord, you just look away for thirty or so years and the moment you look back, everything is different). So I started that web searching thing on my computer that many of us seem to spend a lot of time doing these days. I found out that what was left of that company had been acquired by the Stanley Lock and Tool Company many years ago.

I now needed to find out if the new company (Stanley Tools) had records of the secret key codes for cores that had been cancelled and completely removed from service thirty five years ago, for a company that was no longer in business, from a company that was no longer in business. Oh yah, they would also need to be able to verify or have on record somewhere that I had the authority to get the codes and new keys cut.

I couldn't imagine a more bizarre and potentially ridiculous communication. So I couldn't wait to give it a try.

I phoned them up and was switched to the security section and within a minute or so of answering a few questions only I would know the answers to, the helpful lady I was talking to had everything I needed up on her computer screen.

If you're still awake, this is where I get to the Bill Gates part. It seems lots of people can't wait to denigrate Bill Gates, are envious of his success and angry at how pushy Microsoft is. As far as I'm concerned if it wasn't for Bill Gates' driving ambition we could potentially still be using punch cards in big mainframes instead of everybody with computers on their desks and laps.

Imagine that within thirty seconds or so a stranger who likely wasn't even born when both those companies closed down is able to punch up codes and information about me and others she named that could have access to this information. Think of how long this could have taken if she needed to search various scraps of paper to find this. Would anyone have bothered to keep slips of paper recording codes from a key system no longer in use, for a company no longer in business? Somewhere along the line thanks to Bill Gates and of course many others the codes were entered into a computer and were still sitting there available for use, casually waiting to be called upon. A couple of keystrokes later and I had an order for a few hundred dollars worth of new keys paid for and I could pick them up in three days or have them shipped out if I wanted.

Now old Bill Gates didn't personally have a hand in my saga, and I realize he's not likely to invite me to his house for dinner and dancing, but if he ever gets down on his luck and needs a vote of confidence, he's sure got mine!

By the way, remember that cute little squirrel picture I promised to slip in this story? Well, what I really meant to say was that I would slip in a picture of cute little squirrels.