The Three Towers of Evil

 

The Provocations

Call centres can be very interesting places to observe human interactions. When I have more time for my writing, I will reach back and recount some more stories.

One call centre I worked in featured a trio of middle-aged women known as The Three Towers of Evil. They were good at their jobs, but they bullied other people, gossiped endlessly, and were quite openly bigoted. I got on their bad side, which wasn't a challenge.

First off, they objected to my religious beliefs. Sabbatarian Christians, Muslims, and Hindus were all the same to them. That attitude is so ignorant and wrong on so many levels. No sense even trying to educate people with that mindset.

The second thing I did was get recognized as the top-ranked representative on the same team as the three of them. Ranked second in the call centre. It wasn't such a big deal for me, but it seemed to really rile them up for some reason.

The last thing I did to provoke them was being sociable toward Mohammed when he joined our team. My suggestion that we could include the half dozen Muslims in the call centre in the company barbecue was kind of the last straw. I said that we could get hot dogs prepared according to Islamic law (available at the store across the parking lot), put some foil on a section of the grill, and use a separate fork so that there would be no concerns about cross-contamination. The increased cost would have been very minimal. Besides, I don't eat pork myself, and it would have been nice to eat more than empty buns at the next call centre barbecue.

After that, I became a target for barbs and insults.

The Slights

I wasn't the only victim on the team. I don't have too many problems with insults and all, and I'm not easily intimidated. One of their targets was Eileen. She was the sweet little grandmother working on our team. She wouldn't insult a fly. One of the nicest people you could ever meet. I didn't much like how she was being disrespectfully treated. On the other hand, she did provide me with the best accomplice for the conclusion of this whole thing.

Their behaviour toward me was bad enough that I could have gone to management and made a complaint. I just find that it doesn't really solve the problem. It might drive it underground but you might have to watch your back in the parking lot.

They went so far as to suggest I was a potential terrorist. The groups I associate with have historically been conscientious objectors/pacifists since the American Civil War. I'm not sure whether I subscribe to that, but it illustrates the ridiculousness of the point.

The last straw for me involved them making sure virtually everyone knew that they felt I was too stupid to get the kind of ranking I had. Excuse me, but I get my good stats by being honest and genuinely caring whether I do a good job or not. Intelligence isn't necessarily the most important factor, but I don't think I lack in that department. I found out later that at least one of them had figured out a way to avoid work and cheat the stats sheet at the same time.

We'll see how stupid I am.

Touche Evil Trio

I had a very important non-work-related meeting in the evening after work. The call centre where I worked had a very casual dress code, and I wasn't going to have time to change. So I went to work with dress slacks, shirt, tie, and sweater vest. I looked like I was dressed up for something really important.

At work, I went straight to our sweet team grandmother and asked her to start a little rumour for me. She spread it with great enthusiasm. I worked quietly, pretending to be above it all. It spread like wildfire.

The rumour stated that the department I was working in was going to be closed soon (a well-known fact) and would be replaced by a small team to take care of the remaining files and issues called the Archive Team (total fiction). Of course, management had decided to bypass the usual hiring process and was going to name me as the new supervisor for the new department. Why else would I be at work all dressed up?

Eileen told everyone what a wonderful opportunity that would be for such a deserving person. She sold the story well.

The ringleader of The Three Towers of Evil all but went ballistic. "How dare they offer a position like this without notifying everyone through the proper channels?" If someone hadn't ratted us out, it would have gone to management as an official complaint. Management did find out about it later, though, and laughed their collective heads off.

The three of them didn't bother Eileen and me after that. Not smart enough, eh?

Homesteading -The Detritus of Another Man's Dreams

 

They arrived like we had, out of nowhere, with a moving truck full of stuff. I hate moving. Looking at my personal wealth piled in the back of a U-Haul reminds me too much of a garbage truck. I suspect they started out by pitching a big family tent and tarping over the rest of their belongings to keep the weather from destroying it all.

The first picture is of the only “building” they succeeded in erecting. Looks like a big two-story doghouse. The second floor had a mattress. Best guess is that their young children slept there, and the dog slept on the ground floor. With the abundance of wildlife in these parts, I can see the sense in that. Beside that, the structure looks like a row of rabbit cages. I don’t know what other kind of domestic animal could be kept like that. I don’t understand this. Meat rabbits are not a great source of food, and in this country, it isn’t economical to raise Angora rabbits for their “wool” except as a small-scale hobby.

Next to all that sits a stack of six fully framed windows (not pictured). The frames are rotting off of two of them, but the other four are protected enough from the weather to be in excellent condition. I’m tempted to try to contact the owner to see if she’ll allow me to salvage them. Not sure I need them at this point, and also not sure I want to bring up bad memories for the family.

The second picture shows just a frame covered with tarps. Judging by the accompanying junk, it was used for washing and the bathroom. Like we did at the beginning, they must have buried their waste. I’m not sure what they were planning to do long-term. There were no signs of digging latrines. We were better equipped. We have a composting toilet system that just needed a building to house it.

The third picture is of a collapsed lean-to. This is where the adults stayed. Rotten mattresses and half-destroyed cupboards. I have no clue as to how long they lasted before they couldn’t handle it anymore. This structure was completely inadequate. There is no way anyone could have wintered in that.

The last picture shows a small chicken house and pen. This is something we hope to do, but haven’t gotten to yet. I suspect this didn’t go well at all. We kept chickens in Ontario before moving here. The bush here is full of raccoons, skunks, and coyotes. I don’t think a flock would have lasted long in there. That’s the main reason we haven’t made an effort to keep chickens here ourselves yet. They need predator-proof housing.

So, Where Did They Go Wrong?

Walking around this abandoned camp, I'm struck by the lack of work toward a permanent dwelling. The only sign of work in that direction is that stack of windows. They would have been nice once they were installed in a house. No disrespect to the family who tried to make a go of it here. I'm painfully aware of all the work they did. Young children to take care of, small animals to feed, brush to clear, and a million little everyday chores that have to be done, they weren't lazy.

I dare say they had to be overworked. It isn't just the work on the property, but one of them had to be working a full-time job somewhere else. Work all day and then come back home to work some more. My guess is that the husband had that on his plate. Someone had to care for the children. Her job could not have been easy either. Doing laundry by hand is no fun, and if they didn't do that, they dragged the clothes all the way to Sackville, where they used the laundromat. Without electricity and plumbing (or a nearby source of water), daily chores are a big mountain to climb. I'm sure they both went to bed each evening exhausted and frustrated.

I'm sure they had a reasonable plan in the beginning. It's easy to overestimate what you can get done in a day of homesteading. Jobs here aren't plentiful, and they don't pay all that well. Standing, looking at what is left of their dreams, I can feel the financial pressures building. I can imagine their plans falling behind schedule. That kind of pressure is hard on a marriage. I'm told she left with the kids, and they got divorced. I find the pictures alone depressing. Standing in the middle of their junk is a sombre experience.

Last Thoughts

My intentions in writing this are not to discourage or disparage anyone planning to or trying to homestead. I understand the dream. Without adequate planning or resources, it can go horribly wrong. Even with planning and money, bad things can happen. You have to be prepared for emergencies and, worse, possible interference from well-meaning individuals. It isn't an easy path. Success, I'm sure, is immensely satisfying. We're just not there yet.

My last word is do your homework. Here is a short list of resources to get started. I have no connection with these sites. Don't stop with these. The Internet is a great place for research. I'd encourage you to read everything you can find on the subject. If you don't have time for that, you probably don't have time to homestead either.

http://www.countrysidemag.com/93-1/planning_your_homestead/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homesteading

http://www.homestead.org/

Late Additional Coincidence

At the beginning of the year, I finally landed a local job as a labourer at McDonald's. Not my dream job, but it will hopefully allow me to get my own woodworking business off the ground. When my co-workers heard about which neck of the woods my family lived in, they introduced me to Neil, who works there as well. Turns out he and his ex-wife built the camp in this article. I don't think my guesses are far off the mark. He will joke about living conditions back in there, but he doesn't really want to talk about the details of his own experience. He doesn't communicate with his ex-wife anymore, so I'm not closer to getting those discounted windows.

Memories of an Old Cabinetmaker

 

Dave and Steve

Those were their Anglicised names. They had immigrated to Canada from Bosnia back when Dave was still quite young. I called them by their Croatian names just because I think people prefer to hear their name in their own language. Steve brought the family to Canada to pursue better opportunities. I don't know all the circumstances surrounding their leaving the old country. After arriving in Canada, Steve's wife left him, so it was just Dave and Steve working together. The two of them brought a very knowledgeable mix of old and new to the table. They were good people to work for. I don't have any pictures of them, so the pictures in this article are just things I've found that I think are appropriate. Probably better that way. I don't want to mess with their privacy.

The Family Nose

Father and son both had the same very prominent nose. Dave was quite self-conscious about it but joked about it often. I didn't think it was that impressively large. Then again, in high school, I had an English instructor we called Zeke the Flavour Freak in reference to the old Froot Loops toucan. That, my friends, was a big schnoz.

Dave told me that when his mother first separated from his father, he would disguise himself with a fake moustache and spy on her. He laughed and said, "How could she not recognize the nose?"

His favourite nose story, though, was when he waited in line to get his passport. He watched the guy in front of him get a thorough inspection for unique scars. Dave, of course, being a lifetime cabinetmaker like his dad, looked over all the scars on his hands, wondering which one might be a unique personal feature to satisfy the official. When it was his turn, he started pointing out the various scars, and the official stopped him short, "Don't worry about it. I got the nose."

Language Barrier

Dave could speak English without any difficulty. Steve, on the other hand, had a lot of trouble expressing himself. He would also get mixed up on things I didn't expect.

We had a job come through the shop for a hobby shop that sold model trains. The work was quite complex and required a mix of solid wood, engineered wood, and orange melamine. The melamine was where Steve ran into trouble. I looked up from the piece I'm working on, and he's over at the saw, slicing up yellow melamine. I laid my tools down and ran over to stop him.

"No! No! It's supposed to be orange."

He smiled and nodded, "Dis orange."

"No! This isn't orange. This is banana."

A light went on in his eyes as he finally understood. I have a talent for understanding mutilated English. I think that's what they liked about me the most.

Exceptional Knowledge and Skill

As an industrial woodworker, I'm not really fond of cutting into solid birch. I called it zipperwood because a lot of those trees lived tortured lives before being turned into lumber. When you cut into them, the internal pressure gets released, and they bend all over the place. I have heard of a birch log in a sawmill breaking loose from the mill carriage after having the first slab cut off because of the amount of pressure grown into the log. I had to split a very long piece in another shop once, and I am only slightly exaggerating when I say I ended up with two pretzels.

Dave told me about a trip they made to the lumberyard to select materials. The salesperson showed them an impressive board and spent a great deal of time praising it. While he was doing that, Steve was carefully examining the grain. When the salesman was finished with his spiel, Steve told him that the tree had grown on a rocky hillside and they wouldn't be buying that useless piece of firewood. Dave shrugged to the salesman and said, "he used to go into the bush and get his own wood. He knows what he's talking about."

I doubt if I could figure out that much just looking at the grain of a piece of wood. The man deserves a little bit of credit.

Instrument Made From Wood

Dave showed me a picture of his dad as a young man during the thirties. He was part of a band with his friends. He was standing with his double bass (looks like a giant cello). He harvested and cut the materials himself and then built the instrument from the ground up. In the old black and white photo, that double bass looked flawless.

They Don't Make Them That Tough Any More

Early Monday morning, I arrived at work, and Steve greeted me as usual. He looked kind of different, though. He was a little more difficult to understand than normal as well. Sounded like he wanted me to call my dentist and make an appointment for him. I looked to Dave for help.

"Oh yeah, his teeth were hurting him too much on the weekend, so he took some pliers and pulled the remaining ones out himself."

Steve nodded and gave me a toothless smile. He wanted an appointment to get measured up for dentures. I wasn't as surprised by all of this as some people might be. I actually enjoyed sharing this with my dentist's receptionist.

He was genuinely tough. He was missing pieces of three different fingers. Dave told me that when he cut the tip off his thumb, he went to the hospital to sew it up and then went back to work.

During World War II, Croatia and Germany were allies. He spent most of the war doing woodworking, building planes for the Luftwaffe. When allied bombing got too much for his nerves, he walked home - on the eastern front. 

They just don't make them that tough anymore.