Karma

Ok, now I'm really a nice guy. I don't try to rip anyone off. I'm honest about my product. And if someone tries to give me a tip for making a special order for them, or adding a few rings to make a piece fit, I hand them their change and ask them to pass it on to one of the street buskers instead.

But sometimes, every now and then, rarely but once in a blue moon, something occurs that is beyond my control.

Just the other day a man came by booth.

Oh, wait. Before I tell you that story, I should mention a different one. And before that, I should say that I was born in Chicago. I'm an American. Canadian, too, now, but still American. So please don't think that I have anything against Americans. I don't.

Last year this couple came to my booth early in the morning, as I was setting up shop for the day. They were from Georgia, southern US Georgia not Georgia on the deep Black Sea. And after a short but pleasant conversation, out of the blue, the guy says, "I really like Canada. If there weren't so many left-wing anti-gun freaks, I'd consider moving here." The wife, to her credit, looked aghast that he had said such a thing. After the momentary shock of I-can't-believe-I-just-heard-this, I replied, "Yeah. And if it weren't for all the right-wing gun-toting nutcases, I might have stayed in the US." And to think, I was actually civil and smiling politely when I said that. I mean, it's not why I moved to Canada, but I couldn't help saying that.

Anyways, just the other day, this guy comes up to my booth and he's wearing a "Trump" baseball hat. My first thought was, "Wow. You got some balls wearing that outside of the US." But then he started talking and I realized that he really was a jerk. I mean, like a complete jerk. A total blockhead. A real imbecile. An absolute, one hundred percent, abnormal wrinkles around the mouth, flatulantly speaking asshole.

He was, in short, exactly the sort of person that I truly don't want to sell to. No interest. Nada. Zip. Zero.

But he picked up a $100 bracelet and asked if I accepted cash.

"Sure", I said, with as little enthusiasm as I could muster.

"'Murican?"

"Of course."

"What's the exchange rate?"

Ok. So at least he realized that he was in another country. Given some of the the things he had been saying earlier to his friends, I was truly wondering. I mean, not all who land here in Victoria with the cruise ships do. We are, after all, their only stop in Canada, and it just doesn't occur to them. No problem. We all understand. But given some of the excrement that exuded from his lips, I was truly surprised at that question.

Now, again, to be fair, I'm really a nice guy. I've been told so by many people. In fact, my wife, when we began courting said, "You're a nice guy, but..." I didn't actually hear anything she said after that for a few minutes, but then I realized she was talking about how she liked me and was a bit concerned that I might not like her, and that this might upset our friendship, and was I interested in exploring a relationship with her. Ladies out there, you might not be aware of it, but there is a switch in the male brain that turns on with the phrase, "You're a nice guy, but..." and continues with screaming internal sobs of "Nooooo! Why me?" Please. If you have any compassion at all for the guy, never, and I mean never, use that phrase on a friend.

Where was I?

Oh yes, nice guy. Really. I am.

Exchange rate. Right.

"20%."

If you're at all familiar with the Canadian dollar, our beloved Loonie (don't you just love a currency called "The Loonie"), and the US dollar, the almighty buck (which makes me think of a male deer on steroids), then you know that the current rate is closer to 30%. It wasn't that I was trying to rip him off. Not at all. It's just that I'm not a bank. I'm not a currency exchange. It costs me money to deposit US cash, and I'm not sure what the exchange rate will be when I eventually get around to thinking about considering the possibility of going to the bank, so I give myself a little cushion. And besides, I can calculate 20% in my head.

"What's that come to?"

"$120." See? I can calculate 20% on $100 in my head, no problem. I'm good with math. My Dad used to say that it was my first language.

"Really?"

By this point I was tired, and just wanted this guy out of my booth. You'll notice that I haven't said a word about what he actually said or did that made me come to conclusion about his anatomical development. That would be backbiting, after all, and I won't do that. I just know that humans are deuterostomes, which means that our rectal opening develops first, meaning that as we grow in the womb, there is a point in our development during which we are basically just an asshole. And I'm aware that some of us never develop beyond that stage. And there, standing in front of me, was a prime example. And I just wanted him gone.

And being a nice guy, (remember, I'm a nice guy) I said, "Really. But I'll let you have it for $100."

"Oh, okay." And he reached in his wallet and handed me a $100 bill.

A $100 US bill.

He took the bracelet, from which I had already removed the price tag, and walked away.

I must have stood for there for a full minute or two puzzled about something, holding that bill, with a bit of a frinkle. That's a cross between a frown on your face and that wrinkle that develops between the eyebrows. I stood there. For well over a minute.

And then I realized that we had both converted that money in the wrong direction.

By the time that dawned on me, he was long gone.

And I was left thinking, oh well, karma in action.

Stars

Just the other day I had a man come to my booth and ask if I'd be willing to loan a piece to a performer to wear on stage during a concert. This concert, by the way, is to help raise money for refugees. Now, you may not know it, but I used to be on the board of directors for an immigration and refugee council. As an immigrant myself, I have a lot of compassion for anyone who is a refugee, and not just your average run-of-the-mill immigrant, like myself. I mean, I chose to uproot myself. I had the choice. They don't.

Anyways, I was up for it. Anything to support a good cause.

In the end, though, this performer wasn't interested in this one piece, but was hoping that I could make two hand pieces for her to wear, which could then be auctioned off.

Well, that sounded awesome to me, and now I just have to design and make it.

But all this got me thinking about "stardom" once again.

I am often asked if I have ever considered movies, or tv, or selling to stars. The simple answer is "yes" and "no" at the same time. I mean, I've done movie pieces, and tv pieces, and have had "famous" people buy my work. But I don't really consider it. I just make my work, and let people buy what they will.

In fact, I'm often asked who has purchased my pieces, and I always respond with "I'm sorry but I don't share my client list."

Why not?

Because I want people to buy my work because they like it for itself, not because so-and-so purchased a piece. Besides, it also helps keep my prices reasonable. After all, I'm out to make a living, not a killing.

Way back when, sometime in the late 80s or early 90s, when I was in Chicago, I was at an art show selling my work. And up comes this very nice woman who began a lovely conversation, asking me all sorts of questions about my work. She explained what she was looking for, but, in the end, didn't buy anything. We talked for a few months about a possible special order, but nothing ever came of it. In the end, though, I was still very impressed with her courtesy and genuine interest. Her name? Oprah.

See? I can share her name, because she never did buy anything.

Odd that.

But a strange occurrence happened just a couple of years ago. Another famous performer came up to my booth while I was talking with someone else, who, presumably, was not as well-known. As I usually do, I turned and said "Hi" and went back to answering the first person's question, who was, by the way, a bit wide-eyed at that moment. The second individual interrupted me with some sort of question that came off as fairly rude.

"One moment. I'll be right with you."

Well, this wasn't good enough for Ms Well-Known.

"Do you", she pouted, "have any idea who I am?"

As someone who has dealt with many stars over the years, and worked with international diplomats and politicians on a consultative level, I am not fazed by this question. In fact, I am rather turned off by this type of ego.

Aside: I'm a big Doctor Who fan, going back to the 70s, when it first showed in Chicago on PBS. A little while later, the first Doctor Who convention was in Chicago, and I had the bounty of attending. There I had the pleasure of meeting Jon Pertwee for the first time. As he treated me as an equal, I had the impression of him as an older friend. When he returned, a few years later, I naturally went to see him again, just to say "Hi". This time he introduced me to his friend, Patrick Troughton. Well, later, when a mutual friend of ours told him that I was living in Oxford, he actually came out to my work to see me. A few years later, at another convention, I had an invitation to pass on to him, so I went up to the star suite to pass it on. When I walked in, and began to look around for him, another man came up to me and said, "Hi, I'm Tom Baker. Do you want my autograph?" Without even thinking about how rude I might have been, I instinctively said, "No", and continued to look for Jon. I think that difference of ego between Jon and Pat, and Tom, really made me appreciate Jon and Pat even more.

So, when this entertainer who was at my booth asked me if I knew who they were, I wasn't having any of it.

I turned to them, stared for a moment and said, "I'm familiar with your music, and even enjoy your movies. But no, I have no idea who YOU are." And then I went back to my other customer and proceeded to finish helping her to the best of my meager ability.

When I was done, I turned back to this second person, who was now far more courteous, and gave her my full attention. Just as I would anyone else.

And I could see, by her change in posture, that this distinction I had made between her and her work, really hit a nerve. Or struck a chord.

Just because someone is well-known, doesn't make them a star. A star, after all, is a source of guidance on a dark night. It helps the sailors know where to go, where they are. If a performer is filled with their own ego, they are not a star in my books. But if they are willing to help a young kid at a convention find their own feet, then they are truly a star to me, even if nobody else knows their name.

For now, though, I have to figure out how to make these pieces for this other performer, so that we can help a few refugees find their feet again.

Like

"Whoa", he cried out, wide-eyed, as he walked into my booth at the market with a few of his friends, "is this like chain-mail?"

I must have stood there for only a fraction of a second with my jaw open, but it sure felt like longer. "Well...", I began.

But his friend interrupted, with a loud exclamation of "What kind of an idiot are you? Of course it isn't like chain-mail. It is chain-mail, you dolt."

"That's a bit more blunt than I would have phrased it, but yes, he's essentially right. It is chain-mail."

I just love the questions like that. They expose a certain something, a definite "je ne sais quoi", about people. And really, I don't know what it is, but it sure says something.

Usually the question is more like, "But is it real?"

I always want to answer, "No, it's an illusion." It's as if jewelry made of something other than 24 karat gold is somehow no longer within the realm of reality.

"Do you make it all by hand?"

This one has a few different responses, depending on my mood. "No. I use my feet." Or perhaps, "Actually, it's done with mirrors." Or even the more accurate, "I use pliers."

"But will it stop a sword?"

"Of course," I guarantee. "It will stop any balloon sword out there."

"What about arrows?"

"Nerf arrows."

They always say that there is no such thing as a stupid question, but I respectfully disagree. There really are some stupid questions out there. Al Jaffee got it right. (Google it, if you must.)

And then my favorite: "But it's not real chain-mail, is it?"

Well, that all depends on what you mean by "real chain-mail", doesn't it? If you're referring to armour, or protective clothing, then no, I wouldn't consider it real. If you're referring to interlocking rings making up a fabric, then yes, it is. And if you only think of chain-mail as real if it'll stop a blow, then I would guess that you have more serious issues to worry about.

But best of all was the macho dude who came and put on an actual piece of armour, the sword-stopping shirt kind, and turned to his buddy and said, "Go ahead, hit me." Who promptly cold-cocked him right on the jaw.

Street Performance

I now realize that it's actually quite difficult for me to keep up a reasonable blog during my show season. I don't know why I thought I could. I mean, I'm just way too busy trying to keep up with making chain and selling it.

Fortunately I have a few months off each and every year to try to get ahead, which also means that I have more time to write.

Today I want to tell you a story about someone I met at my booth. He was a busker. And for some reason, probably because he saw me interacting with my customers, he decided to ask me about busking in Victoria.

Oh, quick aside: They're customers. Sure, some are clients, some are friends, but they are also customers. I have no problem with that word. "A person that buys goods." In fact, not only don't I have a problem with that word, I actually hope that some of them live up to it!

Ok. Back to my regularly scheduled story.

He came by my booth and waited until I was free. Nice of him to do that.

He introduced himself, and said that he was new in town. "Obviously", he said, "you know the city better than I do." Little did he realize that I'd only been here a few years myself. Where, he was wondering, was a good place to busk?

Busking, as I'm sure you know, dear reader, is performing on the street for money.

Well, I've done my share of busking in the past, and some places are better than others. But some places are better for some types of busking, and others places for other types. And so I asked him what he did in his act.

"I do tricks with a yo-yo." I was polite and let the obvious comeback slip by unsaid.

"Can you show me", I inquired.

And he did.

Now, dear reader, a number of years ago I had the dubious pleasure of watching the world's most boring fire-eater perform. How, you may wonder, can you possibly make fire-eating boring? Well, he did. No facial expressions. No patter. No timing. Just one feat with fire after another, monotonously. Ad nauseum. If I didn't know better, I would have bet that the nerve endings in his face had been severed.

When he was finished I asked him if I could work with him the next day.

"Sure", he said, with about as much inflection as an accountant who has been sedated.

The following afternoon I was wearing totally stupid looking blue clown clothes and poorly applied clown make-up. When he went to swallow his fire, I got out a seltzer bottle and squirted water down my throat. When he went to juggle his torches, I juggled water balloons, carefully dropping one at the most propitious moment. When he put the petrol in his mouth and blew flames, I sprayed the audience with water from my own mouth. Whatever he did with fire, I did with water. I was the water-eater to his fire-eater. And wow, did we do well.

I explained to my yo-yo dude that most of street performance, as with sales, is about the patter, the glib gab, the slip of the word with the slip of the tongue. I pointed out that he needed an intimate space, that people weren't going to see his tricks from more than ten feet away. It was obvious that while he was proficient with the double disc on a string, he was woefully underwhelming with the wordage.

And I could see that he was beginning to falter. He needed encouragement. A start. Something that he could build on.

"Look", I said, "you're Jewish."

"Whoa," he interrupted, "how did you know?"

"Your pendant," I pointed out, "your hair. Your schnoz? It's not that difficult to see. So go with that. Remind the people that the yo-yo is a Jewish invention."

He looked at me as if realizing for the first time that I might just be a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

"It is?"

"Of course it is. Don't you know that Hebrew is read from right to left? It's actually called an 'oy-oy'."

He started to crack a smile.

"And you just came up with that on the spot?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Best I could do under the pressure."

And with that, he went on his way, eager to try one of the corners I recommended. From what I heard, he actually did quite well the rest of the season.

Now, what does this have to with chain-mail? Simple. It's not just about the product. It's about the art. The performance. The salesmanship. The relationship. People can find your product elsewhere, sometimes for less, sometimes better quality. But they can't find you anywhere else. When you're selling your work, your also selling them a memory of you.

What Happened to Art?

Years ago, say back in late 19th century, many people were craftsmen. They created things with their hands, were proud of their accomplishments, and were somewhat respected in society for it. But then something happened; society changed. We began to look down on the craftsmen, praising instead the intelligentsia, encouraging all our children to get a college education and work in the field of the intellect. We only need to think of the lowly plumber or grease-stained auto mechanic to see the truth of this.

Way back when Henry Ford began developing his assembly line form of auto manufacturing, he had to hire ten times the number of workers he actually needed. Why? Because 90% of them would quit.

But why?

Simple. They were bored.

The people he would hire were artisans, craftsmen, people who were highly skilled in their field and who took pride in their work. These were people who would take a tree and turn it into a wagon. Well, maybe not. I'm sure many of them went to the lumberyard and used boards, but you get the idea. They were not the sort of people who enjoyed making the same widget over and over, day after day, week after week, with no reprieve in sight. They were far more interested in crafting and creating the whole wagon, responding to the peculiar qualities of each individual piece of wood, moving from one part to another as needed, keeping their interest by fabricating an entire object, not just one tiny little component over and over again, ad nauseum.

Within a few years, though, all that changed.

There were no, or at least few, master craftsmen left. Those who were educated in the new public school programs that were designed at that time never knew the satisfaction of a beautiful creation, from raw materials to completed product. They were trained to work in factories. Society had told them that this is what life was meant to be like, and they believed it, and their craft was relegated to the realm of hobby. Their salary was merely compensation for having to put up with the boredom of their work, no longer seen as a reward for a creating a work of lasting, or at least functional, art.

We went from a society of creative artisans who would look at each and every individual problem and strive to find a creative way around it to a group of people who were trained and taught to follow instructions from a collective think-tank of managers who had likely never built anything in their life. These new managers didn't see the art in the product their company made, but rather merely the broad lines: how to streamline the assembly line, and ways to fatten the bottom line.

These new managers and factory owners don't want creativity in their workers but instead hire people for their ability to take a set of instructions and problem-solve by looking up the correct page reference in their corporate-approved manual. Even the companies that strive to encourage their workers in making their job more efficient are often ham-stringing their employees by taking their suggestions and either filtering them up for approval and back down again as another paragraph in their manual, or giving a token reward of a few dollars while upper management reaps in millions. Either way, the lowly worker is no longer seen as one worthy of respect, but rather as a, well, lowly worker who is expected to follow the rules.

As Frederick Wilson Taylor said, "...(M)anagers assume... the burden of gathering together all of the traditional knowledge which in the past has been possessed by the workmen and then of classifying, tabulating, and reducing this knowledge to rules, laws, and formulae." The founders of the MBA program at Harvard loved this, as did Joseph Stalin.

In short, process replaced craft.

"All possible brainwork", Taylor went on to say, "should be removed from the shop and centered in the planning or laying-out department..."

And that brings me to today, and my work with chain-mail.

Over and over I see on the internet, or hear from mailers who stop by my booth, "Am I doing it right?"

That very question presupposes that instruction manual approach. Just the other day I had a friend over who had begun to make a bracelet and was talking of taking it apart because it wasn't what he wanted. "It's no good", he said. "It's not JPL-5."

"So? Who said that you had to make JPL-5? What you have made is beautiful, and worthy of finishing. Why waste the time taking it apart? Why not just finish it?" He was surprised, and possibly even ashamed, that he hadn't recognized that himself. He had fallen into that trap, even though he knew better.

"Is it ok to use this?" "Can I do that?" "Where are the instructions for this?"

While these may be reasonable questions for a rank beginner, I feel that they should be discouraged. Instead of answering them with a dichotomous yes or no, we should, perhaps, respond with a more educational, "What happens if you do use this or do that?" "Look at that item. Can you figure out how to make it? Here are the ring sizes, to give you a head start."

Just this morning I was asked to make a few flowers to go around a beautiful metal hummingbird on someone's wall. I asked them the colour of the room, about the view from the window, and the size of the space on the wall around the hummingbird. They had seen some of my small flowers and thought they might look nice with the bird, but I happen to know that hummingbirds don't feed on those types of daisy-shaped flowers. And those flowers, in relation to that bird, are way too small. They make the hummingbird look to be the size of an eagle. I'll make a few of them, as requested, to match the room, but my pride in my work forces me to create a more conical larger flower, one that a hummingbird enthusiast will recognize as relevant to the scene. Has one been made before? Not that I'm aware of. Do I have instructions? Nope. But I have materials. I have my inspiration. I have a vision. And I have perseverance. While I hope to get it done by tomorrow morning, it may or may not happen. But I will have made a start, can show them what I have, and hopefully create something new and beautiful which they will love, and of which I will be proud.

Will it be "right"?

No.

It will be a work of art, like all my work. And all of yours, too, if you only allow yourself to see it that way.

Memory

Summer is my busy time. This means that I end up writing about one article every month, if I'm lucky, as opposed to my usual two or three a week in the winter months. It's not that I can't think of anything to write; quite the contrary. There is a lot to write about. It's just that by the time I get home, unpack the car and get a bit of food or water in me, I'm completely exhausted. I've wholly forgotten all the ideas that flit through my mind during the day. Gone. Pfft. Even if I write them down in my notebook, I still can't remember to think about that notebook when I arrive home.

But writing isn't the only thing that suffers from my lack of memory at this time of year.

Of course, there is the usual parenting issue of calling the child by the pets names, or forgetting where I put the keys. There are the odds and ends that end up oddly in the freezer for no explicable reason. And there are the countless times I end up remarkably dog-like, walking into a room and having no clue why I went in there in the first place.

Memory is one of the major casualties in the summer.

Of course, it's not just me.

Yesterday, at the market, one of my neighbours came up to me and asked me if I had an extra table cloth. It seemed that somehow he had left his at home. Of course, it just so happened that another neighbour had picked up a brand new table covering for me just the week before, so yes, I did happen to have an extra one.

That was an unusual request, to be sure, but not, by far, the only one.

Over the years I have left at home things like my change float (which is the stack of small bills that I use to give change to people throughout the day), my credit card machine, various boxes of stock, all my mannequins, and even my pliers. Oh yes, even the Mobius Balls have suffered this indignant fate.

My various neighbours at the market also suffer this aestas careo memoria.

There have been many days when a friend leaves a pile of boxes at their booth site only to run back home to get some essential thing. I've seen people try to set up their booth, having left their tents, tables, or various display items at home. One of my favorites are the times when someone has set up their tent, hung all their items from it, placed all of their stock ever so carefully where it all belongs, and then discover that they forgot to put their banner on said tent. It is quite amusing watching as they try to find various ways to hang their banners without lowering their tent. Being taller than most there, I offer to help, but it's still fun to watch.

The best of all, though, was my own sad story. There was one time that I got in the car and headed out to work, bright and early, ready to face the morning traffic into downtown. It was sunny and there were some good tunes on the radio. It was looking to be a great day. The temperature was just right for that wee hour, signaling weather that would be perfect, neither too swelteringly hot nor too cool for comfort, with just a gentle hint of a breeze for good measure. I made it downtown without too much difficulty, a little bit of traffic, a few minor snarls. I got caught behind an ancient bicyclist on the bridge, and had to wait for this seemingly one-legged arthritic tortoise to get across, not being allowed to pass cyclists on that particular bridge. Then there was the garbage truck in the alley, so I had to wait for them, too. Of course, these guys were particularly virtuous, striving to demonstrate excellence in a job well-done. They took extra care to ensure that the garbage was placed ever so carefully in the back of the truck, and even more care to place the bins back exactly where they had been. They were something like world champions of the OCD refuse collection olympics. Finally, I was able to pull in, and back up to the place where I unload. With my daily sigh of relief at getting there intact and in a somewhat timely manner, I got out of the car, walked around to the back, and popped the trunk.

Only to discover that I hadn't loaded it before leaving home.

Michael

One of my favorite mindless little past times is to look at one of the chain-mail fora on Facebook. It's a nice little community in which people share photos, tips, inspirations, and questions. Great community, too. They're very encouraging, and the moderator is one of the best I've seen in a long time. If petty bickering, or trolling, rears its ugly little head, he's quick to put a stop to it.

Jokes? He often let's them go on. He's kind of cool that way.

On this forum, there is one person, in my own mind, that sticks out: Michael. He's a bit of a kook (and since I know that people from this forum are likely reading this, he's never gonna live that title down), exceedingly generous, and someone I'm very proud to call a good friend. (Hence, I refer to him as a kook.)

But one question I get asked a lot, for some reason, is how we met. After all, there aren't that many of us chain-mailers around, and while we see each other's work on the net, many of us have never met.

Well, I got to thinking about that question the other day, and realized that it was a pretty good story.

So.....

Once upon a time (unless you're from the middle east, then it's "Under the azure dome..."), I was asked to do a chain-mail workshop at a local store. Since teaching is one of my passions in life, and chain-mail is another, combining the two seemed like a good idea. The date was set. The notices went out. The people registered, and all seemed good in my little corner of the world.

And then the day arrived. (Cue the symphonic music.)

The sun crept ever higher in the sky; the clock ticked ominously on; the vultures were circling overhead. (Actually, they were. We have a lot of vultures around here.)

Momentary light-hearted aside - One day, a few summers past, I decided to take a break and head out to nature, as I am wont to do. I drove over to Beaver Lake, a great place for a quick dip in some nice water, or a pleasant walk in the woods, whichever you choose at the moment. On that particular day, I chose the water. And soon discovered that there were tons of little kids, all about 2 - 5 years old, swimming in the shallows of the lake. And overhead? Dozens of vultures circling. Hmmm. Methinks they knew something.

And now back to our regularly scheduled story.

My son was picked up from his bus. My wife had wended her way home. I was properly fed and watered, so it was time for me to embark upon my journey.

As it was early evening, I gave myself plenty of time to fight the rush hour traffic, which on the Island is more like the "rush quarter-hour", and I successfully passed it all heading in the other direction. I forgot that I was going downtown, and they weren't. In short, I got there way too early, and had some time to wander. A cup of tea was acquired, and I scouted out a cheese shop that I had never noticed. Mmmm. Cheese.

And then made my way back to the store.

When I walked in, the proprietor looked at me a bit strange and asked, "Do you know Michael?"

Well, I know a few Michaels. In fact, one of them was best man at my wedding. But this Michael? Couldn't say that I did.

She described him as "a bit of a social misfit, extremely nice, and a touch odd", to which I would only add "kook". I mean, I can now add all sorts of other descriptors, many of which are to be found on the Virtue's poster hanging on my door, and some of which I can't type in polite company.

But no, I didn't know him.

She said, "He dropped this off for you."

"This" was a jar of jump rings, and a note.

The note, which I still have somewhere in the depths of my studio / guest room, said something to the effect of how he really wanted to come to the workshop but had to catch a ferry home, and the rings were a gift for the students to use.

The rings just happened to be the exact same size which I had brought with me.

The workshop went well (in fact, one of the students came by my booth yesterday and wanted to know when he could learn some more weaves), and when I got home I told my wife all about this stranger who dropped off these rings. I am always touched by the overwhelming generosity of others.

I told her that there was one woman in the group who seemed to be having a particularly tough time of it lately, and had obviously scrimped and saved for the class, and so I gave her the jar. She was practically in tears as she headed on out. (The woman in the class, not my wife.)

And I made sure to call Michael the next day to thank him, over and over, for his exceedingly kind and unexpected gift.

This is just a single example of Michael's unfailing generosity.

Not many people know it, but he has also instituted a not-for-profit non-registered charity for supplying chain-mail artisans who are going through difficult times to get jump rings for free.

He also often posts that he's "on a boat" not because he loves sailing back and forth between his home of Mayne Island and Vancouver Island, but because he takes care of an elderly woman, and regularly drives her to doctor appointments here.

And on those rare occasions when he has some free time, he can be found at my booth in Bastion Square, just visiting.

Of course, with Michael, it's never just a visit.

One last story example before I begin my day: Michael was visiting me at my booth earlier this week, just after another friend who was hoping to meet him had left. Timing. It's all about timing, isn't it?

Anyways, he was visiting, sitting on the low rock wall next to my booth, when this small group from Austria came by. I stood up to talk with them, and he patiently waited until I was free. One of the ladies asked me some question about something or other, but evidently didn't quite get her translation from German correct, for I truly didn't understand what she was asking. She turned to one of her friends and repeated her question, I presume, in German, whereupon Michael responded. In German.

I think he said something like, "Die haare in meinem nase ist kribbeln. Und ich wie ringe. Sie beobachten möchte, hunde bridge spielen unter wasser?" Or something like that. I don't speak the language, and just sort of trusted him despite my surprise. (He never fails to surprise me.)

They then had this, to my ear, lengthy conversation in German, and he began singing a German folk song, to which they all laughed and joined in.

Yeah. If it comes down to it, and I had to think about him, I would simply recall him getting a group of Austrian's to sing German folk songs in my booth. That about sums him up.

I love this business. I get to meet all sorts of kooks.