Our nation of Canada was born by the tears, sweat, and blood of early pioneers from Europe. Great caravans of people abandoned everything they had and rolled the dice on the possibility of a brighter future. And I'm sure for every early settler of Canada, there was a grumbling, skeptical, European neighbour shaking their head and calling them crazy.
I'd like to think that the recent purchase of our permanent home will herald the dawn of a new era of colonization. And of course, as with every thriving colony, it begins with a pioneer.
On November 17th, 2016, I became that pioneer.
I quit my office job in the city, and made the first permanent migration to our 25-acre, off-the-grid retreat. And like every forefather that trekked westward across the great white north, I can't say it's been anything but difficult.
I was not prepared for the snow accumulation that would hit our solar panels. We have six of them, but they very quickly add up to zero once a snowfall hits. And the only way to liberate them is to climb up on the rooftop before first light, and start chipping away with a shovel, squeegee, or vehicle ice scraper. Failure to do that results in a dwindling source of battery power that won't take long to underwhelm your power expectations. After a week of snowfall you'll be lucky to take a shower without starting up the back-up gas generator.
Even for a simple task like sending an email, I must trudge outside to the tool shed, fill up and fire up the genny, trudge back to the house, turn on the special power inverter, and plug in the wireless router. Then, and only then, do you get the privilege of watching a cute kitten video.
The long, dark nights of an off-the-grid haven can be challenging to one's sanity. The luxury of electronic distractions is an urban man's victory. The consolation prize for the bushman is FM radio and a bottle of rum. Congratulations.
I sit in my broken rocking chair on a Sunday night and tune in to my favourite radio program. It only happens for 4 of the 168 hours that make up the week, so I must make it count. Neglecting the unnecessary chaliced middle-man, I sip my rum directly from the bottle. A single candle illuminates the plywood floor, and slithers fine smoke two stories up to the ceiling. If I save my power now, I get to take a shower in the morning.
An alarm signifies that the pilot light on the propane powered refrigerator has been extinguished. I crouch down and push a combination of knobs at the bottom of the fridge to ignite it. Nothing happens.
I try again.
Nothing.
Again. Again. Again!
Nothing.
A half hour later I am lying on the ground, surrounded by screws, knobs, and newly discovered fridge parts. The manual is smothered by my working elbow. Abandoning all hope of completing this task in a timely manner, I have taken the deer meat outside to mother nature's freezer. The clock on the wall tells me I must retire soon if I am to get up early enough to scrape the roof's solar panels.
After cursing and fumbling my way for hours through this foreign endeavour, I stay prone on the floor after bringing the rum down with me. I am looking up at a dark, empty, lonely house.
A dead man sings his laments over an old guitar on the radio. Those sorrowful lyrics felt oddly relatable at that moment. A smart man would have been concerned.
I swallow rum and through my wet mouth I utter two words.
Ground Zero.
That was the choice moniker for our haven. I think I came up with it - although it was hard to remember with certainty amongst the purchasing pandemonium.
I chose it rather flippantly without much research or forethought. It had that "Project Mayhem" ring to it, with a touch of apocalyptic overtones somewhere in there. It was simple and catchy, and advertised our land as some kind of dramatic enterprise.
Dramatic was right. I couldn't speak as to how much actual enterprising was going on at the moment though.
The intoxication of success rarely inspires one to question their actions. But a good dose of despair will produce the finest feelings of doubt. What am I doing here at Ground Zero? Surely this man on the floor wasn't in the brochure.
But in contemplating that mystery, I realised I wan't even sure what the phrase "Ground Zero" actually meant. I decided to use my remaining battery rations to fire up the internet, and turn to my favourite online street definition repository for the answer...
Ground Zero: the epicentre of a disaster or explosion.
Not a great slogan for the land, I will admit. Having said that, I wasn't entirely sure what the word epicentre meant - maybe it's a safe space from the explosion?
Epicentre: the central point of something, typically a difficult or unpleasant situation
That wasn't very comforting either.
And then I scrolled down further for alternate, possibly more positive definitions, and I came across this beauty.
Ground Zero: a state of being wherein you feel as if you cannot sink any lower emotionally, psychologically, or physically. Hitting rock bottom.
I didn't need an online dictionary to remind me of the definition of irony. That was the truth. In that moment, I was most definitely at Ground Zero.
I thought back to the pioneers again. Or rather my perverted, misinformed imagination of them. I'm sure someone must have died of exposure or disease while discovering Toronto hundreds of years ago. I mean, the only reason we have a city now is because some unknown stubborn bastards refused to turn their caravan around.
It's always comforting when someone's suffering outweighs your own.
I pick myself off the ground and take a second look at the fridge. This time with a little more patience.
Some more time passes and I am back in my rocking chair. It's not broken anymore - a bit of wood glue solved that problem. The fridge turned out to be not that difficult a fix either. It just challenged me in way I wasn't willing to overcome.
The dead man mutters the last song of the radio show; his gift being shared with a generation of minds that he will never know. And they may never truly know him.
Urban dictionary was right. This place is the epicentre of an explosion. I think I am just at the beginning of it though. Like the nothingness that preceded the Big Bang, birthing a universe of beautiful stars.
I would like to think that one day, when I am gone, there will be generations of beautiful minds inhabiting this space, stretching the boundaries of Ground Zero to unimaginable dimensions.
Until then, this stubborn pioneer will have to just keep singing his song.
