centre of the universe - the dreaming

So then there was the 45 minute wait *just to check in*.

Wherein the hotel peoples did a bunch of stuff so idiotic it makes my eyeballs scratchy just thinking about. There was the 'I need a credit card number on file for any incidental charges' which was bloody ridiculous, and then the whole "I don't care WHAT the airline told you - you can't use those food vouchers for room service..." And me telling the hotel guy that since we have two children and it was eleven o'clock at night, and it would be a fine kettle of fish for us to sit in their restaurant with rangy, over-tired children...

When we got to the rooms, His Nibs called for room service (turns out we could order it, but had to pick it up, since room service apparently doesn't get charged to the room....or something...), and he was told that the kitchen was closed, but that we were welcome to go to the lounge. The server said something about her shift being over and only being there because there were, like, a bunch of, like, PEOPLE, whose, like, PLANE was late, or something, and she couldn't take an order because she was, like, done her shift...

"Yes," His Nibs said. It's a good thing he was doing the talking, because I would have actually telepathically caused the server's prefontal cortex to liquefy. "WE are some of those people."

"Oh, well, the lounge is open..." she said.

"Excellent. We'll bring our five year old and our ten year old to the bar for wings, shall we?" He said.

"Oh," she said.

A few minutes later, His Nibs went to pick up our food.

There were more little things that pissed me off, but I'd really rather not think about them too much. Because I'm not angry *now*, and I'll be sending our 'incidental expenses' to the airline for them to cover, since the hotel people were arse-danglers.

Labels: piss in your eye, vacation

Well, apparently the post-by-phone option I tried whilst stuck in the Phoenix airport for three and a half EXTRA hours yesterday (never mind the three hours early that one has to be because some kook likes C4 enemas) did not work.

It featured some photos of our incredibly patient children, postulating that perhaps the reason our airplane was delayed (mysteriously, I might add) by three and a half hours was because Spiderman and Superman (and possibly J'onn J'onzz) required it for some kind of anti-crime commandeering...thing...with Jedis and noodles? I'm a little fuzzy on the last bit there as I think I dozed off. At any rate, the airplane bit ended well because the Flash was able to bring the required parts to the airport to ensure the plane was A-OK.

Three and a half extra hours in the airport meant we missed our connecting flight home.

The airline kinda promised us the first flight in the morning (which was at 8:30am), and we thought that'd be fine, but then when it came time for the airline representatives to actually give us our boarding passes for the flight next morning, it turns out the next available flight was actually just after noon o'clock, which means that we'll miss The Captain's last hockey game of the season.

*insert Angry cenobyte here*

The airline kindly provided us a hotel for the evening and a veritable crapload of food vouchers to cover the costs of our meals, which was very nice of them.

So His Nibs and I, together with our Very Tired and Very Patient and Very Good-Natured children, collected  our luggage and made it through customs (WITH our cactus seeds, thank you, douanes) and we made our way to the Hotel Shuttle (so's we wouldn't have to pay for a taxi, the airline works with a hotel that provides a shuttle!). Of course, 90% of our flight is waiting for the shuttle, and although we are the only ones with two small children standing out in the cold, dark Calgarian night, they all are tired as well, and they pile into the van.

The driver looks at us and says, "You'll have to take the next one."
I say, "and when, exactly, *is* the next one?"
"Forty-five minutes," the driver says.
"What-y five minutes!?" I ask **insert Angrier cenobyte here**.
"There is only one shuttle," the driver says. "I will return in one half an hour or forty-five minutes."

We truck our children, their luggage, our carry-on, and my attitude BACK into the airport while I start thinking "I'm willing to bet the rooms the airline booked for us are going to be halfway across the hotel from each other" (the airline booked us two hotel rooms because our family has two different last names). So I call the hotel to make sure we have adjoining rooms, or a suite, or a king-sized bed or a cot or something.

"Well, ma'am," the hotel bitch says, "it's all based on availability, and so we can't promise you anything..."
"..." I said. I believe I was shaking by this point. It's 10:30 at night, we're supposed to be HOME by now, my children (thank God for their being patient and good) are ready for bed, and His Nibs is...well...probably getting frightened by this point.
"So we'll just have to wait and see when you get here what is available, m'kay?" the bitch says.
"No, miss, I'm sorry; that is not okay. I am *very* upset."
"Oh?"
"Yes. We've missed our connecting flight, and the airline has booked us two rooms at your hotel. They instructed us to take the shuttle, which we've just been informed means we will have to wait an ADDITIONAL forty-five minutes in a god-forsaken airport, and now you're telling me you cannot confirm for me that you have adjoining rooms or something that will accommodate two very patient children, one frustrated adult, and one very angry adult?"
"Well ma'am," the bitch said bitchily, "we only have one shuttle, and your airline booked the rooms, so you're just going to have to take what's available. M'kay?"
"No, that is not okay. I am now VERY angry."
"Well there's nothing I can do until you check in."

**cenobyte throws her phone across the floor and stomps off to punch something. Then cenobyte returns to her very patient family, retrieves the boarding passes and tries to find an airline representative to talk to. There are none. cenobyte phones the airline. The airline's customer service person is very patient and understanding and apologises and suggests cenobyte talk to a customer service rep the next morning. cenobyte feels a bit better.**

We then trudge BACK out to get the shuttle. No shuttle. His Nibs calls the hotel. It'll be ANOTHER forty-five minute wait.

cenobyte then says, "Fuck this. We're taking a fucking taxi, and we're going to fucking mail the fucking bill to the fucking airline and we're going to fucking ensure the fucking airline never fucking uses this fucking hotel chain ever the fuck again."

cenobyte's children stare wide-eyed.

cenobyte stomps off to the taxi line.

The woman with not enough to do shouts at cenobyte's family that we are not to take the *second* taxi in the lineup; we are to take the *first*. His Nibs stares at this woman (who is wearing an Official Vest, and who is across the street). "Are you yelling at *us*?" he asks.

She reiterates thus: "EXCUSE ME PEOPLE, YOU CANNOT TAKE THE VAN TAXI. YOU MUST TAKE THE FIRST TAXI IN THE LINE."

His Nibs shakes his head. The taxi driver looks embarassed. The children are excited to be taking a taxi. cenobyte shouts back: "WE HAVE NO INTENTION OF TAKING THE VAN TAXI. WE KNOW HOW TAXI LINES WORK. IT'S PRETTY BASIC. SETTLE DOWN, LADY."

His Nibs groans, figuring cenobyte is about to be arrested. cenobyte does not care.

**
Oh, this is NOT the end of the story. But I have to attempt to get my family on to the shuttle (assuming it's fucking here) to take us to the airport to take us home, more than 24 hours after we left paradise. If only I weren't too fat to ride a horse, none of this would be happening.

Labels: piss in your eye, vacation

Nobody at the RENAISSANCE FAIRE told me I'm too fat to ride a horse.

In fact, on the PIRATE SHIP RIDE, my VAST AMOUNT OF GIRL POWER (and upper body strength) made our pirate ship go WAY HIGHER than the guy next to us's pirate ship. I kept looking over at the dad in the next ship over, and saying: "DUDE! YOU'RE GETTING BEATEN BY A **GIRL**!!!", and his son, who was Lord High Dink of Dinkus Mountain while in lineup, was saying, "DAD! GO FASTER!!!".

AND I had TWO kids in *my* pirate ship.

So.

Take my girl power and shove your trail rides in your arse-bung, you bow-legged cowboy wannabe;
I bet you have to pay people to say nice things to you.

GRRRRRRRRRL POWERZ!

Labels: ample chest, bodies, vacation

I happened to glance out the window this morning as I woke.
Clouds, like tufts of soap bubbles, dotted the mountainside.
Even mountains get bedhead, I thought.
To the east, clouds embrace everything above the blue tin roofs at the ranch
just visible through the spruce across the river.
I could believe there was nothing behind them, nothing inside that ephemeral touch.
I could believe this was a valley in Scotland
(even though I've never been in a valley in Scotland)
but that's dangerous.
I hear out in these parts, they giggle at you if you let your brogue show.

Labels: mountains, poems, summer, vacation

His Nibs and his "Sinister", as he calls her, took me 'gophing' (The Nipper for two years referred to golfers as 'gophers', which quite confused many people for a bit) yesterday. I rather enjoy gophing. But here's the thing - I don't give a fiddler's fart whether there are people behind me - if they're faster than me they can skip ahead of me (they call this "playing through", don't you know). I don't much care what you're supposed to wear or not wear. I don't really care about all that 'gentlemenly' business.

So this means I get to save rather a lot of money by *not* playing on courses where these things matter.

His Nibs can be somewhat ...insistent... that, even on little par-three courses where, according to the really good gophers around here, that kind of stuff doesn't matter, we follow The Rules. Rules, I say, rules are suggestions, really. People don't *actually* care if you wear sandals on this course. People don't *actually* care if your Sinister and I share a set of clubs. Besides, knowing the way your Sinister gophs, she'll probably hit anyone from the staff with a ball, so we have nothing to worry about.

"Be nice," His Nibs says.

"No, she's right," his Sinister says. "Last time I was here, I think I just about hit someone on every hole."

"And you hit every tree on the course!" I say helpfully to His Nibs.

His Nibs sighs *meaningfully* and begins some crazy stretching thing.

But here's the deal - it's terribly fun. When it doesn't matter, it's terribly fun. His Nibs said, "should we keep score?"

And I said, "the only person who's going to be bothered by the score you keep is you, so it's probably a Bad Idea for your own enjoyment of the morning."

We don't keep score. Fun should not include arithmetic and figurin'.

Here, I have to say to Sean-by-the-Sea, "You told me so. And you were right."

Gophing. Huh. Who knew?

Labels: gophers, mountains, summer, vacation

For mountains to fall on my head. Smoky, misty mountains with a hatred and a vengeance for prairie folk. Stupid mountains.

But it's *really nice* here. Like, there's *sun* and it's more than 22 degrees, and there's no wind, and and and and no frost, and stuff is *growing* because it's *hot*...so...well...I'm conflicted. It's *summer* here. I suspect what it is is this - I suspect it's some kind of lure the mountains are using to lull us in to the nest of the Mountain's evil.

Then, when we least expect it, after we're all lethargic and flooby from eating all of Gramma's awesome food and drinking rum and lying out in the sun all day, **BOOM**!! the mountains are on your head.

And there's no *helmet* you can wear to save your delicate, delicate brain from a MOUNTAIN FALLING ON YOUR HEAD. I mean, sure, you can survive a direct plummet from a tree, but you can't just walk away from a direct hit from a mountain. It's just not possible. Ask those folks in Pompeii.

Okay, yes, technically, Pompeii was a volcano, not a mountain, but the end result was that a mountain fell on their heads after it 'sploded out of a volcano. Thankfully, there aren't a *whole* lot of active volcanoes in the Rockies. That I know about.

More DECEPTION! More LURING! There ought to be a law.

Labels: mountains, vacation

Have I mentioned I'm not good at leaving?

I'm not good at leaving. Good at packing. Good at *being* gone. But it's that transition...maybe that's it; maybe I'm just not good at transitions.

So I get all crotchety and grumpy and generally unable to sleep well and kind of avoidy. Which doesn't at all help when things need to be Planned and Done. I'm more the "Oh jeez, I should have brought ---" type rather than the boy scout "Thank God I brought ---!" type. In fact, I would have failed the 'being prepared' test, but I would have aced the 'making do' test.

I wonder what the "making do" badge would look like. Maybe it would have a picture of MacGuyver on it. That's what *I* would do if I were designing a "make do" badge. And for those people who were around before MacGuyver, their "make do" badges would have, maybe, a piece of binder twine and a twist tie on it.

And if someone were to sneak in to my house and clean it, top to bottom, and organdize it, bottom to top, I would be ever so greatful. Grateful. Graitful. Appreciative. I might even be convinced to bake for them. Sadly, i'm pretty sure that His Nibs would Not Be Okay with this plan.

It also doesn't help that we're travelling to a place that, in general, I don't much like. Specifically, I quite enjoy the people we're going to see. In fact, I love them dearly. I love their house and their friends and staying with them. But, truth be told, not real fond of the geographical location. So, put all those things together, and I have what is known colloquially as 'travel-jeebies'.

Travel-jeebies is a known medical condition that involves anxiety, sore achey muscles, short temper, headache, and any kind of phantom pain you can come up with. I have a throbby thing going on in my side, in fact.

But I know that once we *get* there, I'll enjoy myself. And I know that I'll enjoy myself *on the way there*. It's just the putting everything in smaller and smaller packages until you have one or two big packages filled with a crapload of smaller packages, and everyone's excited but you, because you'd really rather still be asleep.

So anyway. Leaving tomorrow.

Labels: vacation

"D- did WHAT!?" R- said, a hint of laughter in her voice. R- is Bri'ish, and her accent is best when she's talking about something ludicrous.

"He jumped out of a tree, and now he can't remember where his parents live, and his dogs need to be let out to go pee, and..."

"What the hell was D- doing jumping out of a tree?"

"Well, he was...plummeting. So I'm wondering if you know..."

"No, I mean, first, I can't even imagine him *getting* himself *up* a tree, but what the hell was he THINKING?"

"Um. Well, there's this poem," I said, twirling the phone cord around my finger.

"Stop twisting that damned cord over your bloody fingers!" My mother shouted from the living room.

"Ow," said D-.

"Sorry," I said.

"What?" R- asked.

"Nothing," I said. "Anyway, he read this poem about boys jumping out of birch trees and gently lowering themselves to the ground as the trees bent."

"...huh." She replied. "Bet the tree broke..."

"Heh. Yeah, it did. Anyway, do you know where his parents live, because we have to go and..."

"How far'd he fall?" she asked.

"Oh, about ten or fifteen feet," I said.

"Jeesus. Did he break anything?"

"Just his memory. Anyway, d'you know where..."

"His WHAT?"

"His memory," I said. "He got a bit of a concussion, and..."

"A BAD concussion," D- shouted from the couch. "Ow."

"...and he can't remember where his parents live and we have to go let the dogs out," I finished quickly.

"Oh. Well. They live on such-and-such street, but I don't know the number. Maybe if you got the phone book..."

"Got it! Thanks, R-!"

I got D- back into the car, then drove across town to his parents' place, answering the "where are we going?" questions every few minutes, and sighing at the "I remember someone named J-" comments. D- had to fiddle with every key on his chain before he could find one that opened his parents' front door. But when he got the door open, the dogs ran out at us, stopped for a moment to lick our shins, then bolted outside.

"Are they always this excited to see me?" D- asked.

"Yes. Especially when they really have to pee." The dogs took a *very* long time peeing. After a few cuddles and pettins, I insisted D- go to the clinic. He claimed he was fine, until I asked him where *he* lived, and after a blank stare, he got himself into the passenger seat.

The clinic wasn't too busy, but we had to wait for half an hour or so, and when it was D-'s turn, he asked me to come with him. I was decidedly uncomfortable.

"What if they have to check for a hernia?" I asked.

"You can step out for a moment," he said.

"What if they have to..."

"Please, just come with me," he said. I went with him. He sat on the examination table, and the doctor came in after another twenty or so minutes. While we waited, we went over the facts together, many of which were still a bit woozly in D-'s memory.

"So," the doctor said as he closed the door behind him. He glanced over the tops of his glasses at the chart in his hands. "Which of you is D-?" He waited for a brief moment before laughing. "I always say that," he said, "when I first meet my patients."

I stared. D- grinned weakly.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked.

"Well," D- began, "you see, it's kind of a strange thing that happened."

"There's a poem," I began.

"By Walt Whitman," D- continued.

"No - Robert Frost," I said.

"Right. Robert Frost." He said. "About jumping out of trees..."

We both stared at the doctor expectantly. The doctor returned our expectant stare with one of his own. "Yes?" he said.

"Well," I began.

"I kind of..."

"He thought the tree would just bend and lower him gently to the ground, like in that poem."

"You didn't..." the doctor began.

D- nodded gravely. "I jumped out of a tree," D- said.

"You did WHAT!?" The doctor said, eyes wide.

"Well, I just...in the poem..." D- began.

"In the poem, the trees gently bend and lower the boys to the ground. But the trees in the Red don't do that." I said.

"I chose the wrong sort of tree," D- continued, "or the wrong size."

"..." the doctor said, staring. "..."

"He hit his head," I said. "He lost consciousness for about two minutes. He's experienced dizziness, headache, and memory loss."

"And memory loss," D- said. "Lots of that. I think."

The doctor stared and stared. "Normal people," he began, "Normal people do *not* jump out of trees."

D- just sat there, nodding sagely.

"Poets jump out of trees," I said, helpfully. The doctor shot me a fiery look. "Um. But poets...know the right...sorts of trees...and they don't....get....concussions..." I let the discussion slowly fade away.

The doctor checked D- over, muttering now and then about stupid people, and stupid ideas, and didn't we know that the brain is a delicate, delicate organ, and why on earth would you jump out of a tree? And sometimes he said something about literature being dangerous if it's going to be all jumping out of trees from here on in. And what do they TEACH you in school these days? Aren't there poets who don't write about jumping out of trees? Don't they know how DANGEROUS that is?

Finally, the doctor stood up, told D- to quit reading poetry and to take some aspirin and rest for a couple of days. He said, "most of your memory should come back, but you could have done permanent damage. PERMANENT DAMAGE; do you understand that?"

"Oh yes," D- said. "I think my tree-jumping days are numbered."

The doctor glared at him.

"He means over," I offered. "His tree-jumping days are over."

"NORMAL people," the doctor pontificated insistently, "do not *jump* out of *trees*."

And that was the time my friend D- jumped out of a tree because a poet said it was cool. Just goes to show you how dangerous books can be.

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

"Umm...D-?" I asked tentatively as we drove up the hill.

"Yeah?" he said, his arm across his forehead.

"Where do your folks live?"

There was rather a long pause. "My, uh, parents live with me?"

"No, but that's where your dogs are."

"I have TWO dogs," he said.

"You do."

"They like dancing."

"Um. Okay. But we can't let them out to pee if I don't know where they are."

"They're ...at ...my ...parents' ...house?" he asked tentatively.

I paused for a moment this time. "Yes. Yes, your dogs are at your parents' house."

"Ah," he said, and leaned back in the seat, putting his arm over his forehead again.

"D-?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"Where is your parents' house?"

"You mean you don't KNOW!!??"

"No, not at all."

"Oh GOD!" he panicked. "The DOGS!!"

"Hey, you know what? We'll go to my house, check out the phone book, and you can tell me which address looks familiar. How many W-s can there *be* in the phone book, anyway?"

He stared at me.

"Yeah," I conceded. "I know. IT's a common name."

He closed his eyes and covered his face with both hands. "Come on, D-," he said, "you need to remember this...." after a few moments, as I was pulling on to my street, he sits up bolt-straight. "I KNOW!" He shouts.

"You DO!!??" I ask, excited.

"Yes! I jumped out of a tree!" He shouted.

"I know!!" I shouted back.

"Because I read about it in a poem!"

"By Walt Whitman!" I was very, very excited.

"Or Robert Frost!" He announced.

"Yes!"

He was grinning widely at me. I nodded a couple of times, encouraging him to continue. "What?" he asked.

"Well, where do your parents live?"

"Oh, I have no idea," he said, still pleased with himself. "Why, are we going to see them?"

I sighed, pulled into my mother's driveway, and shut off the car. "Let's just go see," I said, "before we go to the clinic."

"I have a concussion!" he announced, his smile growing.

"Yes, you do." We walked into the house. He was *much* steadier this time. He didn't even need my help, although I walked close to him in case he got dizzy. The screen door banged closed behind us. My mother sat in her favourite chair, perched in front of the picture window.

"Hi kidlet," she said. "Hi D-."

"I have a concussion!" D- announced, happy as a pig in poop.

My mother glanced up at him. "Do you, now?"

"Yup! I jumped out of a tree!"

My mother glanced over at me. "There's a poem," I began.

"Robert Frost," my mother said.

"Or Walt Whitman," D- said, still grinning.

"No, it's Robert Frost," my mother said. "It's called Birches."

"I told you no good comes of Walt Whitman," I said to D-.

"But," my mother began, stubbing out her cigarette, "the boys in Birches did not get concussions."

"Well, yes," D- continued, sitting on the couch as I went to find the phone book, "I suspect my technique needs some work."

"He chose a tree that was too big," I called from the kitchen, "and the wrong sort of tree. And it broke."

"So, really, you plummeted out of a tree, more than jumped out of a tree?" my mother asked.

"Well, the plummeting was precipitated by the jumping," I called back.

"And now I have a *very* bad headache," D- said, still grinning, "and I can't remember a thing!"

My mother stared at him, a smile touching her lips. When my mother smiled, her mouth turned down instead of up. "cenobyte certainly has some interesting friends," she said.

"Ah-HA!" D- called, wincing at his own volume. "Your name is CENOBYTE! I knew I'd figure it out eventually."

"Actually, my name is Millicent," I replied. "cenobyte is just my nickname."

He stared at me for a minute. "I see you've forgotten that cenobyte is full of shite," my mother said.

"Yes, I had forgotten that," D- said.

I showed him the phone book. There was a choice of several W-s, but only four D-- W-s. "I'm not sure," he said. "I can't remember."

"Well, would you like to have a cool drink and just sit for a minute and try to remember, or would you prefer to go to the clinic?"

"I think I'd just like to sit for a minute."

My mother lit another cigarette. "You could ask R-," she said. R- was friends with D- as well, and she taught with my mother.

I phoned R-.
"Hello, R-," I said. "This is cenobyte. I'm wondering if you could help me with ...erm... a rather strange request..."

Labels: living in a tree, vacation

We sat together under the tree, the broken tree, for a little while. Every now and then, my friend would say, "Gee, I have a bad headache," or "this is a very odd day". I sat beside him, agreeing with him that it was indeed a very odd day, or that it made sense that his head hurt, owing to the fact that he had a concussion. Then he looked at me, his eyes wide, and said, "What day is it!?"

"Tuesday."

"Oh," he said, seemingly calmer. Then, "Er, what *month* is it?"

"July".

"Oh," he said thoughtfully. "I wonder if I have a job."

"Yes," I answered, "you do. You work mostly evenings, but your schedule is open until Saturday."

"You seem to know quite a lot about me," he said. "Are we romantically...inclined?"

"We are not," I answered hastily. Perhaps too hastily.

"Ah," he said. "I see. Is your name...J-?" he asked.

"No," I answered, momentarily feeling very bad indeed. Then I realised he wouldn't likely remember how quickly I'd insisted we were not romantically involved. "But J- is a friend of mine. She works with you."

"Ah," he said, "because I think I remember J-."

"Mmmm." I said. Earlier that day, we'd quarrelled a little over the fact that he wouldn't shut the eff up about J-, and I was quite tired of it.

"You know, I have the *worst* headache," he said.

"Would you like to go to the clinic now?" I asked.

"I think I'll just sit for a moment. If you don't mind my asking," he said, "what am I doing out here in the woods? And what, furthermore, are you doing here with me, if we are not romantically inclined?"

"We were walking together. Hanging out. Then you decided to jump out of a tree. That did not end well for you."

"I don't suppose it would," he said. "Walt Whitman wrote a poem about young boys climbing trees and they would hold on to a branch, or the sapling's trunk, and then let go with their feet, and the tree would bend gently and lower them to the ground."

"Well," I said, "I've always said that no good comes of Walt Whitman."

"Or maybe it was Robert Frost," he said. "I have the worst headache."

"I think it's a good idea for us to go to the clinic," I said. "After all, it is Tuesday."

"What's special about Tuesday?" he asked.

"Headache days at the clinic," I replied. He glanced suspiciously at me, then started to laugh. It was the first time he'd laughed in half an hour. I figured things would be okay, then.

Slowly, I helped him to his feet. He was unsteady, and a little dizzy. He leaned heavily on me as we climbed the forested hill on the way back to the car. "I think I'm starting to remember, now," he said. "I remember someone called J-."

"Yes," I said, a little out of breath from half-carrying him up a hill and across a field. "I suspect you do. You wouldn't shut up about J- earlier."

We rested often, and discussed things like headaches and trees and Walt Whitman. Sometimes we discussed Robert Frost, as well. Once, I broached Gerard Manley Hopkins, but that caused a great deal of consternation, so I backed down. After a couple of hours, we were in sight of his car.

"Oh look," he said. "A car! Perhaps we can flag them down, and..."

"That's your car," I said, tired, sweaty, and a little short of temper.

"I see," he said. "In that case," he reached into his pocket and drew forth some keys. "One of these ought to do the trick."

I grabbed the keys out of his hand and shook my head at the look of offense he shot me. "You can't even remember your name or where you live. You can't stand up on your own. You have a concussion because you JUMPED OUT OF A TREE. I am NOT letting you drive."

"That's probably a good idea," he said. Then, as soon as he opened his door, a look of fear crossed his face. "Oh my God," he said.

"What!!??" I asked, suddenly alarmed at his ashen look.

"I have DOGS," he said.

"Um. Yes?"

"I have two DOGS!"

"I know."

"We have to go back for the DOGS!!"

"Oh, ah, yes, well, you see, your dogs are at your parents' house right now. In fact, we might want to stop there first so they can pee."

He sighed heavily in relief. "That's good to know. Do you know J-? I think she works with me."

I sighed heavily and started up the car. I was a tad rusty on driving standards, but after a few bunny hops, I got us going. "This is a nice car," he said. "What year is it?"

"Um," I said. I glanced over at him.

"This is *my* car, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes. Completely. I'm driving because you have a concussion."

"Oh! That would explain this terrible headache I have."

"Which you got from...."

"...jumping out of a tree?" he asked tentatively. I was very pleased.

"You remembered something! Good for you!" I exclaimed. It was a very Princess Bride moment.

"You know, I could have sworn I have dogs," he said. "Two dogs. Little things."

"You do have two little dogs," I said. He glanced around the car. "They're not here right now because they're being featured in a commercial for pet food, and their handler says it's best if you're not there to distract them, so we came for a walk in the woods," I said.

"Ah," he said. "Of course. I remember."

I glanced at him. "Do you also remember that you perform in the lounge at the hotel in town?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I sing Elton John songs."

"And Kim Mitchell," I said.

"Only in the summers," he said.

It should be noted that my friend was the night auditor at the hotel in town, didn't sing Elton John tunes, and his dogs were never featured in any commercial. I am a bad, bad person.

"Do you remember my name?" I asked.

"You know, I'm terribly bad with names," he answered.

"Well it's okay, owing to your having a concussion and all."

"I have a concussion! That would certainly explain this headache. It's a doozy."

"My name is cenobyte," I said.

"I knew that," he said. "It's just that I'm really quite bad with names. What day did you say it was?"

"Tuesday."

"Ah. That's good then. I work on Friday, I believe. Hopefully this headache will go away by then."

I glanced at him. We were driving through the city now, toward his parents' house. "You remembered something else!" I said.

"Well!" he said, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. "Good for me."

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

It was difficult not to panic, really. We were several kilometres away from the car, through hills and hummocks and light forest. My friend was not a big man, but I was fairly certain I couldn't carry him the whole way. I began looking around for something with which I could lash together some boughs to make a travois. I figured I could use my (and his) shoelaces and strips from our shirts, etc., if I had to.

I was kneeling with one knee at either side of his head (but not in a naughty way. Sicko), making sure he didn't move his head too much. Staring down at him, I sighed.

"Sometimes those are very difficult questions," I said. "People struggle with their identities all the time. Sometimes for their whole lives."

He closed his eyes. "My head *really* hurts," he said.

"Well, that makes sense. Do you know what happened?" I asked.

"I was hoping you knew that."

"I do. But I'm trying to assess how bad your concussion is."

"Oh. I have a concussion, then?"

"Yes. You do."

He tried nodding. I put my hand on his forehead and told him, "Please don't move your head. I'm not sure if you have a neck injury."

"A neck injury?!"

"Yes."

He opened his eyes. "You know, looking up at these trees, it reminds me of a poem I read once."

"Was it the one by Robert Frost? About young boys climbing trees?"

"Or maybe," he said, "it was Walt Whitman. How did you know that?"

"I'm terribly clever," I replied. "Do you remember what happened?"

My friend glanced around, trying not to move his head. "My neck doesn't hurt at all, you know," he told me. "I think I can sit up."

"I should get you to sign a waiver," I said.

"A waiver?"

"Because all those people who broke their necks thought they were fine and then the people with them let them move, and SHABANG!" I shouted. "All busted up forever."

"I see." He stared up at the sky. After several minutes, he asked, "if I *have* hurt my neck, what can you do?"

"Well, I hadn't really got that far. I suppose I'll stabilise it as best I can with splints and fabric, and go for help."

"I must be very lucky to know you," he said.

"Oh, of course you are. But maybe," I said, "maybe you actually *don't* know me. Maybe I'm just a kind stranger who happened upon your nearly lifeless corpse in the woods."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," he said. Then he closed his eyes again. "Do you know why I have such a bad headache?" he asked.

"A better question is, do you know why?"

"Did I..." he began, "have an accident?"

"Yes, you did!" I was very excited. I thought perhaps he was remembering something.

"I'm guessing, you know," he said.

"Oh."

"It's more likely than having been lured into the woods by a beautiful young woman who then hit me over the head with something very heavy, only to have her nurse me back to health."

"There could have been two women," I suggested. "The first one bludgeoned you, and then perhaps I happened by and took pity on you."

He opened his eyes and stared up at me. "That's ridiculous," he said.

"It's no more ridiculous than jumping out of a tree," I said, somewhat insulted that he'd shot down my flawless theory.

He closed his eyes again. "People don't jump out of trees," he said, as he rubbed his temples.

"Careful," I said. "You're moving."

"I think I'm okay to sit up," he said. "I'm pretty sure I didn't hurt my neck."

"Yeah? How are you sure of that? What happened, anyway?"

"You know, that's the strangest thing. I don't remember."

"Tell you what. I'm going to just wrap this sweater around your neck, okay? I want you to keep your neck as straight as you can."

"That's very kind of you," he said. Then he looked at me quizzically. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Yes," I said. "Do you know you?"

He furrowed his brow. "Well that's odd, now. I couldn't tell you my name. Huh."

"Your name is D- W-," I said. "You were named after your father, who is also D- W-, but they don't call you junior. They call him D--, and you D-."

"Oh, that's nice," he said. He began a slow attempt at sitting up. "I'm sorry, it's just that I have such a bad headache."

"That's all right. It's what happens when you jump out of trees."

"What!?" he asked, shocked.

"Sometimes, when you jump 20 feet out of a tree, you end up hitting your head and getting a headache. Due to the concussion."

"I guess that makes sense," he said. He was sitting up, leaning against the selfsame tree he'd leapt from. "I can't imagine why anyone would jump out of a tree. That's ridiculous."

"Maybe I lured you out into the woods, and then bludgeoned you."

He glanced up at me. "That's a more likely explanation. Who jumps out of trees?"

"Robert Frost might," I said. "Or maybe Walt Whitman."

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

"Birches" by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

A friend of mine and I were walking in The Red, and he said, with a wistful look on his face as he stared up at the tall young poplar trees, "You know, I read a poem by Walt Whitman about these boys who jumped out of trees, and the trees would just lower them down to the ground."
And I said, "No good comes of Walt Whitman."
And he said, "Well, maybe it was Robert Frost."
And I said, "He's no Walt Whitman."
And he said, "Is that a good thing?"
And I said, "Absolutely."

I think this friend of mine may have been trying to impress me with his vast knowledge of poems about young boys who jump out of trees. And then my friend shimmied up a poplar tree. I think he was also trying to impress me with his vast tree-shimmying ability. Then my friend grabbed the tree up above the teeny tiny branch he was standing on, and he jumped out of the tree.

And the tree bent, and bent, and bent, for about ten of the twenty or so feet he was above the ground. And my friend shouted: "Look! It's just like in that poem by Robert Frost!"
"Or Walt Whitman," I called. "And no good comes of Walt Whitman!"

And then the tree, which was just a bit too big, and also the wrong sort of tree, snapped in half.

And my friend plummeted to the ground.

And the top of the tree he'd been holding on to plummeted to the ground after him.

And he hit the ground. And his head hit the ground. And the tree hit his head. And he lay there for a while. Probably he was thinking of Walt Whitman. Or Robert Frost.

I went to him, and made sure he was breathing (he was) and that his heart was beating (it was) and that he had no compound fractures (he didn't) and that he wasn't moving his head (he wasn't moving anything). Then I did the knuckles-on-the-sternum thing and I called his name, and he opened his eyes and he said, "Hello."

I thought that was a perfectly reasonable thing for a man who's just jumped out of a tree to say. "Hello," I said. "How are you?"

"Well," he said, looking up at me, "My head really hurts."

"You lost consciousness," I said.

"I did?" he asked.

"You certainly did," I said. "I was a little worried."

"Oh," he said. "That's nice of you."

We stared at each other for a moment.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked.

"Not a clue," he said.

"Do you know who *you* are?" I asked.

"Not so much," he said.

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

The first time the man on the right in this photo (heretofore referred to as "Uncle B", not his real name) said to me, "cenobyte, you need to learn to water-ski", I said, "Okay! That sounds awesome!"

It didn't *feel* awesome. It felt terrible. I'd watched *him* ski, and my Da, and I'd watched woman after woman try ("did they try and fail?" "They tried and died."), and it seemed like something only a chosen few could actually do. Then my aunt got up and stayed up. Then, Uncle B said, "it's your turn!"

"We'll start," he said, "in the shallows, so you can get your skis on."

"These bloody things float all over the place!" I hollered. My skis were flipping catawompous, banging in to each other. The lifejacket was bulky, gathering up under my chin, the zip poking me. The lake was chilly (but "like glass. Just like a mirror," Uncle B said. Apparently, that was a good thing. Less surface area or something when you crash at speed.) but not cold.

Uncle B's boat was white with blue stripes, and a window that opened. If you were very, very good, he might let you sit on the hood of the boat up at the prow, and hold on to the rails while he drove. There was a little step in the split window to let you do just that. If you were very, very good.

"Keep your skis together!" he called.

"I can't! They're like magnets at opposite poles to one another!"

"What?" pause.

"It's difficult. They keep flipping around," I edited myself. I was, after all, only eight years old.

"They'll straighten out once we start to pull you."

"Great!" I called. Great, I thought. They'll straighten out when the boat starts pulling me. That propellor churning up the weeds and fish to a great roiling bubbling green mass. Then the skis will straighten out. Then I will stand up out of the water like Venus on the half-shell, and I will cut through the mirror waves and be free and powerful and a skier. Great.

"Bend your knees!" He called (He being Uncle B., not God. Well, God *might* have called out 'bend your knees', it's difficult to be sure about that. What with the sound of the engine and the waves lapping and the shivering and the skiis knocking together and my teeth chattering and wondering why the hell I'd agreed to do this stupid, stupid thing).

"They are bent!"

"Like you're sitting on a chair!" He hollered.

"I have the idea."

"Do you remember the signs?" He called.

"Yes!"

"Show me 'faster'!" He shouted. Thumbs up. "'slower!'" Thumbs down. "'I'm okay!'" Hands over head in a pointy little arch. "Go home!" I just about gave him the finger, but chose instead to pat my head. The proper sign for 'go home'. "Okay. Keep your knees bent!"

"We've been over this!" I shouted back.

"Rope between your skiis!"

"Gotcha!"

"Keep your skiis straight!"

"That's becoming increasingly difficult!"

"Ready?"

"Umm..." Wait. Was that out loud? What had I just shouted? Did I shout, as I wanted to shout, did I shout, in fact, you know what? I've changed my mind. I think I'll take these skiis up to the dock and just stand in them and pretend I'm skiing. I have a very active imagination. Really. I can learn to ski next year. Is it *imperative* I do this now? I think the skiis and I just aren't seeing eye to eye. Foot to boot. If you will. No. That is not what I've shouted. I've shouted "HIT 'ER!", which in skiish means "Go! Go like the wind! Go like a bat out of hell! Go! Go! GOOOO!"

The engine burbled. It cut the water. I felt the boat pull me.

"I'm going to tow you a little ways first. Hang on! Don't stand up until the boat goes faster!"

I clutched the rope in white-knuckled fingers. The skiis cracked together. The tips crossed. What did they tell me about the tips crossing? I couldn't remember. Shit! I couldn't remember. They'd told me something Very Important about the tips of your skiis crossing and it was gone. Something about if the tips of your skiis cross, your throat will be instantly slit when the one safety mechanism inherent in water skis (they float) fails because of the...don't cross the tips, they said. Don't cross the tips.

I wrenched my ankles around. Tips officially uncrossed. The rope was tense, sitting up out of the water as the boat pulled me. Like the Titanic, I rolled in the boat's wake. Side to side, awkward. Clutching the rope. Feeling my feet, strapped to three feet of wood, pushing against the water. Against the water. Not slicing through it. Not skimming it. Pushing against it. Against the solid water. I heard the engine cough once, twice...the rope leapt into the air. I pushed against the solid water, pushed, extended my legs...

I realised I was holding my breath. My eyes were closed. I felt the spray from the boat against my face. Opened my eyes. Everything was green. I took a breath. Mouth full of water. Weeds slapping against my face. The rope went slack. I bobbed to the surface, sputtering.

They're laughing. In the boat. They're laughing.

"You didn't let go of the rope!" Uncle B., says. It's half-question, half-disbelieving statement.

"You told me to hang on!" I cried, coughing.

"Yeah, when I'm towing you. But if you don't get up, you have to let go of the rope! You were skiing on the bottom of the lake!"

"I noticed." My face flared. Had I not been submerged in cold lake water, it would have flushed. Anger burst into my chest, pushing my heart hard against my ribs. "This is stupid."

"Try again," he said.

"No." I said.

"Come on," he said.

"No." I said.

"Just let go of the rope if you don't get up."

"No," I said.

Everyone in the boat stared at me. They had expectations. They could all water ski (well, not my mother. She couldn't do anything that involved water, speed, heights, or physical activity/co-ordination except dancing. Also, my grandfather couldn't ski. He was blind, deaf, and had breathing problems. Also, 78. Neither could my grandmother ski. She was busy dying of cancer. But everyone else could ski).

I wanted so much to be like them, to be part of the family that shared my mother's maiden name. They'd had pictures done once, and I desperately wanted them to ask me to be in the photos. "What about me?" I'd asked in my excited six-year-old voice. "When's my picture? When do I get to sit with you?"

"You can't," my mother told me. "It's only for the Cs."

"But," I said, not understanding. "But I'm half C!"

But I was never really a C. They'd say, "oh, she's so much like a C," and then I would be part of their club. I would be a full-fledged member of laughter and fun and merriment. I'd have STORIES told about me. I'd tell stories one day. I was a C! But if I couldn't ski...if I couldn't do it, maybe I wouldn't be a C. All the Cs could ski. Except for the above mentioned people, all of whom Cs. My Da was a B, and he could ski. My uncle, a T, and he skiied (he lost his glasses, rings, watch, and damn near his trunks when he bailed once, but he still skiied). They could ski with the Cs.

"Fine," I spat. "I'll try it ONCE MORE. Do you have any other great advice for me you've forgotten to share?"

Uncle B. grinned. "Yeah. Let go of the rope if you don't get up."

And so, I skiied.
Not that time, not the next, nor the time after that, nor the time after that, nor the time after that. But eventually, I got up. And I skiied. And I was a C...better than that, I was a B, and I could ski.

This is not a photo of me skiing. This is a photo of Cousin Ess. He is also a C, which is still important, but in a different way.

Labels: boat swimming, fall, lake, vacation

In the evenings, the sun lit up the hills. Golden fire facing east, and the water smooth as glass. You can dive off the end of this dock (as long as you do a surface dive, you're good); in the mornings, the sun sparkles off the water - it is a lake full of diamonds. Very distracting for someone so distracted by shiny things...

Water lapping lazily at the shore and the whisper of wind through rattling poplar leaves - what better to lull you to sleep, to send you precious dreams and unexpected visions? And in the morning, the welcoming scent of fresh coffee. Family, laughter, comfort, new folks, old folks, plenty of steak and lobster (cousin Ess knows "a bunch of Newfies" who send him fresh (still living) lobster and crab every year. Cousin Ay made a thirty-gallon tank that fits on the BBQ pit. Lots of lobster), golf, swimming, canoes, boats, tube rides, and, best of all, tossing both kids in the lake and swimming out after their giggles surface.


In the evenings, the sun lit up the hills. Smoke and fire facing East. The sun has dipped just below the rolling hills. At any moment, you kind of expect the roar of an uncontrollable grass fire to race through, in the wake of herds of deer, rabbits, skunks, and little bluebirds. In particular, a skunk called Flower, with buddies Thumper and Bambi.

MMmmmm. Roast venison.

We had that!!

But srsly. This sky was pretty amazing.

I didn't really want to leave, to be honest. But I have this interview, see, with this guy what wrote some books I really like. So I had to come home. And this was my view as I drove home along the muddy, noisy gravel road.

*sigh* I've missed you, Valley. But why could you not come with a lake that also includes my cousins, aunts, and uncles?

Bye, lake. See you soon.

Labels: Home, lake, skies, vacation

The lake is gorgeous, rain and sun.

Waited twenty minutes for the dial-up to work for me, so's I could post this for you. Forgot to line up a bunch of posts for the Away Days.

cenobyte may come back here next week, too.

Labels: lake, vacation