As Long As The Kids Enjoyed It

*** continued from previous post ***

Carl, Mark, (Oh my GAWD they're commies!) their wives and children, and their wonderful mother Martha, took their places around the other three sides of the table. The energy that had bubbled so profusely from the group was gone, replaced by a quiet look that can only be obtained by walking miles and miles and miles in the wet and cold with whining children. And wives. And brothers. Except Martha, who we would later discover was in our camp when it came to hiking, if by hiking you meant sitting on your butt and reading a good book and occasionally getting up for a bite to eat.

I turned to your mother to say something, something no doubt witty and soothing and terribly, terribly apropos, but her eye-tic was back. I slowly slid the cutlery out of her reach and smiled the smile of a physician trying to act cheerful for his patient while all the time he has horrible test results in hand. ("Hello Mr. Johnson, having a good day? You are? Well, you might want to back off of that a bit.”)

Taking a page from your Mother's copy of "The Art of War" I plastered a smile on my face and said, "Hello everyone. How was your hike?"

Carl fell back into his chair rather harshly. Evidently his hike had played a bit of havoc with his knees for they weren't bending well. Not well at all.

"Wet. Wet and cold," he said opening his napkin with a flick of his wrist and deftly dropping it into his lap.

How should I respond? My mind raced. I calculated a hundred responses, seventy-five of them completely inappropriate. I pushed them away and said the most neutral thing that came to mind.
"Oh. That sucks."

He shrugged his shoulders and one corner of his mouth contracted. "It was okay. The kids enjoyed it."

"Well, as long as the kids enjoyed it." I nodded my head and smiled.

As long as the kids enjoyed it. Oh, a dollar for each time I said that line as you girls were growing up! Let me translate for you - 'It was absolute Hell! Hell I tell you! But it kept the children occupied for a few hours and reduced the whining to a minimum resulting in an afternoon where, for a brief moment, I didn't have to contemplate putting them up for adoption. So, it was fine and hopefully, I will heal.'

*** the journey continues ***

Never Poke A Caged Universe With A Sharp Stick

*** continued from previous post ***

The moment we step in the door our noses are accosted - yet again - by wave after wave of delightful aromas. Even though I haven't yet digested breakfast, let alone lunch or High Tea, my stomach answers this olfactic symphony with a grand and mighty gurgle.

Stacy is there, and with a broad sweep of her hand lets us know that we can take any seat we wish. The room is fairly full, but not overly so. All but one of the tables has at least a few people scattered around the perimeter sipping wine and drinks.

Now here is the dilemma: Do we sit at a table that is already occupied or do we grab the empty one? If we do sit at the empty table will we be seen as 'snobs', or as considerate visitors sparing this collection of landed gentry the coarseness of our pedestrian Americanism, sheltering them from two dolts from THE STATES?

Before I could contemplate the ramifications of such a decision, and I want you to realize that wars have started over less complicated social interaction, your mom dragged me to the empty table. Oddly no one seemed to mind. Your mom breathed a sigh of relief as we took our seats.

"Good. Maybe we'll get lucky tonight and have the table to ourselves."

I opened my mouth to chastise her for her audacity. A statement like that can't go unchallenged. You should never ever taunt the Universe in such a manner. Remember my previous advice; the Universe, as I'm sure you've discovered in your 22 year stretch on this planet, will reach right up and bitch-slap you proper the moment you make such a bold declaration. Cases in point: Remember these innocuous bits of verbiage? "This ship is unsinkable!" Or, "There's no way we will elect him a second time." Or, and burn this one into your memory, "It's just a minor territorial expansion to retake historical homelands. They'll stop at the border." Yeah. That one left a mark.

Anyway, next thing you know an ominous shadow fell across the room and our "Breakfast Family" was taking their seats at our table.

I swear, I heard the dirge-like "Dun Dun DUN!". Those few simple notes foreshadowing disaster. Only in my head it was played slap-base style by Les Claypool, some of that Primus hometown-heavy, which made it a tad less creepy.


*** the journey continues ***

Probably Shouldn't Point That Out

*** continued from previous post ***


Back we trudge to the main Lodge, but I'm looking over my shoulder the entire 20 feet. I mean come on! I've been watching Buicks on toothpick-legs wander, stumble, run, bounce, jump, and meander mere feet away from my present unprotected location all day long. I'm taking no chances. They could have used the wallow as a distraction, and were now sitting in the trees. With sniper rifles. Call it species-ism if you want, but I just don't trust moose. Shifty eyes. Fancy dewlap. Who do they think they are anyway?

Mom stops abruptly and I nearly run into the back of her. "Why do you insist on hiding behind me every time we step out the door?"

"No reason. Keep moving. And walk a serpentine path - you walk straight to the door they're going to zero in on you, then 'ffffffffffttt' SPLAT! There goes your chance of ever getting a hat to fit properly again."

Mom grabs my hand and pulls me alongside her. "I'm talking away your Call Of Duty 4 when we get home."

Ha! Idle threats and she knows it! Besides, COD5 is due out in the fall.

"Just trying to add a little distraction and lighten the mood sweetie."

"My mood is light. Don't push it."

Perhaps now is not the time to point out the inconsistencies in that sentence.


*** the journey continues ***

Chapter 9 Dinnertime or 'Political Potluck', Take Your Pick.

*** continued from previous post ***


Chapter 9

Dinnertime or 'Political Potluck', take your pick.



Dinnertime.

I was hoping that the moose would have softened your mom's stance regarding another 'family style' meal, but no such luck. That woman can carry a grudge. Not unlike China and that whole Great Wall thingee to keep out the Mongol hordes. Talk about taking something too far. I mean really, after a couple hundred years it just becomes silly. Well, until your village is sacked and pillaged. Then suddenly a well fortified border makes perfect sense. Which is to say that as dinnertime rolled around your mom became increasingly agitated as the minutes ticked by. This probably wasn't evident to the outside world, but after living and loving this woman for so many years I can pick up on the subtle clues such as a slight narrowing of the eye, a sigh, a softly spoken "Great. Another damn group dinner."

Someday, when the time is right, possibly while she's under a heavy dose of drugs, I shall query your mom as to the origins of the particular phobia. I suspect some childhood trauma. I'm thinking a tragic first day at Kindergarten. A buried memory of a disastrous preschool snack time. Or, and this is more likely, a murky recollection of our first date.

"Suz," I say, because that's her name and calling her 'Carol', or 'Cindy', or 'Dude' doesn't go over well - not well at all - "Suz this is going to be great. Remember sweetie, it's all a matter of perspective. Instead of looking at this as a potential negative experience, let's turn the tables on these Canadians. Let's have fun no matter what. Let's MAKE them love us!"

Mom paused brushing her hair and looked at me through the reflection in the mirror. "You think that's possible?"

"I think it's entirely possible. Not only possible, but probable! I shall dazzle them with witty repartee! I will spin yarns and tales so engaging that you can steal their desserts right from under their noses without them noticing. If necessary, I will jump on the table, grab my cane, and do my awesomely wicked Fred Astaire impersonation."

"Hmmm . . . I seem to remember you doing that at the Collin's wedding. It wasn't exactly a show stopper. They asked us to leave remember."

See? There it is again. Does this woman let go of nothing?

"That's because I forgot the words to 'Singing In The Rain'. Remember? It came out ‘I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain! What a glorious feeling mmmph mmmph da da dee dee something . . . "

I don't think that was it," she said, and returned to brushing her hair. "I think it had something to do with all the broken China, and when you fell you landed on top of the bride's Grandfather."

"Pfffftttt. . . he was fine." I reached down to zip my boots. "Besides, little incidents like that that build character."

”How much more 'character' does an eighty year old need?"

"Honey," I said, and pulled my pant legs over the top of my boot, "I don't know. I just have to trust in the Universe that it was the proper thing at the proper time."

Mom breathed deeply. "I don't want to get into this again. Let's just finish getting dressed and get this over with."

"That's the spirit!", I cried, and swept her into my arms. "See? It's that type of 'can-do' attitude that makes me love you more each day."

Mom pushed me away to arm’s length. "But no dancing on the table. Okay?"

"Alright, but I think you're limiting my social tool-box here."

"I know."

"So, let me get this straight. It's just dancing on the table right? Not dancing in general."
She reached up, surprisingly fast for such a small woman, and tweaked my nose. "Very funny."
"But I do a mad Mamba. I think that the hikers would appreciate the rhythm, the grace, and the spectacle of a bald man on a cane dancing by himself to music only he can hear. Really, would you deny them that?"

"It's a loss they'll just have to suffer. Now come on and let's go find a table."

*** the journey continues ***

It's Gonna Be A Good Christmas

*** continued from previous post ***


October 3rd, 2008

Dear Amber,

Having a bit of trouble here. Seems that I’m coming down with a bad case of laryngitis. My words are all scratchy and screetchy.

So I won’t be writing you any further notes. I fear that would be futile. You wouldn’t be able to understand what I was saying anyway. Damn you laryngitis!

I’ll still be sending you the rest of the story. Just minus the personal communiqués.

Love,

Daddio

PS. I decided to keep the ship, saber, and costume. It should be a good Christmas this year!

*** the journey continues ***

Probably To Soon To Mention This

*** continued from previous post ***


To most people this would seem like an innocuous statement. A simple deceleration of an appallingly innocent action to be taken at a later date, and one, depending on the person, that may or may not happen. With your mom there was no doubt. Within three days of returning home your mother would have the Amazon truck backing up to the door, unloading every book pertaining to moose that had ever been written. She would devour these books within a few short weeks.

Most people would be spewing information like a lawn sprinkler whilst they read on the subject - but not your mother. She would never, ever mention the topic while she was reading, or thereafter. That's just creepy. However, her arcane and detailed knowledge of the moose, if the past was any indicator, would pop up from time to time taking me completely by surprise.

She did the same thing with women's gymnastics, NASCAR, mountain climbing, a small South American tribe that the name escapes me, and men's ice skating.

I don't think skating was so much an issue of studying the subject as I believe it to be a kind of 'channeling'. For example, when the topic of Olympic skating would worm its way into our conversation, oddly enough every four years, your mom's eyes would glaze over and she would stare into the distance as she repeated each contestants given and 'Christian' names, their skating history, their home life, religion, social practices, pet's names, favorite foods, childhood friends, lineage, and blood type.

I TOLD you it was creepy!

As you can see, the handwriting was on the wall. Your mom was well down the path to that darkest corner of the natural sciences - Moose-a-thology. Tragic, I know. There was naught to do but stay out of her way until the fever ran its course in ten years or so.

How many moose are we talking about frolicking below? As the day wore on even your mom got bored watching them. Let's just say there were a lot. Then add four to that total. All I could think was 'Damn. That's going to be a lot of shaggy beasties to dodge when we ride back to civilization'.

Which triggered another thought that had been playing on the periphery of my mind, but one I thought it too soon to mention it to your mother. Don’t think bad of me for what I’m about to tell you. The thought was this: 'I wouldn't mind seeing another bear'.

Yeah, probably way too soon to bring that up to your mom.

No, definitely too soon.

*** the journey continues ***

We're Going To Need A Bigger Litter Box

*** continued from previous post ***


We spent the rest of the afternoon reading, dozing, and watching the never ending stream of wildlife parade in front of our window and in the wallow down below. Mom was curled in the bay window seat, (told you!), and I was futzing with the computer, stumbling around da netz. For future reference here is a solid piece of advice: Some things on the interwebs can't be unseen.

You'll thank me later.

Sitting there I was struck by how bizarre our world has become. Here I was, for all intents and purposes in the middle of nowhere, a moose freeway not 5 yards from my window, yet I was still able to make a call on my cell phone, and with the click of a URL catch up on my LOLcats. (Will that poor walrus EVER find his bucket? I hope so. The theft of his most treasured possession breaks my heart. At least they didn't get his cellular.) I purposely gave a wide birth to any and all news. This was vacation. If the Apocalypse happened while we were away I'm sure someone would fill us in on the details.

I believe I told you before of my 'cuteness' threshold - about 5 minutes on a good day. You know that your Mother, tragically, has no such inhibitor in her brain chemistry. Therefore each new addition to the 'ol waterhole demanded an intense scrutinization and comparison of colorings, head shape, dewlap, height, solidity and speculated political persuasion.
Protip: All moose are rabid liberals. Although the bulls have a natural tendency to be fiscally conservative.

I didn't mind this litany of beastie specifications the first . . . oh, I don't know, seven million times, but I had trouble mustering enthusiasm as the day wore on. Not so for your Mother, who was becoming enamored - nay, smitten I say, smitten! - with all things moosey. I politely reminded her of the devil-moose that had us trapped on the roadway not 24 hours previous, but in a textbook case of 'Stockholm Syndrome' your mom was now a moose apologist, defending the beasts actions as 'natural' - whatever in the Hell that means. I didn't mind. She could give her heart to the Alces Alces while we were at Hidden Valley. The thing that I was afraid of - and you know this was a distinct possibility - was that once I got home I would be required to build a HUGE litterbox, and a garden shed to house the moosechow. Quit laughing. You know I'm right.

So, that's the way the afternoon went. Examining moose as they traipsed hither and yon around the Lodge and the wallow.

"Oh . . . come look! Another baby moose! This one's even smaller than the last, and it has a lighter hue to its coat."

"Adorable," I said, from the bed where I had stretched out with the computer.

Mom put the binoculars down. "You're not even looking."

"I'm sorry sweetie, it’s just that - and don't take this wrong - I've seen close to a dozen of the little guys this morning. Is this one really so different?"

Mom raised the binoculars back to her eyes. "Well, this one has a patch of hair missing from its leg."

I failed to see how this was justification for excitement. "Tell you what, if you see one tap dancing or riding a unicycle let me know."

Mom, for some reason, ignored me. She's been doing that a lot lately. Like the last twenty-five years or so.

"What do they call baby moose?” Mom asked. "Are they calves?"

"I believe," I said, peering over the computer screen, "that it depends on the gender."
"What, like colts or fillies?"

"Something like that, although I believe that female baby moose are called 'Brenda', while the males are known as 'Hank'."

"Hmmm . . . I'm going to buy a book on moose when we get home."


*** the journey continues ***

Damn Fortunate

*** continued from previous post ***

We finished our third, or fourth, or possibly fifth plate of deliciousness, put away the cribbage board, (I, once again, had managed to lose the game by saving a 'pegging hand' - stop laughing), and took a walk out on the huge deck that was literally the front of the Lodge. The clouds had thinned, and the sun was playing peek-a-boo with the mountains and the meadow. It was amazing seeing the valley in sunlight, then in mist, then back to fully lit sun. About 20 feet away on the deck was an older man leaning against the railing smoking a cigar, watching the spectacle with us.

"What an amazing sight," I said to him.

He took a big puff off of his cigar, knocked the ashes into a can that the Lodge had supplied for just such occasions, and nodded his head. "It's a sight I never get tired of." He took another puff and as he exhaled the smoke billowed in the air and immediately dissipated on the breeze. He looked us over slowly, deliberately. "This your first time here?"

Mom and I shook our heads in the positive.

”You should see it in the fall, or early spring. It takes a while for the snow to completely leave, and it does come back pretty early, but even that's a sight to behold."

I pictured the meadow in winter. The even layers of snow blanketing the floor of the valley, the stream cutting a meandering ribbon through the stark whiteness. Although, in reality it probably froze over, but I wouldn't let little things like reality spoil this moment.
"I'll bet it's breathtaking."

"That it is," he said and shifted his weight to his right leg.

"Do you come here often?" Mom asked.

"Oh, not as often as I used to." He took another puff from the stogie. "My wife and I would come here a couple of times a year. We'd hike the valley. We never were much for the all out 'scale the mountain' type of hike. We liked to walk through the meadows admiring the wildflowers."

He paused here, and butted his cigar against the railing of the deck.

"She's been gone for five years now, but I still come up here once a year. Although," he grabbed his left leg at the thigh. "No more hiking for this old bird. Shrugging his shoulders he said, “ But that's alright."

He looked over at me leaning against the railing with my cane. "I don't suppose you hike much anymore, do you?"

"Not too much," I smiled.

"Eh," he said, and waved his hand. "Leave it for the granola bunch. Me? I'll sit and sip a nice Scotch, smoke a Cuban, and read a good book."

"Sounds perfect," I said.

He smiled, but it was wistful and somehow heart wrenching. He placed his cigar stump in a nook at the end of the railing. "For later," he said with a wink. Turning to leave he added, "You folks enjoy your day."

"You too," I said, and with that he disappeared into the Lodge.

Mom inched closer to me and I put my arm around her shoulder bringing her tight into a hug.
"We're pretty lucky, aren't we?", she asked. Her eyes were glassy and wet. She didn't have to say anything else for we both knew what the other was thinking.

"Damn fortunate sweetie. Damn fortunate."

We stood there holding each other close, looking over the meadow and mountains for a long, long time.


*** the journey continues ***

A Little Gene Pool Cleaning Isn't A Bad Thing

*** continued from previous post ***

We walked into the small side room and . . . OMG! No. Not OMG! ZOMG!!1 I thought to myself, 'Self, you're going to weigh the same as a walrus if you're not careful.' It didn't matter. My brain is second banana to my appetite.

There, spread before us were numerous varieties of salami and 6 different cheeses - hard and semi-soft - and crackers and smoked oysters and caviar and toast points and 5 different breads and jams and jellies and creams and veggies and torts and pastries and cake and pie and cookies galore! There were things that I had not a clue as to their contents, but looked so yummy that I had to taste them.

"Oh my. . . ." Mom said, and steadied herself on my arm. "Oh my. . ."

So this was High Tea. Did you know that High Tea is also referred to as 'Meat Tea' in some parts of the colonies? Now there is an idea I could lend my full support. I might be jumping the gun, but your mom and I might be compelled to move to a more civilized region of the world. One where 'Meat Tea' is an actual event and not a garage band formed by 14 year olds with mimicked ennui and braces.

"There's no way," Mom said as an answer to a question no one had asked.

"I know. But it would be rude not to at least sample these tasty offerings. We don't want to be rude, do we?"

"It hasn't stopped us before."

I shook my head. "This is true, but we are turning over a new leaf. A maple leaf, to be exact. It's time to embrace our considerate side, our 'inner Canadian', if you will."

Mom was still staring at the vast array of goodies splayed before us like offerings at the Temple. "And if that involves meat and pastries?"

“It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

"Me too," Mom said, whereupon we dove into the feast like bulimic cheerleaders at a chocolate factory.

We returned to the dining room, and to our seats, where we spent the next hour playing cribbage, nibbling and noshing our way to that time-honored American tradition - obesity. It was a grand voyage punctuated by shouts of 'fifteen-two' and 'fifteen-four' and 'stop cheating ya bastard!'. After an hour or so of this delightful diversion, I looked to your mom and said, "I have to stop eating. It's only 3 hours 'til dinner."

"I know," Mom said, cramming the last few bites of a tort into her mouth.

"I mean seriously. I feel like a beached whale." I patted my expanding girth. "I wonder if I could sue for obesity?"

"Not in Canada.” Mom managed, around the remainder of a chocolate-chip cookie. "Now if we were back home, in the US, then sure. I'd say sue away. But I don't think they have the same level of love for frilly lawsuits up here."

She could be right. Here is another thing about Canada: In THE STATES if you stop at some natural wonder, in a state or national park, the view is usually obscured by 27 signs telling you what not to do followed by a chain-link fence with barbed wire. In Canada, you can drive to a designated overlook, hundreds of feet of sheer cliff, and there will be a small fence. And that's it. No 'DON'T CROSS THE FENCE', or 'KEEP AWAY FROM EDGE, or 'DO NOT THROW STUFF OFF THE LEDGE - THERE ARE PEOPLE BELOW' or 'DON'T FEED THE BEARS CARAMELS FROM YOUR LIPS". In Canada, they treat you like an adult. You want to walk to the edge of what, by any standards is an unsafe cliff? Then be their guest. You want to dive off the ledge into the spillway of a Dam? S'okay with them. I have a feeling that the Darwinian concept is fully embraced up here. Little gene pool cleaning isn't necessarily a bad thing in the great white north.

"Are you telling me that I may have to actually bear the consequences of my actions?"
"Fraid so," she said, patting my arm.

I stared at her long and hard. "That's crazy talk."

"I know sweetie, and you can go back to your blame-less ways as soon as we cross the border."

I found this vaguely comforting.


*** the journey continues ***

That's Why We Are Not Getting A Newspaper Anymore

*** continued from previous post ***


"Probably not a good idea. I'll figure something out. Maybe I could make a bitchin' holster and strap it to my leg? Whatcha think?"

“You do that sweetie."

"You say that like maybe you think this is not a good idea?"

"Well one," Mom said, "I'm not sure that a giant holster, even if it is empty, would inspire much confidence if you wore it in public. If I saw something like that my first thought would be 'where's the rifle'? My next thought would be, 'Where's the Police?' Is that really the first impression you want to make? And let's be honest, you'll never get around to really doing it so rather than get into a lengthy conversation - like right now, I offered my support like the good wife that I am."

She had a point. Well, maybe multiple points.

As you know I have been known to engage in many a brain-stormed creation, many a dream-fueled project that about 3/4 of the way through became . . . boring. And yes I'm talking specifically about that huge pond in the backyard that was going to be filled with Koi and have dragon shaped fountains and gas flames and a huge backdrop made of inlaid wood that rotated, not only to the phases of the moon and sun, but also predicted crop failures, that's now just a muddy hole in the ground and - and I'm making no admissions here - may be the reason we haven't seen the paper boy in a few months.

"Come on," Mom said standing, "I'm not really hungry but let's go see what they have at the buffet. I wouldn't mind a cookie."

*** the journey continues ***

Demon Cane - Bastard Cousin Of The Bungee Cord

*** continued from previous post ***


Stacy, today wearing pink tights to accompany her pigtails and an adorable summer dress, came over and patted your mom on the shoulder. "Well you guys look a little more rested today. How are you doing?"

"Much better, thank you," Mom said.

I nodded my head in agreement.

"What can I get you folks to drink? Tea? Coffee? A nice glass of Okanagan Merlot?"

"I think some tea would be wonderful." Mom reached over and patted my arm. "What about you sweetie?"

"Coffee for me please, Stacy."

"You got it folks."

She pointed over to the same side-board where the box-lunch spread, or, as I now refer to it, "Meat-a-palooza", was earlier this morning.

"Help yourself. Our Teas are quite good. People coordinate their hikes so that they reach us by early afternoon simply for our Teas. And be sure to try the pastries." She opened her eyes wide, "Yum!"

"Thank you," Mom said, “I think I will.”

"I'll be right back. In the meantime there's a good selection of games in the library. You're more than welcome to grab one and bring it in here, or one of our books." She turned to walk to the kitchen, and with a glance over her shoulder added, "Glad you guys got some 'rest'." Then she winked again.

Dammit! I hope no one else saw me blushing. In my fluster I knocked my cane to the ground with a mighty BANG! causing a dead-stop in the room’s chatter and heads to snap in our direction.
"Sorry," I said to the room, and held my cane up so they could see I had simply dropped it and was not, as some suspected, shootin' the place up.

See, here is the damned thing about walking apparatus - canes, crutches, whatever - it's all good and fine when you're up walking about, but the minute you sit down you realize, ‘What the hell am I going to do with this stick?’ I know it sounds trivial, but you have no idea how complicated of a matter this really is. Do you put it on the floor and risk someone tripping? Hold it and there by render one of your appendages useless? Lean it against the table and risk, as I had just done, a noisy clang to the floor? I once asked your mom to affix Velcro to the shaft, so that I could wear the corresponding piece of Velcro on my head in a band, thereby sticking the damn thing to the side of my face where it would be out of the way. Your Mother, ever the party pooper, spent quite a while explaining to me why this would be ridiculous. I was buying none of her reasoning until she said, "Would you like to be called old cane-head?" I think you'll agree that, while I've been called many things in my life, 'Old cane head' is not one to which I aspire.

"You know, I've got to figure out something to do with this thing. It's always in the way."
"Why don't you bring your strap and fold it up? You could hold it on your lap?"

Immediately a sequence of images flooded my brain like the backed-up toilet at your prom date's house. A series where the cane, demon possessed - for this foldable metal stick is really the bastard cousin of the bungee cord, (and you know how well I get along with those) - would break free its minimal bindings, and do bodily injury to myself in a thousand and one ways. 800 of them involving my nether regions. 150 or so resulting in permanent blindness. 25 with a broken nose or shattered teeth. 15 concerning a crushed or heavily bruised larynx. 8 resulting in decapitation. 2 in spontaneous combustion. And 1 wherein I won the lottery and bought a large yacht where I cruised the world taunting indigenous wildlife with native fruit and pithy insults from the safety of my boat. (To be fair I may have drifted off towards the end of this fantasy for as you know my attention span is. . . .oh look! Shiny!)

*** the journey continues ***

A Partial Idiot

*** continued from previous post ***


We walked into the golden hues of the Lodge and made our way to the dining room.

There were couples scattered around the room - some laughing softly and others engaged in deep conversation. The valley was flowing with a river of mist, and we could see small dots in the distance, moose or deer - possibly poshly dressed hikers, the jury was still out - meandering about the far side. We took a seat at a table next to the windows, and settled into our chairs. The floating rhythm of the conversation, the warmth of the stone fireplace, the vastness of the misty mountains and the gleaming green of the meadow was exactly what I had in mind when I had booked this place lo those many weeks ago.

I reached over and squeezed your mom's hand. "Now how cool is this?"

Your mom returned the squeeze. "Pretty darned cool."

"Damn straight woman. See, this is going to be great. Soon the rain shall depart, we will be able to go for a short ride on the bike, and all will be well with the world."

"Um hmm . . .", Mom said, "or not."

"What?"

"Or not go for a ride. I think I'm finally beginning to unwind. For some strange reason sitting here in the lodge has a much stronger appeal than gearing up and climbing back on the bike for another fun-filled day in the rain."

I shook my head. "Wuss. And it will stop raining. Eventually."

"You can call me a 'wuss' all you want. As long as I'm dry."

Even though she had given me permission, and it was mighty tempting, I decided not to call her a wuss again. She was near cutlery. I'm not a complete idiot. A partial idiot, I'll grant you that, but not a complete one.

*** the journey continues ***

High Tea & Using Your Wife As A Living Shield

*** continued from previous post ***

We spent the remainder of the afternoon dozing and talking. Watching the moose, the birds, one very, very curious chipmunk, and generally enjoying the heck out of the day. By the time 'High Tea' arrived, we were ready to get out of our room and enter back into the world of the living for a bit.

As we readied ourselves I asked your mom what exactly was 'High Tea', and how did it differ from 'Low-Tea', or 'Middle-Tea'.

Mom paused putting on her semi-dry socks. "I have no idea. I'm not even sure what 'High Tea' is exactly." She pulled damp cotton up her ankle and winced. "I guess we'll just have to find out."

I walked to the mirror and looked at myself in my jeans, T-Shirt, and riding boots. "What if we're under dressed? I mean, what if we are supposed to be in formal wear? I didn't bring my tux you know."

"I'm pretty sure," Mom said, "that a Lodge catering to hikers in the Canadian Rockies would not require formal wear for High Tea."

"Sweetie. This is Canada, land of myth and legend. It's entirely possible that all men are required to hike in full formal wear."

"And the women?" Mom asked.

"Floor-length gowns, high-heels and tiaras."

"I'm no expert," Mom said, "But I'm pretty sure that's not the case."

"Hmmm. . . ." I looked about the room. "You don't have any scissors, do you?"

"I'm not going to even ask. But the answer is 'no'. I don't have any scissors."

”Bummer. I could have made a stunning leather sport coat from the couch."

"You're dressed fine. Let's go," she said and walked to the door.

Guess what? Yep. Still raining. And as an added treat I was now paranoid about walking the 20 feet to the Lodge door lest I be accosted, and molest-a-pated, by rogue moose fanny. I opened the door and peeked through the crack, (Ha! Pun intended!) looking right and left. Once I assured myself the coast was clear, I pushed your mom through the opening and used her as a shield against anything that might be skulking about. It was then that I noticed something for the first time. Your mom sighs a lot and rolls her eyes more than a normal person. I believe I shall schedule her an appointment with a neurologist when we get home. That just ain't right.


*** the journey continues ***

That Explains A Lot

*** continued from previous post ***

After 'mooses-tushes-exitus', I realized that despite having consumed enough at breakfast to kill me, I was once again famished. Evidently Canada burns the calories. I blame it on the latitude and elevation. Both of those numbers are larger than they are at home, as you know, so it would make sense that the caloric intake required for existence up here would be greater than what is required in the lower 48.

Or, and this is a distinct possibility, Canadian food simply has less calories. Much like broken cookies, which any connoisseur of the sweet biscuit will tell you, has a fraction of the calories of a whole cookie.

This is straight from the expert on all things sweet, your mom. Evidently most of the calories escape from the cookie when it's broken. Like a geyser erupting in a shower from the built up pressure of super-heated water, the calories are ejected from the cookie break into the ether where they roam freely until they attach themselves to unsuspecting middle-aged men all across our fine land as they relax on couches watching sports.

The point being I was hungry. Thank goodness for my glorious meat-feast box lunch. I tore into that thing like a crazed shop-a-holic with a new, no limit credit-card on Black Friday. To my surprise, and a bit to my dismay because I'd been sure I would get at least half, your mom devoured her lunch as well. Whereupon, after a bit of light reading, we promptly fell asleep again.

Apparently, (and who knew?), our little adventure of the day before had left us exhausted. Or, and this is a distinct possibility, they were putting something in the food to subdue people from THE STATES.


*** the journey continues ***

Eww . . . Moose Butt

*** continued from previous post ***

Somewhere around 10-ish, I awoke. I didn't open my eyes right away, but lay there in a glorious state of semi-consciousness, drifting with my thoughts. Most of them involved being at home far, far from all things Canadesque. When I did manage to pry my eyes open the first thing I did was scream.

Scream like a 10 year-old girl at a Hannah Montana concert. For you see, I was not greeted with the pastoral splendor that was the Hidden Valley. I was not greeted with the twitter of birds and the scamper of woodland creatures. I wasn't even greeted by a run of the mill peeping Tom. (Although in Canada, I believe they are referred to as 'Peeping Liams, eh?') No, I was greeted with the full-on view of moose ass backed up against our bay window.

Fully conscious I could have handled the exhibition, but in my semi-stupor of exhaustion I thought that we were being attacked by a hairy giant with a stupid looking nose. Then a new terror struck deep in the marrow of my bones – this was probably a genetically altered Norseman. The thought sent shivers down my spine.

Mom, who as you know, is used to me waking from a dead sleep screaming, yawned and said, "What. Dreaming about rats again?" She rolled over putting her back to me. "You and your stupid rat dreams."

"No," I mumbled in a hushed tone and pointed to the window.

Mom followed with her eyes the length of my arm, down to my finger, and over to the window where she studied the situation for a moment, chewed it around, and offered the only comment one could offer under such circumstances.

"Ewwwww . . . . Moose butt."

"Yes," I said, and hoped that said butt wouldn't push through the window. For, as I'm sure you'll agree, the only thing worse than moose butt against your window is moose butt sticking into your room.

"And a fine example of moose butt it is, yet it is not the first thing to which I wish to be greeted upon awakening from a nice nap."

Having given us a 'free show', as it is referred to in these northerly climes, the moose, no doubt late for some foresty appointment, twitched her tail and ambled back into the woods. Your mom was too quick for her though, and we now have around 700 pictures of a gently receding moose ass. I don't want to spoil the surprise, but this may be the Christmas-card picture for which we had been searching. Nothing says the holidays are here like a well-framed moose heiney.


*** the journey continues ***

How About An Edited, Toned-Down Version Of Us?

*** continued from previous post ***

My mind raced, the gears spinning and calculating, the neurons firing faster than bunnies with a cotton candy addiction. I decided to play dumb.

“Wasn't it though? I thought that the oatmeal was probably some of the best I've ever tasted. That's saying a lot. You know I'm not a huge fan of oatmeal ---"

"Oh, you're not getting off that easy," she said, grabbing a pair of my underwear from a lamp shade and tossing it directly at my head.

"Hey, you didn't stab me with a fork like you said you were going to, so I assumed that you had a good time."

As soon as I added 'good time' I wanted to smack myself upside my own head with a hammer. Couldn't I have just left it at 'you didn't stab me with a fork?', must I add 'good time' in conjunction?

"Define 'good time'," she said, chucking clothing at my head. "If by 'good time' you mean sitting with a bunch of hostile people first thing in the morning, counting down the seconds until I could get back to the room, then yes. I had a 'good time'. If that's the way you define it I also had a 'good time' at my last IRS audit and root canal."

"Well," I said, picking up the mound of clothing growing at my feet, "I will admit that there were a few tense moments."

"Tense? Tense?" She said, ripping shirts from the curtain rods. "I've seen Israeli - Palestinian negotiations that were friendlier."

She had me there.

"I will admit that it wasn't exactly the warmest reception we've received."

She turned to look at me, "Ya think?"

"A fluke my dear. We have to cut them some slack. After all, we are a bit out of our element here, not being the outdoorsy-hikey type and all. And we're from THE STATES, so you know. . . that detracts some points from our overall score as well. But you have to admit, they relaxed and loosened up a bit towards the end."

Now your Mother is many things, rational being foremost among her numerous winning qualities. Usually. Mostly.

She sighed. "That's true. It went better towards the end."

Oh thank GOD! I had her agreeing with me! There may be hope yet!

I walked over and put my arms around her. "Sweetie, we'll all be lifelong friends by the time our stay is over. You'll see. We just have to show them the 'real' us."

She lay her head on my shoulder. "Do you really think that's wise?"

Good point.

"Probably not. How about an edited, toned-down version of us?"

She moved over to the bed, stretched out, and patted the blanket motioning me to join her which I did. "That would be a good idea. No sense traumatizing them."

"Agreed."

We lay there in silence for a few minutes. I turned to your mom to say something but there was no point. She was fast asleep.

Within two minutes I'd joined her on the sweet dream highway. In my dreams the road was dry and bright and there was nary a Canadian to be seen.


*** the journey continues ***

Stabby - Stabby. Right In The Gizzard

*** continued from previous post ***


As I busied myself with America's favorite game, 'Find The Missing Sock', I was silently designing a litany of excuses, pleadings, and bribes for the 'discussion', and yes . . . I mean 'discussion' with the quotes, that I knew was coming regarding our stellar first meal at Hidden Valley.

Mom was just as quiet as I, which made me jumpy. You don't want that woman thinking too long about something without the safety valve of conversation. Have you ever seen a pressure cooker? Yeah. Like that. Only a pressure cooker that could hold a grudge.

It would be best for all concerned - and by all concerned I mean me - to deal with this situation as quickly as possible.

I took a deep breath, ready to plead my case but before I could form a word with my slightly chapped lips your mom said, "So. That was some breakfast," beating me to the point and punching a hole in my tactics.

Oh, how I wish I had never given her Sun Tzu's "The Art of War" as a Mother's Day gift. What the hell was I thinking? At the time I thought it would come in handy for family gatherings. Never once did I imagine that she would turn her studies upon me. However that did settle one thing. There was no way in Hell I was giving her the copy of "Attila's Guide To Winning Friends And Influencing Enemies" that I'd bought as a birthday gift. You know how Attila died don't you? That great warrior, the fierce and ruthless leader, conquerer of eastern and central Europe, survivor of battles untold? Stabbed by his wife, that's how. Stabby-stabby right in the gizzard. Oddly enough after a family-style breakfast in the Canadian Rockies.

*** the journey continues ***

Lunch?

*** continued from previous post ***


After a long period of silence, Mom said, "Okay, I'm not really hungry, but let's go pack a lunch. I'm sure I'll want something to snack on later."

Now that the initial rush had cleared, we had the box-lunch buffet all to ourselves. This beauty was enough to bring me to my knees. Four kinds of breads. 6 different cheeses. Meats - oh glorious MEATS - in abundance.

There were onion slices and lettuce and tomatoes, and all the fine fixin's you could imagine. And, to your mom's delight, 4 different kinds of cookies!

I made two sandwiches that would choke a malnourished Pit Bull. Mom busied herself with the cookie paradise. It was around this time I began, sight unseen, to fall in love with the cook.

We were about to return to our room when Leeza walked past and said, "Don't forget high-tea at 2. I think you'll enjoy it. And remember we have books and games a plenty if you get bored."

Only, she winked again as she said this, and it made me feel . . . prudish. That's quite an accomplishment.


* * *


We wandered back to our room and did a little redecorating. By that I mean we pulled the clothes that were dry from the shelves and light fixtures. I was perfectly fine living in the 'launderette d’explode-o', but I think Mom was tired of moving socks out of the way to get to the balcony.

Luckily most of the smaller items were dry, or if not dry well on their way, but the big stuff like jeans and sweaters would take a bit longer. No rush, we were here for three days. Three wonderful days. 6 more meals. Yum.

*** the journey continues ***

I Hate To Peak Too Early

*** continued from previous post ***


Carl shook his head and went back to his coffee. "So what are you gonna do today?"

Hmmm . . . good question. If the looks coming from your Mother were any indication, I may be defending myself. With a switchblade and club.

"I don't know," I said, turning to your mom. Probably just hang around the Lodge catching up on some reading. We were going to go out and explore the area on the bike, but I've had all the riding in the rain I care to do for a bit."

Carl kind of chuckled at this, but I couldn't tell if it was sympathetic commiseration or a thinly veiled insult. "Well, whatever you do," he said, pushing himself away from the table, "have a good one, eh?"

”We will. Enjoy the trail."

And with that he and his troupe were out the door, off to do all things hikey.

Finally we were alone at the table. I patted your mom on the leg. "See? We made it! That wasn't so bad now was it?"

Mom just stared at me.

Ah good. I was right. What a fine, fine morning this was turning into. I wondered, should I lobotomize myself now, or save it for the afternoon? I hate to peak too early.

"Okay, point taken." I shrugged. "But it got better towards the end. Right? Well, a little better anyway. What say we just move on? Put it behind us. Now, shall we go make ourselves a sandwich for later?"

"Yes, but let's wait for the crowd to clear. Let's just sit here, take in the scenery, and sip our tea and coffee."

Which was your Mother's polite way of saying, 'I would like you to shut the hell up for a little bit.'

So that's exactly what we did. We sat watching the wildlife in the meadow, the mist swirl and rush over the mountain peaks, and a steady stream of bundled hikers spread across the valley like a hatch of new spiders on a warm spring day.


*** the journey continues ***