a couple came into the store

A couple came into the store. There are so many older couples who come in, and we chat, exchange pleasantries, and then they go, the three of us remaining nameless. They think of me as the smiley apprentice girl, and I blend them into all the others I talk to. How many Betty's, Mary's, John's, in one day?

So. A couple came in. Her shirt was green, like Cabot Trail advertisements, her mouth tight around her teeth. His nose was bent in the middle, an old, old scar. One strand had come out of his perfect snow-white combover. When I asked how they were as they came in the door, she smiled and said, "Just wonderful."

They were from Texas, I discovered. She wanted to see puffins so we looked in the guidebook for tours. My father's being from the US was brought up, they discovered he was a draft dodger in the Vietnam era.

"Terrible war," the man said. "Had no business." I wonder if he feels he can say these kinds of things back home?

"And even the ones who came back from it, they were, you know, spat on at the airports, off the boats," she said.

"Is your father still alive?" He asked. I said yes. "He's in his early fifties."

"He'd be Doll's age," she said to him. "Around."

"Do you have a son?" I said. "No," she replied, then he chimed in, "The father of our god-children, he went to war. He died a few years ago, of a brain tumour. They're not sure..." ..if the two are connected, was left unsaid.

I said I was sorry to hear it. There was a brief lull. I shifted on my bare feet.

"So, puffin tours." I said. I told them how to get to Englishtown, where to find a puffin tour. When they left it was as if we'd shared some hidden wound, as strangers in passing can, they seemed a little embarrassed, as if I now had something of them that they couldn't get back. We were now close, but without being close. They left, got in the car, drove away.

A couple came into the store.

sick day

Tuesday, after running around inside of a 7-foot puppet (I'll tell you later), and speaking only French with Melanie, I came home and Will and I gave our farmhouse a makeover. It was a hot day, and sunny out, but we stayed inside and moved boxes and vacuumed and moved more boxes until it was 9 PM. There are three places (four if you count the outside shed) where stuff has been shuttled, and those places are now full up with, you guessed it, boxes. The rest of the house is as neat as it could be. It's really odd to be living in my step-mother's house (where for five years she's lived, and had it full of her stuff) and now it's full of my stuff. Her influence is still here, for sure, her books are still in the shelves and so on, but only where we wanted to leave them. There are no corners we have not changed. There are posters up of rock icons, half-naked women and men, snowboarders, Whistler bars. (Will was in charge of decorating, I added the half-naked man)...

The weather's been hot and humid. Every day after work we've been going down through the fields (now in the process of being mowed) to the swimmin' hole. Mat and I have been building stone stacks in the middle of the river, there are now 12. Maybe we're inspired by Andy Goldsworthy, maybe by Cody's same piles of the last two summers. In any case they look really cool. (If you want to do this at home: take a flat-ish rock and place it somewhere stable--another rock, the bottom of the river (not recommended), the ground. Then, take another rock and balance it on top. Keep on going until the stack will not sensibly go any higher, or it is aesthetically pleasing to you and you'd like to stop. As you are building it, you may re-arrange rocks or take the whole thing apart in order to insert a better rock at any point. As well, maneuvers or manoeuvres in order to divert the flow of water and create a safe place to build your stack are respected.)

I need to get some film. There's been so much to take pictures of that I never realized before. Maybe it's going away to somewhere else that makes coming home so filled with possibility. There are the aforementioned rock piles, there is a shot of Mat sitting in the fast current with blue and white water all around him in the dull light of a grey afternoon, there is the reflection of a perfect sky in the window of the electric-blue dead car in the driveway, there are all the flowers in Robin's yard. There are all the different textures of the outside wall, where seven different kinds of shingles dwell. There are a thousand different pictures I'd like to take, at least. If only I had some film! Such is the trouble of living in the middle of nowhere.

As the title says, today is a sick day. I woke up with a fever, every inch of my skin feeling like it could set fire to whatever touched it. I slept most of the morning away, after calling in sick to work, and then Mum came to bring me the thermometer and some OJ and my half-bucket of honey. (By the way, I adore honey. I could eat it and only it for the rest of my life. That and black currant jam.) This was a really kind thing to do considering it was a 20-minute drive and she too was feeling under the weather. Sometimes it hits me how lucky I am and I feel like I've been blissfully ignorant of a lot of things: the wonderful people in my life, the fact that they are the most important thing to me and how often I forget it. Take it for granted.

In any case. I've been sitting around in old boxer shorts and a tank top all day, and even though I'm sick and all parts of me ache, it's quite nice to do this. At least I haven't got the mumps, at least I have my mum's orange juice.

a poem featuring me (i'm famous!)

i think janice was bored. in any case, i love it!