Wednesday, September 26, 2012

What matters most are little things


There are men that somehow just grip your eyes and hold them hard like a spell and such was he, as he pointed the flashlight in my direction and with inflection, all bundled in woolies and lumberjack red, his face unshaven—said, as I turned my head—“The lady that’s known as Lou.”

It made everyone laugh as he carried on his narration, drawing us into the story.

The husky rendition of “The Shooting of Dan McGrew,” echoed across the little bay in the south arm of Rainy Lake as six hardy sailors sat around a mighty campfire taking turns reciting the poetry of Robert Service.

I sat there listening to the banter and the tales of the night, clad in my own version of woolies and a toque, and I was so very thankful that I didn’t pull out of the weekend adventure like I’d considered doing—and all because the weather was nasty.

Mother Nature, who would not be moved, threw a cold, windy party for the Rendezvous Yacht Club’s annual fall cruise. But as I am learning, sailors are seldom moved from the love of the sail and while they sail with safety paramount, they are a determined lot of jolly, brave and roving tars.

Admittedly, I had a big whimpering lip in the days, hours, and yes! minutes leading up to the fall cruise as I watched the weather forecast marry Murphy’s Law and slide into the belly of winter.

Despite my misgivings, I channeled Stan Rogers and his song “Northwest Passage” and forged on with my own brave counsel. I was determined to crack the ramparts of my hesitation and take passage over to the adventure.

I quit shaving my legs to gain an extra layer of warmth and packed enough long johns and wool socks to outfit a small team of lumberjacks. I would wear three layers of clothing at all times, lipchap and no makeup. (Thankfully my captain is farsighted.)

As I dragged my rock-weight baggage to the trunk of my car it was all I could do not to run screaming into the house, duct tape myself into my housecoat and hide under the bed until I missed the boat. I felt like the “little engine that could” battling one or two wheels stuck in a vat of molasses.

So I belted out, ”Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage . . .” and the northerner in me rallied!

Late Friday afternoon I drove across the Noden Causeway to meet up with my captain and his sailboat and I looked out over the lake at the seething boiling cauldron as ice-cold rain pelted my windshield.
I was sure I’d lost my mind.

I stood in the rain on the dock and watched the “Morning Dove” dip and swing it’s way to me across the channel. My teeth chattered up a dentist’s bill and my frozen carcass, clad in the pathetic little raincoat I’d found hanging in the barn where it had been collecting pigeon feathers since 2006, was numb and shivering from top to bottom.

I was sure I was off my rocker.

But it was too late for the quitter in me to win. I had one last tantrum, the likes of which looked like “Yosemite Sam” having a fit over an undone plan, and then I stepped onto the boat and sailed from land and the world dropped away.

That night, while we were tucked in a bay on the lake and well-anchored, the gales of November came two months early and blew the pants off September, yet I was safe and sound and warm and happy in a v-berth with the sounds of such a monster raging outside.

And the following night after a day’s chilly sail to the next anchorage and before the mighty campfire drew us in at night; I kicked Mother Nature’s booty and jumped in the cold lake. Emphasis on cold and on screaming how cold it was. Extra emphasis on fun. 

Robert Service wrote a poem about finding the joy in little things and I concur.  

When I ponder, amid this tangled web of fate, about what a fantastic summer I have had, it is the seemingly little things that have brought me the most joy; among them, holding my captain’s hand, a little boat that dips and swings, a sail that fills with wind, the stunning fall colors along the lakeshore, and being in jolly roving company around a warm fire while the words of Robert Service and the songs of Stan Rogers flowed freely through us.

It’s the little things that matter most. Thank you.

(Now hurry up Spring 2013 so we can go sailing again!)

Monday, September 17, 2012

The dog rules on earning one's keep


I was sitting on my wicker couch by the creek a couple of days ago on one of those windy September afternoons that produces very bad hair and smacks of a season I am not yet prepared for.

Where did the summer go? I could have sworn it was June 1st just yesterday and now suddenly I’m seeing more leaves on the ground than on the trees. The furnace has been turned over on a chilly night or two, and hot chocolate is starting to sound like a good alternative to a cold glass of water.

I am a first born list maker and the one I wrote out at the beginning of the summer with all the “to-do’s” I wanted to accomplish before mid-September is sadly little more than half-done.

This one-woman show needs a genetic scientist, a DNA swab, and a cloning program in order to get things done around here.

As I was sitting there by the creek, I asked the dogs when I might expect them to earn their keep and help out. All I got was a wet-nose rub and sloppy lick of canine jowls across the hand I’d just washed.

Then “Dot” promptly trotted to the spot on the ground nearby, where the cat had spat out a mouse’s giblets (now covered in flies) and ate them, then looked at owner as if to ask, “Does that count?”

Owner wanted to throw up but was afraid the dog might eat that too, so instead walked off towards the barn to bang her head on some boards in the hope of shaking up a plan to duplicate herself once, maybe twice.

The dogs followed me in—no surprise on that score.There’s always something better for dogs to do wherever I’m headed—or so I assume—seeing as how they are but a sniff away from me at all times.

And as I entered the barn that day, they were right on the mark.

The canine capers tore from zero to 60 in record time as the pigeon that lives in the hayloft made a run for it, having been found pecking at some old grain seed in a pail sitting on the main floor of the barn.

It was all I could do to duck out of the way as the bug-eyed bird scaled the free space over my head and soared up the stairs to his safety zone, trailed in high gear by a frenzy of fur and barking.

The calamity up there was phenomenal. Not only was it a deafening racket but a fine and steady stream of old hay dust poured through the cracks in the floor caking everything below including my hair and the five nice pieces of newly-painted screen door trim that could have used another hour’s drying time.

The helter skelter was not my idea of dogs earning their keep and a few choice words from the ‘Alpha’ pulled them off pigeon duty and to outside where, pumped with doggie endorphins from all that flurry, they sped off into the field in pursuit of the invisible intruder.

I got busy in the barn and the next thing I knew two hours had passed as I’d fallen into those chores that had been a part of the half-done list of mine.

The dogs had come and gone tenfold during that time, wandering aimlessly in front of the barn doors as I had banned them from entry.

However by the time I finished up and headed back to the house the chumps were nowhere to be found and for a moment I reveled in the quiet of their absence.

I should have known something was up.

No sooner did I walk into the house did the two saps come racing out of the field, and straight past me and through the open door.

The stench of wild animal poop was wretched and unmistakable and when I looked upon the disaster I’m sure my bottom jaw cracked as it hit the floor.

Both dogs’ backs were covered in brown doo-doo; their fur matted with it and hay stubble. Obviously they’d rolled in it in the field and marked themselves in a canine victory rub.

I wanted to duct tape them to the barn wall and walk away but they looked as happy as a pig in . . . .  well, you get the idea.

And for a split second there I smiled thinking, “who am I to decide what constitutes a dog earning its keep around here?” and then I realized I’d just been hired to wash them off. 



Monday, September 10, 2012

Think twice and choose wisely


Sometimes when I open my mouth what comes out are words I wish I had never said out loud. I’ve made that mistake a few times lately and of course the afterlife of regret lingers longer than it’s welcome, like the smell of campfire in my hair that takes two or three shampoos to wash out.

In Gordon Livingston’s book “Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart” he expands on what he believes are “30 True Things You Need to Know Now.”

He’s a hard sell realist for someone like me, who has a much lighter and playful view of the world despite having faced dark sides of it. Nonetheless Livingston’s advice is worth pondering.

He expands in chapter one about “If the map doesn’t agree with the ground, the map is wrong.”

In my book, chapter one would focus on “Don’t say the first thing that comes to mind because it’s probably a bad idea.”

The latter advice tends to contradict my belief in going with one’s intuition or in telling one’s truth, but sometimes even I, too, mistake what’s on the tip of my tongue and mind as the right thing to bring forth to the world around me.

Needless to say when I recently asked a woman I was acquainted with and didn’t see often when her baby was due—as I glanced at her tummy—and her eyebrows suddenly amalgamated in a flat stare that surpassed even my very best such expression, I instantly understood the definition of comeuppance.

The little chap already was eight months old.

The words “I’m sorry” suddenly seemed like the stupidest two-word sentence ever invented and the humiliating exposure of what to say next was as painful as the blistering sunburn I got in the summer of 1972. 

At that moment I wanted to pull a portable black hole from my pants pocket, throw it down in the middle of the department store, jump in and teleport to an overcrowded fish market in Shanghai, China.

I considered using a portable hole a couple of other times this week to escape the tornado that true change spins into life when working full time after a long draught.

And there were a couple of times during the “Adjustment Reaction” period that I was sure I was duct taped to perpetual cycles on the “Round Up” amusement ride at the Emo Fall Fair.

In fact the ride was such that I wore myself out and forgot to get off and write a column last week. That disappointed me greatly.

My captain believes there is a silver lining to be found in most conundrums. 

All I had to do was miss one week of column writing to find out that I have more readers that I thought I did as many of them made known to me my lapse in their regular reading schedule.

I can assure you this train of thought is not headed for the dead-end rail. And thanks for pushing me back on to the track.