It's Big. Wicked Big.

*** continued from previous post ***


Hmmm . . . was this a positive or a negative remark? He was smiling, kind of, so I decided to take it as a positive.

"Umm . . . thanks!" I said.

"Oh yeah, no problem. Dat things a wicked honker. I can't believe you rode it up here last night in that storm."

I smiled. "It was a challenge to say the least."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mark and Carl exchange a look and a smirk. That was it. As soon as I got my bacon - for this was Canada, how could we NOT have bacon? Plus, I was jonesin' for some meat – anyway, as soon as I got my bacon, it was a fork into the eyeballs for the lot of them. See how well you can hike all blind and weepy you snotty Albertistanies!

"Not fond of a gravel road, eh?" Carl asked with the corners of his mouth upturned so slightly that it would have made me less angry had he just made a silly face and spit at me.

Donny jumped to our defense. "Well you should see this thing. I don't know whether it's a bike or a spaceship." He shook his head and chuckled. "It's big. I mean really big. Wicked big, ya know? And to think it was almost dark," he shook his head again, "then the bear and the moose? Boy, I don't know if I'd have the guts to do that."

"Well Donny," I said, leaning back in my chair, "sometimes through sheer stupidity you get yourself in so deep, you have no choice but to push through to the other side."

"Boy, ain't that the truth." He clapped me lightly on the shoulder, and with a wave of his hand, and a "Enjoy your breakfast," walked back into the main part of the lodge presumably to continue his business.

*** the journey continues ***

Stigmata: Not Just For Breakfast Anymore

*** continued from previous post ***

I silently begged Leeza not to leave us. I felt our tenuous hold on civility could cross over to unpleasantness at any moment. Much like every family reunion we've ever attended. Except for that one in the park where your Uncle Jahn baked all those plates of brownies and we spent the day laughing and laughing and laughing and then 27 of us hid under the picnic table for an hour because we thought the people at the next shelter were FBI agents.

That reminds me, I need to write Uncle Jahn and get that brownie recipe.

Luckily, the oatmeal was so indescribably delicious that no one spoke for quite some time. I know! Oatmeal! Come to think, it might have used some of the same ingredients as the brownies. The fruit was ripe and firm and . . . umm . . . sweet. What else can you say about fruit?

With food in our stomachs the mood around the table lightened a bit. The family began to talk quietly amongst themselves, and your mom and I held hands under the table offering each other support. True, your mom held a little too tightly, and I had to pry her fingernails from the palm of my hand with a spoon, but it really wasn't so bad. Hardly any blood at all. If anyone were to notice my wounds I would swoon in a religious fervor claiming stigmata.

As we finished the last bites of our cereal, Donny came bounding out of the kitchen and made a beeline for our table. "Boy, I gotta tell ya, that is some bike you got there."


*** the journey continues ***