WTF????

*** after a sight delay I'm back to posting the serialized version of the book ***

However, I was beginning to get annoyed - I mean WTF? You would be proud to know that I pushed on, for I was still in the 'Hey I'm all friendly-like' mode.

"There certainly are quite a few of us in the Puget Sound region these days. The area has grown quite significantly over the last decade or so. Big influx from California a few years back. Shoot, even out little burg has grown so much that I hardly recognize it."

I look to your mom for some kind of confirmation, but she is staring at the napkin in her lap.
Leeza was once again our savior. I should just have started calling her 'Jesus Leeza', but you know how picky some people get about things like that. Panties all in a wad and the next thing you know you're standing on a pile of brush, tied to a post, flames licking your ankles. Let me tell you, that can ruin a Monday fast. Anyway, Leeza pushed a cart to our table brimming with steaming bowls of oatmeal and pitchers of milk. Each of the other tables had a similar cart, with a similar attendant.

"Okay folks, here's round one. We'll let you work on that for a bit before we start on the main course."

She worked her way around the table, passing out bowls. She also set out three large dishes of mixed fruit. The smell of strawberries rushed around the room, giving off a lovely delicate perfume that screamed of spring and hope and happier times.

"Can I get you anything else while I'm here?"

Everyone glanced at each other and shook their heads in the negative.

Isn't that odd the way people will do that? What are we looking for - confirmation? As if we might be forgetting something and are waiting for a member of the group to remind us? Like the whole situation could change if only one of us spoke up? "Okay, her iz zee deal. We meet zee English dogs at zee Waterloo. Everyone agree? Anybody not zink dis iz zee good idea? No? H'okay zen. . . Wait. Did someone in za back zay zomething? No? Oh, screaming from zee battle wound. My mistake. H'okay. I thought maybee you had zumzing to say. Nuting? H'okay. Zen peek up your rifles and off we go to zee victory!"

Leeza waited for someone to say something, and when they didn't she said, "Good! I'll bring some carafes of coffee next trip. Until then . . . enjoy!"

*** the journey continues ***

Children Of The Flax

*** continued from previous post ***

Despite my feelings of inadequacy concerning hot cereal, I knew if Leeza left we would be lost. Two souls from THE STATES ripped to shreds and devoured by this eco-outdoorsey-anti-American minded family. I wanted to say something - anything to engage her in conversations but alas . . . I had nuthin'. Panic and fatigue had drained my creative juices. Were I a lemon I would be all crushed and lumpy with the pulp naught but a disorganized mess in the rind. Still, I had to try and convert these northerly heathens into friends, and quickly. A stolen glance at your mom confirmed that she was about 2 seconds away from a full blown case of the social willies.

I opened my mouth to address the group and prayed that something coherent would pop out. It was a 50-50 gamble. "Come here often?" I asked.

Great. I've just used the lamest bar pick-up line ever on an entire family. That may be a new low for me.

Mark cleared his throat. "Yeah. We come every summer. Carl here," he said, jerking a thumb towards his brother, "lives in Peru. He doesn't get home much. So, it's a nice way to get the family to reconnect."

Carl, who was a smaller, younger version of Mark, even down to the hair and glasses, nodded his head.

"Oh," I said, "that's pretty cool. What a great place for you guys to gather. Not a ton of distractions up here." I made sure to keep my tone light and breezy.

The brothers, in complete unison, nodded their heads three times. Not two. Not four. Three. I felt my stomach turn. This was some scary, scary stuff right here. It really was 'Children of the Corn', only much farther north. 'Children of. . .’ what the hell does Alberta grow this far north? Oh yeah. 'Children of the Flax Seed'.

Now that I see it on paper, it doesn't sound that scary.

*** the journey continues ***

If The Ship Is Going Down

*** continued from previous post - sorry for the delay folks, this damn prostate cancer keeps crimping my style ***


I pushed on, "Please to meet you," I said, pivoting my head, nodding, and making eye contact with each member of the group. Your mother did the same, but I noticed a slight catch of nerves in her voice. The family returned the nod, reluctantly I thought, and after a couple of minutes we realized this was the most we were going to get out of them. There they sat, studying us, casting sidelong glances at each other.

Well, what a fine morning this was shaping into. Hostile Canadians surrounding me on three sides. Hostile tiny woman to my right. Nature's glory over my shoulder. Flop sweat forming on my shiny, shiny bald head, and I hadn't even had my first cup of coffee.

Mark cast a quick glance to his family. Evidently there was some bizarre telepathic connection between the lot of them. Children of the Corn comes to mind. Or the Albertan equivalent. What would the Albertan equivalent be? I would have to ponder that at a later time. Something cold and flat no doubt.

"So," Mark said, but it came out as an accusation which I actually had to admire. It's hard to pack so much emotion into two letters without the aid of weaponry. "You're the ones with the motorcycle. And from THE STATES!"

He then rocked back in his chair, folding his arms once again across his chest. Not a question, just a statement. A statement tinged with contempt and accusations and devilry.

Ah . . . now I get it. We were evil! I actually felt your mom scoot her chair out from the table, preparing to bolt. I put a hand on her knee, and held her in her seat. She wasn't going anywhere. If the ship was going to sink, we were going down together. My mind raced. Was there any possibility of salvaging this moment? More importantly, did I want to salvage the moment? Hmmmm . . . it might be fun to adopt a scorched-earth approach. I could insult the Queen. I could declare my complete contempt for all things cheesy. I could tell them that, as a profession, I raped babies but had a side job as a litterbug. So many options . . .

*** the journey continues ***

A Proper Canadian Accent

*** continued from previous post ***


Back to breakfast.

I decided to take the proverbial bull by the horns, for this was your mother's worst nightmare. I could intuit this from the fact that she was kicking my ankle quite viciously under the table. I grimaced and ever so gently moved the forks out of reach.

Casting caution to the wind, I cleared my throat and took the plunge.

"Hi, I'm David and this is my wife Suzanne." I smiled, projecting confidence and warmth and mostly no insanity at all.

Mostly.

Now usually, when you introduce yourself to a group, unless you're holding a gun in a dark alley while the introductions take place, everyone speaks in turn and introduces themselves. This is what happens in what I've come to call 'normal society'. Apparently, from the land where milk really does come in bags, this was not the custom.

The gentleman sitting closest to me leaned forward. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and a scruff of beard that complimented his flannel shirt quite well. His hair was mid-length, and parted on the side with just a shock of a black bang draping his forehead. He was of medium build, and on the skinny side of that. But not the 'I have some horrible medical condition' skinny, more of a 'I am an outdoor enthusiast, lean, mean, and packing my own crap out of the forest so as not to disturb the delicate balance of nature' skinny. His facial features were sharp. He fairly glowered behind his glasses, his eyebrows knotting and twisting like a flag in the wind.
Evidently this was the alpha Canuck for all members of the family, (Or is there a different nomenclature for familial groupings in Canada? Clans? Covey? Covens? Hockey Teams?), for all other eyes at the table turned to him.

"I'm Mark," he said with a nod of his head. "This," he said, indicating the elderly woman on his right, "is my mother Martha. Next to her is my wife Cathleen, my brother Carl, and our children, Amanda, Stacey, Jeff and that's', he said pointing, "Carl's wife Camila, and their kids, Jennifer and Brandon, and Brandon's friends Kevin and Alex.

I sat mesmerized. Like music his voice was. His was a thick Canadian accent. A proper Canadian accent. A 'screw you to the STATES' Canadian accent.

*** the journey continues ***

We Meet The Native Homo Canukus

*** continued from previous post ***


After a cursory check on the bike, (Yep! Still a motorcycle!), we made our way into the Lodge. The place was alive and bustling. Voices and laughter poured from the interior. Yet your mother was as tense as an OCD sufferer in a light-switch factory. We took a deep breath, casting caution and judgment to the wind, and stepped through the alcove into the dining room.

The first thing I noticed was that in the daylight, the bank of windows had one of the most staggering views I've ever witnessed. I know I keep hammering this home, but it really was indescribable. And yet I blather on anyway. Jagged granite mountain peaks, the lush meadow, the creek . . . this must be what heaven looks like. Well, if heaven were in Canada. And all metric-y.

I stood mesmerized, drinking in the scenery like a parched CEO with the first Mai-tai of the day brought to my office by the new, (nod nod wink wink) secretary.

Really, I couldn't turn away until I realized that there were 30 pairs of eyes on us, and from their perspective it didn't look so much like I was soaking up the natural beauty spread outside the windows behind them but rather staring directly at them with a slack-jawed expression.

Great.

Fortunately, Leeza skip-danced over to us and ushered us to a seat at a nearby table. "Good morning David and Suzanne. I trust you slept well last night?"

"We sure did," Mom replied. "The bed is very comfortable, and the room is great. Although after yesterday I probably could have slept on a freeway."

Leeza smiled, "Oh you poor things. Well, you're here now and we're going to take good care of you. Here," she pulled out the chair for your mom, "have a seat and I'll get you started."

Mom and I took our places at an already occupied table. My suspicions from the night before were confirmed: It was large, square, and could fit four on each side. We sat alone on our side, two empty chairs bookending us.

This was no regular table. It was a square of Canuckian humanity. Possibly a tribunal. From the moment we sat down, it felt like we were at a job interview that had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

*** the journey continues ***

Yes, I Ate My Napkin. Deal With It.

*** continued from previous post ***


"What are you going to get babe?", I say, and turn the page of the menu to the 'specials' section.

"One of everything.", Mom says from behind her menu.

"Get two of everything - we'll share."

That made her smile. I love watching your Mom smile, her blue eyes twinkle and her entire face brightens. After all these years the sight still catches my heart. "Look here," I point to the "Good Morning!" special. "They have a breakfast buffet!"

Your mother, as a general rule, hates buffets. She's lacking the 'glutton gene'. It's a huge drawback in our relationship, but one I'm willing to overlook primarily because I get to finish her steaks.

"You know, that actually sounds good this morning. If they have waffles I think I'll give that a try. I've been craving waffles," she says, with an evil little grin blossoming. "You know, we could have had hot, toasty waffles earlier this morning, but you'll remember - we had to pack light."

For some reason this made a lump grow in my throat. Why would this make me so emotional? As I began to black out I realized that in a hunger-induced stupor I had eaten my napkin. Again. A nice glass of water fixed that.

Our waitress floated over to our table with coffee for me and a steaming hot tea for your Mother.

"Are you folks ready to order?" she asked, setting our drinks on the table from the tray she carried.

"How is your breakfast buffet?"

"Oh," she said refilling our water glasses, "very popular and very good. All of the usual breakfast stuff, a wide array of breakfast meats plus some very nice freshly baked cinnamon rolls, danish, and some wonderfully fresh locally grown fruit."

"By any chance do you have waffles?" I ask on behalf of your Mother. As for me I'd already decided. She had me at "meats".

"We do! We have a waffle maker, and some delicious strawberries and whipped cream if you want."

I think I actually saw your Mom drool. "We'll both have the buffet," Mom added quickly, as if the waffles were going to evaporate before she could get the sentence out of her mouth.

"Okay," Denise - for that was the name stitched on her prison uniform - said, taking our menus. "Plates are out there," she pointed to the atrium, "help yourself when you're ready."


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Commenters will be prosecuted. ***