Chapter 8 - Breakfast With Canadians

*** Continued from previous post ***

October 1st, 2008

Dear Amber,

It was good to hear your voice on the phone the other day.

I had no idea they were working you that hard. Sand up your what again?

Still all quiet on the western front. Nothing to report around here. Well, nothing that our lawyer will let us discuss anyway.

Oh! Good news! We got the woodchucks out of your room! Not the smell, but we’re working on that.

Love you,

Daddio
 




Chapter 8

Breakfast With Canadians. What...no bacon?



As I've said before, sleep comes in a variety of flavors, textures, and colors. Notice that I didn't use 'colour', Canada has not drilled so deep into my soul that I'm throwing extra vowels hither and yon simply for the lulz. To whit: there is the fitful slumber of the damned - it is as bitter and dark as a cup of fast-food coffee. There is the troubled dreaming sleep - it has the flavor and color of an old apple, mostly it's good, but every once in a while you hit a spot that makes you want to scream. There is the evil sleep where you dream that you are awake and can't GET to sleep, and is the color of copper leaving a foul, foul tang on the tongue.

My personal favorite sleep is the sleep of the dead. It has no flavor or color. You know, much like supermarket sushi. This was the sleep of our first night at Hidden Valley and it was, to put it mildly, glorious.

We awoke early - very early - to the first glow of dawn peeking from behind the mountains, their hulk blocking the sun, punching perfect silhouettes in the brightening sky.

I assume that is what we would have seen had it not been foggy and gray and raining. Again or still. I didn't care. I was dry! Let the heavens descend! The point being we were refreshed, rested, and ready to take on whatever adventures the day would bring, as long as those adventures took place indoors and included a lot of napping.

*** the journey continues ***