Stigmata: Not Just For Breakfast Anymore

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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 ***

Free-Range Sherpas - I Would Expect Nothing Less

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In the end - and this had nothing to do with the fact that your mom was chewing on her lower lip so hard that blood was squirting willy-nilly about the room - I choose the path that will, in most situations, deflect animosity. SDH. Self Deprecating Humor. It's the magic wand of social interaction. It's the salve of awkward situations. The 'special sauce' on the burger of cringe that smothers everything and makes you forget that what you're eating is 90% cardboard.

"Idiots on the motorcycle is more like it," I said, bobbing my head. I looked from one Canadastanie to the other giving each of them the grin of the dangerously stupid.

No response. Alpha Canuck narrowed his eyes. I could see the wheels turning. 'What is your game, stupid American? How dare you challenge my expectations?'

Martha, much to the consternation of the rest of the table, giggled. I immediately felt a twinge of fondness for this lady.

Leeza chose that moment, bless her free-spirited soul, to arrive with our coffee and tea. "Here you go folks. I hope you like the tea. It's one of our special blends."

"Thank you," Mom said for the both of us. I was afraid to break eye contact with the alpha male lest he take advantage of the situation and go for my throat with his foon. Or spork. Or runcible spoon. Whatever.

"Be right back with some wonderful oatmeal. And I do mean wonderful! It's handpicked pesticide-free organic oats lightly soaked in spring water gathered from the local mountain peaks above the 3 kilometer mark by imported Sherpas using thatch-baskets woven by First Nation people. It is grand cereal if I do say so." Leeza turned to walk away then stopped abruptly, turned to us with a narrowed brow and added, "Free-range Sherpas, of course."

Well of course they were. I would expect nothing less. I hadn't tasted it yet, but somehow I felt intimidated by a mound of steaming, gummy lumps. Oat anxiety. Although, if you were to look that up in the DSM, (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders - no, you don't need to know how I know that.), my apprehension may have more to do with white-haired men in buckle shoes, lace, and 17th century hats.

Gah! I just gave myself the creeps! Curse you Quaker Oats!

*** the journey continues ***

No . . . You're done.

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Mom doesn't say anything, but I know she doesn't want to stay sitting any longer than I do. I turn the bars on the bike, brace my feet, and with all of my might push backwards. The gravel slips under my boots and I lose traction but I quickly recover and the bike, the giant that she is, begins to slowly roll backwards an inch at a time. Or a deca-mile. Whatever. Mom usually offers to get off the bike when I'm trying to wheel this baby backwards, but she doesn't offer this time. She knows that no matter what, she's safer on the back seat than standing alone. I strain and grunt, begging the bike to turn far enough that I can straighten the front tire to ease the push. All I have to do is get it backed crossways in the road, then I can ease on the clutch and finish pulling the bike around, pointing it in the opposite direction, and head down the mountain. It all sounded so easy in my head.

Unfortunately, pushing a hella-big bike, loaded with gear, backwards with the front wheel turned on soft gravel during a rainstorm while you are sure that you will be eaten at any moment is not as easy-peesy as it sounds. Before I got the forks straightened out, my thigh muscles were cramping into what looked like lumpy oatmeal. I kept looking at the moose, but she wasn't moving. So, finally I get the bike back far enough that I can give it a little gas and before you know it we are pointed in the direction of Bear Mountain death.

As I sit there, the full realization of what we have to do - to drive back down that treacherous slope in what will be in a few minutes pitch darkness - hits me like a blue-haired lady backing 1980 Lincoln Continental out of a parking stall as the Mall.

We are screwed.

I stop the bike, grip the brake and the clutch, trying to get my nerve up to move when your Mother says - - -

"Hey! The moose is gone!"

Well of course. Of course it is.

"Now we can go!" She says with a voice full of hope that somehow hit me wrong.

‘"Okay. Good. Go we shall. Well, I'll just whip this baby right around and we will continue on our way because it's SO FRICKIN' EASY TO MANEUVER THIS THING!"

Damn you Victory engineers! What the hell about skipping a reverse gear on the Vision sounded like a good idea?

"WHAT A JOY! I WOULDN'T MIND DOING THIS ALL DAY. IT'S A PIECE OF CAKE, IT IS! ISN'T THAT RIGHT MISTER LEGS? YOU DON'T MIND TEARING THE REST OF THE TENDONS FROM THE BONE, DO YOU?"

Mom lets a few beats pass and says, "Are you finished?"

I grind my teeth. "Maybe I am and maybe I'm not. Let's take a wait and see attitude."

"Okay," she says, "well let me help. You're finished."

And then, and I swear this is true, I heard the soft snuffle and grunt of something in the trees.

*** the journey continues ***