stories

Green Tent

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Two weeks ago, I went camping. I pitched a glowing green tent shaped like an igloo in a forest clearing. Inside, hung from a criss-crossed pole at the top was an old lantern running on white gas, burning with a mesh style baby sock. The light was very bright. White hot slashes poured between the flammable walls. The structure from outside looked like a radiating green snow globe, possibly shaken by a very large man with green clothing and a deep voice, shouting, “Ho, ho, ho.” I wasn’t sure if I should use the light in the tent, the fumes and heat very combustible in a small confined area.

Under the raging light was my sleeping arrangement, a single green cot. I went outside and sitting around the campfire were two people. One was a dude decked out in green camo. He wore a floppy fisherman hat with randomly attached  hooks and lures. One device was bright neon orange. A fish would spot it miles away.  He was a good fisherman, I heard. He always stuck to the rules. Catch and release.

Next to him sat a girl dressed in white, red and brown camo. She kept moving away from the fire. I watched steam rising from her clothes.   She was medium height, with streaky pink hair tied up at the back. She had a camo-tattoo around her ankle, matching her clothes. She wore a large mason jar smile, showing many bright white teeth. They glowed like bright white light.  Good for midnight bladder jaunts to the bush, I thought.

She asked to come in the tent, and I said sure. I brought a blue sleeping bag with me, but I couldn’t find it. I searched the tent and then went outside to look around the campsite, but it was nowhere. I was so sure I’d brought it. Streaky hair girl got on the cot. I did the same. It was very tight and we couldn’t move. We snuggled and tried to get warm. I tried to cover us, but the only means were the bags the cot and tent were stored in.  I considered lighting the lamp, but I was afraid we’d go up in a fireball. Death by fire or by ice, I’m not sure what is better.

It was a restless night.  We couldn’t get comfortable or warm on the small cot with no coverings except leftover bags. Finally, the sun rose. The tent quickly became an oven – nature’s extremes. We were starting to suffocate, so we got out of the tent. Fisher guy was still there sitting around the fire. He’d fallen asleep in a chair before the fire. I asked him how he slept. He said like a baby with blue lips and toes.

I finally found my sleeping bag. I handed it to pink hair girl, but she said she was  going fishing. I said, good luck I hope you catch something. She smiled with those bright white teeth. I tried to remember where my sunglasses were.

Panel Wagon

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I was driving a very small car, fire engine red with white trim. It was so low to the ground, I felt as though my ass were dragging across the ground, derriere road rash. It wasn’t light out yet, gray light just forming on the horizon. I drove to the institution early so I could get a good parking spot. The lot got very full, very fast. I was in a rush, so I had to wash my hair in the back seat of my tiny car. Luckily the car came with a shower nozzle, the kind you find in a kitchen, thin flexible metallic hose with a black nozzle. You just press the button, and water scoots out. I’m glad I had the option. Clean hair is so important.

After I washed my hair, my friend came and tapped on the window. I couldn’t see her face because her shaggy dirty blonde hair covered her facial features. She wore a large beige cable knit sweater, reminding me of a rug with a zipper up the front. She was going to take my car and drive it to an unknown location. She got in and dropped me off at the institution door, but it was too early. I told her I’d wait until the doors opened, but she insisted and drove back to the parking lot. I said, you’ll never get a parking spot. She wasn’t worried.

When we got back, the lot was full. Another little car was driving into the space we vacated. Only little cars were permitted in the lot. So many little cars in one place, you’d think a clown convention was happening. We drove around and around but couldn’t find a spot.

My friend was getting frustrated. I asked her if she wanted to come for dinner. She was very appreciative.  She said sure. She’d come back and pick me up at four. I walked to the steel institution doors. They opened.

She arrived right on time at four. We drove to my house. I was living in another car, a station wagon with the same wood panels adorning so many basements in shag carpet time. My house had no wheels. It was parked in an abandoned lot with a large park flowing outside the back window. The wagon had a portable stove on the back.

I poured some wine. We drank and she admired my Swedish shelving. They’re Olof Palmes’.  We sat in the front seat drank wine and ate steak and potatoes and green beans. After dinner, we jumped over the front seats and sat in the back and listened to the radio. A song came on about a guy who was in love with his best friend’s girlfriend. I said I hadn’t heard the song in a long time. She said the guy was an asshole. Who does that?

We pulled the seats back and laid down in the wagon area, watching the trees and the grass sway in the park. We drank the rest of our wine. We talked until the park was only shadows. She said, it’s getting late. I have to work in the morning. After she went home, I got out and lit the wagon on fire. I walked down a dark road, wishing I hadn’t given her my car.

Burning Down the House

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The greatest  gift to give a teenager (so they say) is teaching them how to cook. The obvious benefit is an option from throwing bad food in a microwave.  Another is precious time away from a screen and spending gleeful hours with a potential filled young person. You can make a difference. Ok, so I got that off a parenting website, “Teenage Monsters.”

Anyway, my niece came over a while back and together we made carbonara and Caesar salad  with homemade bread. The only problem with the carbonara is while cooking the pancetta, it got very smoky in the house. Our fire alarm started screaming like a banshee. Now we have a security system, meaning when the alarm goes off, we usually get a call from the company and if they can’t reach us, hotline to emergency services.

Weirdly,  I didn’t get a call or notice on my phone.  We kept looking out the window while waving towels over the alarm – not sure if the fire department was called or not. All our doors and windows were open, even though it was below freezing.  Every fan blasting on max. Then we heard sirens blaring with lights a- flashing.  The big red trucks stopped in front of our house. Curtains open, nosy eyes, chins a-wagging with,  Hey look they have an alarm system, the idiots.

My niece ever the brave one,  ran for cover shouting: “Don’t tell them I’m here.”  “What?” I said. “They’re firemen, not cops. And you watch too much TV.”  Ok this has potential for learning lesson number two, but before I could take her outside she ran, tail between her legs,  flying  down the  basement stairs.

Left alone, I went outside in my slippers and wool socks and explained to the very understanding firemen:

“Sorry, we were making carbonara and cooking the bacon (not sure they’d know pancetta), but then boom too much smoke. I musta missed the call from our security company. I am really sorry.”

“You used bacon? Not they way I make it.  I use pancetta,” said the fireman, smirking.

“Yea, next time I’ll use pancetta. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Dinner was saved?” asked the fireman.

“Yep.”

“Then all is good. You’re safe and so is dinner. That’s all that matters.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Not a problem,” said the very understanding high-res man, “better a nice chat on the sidewalk then pulling bodies out.” (Ok he didn’t really say that, but)

I turned and walked  back into our pancetta lingering freezing cold house.  I checked my phone. The alarm company called but I didn’t hear the ring (curse you fruit company). I want to go over to the firehall and cook them dinner with my niece out of appreciation.

A few weeks later, however,  I got a letter from the fire department. Your first alarm is free. After that five hundred bucks for the second call and then a thousand for the third. My first thought, Do I really need an alarm? Second thought, maybe we’ll order carbonara and I’ll teach my niece how to pay with my credit card. Oh wait, that’s a lesson she knows very well.

Navy Ship

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Last night I was on this Navy ship. All military metal with haze gray walls. We are about to get torpedoed by a submarine. I ask the captain why are they shooting at us? He says they don’t trust us. They want to shoot before we do. They want the advantage. Fear. Too much fear.

I go to the bottom deck and look out a portal window,  brass frame with rivets like bullet ends. I  watch the torpedoes come charging towards the ship. Long copper cylinders with thick turbulent white water following. The missiles hit, but I feel nothing.

I take the elevator to the main deck. Inside is an empty linen cart, the kind they use in hospitals. I enter an enclosed area.  No doors, only military gray walls and the steel elevator door. I want to go behind the walls because that’s where the injured people are. I want to help, but I can’t get beyond the walls.  I can hear doctors and nurses operating on people – horrible sounds of confusion and anxiety, metal on metal, clanging. I feel useless. I have no control.

Two people come out from the surgery area. They walk through the wall. One injured sailor has no issues. He says they let him go. Another guy comes out with a serious eye injury. He has a patch over it, the fabric spotted with blood stains. I help him back through the wall, but it blocks me.

I take the released guy to the top deck. I ask him what’s going on in there. He says, many injuries from the attack, but the medical staff are doing a great job.  I ask him if he has any injuries. He says, they thought he had a brain issue, but they let him go after he spent several hours in a dark room.  He watched Gandhi videos.  He gets off the elevator and says thanks for the chat.

I take the elevator down to the main deck. I notice a “B” button on the elevator. I press it but it doesn’t turn green, it goes red. I keep pressing but the light doesn’t change.  I can’t go down any further, even though I did before the attack. I wait on the main floor waiting to see if anyone needs a ride on the elevator. A useless job, I know, but it’s something.

The guy with the eye injury shows up again. He says he doesn’t belong here. He wants to go outside. I say it’s not a good idea to wander on the top deck especially if you can’t see. He says he can see just fine. The waves are very high, I explain. And the water is freezing. You’d die of hypothermia. He touches his eye. A nurse comes through the wall and pulls the bad eye guy back into the operating area.

I take the elevator up. I want some fresh air. I get off the elevator. A sign I didn’t see before  says, “Open Air” with an arrow pointing up. I turn the handle, but it doesn’t move. I go to the elevator and press the down button, but it’s red. I press the button, rapidly, violently as many times as I can as if I were at a cross walk signal. A nurse comes out and takes me beyond the wall.

Side Story

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Free picture: book, eyeglasses, geography, product ...So, I’m reading this article and it’s about a women who spent time in Paris jotting down notes and observations about people who get on and off the bus – a woman runs to catch a bus and finally does at an intersection- Why was she late? Where was she going? What is her side story? Or about this guy who’s rapidly texting. Is he breaking up with someone or is he making dinner plans? We don’t know. We make side stories about our observations. Sometimes good. Sometimes naught.

A kid runs to catch a train in New York. He has a basketball under his arm and as he stands in the doorway, the door bops back and forth unable to close. The passengers look at the kid in anger. “Just let the fucking door close,” they say with darting, laser eyes. About thirty seconds later a woman hobbling with her cane comes up to the door and smiles at the boy. He lets her pass and then walks on the train. The door closes and the train moves on. Now without the side story – his grandmother, aunt or whomever with mobility problems perceive the kid as a nuisance. Without our sense of compassion, he’s just a little puke slowing the train down.

I was thinking on my run this morning, that before we make horrible judgments about people we should find out or at least consider what is causing people to react in certain ways. The homeless guy asking for change is not a drug addict or a thief who’s too lazy to get a job. Maybe he’s incapable of working because of a physical or mental disability. Maybe he’s living on the streets even though he has a part time job because he can’t afford rent and the rules at the shelter do not coordinate with his job needs so he’s forced to live on the streets.

Just as this was passing through my endorphin riddled brain this morning, I passed a guy, saying, “Good Morning,” as I do everyone. A little further on, my brain said, “You know this dude.” I’m sure I’ve seen him before, but a long, long time ago. The last time I saw him he wasn’t in good shape. He was suffering from a few rounds of cancer therapy. I did my turn, and I was going to engage him on the way back. “Hey, aren’t you that guy who had two large dogs? I haven’t seen you here for ages, literally years. You’re looking really good.” Yep, I had the whole conversation mapped out in my head. By the time I made my way around the pond, he was gone. I lost a golden opportunity.

Now, I’m left to my imagination. Two years ago, he flew down to Mexico and met up with a faith healer. The man was magical, sending his cancer into remission and the last few years he’s been working at his old job as dispatcher for a delivery company. He loves the work, but it’s very busy especially now as it’s leading up to Christmas. He has two children who live in the city, and he sees them quite regularly. The dogs are fine but old and they don’t want to walk any more. Plus, he’s getting too old to manage them on his walks.

Fernie, British Columbia

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Bridge in Mount Fernie Provincial Park

I love travelling with the little dog and I don’t mind paying an extra dog fee, but please make sure the room is clean. We get to the room and there  is a brown spot in the middle of the duvet. I’m too shocked to sniff, so I ask my wife but she gives me the, “Yea, right” look. We also find a wet spot in the corner of the room. We don’t need to sniff, a wet toe is confirmation enough, but running through little dog’s Yorkie brain is,  “Hey I need to make this my territory. Move over pal.”

I go the the front desk. They are very apologetic and move us to another room on the second floor, obviously not a pet friendly room (most are on the first floor – easy access outside), but one reserved for bipeds. Little dog hasn’t been feeling well on the trip (nasty dog treat?). Her poor derriere is red, sore and the run off is not pleasant. The dog farts in in the car are brutal and more than once we had to stop to make sure she didn’t poop on the back seat. Thank goodness for air conditioning.

Now I don’t know if it’s karma or what, but in the middle of the night little dog moans and whimpers. We turn on the light only to find she’s marked the bed sheet with a brown coloured skid mark. I pick her up and move her to the other bed only to find I should have wiped her derriere first – bang another couple of Jackson Pollock swipes.

We spent the next day at the laundry mat cleaning bed covers. We could have spared the cleaning if my wife had gone to the front desk and said, “Hey my husband had an accident.” Who would have checked? And I’ve no problem taking one for the little dog.

Now on to Fernie  – first the good.  Tons, and tons of activities to to. The river was flooded with kayakers and floaters. So many places to phone and buddy will come pick you up plop you in the river and pick you up at the end, try here. What a great way to spend the afternoon, floating with your feet in the water, watching the world slowly slip by.   The most preferred mode of transportation in town is the mountain bike. Bring it. Many trails to ride around the surround area, levels for everyone, so if  you hike or bike check this map out.

The Bad: We had the little dog with us. The town is not dog friendly at all. Not even on patios. If we wanted to eat on a patio with the little dog, we’d have to tie her up some twenty meters away. She wouldn’t be  close to us and it’d break her poor little heart. Since we had the little princess with us, we needed take out. The two restaurants I wanted to try – a sushi place and a Mexican joint (both had great reviews) weren’t offering take out. Weird. I’ve never heard of a place in today’s economy that didn’t offer take out. Maybe they have a dine-in space so big they don’t need the extra income.

The Ugly: Smoke. The BC wildfires are raging once again this year. I can’t remember the last time I went to BC in the summer and it wasn’t filled with smoke. Not a great comment on our environmental situation. It wasn’t so bad that we couldn’t get out and walk or run so that’s good. My lovely morning run along the Elk river was amazing but I felt it in my throat and eyes. Make sure you bring eye drops and some lozenges.

Great trip and we’ll definitely go back. Perhaps with out the little dog, but leaving her at home makes travelling less fun. And winter time means skiing!