Scraps of Joy

It pains me to admit it here in this semi-public forum but … I am not as put together as I look. (It occurs to me that I may not even look all that put together, but that’s a topic for another time)

I have been known to occasionally let my imagination run a little wild, often in instances when complete calm and level-headedness is better required.

I chock it all up to the fact that I’m a writer. I have been making up stories in my head since I was old enough to know I was making up stories in my head. My imagination is a wonderfully fantastical place and I’m quite entertaining to myself … usually.

Sometimes, however, it’s best not to let that imagination … OUT.
It only confuses my family and friends.
And is exhausting for me.

Case in point #1:
I drive Babe to her University classes. Because of an incident the day before, she has a possible concussion and shouldn’t drive. I drop her off and decide to do some errands and get groceries while she attends class. Then on my way home, I will pick her up and take her to her job.

I arrive in the designated pick-up spot early. When she is done at 12:50 there will be just enough time to get her to her job by 1 o’clock.

I wait.
And wait.

It’s not like her to be late for work.
I text her: Everything ok?
No answer.
More minutes tick by. Maybe the prof went overtime.
OR
Maybe she is waiting for me at a different pick-up spot.
That must be it.
I text: I’m at the little pick-up spot where I dropped you off.
Nothing.

It is now past 1 o’clock.
She would never be late for work.
Where could she be? Did class finish early and somebody else take her to work?
Surely she would have texted me. But lately her phone has been crashing for no reason. Maybe she can’t text me.
OR
Maybe she can’t text me because she got dizzy and passed out!

She passed out because of that concussion.

And had to be taken to hospital.

And nobody got ahold of me.

Why wouldn’t they let me know?
Wait!

How do I know she even showed up to class this morning? I dropped her off but I didn’t watch her go through the door like I did when she was 5. I just assumed she was okay.

That crazy concussion!

She got disoriented when I dropped her off and now she is out wandering somewhere and she doesn’t know where she is!

And some lowlife took advantage of the situation and snatched her up and now we will never find her!

SHE’S A MISSING PERSON!!

I take a deep breath.
Get it together, woman.

I park the car. Go to the administration office.
No answers. Because of privacy laws they can’t even tell me whether or not she is a student there.

I resist the urge to barrel down the halls like a mad gorilla, screaming her name.

 

Agitated, I white-knuckle it home. Someone may have left a message on the landline.

No messages on the home phone.
But suddenly there is a text: I’m in class. I work at 2.

 

 

 

Case in point #2:

The Cowboy and I are on our cruise vacation. We are getting ready to leave our cabin for the day, for a shore excursion.
But I can’t find the cash.

I have checked the safe. Twice.
The contents of my bag have been dumped on the bed. Books and papers are scattered all over the desk.
I am going through closets and drawers, checking pockets of clothing we haven’t even worn yet.

The Cowboy is annoyingly calm.
When did you last see it?

I had it with me yesterday when we came home from the beach.
I go through the papers on the desk again.
I thought I put it right here …

Suddenly it hits me.

They are siphoning money off us!!

Siphoning mo … who is?

Them! The stewards who clean our room. Little by little they are taking money and they think we will never notice.

What? Why would they do that?

I leave him to ponder answers to that question because I am remembering … my hat. The one Mr. Cowboy calls my “nerd hat”.

Oh. Now I remember. It’s in here.

I grab it off the hook on the wall and check.
Sure enough, there is the money tucked safely and serenely in that secret place in my hat.

The Cowboy looks absolutely astonished.
Are you kidding me? Only you would have a secret compartment in your hat!

He belly-laughs all the way off the ship.
************
This week the Cowboy & I attended a play based on a tragic story in Canadian history: the massacre of the Donnelly family by their neighbours and community.

Vigilantes.

As we leave the theatre I’m feeling vengeful. That poor family!
I comment,
It’s a shame those Donnelly’s didn’t know anything about poison. They could have snuck poison into all of their neighbours’ drinking water. Then all of THEM would have died and none of this would have happened.

I look up into the Cowboy’s horrified face, and see him mentally calculating the last time I offered him a glass of water.

Yeah … sometimes my imagination is best kept in the secret places of my hat.

 

**********

 

PHOTO CREDITS

Top Hat
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/30515687@N05/4359966258″>Benjamin Harrison-Reid Portrait Top Hat, 1892</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/commons/usage/”>(license)</a>
Watch
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/51942038@N04/7657917478″>Fossil Nissan Watch Black Square Face</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a>

Child entering school
photocredit: http://www.parentscanada.com/school/how-to-choose-the-right-school-for-your-child
Mad Gorilla
<a href=”http://s293.photobucket.com/user/alyk11_2008/media/Mad-Gorilla.jpg.html” target=”_blank”><img src=”http://i293.photobucket.com/albums/mm46/alyk11_2008/Mad-Gorilla.jpg” border=”0″ alt=” photo Mad-Gorilla.jpg”/></a>
alyk11_2008’s photo on Photobucket
Lego head
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/20436015@N00/3741330170″>lego_head-embarassed</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/”>(license)</a>
Cruise ship
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/71365354@N00/3363343283″>St. George’s-Grenada (4)</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a>

I am up early today – only because I have an early morning appointment with my trainer. But when she texts that she is too ill to be there I decide to go for a bike ride.

I love my bike – a gift for my birthday last year. We bought it in a unique shop called Lifa, in the quaintest of quaint little towns on Lake Winnipeg while we were visiting Sweetie, The Lion, and dear Little Man.

It is an aqua, new-fangled, old-fashioned style Electra Super Deluxe Cruiser with whitewalls and wicker saddle bags. It also boasts a chic bicycle bell on the handlebar that goes BING-BONG like a doorbell.

I start my ride while the cats are still prowling and ride for 20 minutes before the first of the dog-walkers appears.

A half-ton backs out of his drive and turns in my direction. I pull further over to the side of the street as I think that the bright sun behind me is blinding in his eyes and, mixed with early morning grogginess, he might not see me.

That would be a tragic and painful end to this lovely morning ride.

And it is a lovely ride. I breathe in the fresh air and feel benevolent to all mankind.

I take time to look around me. (I try looking above me to watch the sky but I’m not that gifted with balance)

Oh! That pink and white mixture of petunias is pretty, trailing out of those pots. I might try that combination next year.

I drive down paved and non-paved alleys and find myself wondering who decides when the pavement in the alley ends? And why?

Nearing the end of my ride, I finally see people. A couple sits on the front steps in T-shirt and bathrobe, coffee cups in hand. A few doors down, an older man moseys down the driveway looking rumpled and dreamy, and carrying a pail of water for his annuals.

I turn down my alley which, as it happens, is not paved. But I like it that way. And I love the predictability of Ace, the neighbour’s dog, who barks at me through her fence.

I see home and our mature backyard checkering through the dark fence as I ride by. The oak tree stands guard near the gate while the russian olive’s branches whisper over the fence. I glance at the tallest tree in the yard – the kindergarten tree. People who have lived here since the birth of the neighbourhood tell me that one day over thirty years ago, all the kindergarten kids came home with tiny evergreen saplings. And so, everyone has an evergreen somewhere in their yard.

What a nice place, I say to myself.
Cozy. Homey. So thankful for my lovely home and for the job provided to The Cowboy, enabling us to enjoy our comfortable home.

For a while now I’ve been wondering if I am no longer a morning person. Lately my mind and my energy have been revving up in the late afternoon and at bedtime.

I used to write best in the mornings.

But I’m reminded why I love early mornings.
It’s the quiet. The air. The tranquility. The freedom. The ideas. The words …

The words.

I put my bike in the garage.

In the house I look at the clock, surprised to see that I rode for over an hour. I grab a glass of water and sit down at the table. Open my laptop.

And the words flow.