Camp Journal Day #1

I wish I had something good to report.
That's not true, I do. A fair bit of the day was fantastic. It's this end bit that has me pounding at the keyboard, mad as a hatter, my son sent to bed for the night and my husband going to our friends' to apologize that we won't be dropping by their place for a campfire.
Sigh.
For a while there, it was magic. We bicycled down to the beach and, oh, what a beach. To me, Inverhuron Provincial Park has the best beach in Ontario. As good or better than the surf I frolicked in at Puerto Plata, way too many years ago to count. I do know that I was embarrassed about showing off my fat self in a bathing suit but back then I was positively Twiggy compared to now and now I don't care what people say about how I look. My friend Tammy and I were coming out of the water and she held a flutterboard in front of her because, "I hate coming out of the water and have people staring at me so I do this." I wanted to make some crack about how no one was looking at her because they were all staring at me saying to their wives, "Look, hon, there's a whale coming up the beach." I think everyone should hang out with someone who is larger than them; that way it doesn't matter what you look like.
I'm digressing, aren't I? That happens when I rant. What I'm trying to say is we were having a great time. We were all in swimming; gawd, the water was like pea soup. Sam said it was like swimming in lemon lime Kool-Aid because of the amazing colour; and the sand, that rippled sand that felt so soft on the toes. It was late afternoon before we finally got to the park and got settled in; then we hopped on our bikes, towels slung around our necks, and headed down for that glorious swim. The setting sun was still hot; other people who had been at the beach all day were leaving – the fathers' backs loaded down with coolers and beach umbrellas, chairs and floatey toys, their faces stolid, sunburned and grim. We had the water almost to ourselves and we played for a few glorious hours.
Then we came back and I made supper: brown rice, sauteed baby carrots and a strange-sounding but absolutely fabulous concoction combining a can of diet cola, a cup of ketchup and chopped raw chicken breasts. While I made dinner I let Sam play games on my laptop because, as he told me yesterday, the only thing that excites him in life is video games and computers. Apparently a day at the beach isn't even close to the levels necessary for excitement.
I put dinner on his plate and I knew right off that my picky kid was turning his nose up. When Dave and I made him eat, he got cranky and tearful and said, "If you guys hate me so much, why do you even make me visit?" See, for those who don't know, Sam and his big brother live full-time with his father because I was fucked over big time. Husband cheated, I hit husband with Dr. Seuss book in flaming fight, I call cops to get husband kicked out, cops take me to jail instead because I hit husband, I spend night in jail, judge gives me an order to stay away from my own house, I go live with my parents, kids come to visit me, husband wants full custody and is willing to fight for them, I have no money to fight it plus lawyer says I will never win because Dr. Seuss incident gives me a criminal record, so I don't bother. Ex husband and I arrange an amicable separation agreement because there is no other bloody way. I sit by and watch ex husband spoil children senseless with material things to assauge his guilt. He never makes them eat their dinner and usually feeds them french fries and chicken fingers. He never gives them chores. He spends money he doesn't have to win their love. I try to teach them better, but they don't appreciate rules or weird food. My oldest is 14 now and is at a point where he almost never comes to visit us because he world is the computer and his bedroom and his friends. Sam still wants to come, for the most part, and we almost always have a great time. Only he hates being told to eat his dinner so suppertime often becomes a battleground.
Like tonight.
When he says we must hate him, we try to talk sense to him. Dave sits him down earnestly and pours his heart out about how much he loves him and asks for a hug. Sam barely puts his arms around him and doesn't say anything in return. Dave's heart breaks. Sam heads for his bunk. I call him over to me, determined to talk and cuddle and work things out. But things don't work out and I get angry. Instead of cuddling, I send him to bed.
Now we're all depressed. Day one of our vacation isn't turning out like we planned.
Some days I could just stick my head in a toilet and flush it.
My children are growing up without me and I can't stand it.

The Legend of Catfish Hunter

"CATHY! SAM! GET OUT HERE! GET THE CAMERA! I GOT HIM!"

Hell's bells, can't a person even loaf around on the internet for five minutes without some kerfuffle?

Dave's face is positively fuchsia. His eyes are as round as tennis balls and he's got this shit-eating grin on his mug.

"I got the fish!" he says as we run to the dock.

"THEE fish?" I ask.

"Oh YEAH," says Dave, without any regard to his daily limit on all-caps.

THEE fish is the fish of local legend. It is the Catfish Hunter to Dave's Grumpy Old Man. He has been trying to land this elusive pike since we moved here, almost three years ago. So many times he has been so, so, so close: a spit hook; a line severed by the pike's sharp teeth; divine intervention, oh, who knows?

Dave isn't the only one who has tried and failed.

"I had something on my line and there was this huge swirl, something BIG right at the surface, and then it got off," says Vic.

"I had the !$#@$%#^#%& on, too," says Dick, the sultan of swear.
"%#$#$^@!#&^(&*$#."

(Just a coincidence that our friends' names rhyme? I think not.)

Perhaps destiny was simply waiting for Saturday to arrive, when all the seaweed was aligned and Dave's Green Hornet was perfectly attuned to the cosmic tides of the river.

"Where is it?" I ask.

"In the canoe!" Dave says, like I'm stupid because where else would a fish be than in the canoe? Next time he asks where his keys are, or where the clicker is, I'm gonna say, "in the canoe."

Sure enough, there's ol' Catfish Hunter floundering in a few inches of water in the bottom of our boat.

"I had to put him somewhere. I yelled and yelled for you guys to come and you didn't hear me so I had to put him somewhere and run up to the house. Quick! Take a picture!"

Dave picks him up and hoists him proudly in the air. It's definitely not the biggest fish I've ever seen – pike can grow to be enormous. But he's bigger than most of the small bass we catch in the river and he was certainly a scrapper.

"Hurry up," Dave says. "I need to put him back. He's been out of the water too long."

I snap a couple of pictures and Dave places him in the water. We wait for Catfish Hunter to swish his mighty tail and disappear but he rolls belly-up instead. His gills are moving and his fins are waving slowly but this is not a good sign.

Sam and I say "oh no" in unison.

We all wanted Dave to snag the big fish but nobody wanted the big fellah to die.

Dave jumps in the canoe and paddles to Catfish Hunter, who is floating downstream belly up and whose fins are no longer moving. Things do not look good. Dave pulls up alongside him and grabs his tail and turns him upright. Then he swishes the fish back and forth in the water for a minute or so, to push water through his gills and oxygenate his bloodstream. Sam and I hold our breath.

"Is he...." I ask.

"I don't know," says Dave, and swishes the fish through the water some more.

It's like he is doing CPR on the fish; such is his determination. He is applying the same will to saving Catfish Hunter as he used to catching him.

He lets him go, waiting to see what happens. Waiting to see if he floats belly up again.

The fish swishes his mighty tail and disappears down into the black water.

"Woo HOO!" We all say.

Sam and I give Dave a standing ovation.

The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of that which is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope. 

– Anonymous

Muskoka Drive-In

Maybe 10 minutes away, that's all, but for some reason we'd never been to the Muskoka Drive-In until last Saturday.

To clarify, I had been there, once, to take photos for Summer Scene magazine, but I'd never been there for the experience. It's definitely photo-worthy, this place. Carved out of the bush, the drive-in is nestled between a couple of prisons (!), a family campground and a swamp. Trust me, you do not want to go there without screens for your car (and possibly a gun for escaped prisoners). Dave custom-fit some screens for the Jeep using an old dining tent and duct tape, and he put them up before we got to the drive-in. Smart thinking because there were plenty of folks doing the Muskoka wave trying to set up their screens on arrival.

I love this place, I do. It's so retro and the folks who work there are friendly. When we pull in to the admission gate, the gentleman gives us our tickets and a lollipop for Sam. The entrance looks just like I imagine a drive-in entrance should look, with a big marquee and a bunch of tacky signs advertising things like Shopsy's hot dogs. For me, hot dogs are an integral part of the drive-in experience.

I was talking to my mom the other day about going to the drive-in years ago.

"We went two or three times a week," Mom said. "There were three drive-ins close to where we lived, we could pack you kids in the backseat without worrying about a babysitter and it was cheap entertainment. At intermission we'd go and get those foot-long hot dogs."

"In the foil?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, smiling. "They were delicious."

Those hot dogs play a starring role at the Muskoka Drive-In, up on the big screen during the previews and intermission, asking patrons to make a visit to the refreshment stand for tasty treats and refreshing beverages. I don't know how old those intermission clips are but they're probably as old or older than me. Seeing them makes me feel young.

Like everything in Muskoka, the screen is built into the Canadian Shield (just like my favourite coffee place, where the order box comes out of a rock). When you're done hanging out here, you must go to the drive-in's website to see their Flintstone rendition of the screen. So cute!

The movies playing Saturday night were Transformers 3 and The Green Lantern. We'd already seen Lantern but were willing to see it again, especially since the second flick was free. Trouble is, only Dave could stay awake for flim #2. I fell asleep three-quarters of the way through Transformers (all those gears and fight scenes bore me senseless) and wanted to get out of the cramped Jeep to go home to bed but
Sam was adamant we should stay.

"You're sure you want to stay?" asked Dave.

"YES!" hollered Sam, who has two volumes: holler and whisper. "I WANT TO STAY!"

"You're not going to fall asleep, are you?"

"NO!"

"Okay," said Dave. I groaned and tried to find a comfortable spot to go back to sleep.

Ten minutes of tossing and turning later, Dave poked me and whispered, "Cath, are you asleep?"

"No," I said.

"Sam is."

I turned around and looked in the back seat. Sam was sawing logs.

"Home, James," I said.

Falling asleep in front of a flickering screen is an oft-repeated event in our house. Just the night before I took this picture of Dave, Sam and Misty, our dog, all sleeping in front of the TV. Just looking at it makes my eyelids heavy.

Keep Fighting Jack

A FIGHTER: Jack Layton and his wife, Olivia Chow, at a press conference yesterday. Photo, Toronto Star

I was shocked and saddened by the news that Jack Layton has cancer, again, and is temporarily stepping down as leader of the federal New Democratic Party. This close on the heels of Layton leading his party to the biggest federal victory it had ever enjoyed.

What shocked me the most was how quickly Mr. Layton has deteriorated. On the news this morning he looked gaunt and pale - the make-up he was wearing to try and make him look healthy only made him worse. Honestly, he looked just like my father before he died.

I am unspeakably sad. I voted for Mr. Layton. I believed in him. He truly was the best candidate in the last election and he should have been named prime minister. He was the only leader who spoke for the common man, who spoke common sense, who exuded strength and honesty and a moral backbone. I hope this strength serves him well in this fight for his life.

My very best to you and your family, Mr. Layton.

Splitting Hairs - #fridayflash

"I have broken my hair," said Ravina.

You can't break hair.

"Well, I did. It busticated. Right at ear level."

Pffft.

"Look at how puffy my hair is here," she said, pointing to the pouffy sections at the side of her head, "and look how thin my hair is here." She held up the limp and somewhat dispirited lank of brittled blondness.

That is odd, I have to say. You look rather like a yellow version of Bozo the Clown. What happened?

"My ponytail ate it."

Really.

"It was too tight. Broke the hair right off at the elastic band. Then it disappeared. The hair, not the band. Wasn't in the band. Wasn't in the bed. Wasn't in the shower or my hair brush. Just gone. Like the wind. Only Scarlett O'Hara didn't have a bald spot, did she."

I couldn't argue that point, although Scarlett did have an inordinate number of hair bows. Maybe she was hiding something.

"Doubt it. She wasn't hiding her cleavage. And her lack of acting talent was certainly on display."

Cleavage? Did someone say something about cleavage?

"Anyway. I look like a freak. I can't believe I broke my hair."

Krazy Glue? It works on broken china.

"I have actually Krazy Glued broken fingernails together," Ravina said thoughtfully. "I might actually consider trying that... you know, if the ponytail hadn't eaten the hair." D'oh, she added, under her breath.

Yes, well, I have my moments. I also have teeny-tiny razor sharp teeth. And bad gas. Heh-heh. Sorry.

"What was that?" Ravina asked, disgusted.

Hairball.