Kitchen Sink

"Mooi, Liefies (nice, love)," M calls from the study.

"Yeah, you think so?" I reply as I plunge my hands into the soapy water.
M's commenting on my latest vignette, 'Love on the Rocks.'

"I like 'Sexy or Functional' too," he adds.

I wash a dinner plate.

"They're just stories," I explain. "Some light-hearted reading somebody might enjoy. It won't change the world."

We fall into silence - M, busy with his evening admin duties in the study, and I do his kitchen duty (wash the dishes) and my own (dry them). With every sudsy wipe of a plate and fork and pot, I think about my frivolous activity. It's two months since our Canada Day bike ride (see Canada Day, July 2009) when I first thought to start a blog. I have been surprised by the joy it has brought me. I started 'North of Vancouver' in response to M's persistent encouragement that I write, not out of any desire of my own. Yet, it has added a new dimension to my life.

I go out equipped with our camera. I never know when I may stumble across a story and need the picture to go with it. Or I find a picture that's waiting for the right story to come along. I get up sleepless in the middle of the night to jot down part of my story so that I won't forget it. Not that I can have too many of those escapades, M does not like to have his sleep interrupted.

I wash my little red pot. After a good twenty years of making cheese sauces for me, it still looks good. It serves more of a function than my light-hearted blog. What purpose do my vignettes serve for a 22-year old black man in South Africa who commits suicide out of sheer desperation because he couldn't get an identification document which would afford him a job? How will they undermine corruption so that the young man could turn up for work today and support his siblings instead of lying cold in a morgue? How will they free the Dalits from sub-human oppression in India? What of the young man who sleeps in the store doorway between Esplanade and First on Lonsdale?

I fill our cat's yellow water bowl and put it on the floor. K2 (we didn't name her) looks at it disinterestedly. She's not much in the grand scheme of the world but we've made a difference in her little life. I think of other areas where we are making as much of a difference as we can. It still doesn't seem to make a dent in the sadness and injustice in the world.

Yet, if I make choices that are honourable and so does the government official and so does the storekeeper and so does my neighbour, it ripples out into the world. I'll choose not to cheat on my taxes, download illegal software or pirate movies; I'll choose to greet the stranger, to get to know my neighbour and to buy the youngster sleeping on Lonsdale a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. I know I probably won't always get it right but every time I participate in an indiscretion I'm as guilty as the government official with his hand out for a bribe.

No, 'North of Vancouver' won't change the world but it will change me and how I see it.

Love on the Rocks

The young girl used her right hand to wipe her right nostril and then her left nostril and again her right. Unsightly as it was, I empathised with her - too bad that she didn't have tissues with her to deal with her cold. She sat on the blanket with her father. He spoke quietly to her while she wiped her nose. I guess he didn't have tissues for her either.

I glanced away from them and watched a 30-something year-old woman walk along the shoreline with a young girl and boy. They were looking for items of interest on the pebbly beach. This was a good way to enjoy a sunny Saturday evening - fish and chips on the beach watching the sun wind its way down toward the horizon. Picnic done, M was reading his book and I was people watching. Usually our roles are reversed. I lose myself in a book and M takes out a book to read, but is easily distracted by what is going on around him.

The man and his snotty-nosed daughter walked towards the water. The woman with the two children was returning from their mini excursion. I was surprised when their paths met. They stopped. They were all together. I started to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The man was dark-skinned and the woman Caucasian. This indicated that he was the father of the boy and the girl with the snotty nose. The other girl was the daughter of the woman.

The woman approached the snotty-nosed girl made a joke and tried to poke her in the ribs. Not amused, snotty-nosed girl moved away. The dynamics of this group were interesting. The boy was happy to interact with the woman but his older sister was not. The two girls, of about the same age, did not have much to say to each other. The woman moved closer to the man and he held her hand. Her daughter came to stand close to him and touched his arm. He ignored her. She waited a little longer for attention from him and, not getting it, moved again to her mother's side. His daughter distanced herself and collected driftwood.

"Is she the new wife?" M asked. I didn't realise that he was no longer reading his book. "No, she's the brand new girlfriend," I replied. "Neither of them has wedding rings." My heart went out to snotty-nosed girl who wasn't enamoured with Dad's new girlfriend. And to the woman's daughter who was desperate for a surrogate father's attention. Who knew where the other parents were. In this day and age the odds are high that the parents are divorced.

M and I packed up our chairs. When we left the beach the snotty-nosed girl was still off to the side collecting driftwood. Perhaps her snotty nose wasn't from a cold after all. I gave thanks that my parents are still married to each other, forty-six years later. My parents-in-law have celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary. What a privilege when parents have spared their children the hurtful ramifications of breaking up the family unit.

Marriage isn't always easy. Every marriage has its issues and challenges. Sometimes it seems easier to call it quits but at what cost?

Sexy or Functional

In my dreams I drive a BMW X3. I like its small size, smooth lines and sexiness. In reality, we drive a less than sexy brown van.

Friday night we pull in at Ambleside Beach two spots up from another van. I look at the van across the empty bay between us. It's also an insipid colour and has an elderly lady sitting in it waiting for her probably equally elderly husband to return from his walk.

I say to M, "There's nothing sexy about a van."

"I never said there was," he replies. "It's functional."

I pause.

"Well, for that you've got me," I smile.

"You're more than functional," he says with earnestness.

"Sexy, I'm talking about sexy."

"Oh ... I missed that."

Hmpf! After nearly fourteen years of marriage, I'm less than sexy but still more than just functional. I guess that's something.

Travelling Light

It was the face wash spilling out the suitcase that caught my attention. I was doing my Friday morning walk - solo. Usually I add in a bit of a run but, as I'm still getting over the summer cold that took up residence earlier this week, I settled for a walk accompanied by my camera.

I strolled down Lonsdale and took a couple of shots of a good place to breakfast in the summer, a coffee shop where I like to sit outside and write, and the great view of Vancouver that greets me from across the water. I ambled along to the Quay. I was in no hurry today.

"Do you need help?" I asked as I picked the face wash up off the sidewalk. "Yes, please," she responded as she quickly sussed out the keys in my left hand and the camera in my right hand - nothing with which I could knock her over the head and steal her belongings. Besides which, in my walking gear, with my hair tied back and mascara smudges under my eyes I doubt I looked very threatening.

I looked around for her travelling partner. With two large suitcases, a duffle bag, a big backpack and the face wash loose in her hand, this couldn't all be her luggage. "I was wondering how I was going to do this," she quipped. "With great difficulty," I thought. I pulled one large suitcase while she grappled with her other luggage. I couldn't help myself, "Is this all your luggage?"

"Yes, I'm from Victoria but I've spent two months in Regina. I'm stopping in Vancouver for a conference on my way home," she offered by way of explanation. I succeeded in not raising my eyebrows. All this luggage, even for two months! It looked more like she was moving countries - permanently.

We made it from the totem pole, past the coffee shop to the entrance of the hotel. We zipped the three flights up the elevator to the foyer of the hotel. Pretty spiffy! I always wondered what the hotel at the quay was like - judging by the foyer, not bad. I left her in the capable hands of the concierge.

Young lady, you've got to learn to travel light. Even if you are gone for two months, you pack for one week, ten days, on the outside. That's what washing machines, laundromats and sinks are for. Account for changes in the weather, make sure you have one good pair of pants, three pairs of shoes at the most (runners, sandals and a smart pair), clothes that don't crease easily and co-ordinate well. Sure you won't have a variety of colours and styles, with accent jewelry to match, but this is a temporary situation. And if you're travelling for work, the same rules apply, except that you'll need two pairs of smart pants. Okay maybe three.

More and more, M and I are learning to travel light through life. With every extended trip to visit family, we find we take fewer pieces of luggage. Downsizing to an apartment last year was a real lesson in getting rid of superfluous stuff. It wasn't easy at first but we did get the hang of moving some possessions on to their next life. Now, before anything new comes in our door, we ask where it is going to go. If it doesn't have a place, it isn't coming in.

We don't always get it right but we are lighter than we were before.

America

I owe an apology to Americans. I have always considered them to loud, pushy and in your face. My opinion was formed after my first experience with Americans on a day excursion from London to Oxford and Stratford-upon-Avon back in 1995. The Americans on the tour were loud and inconsiderate of anyone else on the bus. "Brash Americans," I thought - and the thought has percolated ever since.

In my mind, one of the many reasons I like Canada is that Canadians are polite, friendly and downright nice people. Certainly nicer than their loud and brash neighbours with whom they are often confused. However, I met many Americans while holidaying in Cannon Beach that I could very well have mistaken for being Canadian. They were polite, friendly and downright nice people. Sure some of them were loud, but not everyone speaks at a decibel that is pleasant to my ears.

Over our conference breakfasts and dinners we got to know real people with real lives - a tired pastor and his young family; a young mother giving thanks that July was the last cancer treatment for her five year old son; two elderly sisters relying on God to help them make ends meet in their old-age; a grandmother raising her two young grandchildren on her own. The conference speaker, Ray Pritchard all the way from Mississippi, was the epitome of sincerity complete with his southern 'Y'All' drawl. Listen to Ray Pritchard's southern style yourself at http://www.keepbelieving.com/.

And it wasn't just the conference attendees who wooed us. The store attendants, the photo gallery owner and the vacationers enjoying the beach were just as friendly and welcoming. I seriously rethought my prejudice and propensity to paint an entire nation with the same garish colour based on an initial interaction, and a few subsequent ones, with their countrymen. The only unfriendly American we encountered on our trip was the customs official as we crossed over into the States. But then, it is her job to be curt, unfriendly and intrusive.

I have a new appreciation for my neighbours across the line. No doubt they have their faults too, but far be it for me to be the first to throw a stone.

Lunch Date

As soon as my eyes feasted on Cranky Sue's, I said to M, "We should come here to eat lunch while we're in Cannon Beach". Cranky Sue's is the first enticing restaurant you encounter entering Cannon Beach from the north exit off the highway.

The perfectly sunny warm weather and the appeal of its thatch umbrellas shading intimate tables scattered across the lawn was just the sight I needed after a long road trip. Leaning further out the window as M drove on, I could already see our little summer tête-à-tête under the thatch umbrella.

Breakfasts and dinners were catered by the conference centre but we were on our own for lunches. So come Monday, needing just a light lunch to tide us over, I suggested Cranky Sue's. We walked the two blocks to lunch. I let out a contented sigh as we sat at our outdoor table and read the menu. One of the delights of being married is that we share our meals, unless of course we order the same thing, which often happens. But today, two different appetizers should do - the crab cakes and the clams.

The prices were a little steep but we were already seated and I'm not one for just walking out of a restaurant, even if I am already outside. Besides which, we're on holiday, it's a treat and Cannon Beach is probably not the most affordable place to have a light lunch.

The quality of our lunch was superb. Obviously, we were paying for the hand-crafted expertise. The crab cakes, of which there were eight, were the width of a dime (very small indeed). I was intrigued that anyone would even bother to make crab cakes this small. Was it really worth their time? Well at $11 (USD I might add) for the plate, I guess it was. M and I made sure we ate all the greens that came with those miniature darlings.

The clams, of which there were fifteen (M got the extra one), were a bit of work as we pried them from their shells. Just as well, otherwise we would've eaten it all far too quickly. The herbed broth in which they were served was very tasty and great for dipping the fresh slices of bread. This option was slightly better value for money. But, after dropping $24 for our lunch of two starters, we felt less than satisfied and just a touch cranky.

Come Tuesday, we needed an alternative to expensive lunches. As we strolled the sidewalks of this quaint town I suggested the ultimate cheap travellers lunch to M. We popped into the grocery store for pre-sliced sourdough bread, sea-salted potato chips and apples. Our beach picnic of potato chips crunched between a folded-in-half piece of sourdough bread was a taste of heaven. I first experienced this cheap lunch trick in the mountains of Lesotho with my brother's university friends. Now it was coming into its own again on a beach in Oregon.

I enjoyed it more than our lunch at Cranky Sue's. I enjoyed it more, because of our lunch at Cranky Sue's. After our cheap picnic lunch we stretched out on the blanket, covered our faces with our hats and dozed off in the sun. Some of life's pleasures don't have to be expensive.

Serendipity

Cannon Beach is a delightful north Oregon coastal village. I knew as soon as we rolled into town that we had unwittingly discovered a little gem. It's pretty and quaint with neat wood buildings, nooks and crannies, an abundance of colourful petunias hanging from baskets, bright geraniums gracing the sidewalks in window boxes and appealing restaurants, art galleries and candy stores.

Even an evening trip to the grocery store to buy a litre of milk for our morning tea was a treat. Its enticing warmth and maze of narrow aisles are in contrast with the wide bright superstore where I shop for groceries back home. I would far rather browse the aisles of a grocery store than a clothing store. I love to smell the fresh bread, feast my eyes on varieties of olive oils in their attractive bottles, choose my fruit and vegetables with care and fill my basket with a colourful array of select, savoury and some sweet items. This time, though, we just picked up the litre of milk for the fridge in our room at the conference centre.

We walk one block from our lodge to the conference centre for our breakfast and dinner and to attend the morning and evening sessions. Not being on the conference centre site, we enjoy one of three routes that connect us from the beach front lodge to the centre. Each one is picturesque. Each one appeals to the romantic in me. Except for the auto shop right next to our lodge - complete with banged-up cars from their misadventures, large tow trucks and the smell of oil. It is out of place next to the saltwater taffy store which entices with its hand-made candy, caramel apples and the smell of cotton-candy calling my name from right across the street.

On the third day of walking past this eyesore, M says, "Let's go look at the art gallery in there." Art gallery, what art gallery? My eyes are still disdainfully taking in the cars being serviced - not a flower basket to be seen! I walk sceptically across the oil stained concrete as though we are going in to pay for our gas.

The cash register is still in its original place but the walls are filled with photographs, framed and unframed, of Cannon Beach. Scenes all photographed within a 10 mile radius of the auto shop. The proprietor, Gary of Gary's Service Center, is in attendance to explain the transformation from auto shop office to rudimentary photo gallery. With awe, I take in scenes from stormy seasons and snowy seasons and sunsets that I will never witness myself. I browse and choose cards and postcards in support of an auto mechanic's dream. View his artistry at http://www.garyscannonbeachphotos.com/.

I leave humbled at our serendipitous find. I leave encouraged by one man's decision to live his life and his dream where he finds himself. To go out, in all weather and at all times of the day and night, to take photographs; to move his auto shop office elsewhere so that he can display his art work to the public and to nurture a creative life for himself in his approaching retirement years.

We don't have to wait until the kids grow up or leave home or we have a new job or we retire before we can start to do something that breathes life into us. We start where we are, with what we have and, drawing on what we already know, we may just stumble across something valuable we weren't looking for.

Morning Beach Walk

The view was calling me out of bed on to the beach. Perhaps I should've taken the side of the bed closest to the window so that I didn't have M's hump of covers obscuring the view in any way. M stirred. "I'm going for a walk on the beach. Do you want to come?" I enticed. We stuffed our sleep shirts into our shorts, zippered our jackets and I put a cap on to tame my bed-head.

The warm glow of the sun had not yet risen over the hill of houses. The beach was quiet and the sand cold under our feet. I took a deep breath. The sound of the waves breaking on the beach and out at sea stills my soul. I zippered my jacket all the way closed. It was briskly cold - cold enough to invigorate our walk to the natural Eiffel Tower of Cannon Beach.

Haystack Rock rises out of the ocean as chief among a cluster of rocks that seem to have lost their way at the time of creation. As a small group of youngsters who, not paying attention, are separated from the adults, these rocks stand just out at sea separated from the jagged mountains that reach down to meet the beach.

The sun's glow starts to reflect off the white caps of the waves. We look forward to its warmth on our backs. We greet early morning runners and joggers as we step along the hard sand. M takes photos of the rock and of my fun beach poses. I'm practising being less self-conscious. We stand, looking out at sea, and our daddy-long leg shadows stretch out in front of us.

The closer we get to Haystack Rock the more we hear the communal cries of the seagulls that call the rock home. They fly around and nest on the rock as bees around a hive, calling all the while.

"Do you want to jog?" M asks. "Is your lower back sore too?" I reply. Yes. We start our jog. I feel it even more in my back. "Wait, I'll have to stretch first." We limber up with some stretches. Our mid-life bodies aren't what they used to be. Stretching with my elbows on my bent knees, I surprise myself with a view of Haystack Rock from upside down between my legs. I probably haven't done this since I was a child and then it was for fun. I smile to myself. Is this a subtle sign that we are indeed headed toward a second childhood in later life?

We jog back, rinse our feet and enjoy our morning ritual of a hot cup of tea.

F Words

I recently finished reading a book, or at least skimmed the last two chapters and, with great relief, threw it in the trash - actually the recycling bin. I had not enjoyed "Julie and Julia" by Julie Powell one little bit. I bought it as a novel way to do research on my new blogging activity. Julie Powell started a blog which became popular as readers followed her year-long activity of cooking French recipes. Now it is a first-rate movie starring Meryl Streep as the chef, Julia Child. I thought I might learn a thing or two, if not about writing, perhaps about cooking.

I didn't appreciate the blogging style of the book and so didn't care for how the story was told. However, it was her overuse of a little word beginning with the letter 'f' - and it is not the word 'french' - that finished it for me. I found her boring and crass - or should I say her writing is. Perhaps in person she is fun and easy to know. But I would have to turn a deaf ear to her coarse language. No - I'm sure there are others who would better appreciate her limited expressive vocabulary.

My ears are always tuned for fascinating new words. I like feisty words, festive words and fashionable words. I even come up with my own fandangle words. Usually a frown creasing my hearer's brow, alerts me to my own fabrication. I'm not farouche in trying a new word on for size. I like to sound it out and find the right moment for it to feature.

To be frank, I'm not that fuddy-duddy to think that the little word of which Mrs. Powell is such a fan doesn't have a place in the English language. In fact, it can best express extreme frustration as few other words can. In the movie, the husband of chef Julia Child uses the word famously in just that context. Even M gave a satisfied chuckle!

I may be frigorific in my assessment of Mrs. Powell and her funereal use of the pen. I stuck to reading her book hoping for a nugget of inspiration. None was to be found. Others, of course, have heralded her book with feverous accolades. As for me, Julie Powell is not my cut of roast beef.

Balneotherapy

There is not much that a long soak in the tub won't fix and a good hike up Grouse is an excellent precursor to balneotherapy, I have found.

Saturday was trundling along as our Saturdays usually do. While enjoying our morning cup of tea in our pyjamas, my mother called. I was delighted to hear her voice and didn't give caution to the fact that my mother only initiates a call, across the Atlantic Ocean, on the occasion of one of our birthdays. August 8th isn't a date that is of any significance in our household.

My mother got to the crux of the call quickly, "I'm going in for surgery. I have breast cancer." She was calm and matter of fact having had since early in the week to process her own emotions. Now that a biopsy had been done and the cancer confirmed, Saturday was her day to call her children and sisters to share her news. How many times that day was she asked, "How long have you known? Why didn't you tell us sooner? How are you feeling about it? What's next?"

The conversation was pretty civilised - no hysterics, no high emotion, a little cry together, a heartfelt prayer. We shared "I love yous" and hung up. The road of my life had turned sharply and unexpectedly. On one level, life continues as if the call was never received. I eat breakfast, shower and leave for my morning writing group. At a deeper level, I cry while I make the bed, stare out the window eating my yoghurt and blueberries and try not to weep on the walk to the writing group.

M's earlier suggestion that we do Grouse Grind in the afternoon was intended as a second challenge to better our time (see The Grind, July 15th). Now I see it as a release of energy and stress. We start at 1:30pm with our sure and steady steps. It's satisfying that this time we are reeling others in, few are passing us and many are resting along the trail like half-fallen comrades.

The Grind is my prescription for settling churning thoughts and emotions. The hike is plain hard and gets progressively harder. Conversation ceases and you are only aware of your breathing and your steps. You cannot think too much and eventually not all. It is a race against the clock and a discipline of your body.

However, you do see some interesting sights along the way. Particularly, as many first-timers don't believe how difficult it is. This time, we fell in behind a woman with her four year-old on her back. He wisely decided that this was more than he agreed to and, with teddy in hand, was being piggybacked up the treacherous trail. We offered to help. The tyke let M carry him but a few steps, before he wanted to return to his mother.

Waiting and watching, I noticed his mother's bubble boobs. I had time to wonder if they were motivated by vanity or the necessity of reconstructive surgery from a double mastectomy. My life had indeed turned a corner.

There's something therapeutic about pushing yourself hard and smelling terrible. Follow it up with balneotherapy and you've got natural medication with no side effects. Balneotherapy is my answer to stresses in life. I got into the hot bath, splashed the water on my face, tasted the salt on my lips and felt the salty sting in my eyes. I lay back and let the water soothe my body. Twenty minutes of soaking and I would be a fresh and rejuvenated woman ready to face the evening and better able to process the detour in my life.

Road Trips

Road trips are best embarked upon before dawn. If not, you'll miss the sunrise. As a morning person, beating the sun out of bed is the best way to start a road trip adventure.

I love a road trip - probably because the few vacations we had as children were road trips from Joeys (Johannesburg) to Durbs (Durban). Our family would be up before the sparrows. The darkness and coolness of the pre-dawn air heightened the anticipation of our trip to the seaside. Four children and two parents would bundle into the car for the six hour ride.

I loved the quietness of the suburban streets, the light of the streetlamps reflecting off the road and the slumbering homes. As we drove through the streets of our town (70kms east of Johannesburg), I was quietly excited knowing that when the rest of the town awoke we would be gone - well on our way to adventure!

It wouldn't be too far into the trip and Mom would pull out the first treat - biltong (better than beef jerky!). There's much to be said for not growing up with plenty but with just enough. Summer vacations away weren't a right or an annual expectation, but an unexpected delight. Treats were just that, treats. I savoured my biltong as we rolled by the quiet dark countryside.

I loved the gradual awakening of the sun, the movement from darkness through shades of grey and pink and orange to sunlight. Our town was waking and we were gone!

Even now, I count down the sleeps to my next road trip. Just six sleeps until we head south for a road trip to the seaside - Cannon Beach, Oregon. The Pacific Northwest will replace the African countryside; it will be two of us instead of six and we can't take any treats across the border. But, we will rise before the sparrows and hope to have a clear sky so as to better watch the unfolding of the sunrise.

Morrie and Alice

Beautiful places are beautiful places. Beautiful places shared become good memories. We have good memories of beautiful places shared with others. Every August long weekend, we picnic at Alice Lake with our good friends, Morrie and Em. The lake is an hour's drive north of Vancouver, just outside the burgeoning town of Squamish. We forget how many years we've been part of this. None of us knows for sure - maybe 8 years now - that's probably a good guess. Alice Lake has special memories for us because, once a year, it is part of the ritual of our life.

Our friend, Morrie is a character. He's the character you invite to dinner parties to help break the ice, entertain others and keep the conversation going at a good clip. He loves being with people and a room of strangers appeals to him rather than causing him to slink surreptitiously to the food table. But Morrie loves to start the day quietly, away from superfluous bodies.

Morrie's zest for life is evident in his ritual on Alice Lake day. He awakes with the same glee as a young child on Christmas day. "Emmie, let's go!" He likes to hit the road by 7am at the latest. A quick stop in Squamish to buy coffee, timbits (mini donuts) and the paper means that they are the first at the lake just after 8.

This early start has a twofold importance. One, to dab the best spot at the lake - right under a large tree. This spot ensures morning sun and increasing shade with the encroaching heat of the day. Second, Morrie gets to enjoy his quiet start to the day. In his wife's company, he enjoys the peace and stillness of the morning. He sits back in his chair, alternating between reading the paper and watching the sun languidly warm the lake. The serenity of the geese on the lake eventually entices him to break the stillness of the surface with the ripples of a swim. "Morris, don't swim too far into the lake," his wife warns.

As friends, we know to not arrive too early. "Morrie won't mind if you come at 8," says Em. "If you do, I'll just get there at 6," is his reply. That's how precious that time is to him. We arrive after 10:30 thinking we may be a little late but we are the first to arrive, just ahead of the others.

My first ritual every year is to sit in the morning sun and read Morrie's paper. I whip through the various sections, fighting with the wind all the while - "there's nothing to read!" Disgruntled, I pass it to M who reads the paper with care and passes articles on to me he knows would interest me. "We should read the paper together like this all the time," I suggest.

The ritual of Alice Lake is to do whatever you want to do. We chat, read, swim, sleep, do Sudoku, play a game, take a walk or only some of the above. It's seldom that any of us take a day just to be and let the day unfold and the busyness unravel. The savouring of downtime is second to the laughs we share throughout the day.

Morrie is a great source of good laughs. In the quiet moment when our group of ten is at rest, reading, dozing or pondering thoughts, Morrie seriously states, "I hate sitting in a wet bathing suit; it gives you an itchy rear!" Or when he wasn't getting enough sympathy with the wasp sting on his leg, he upgraded the calamity to "I think I was stung by a jelly fish!". His insight of the day was "the more I drink, the more I've got to go for a swim." This likely contributed to Tim's landlockness, "Do you see how many kids there are? Do you think they go to the washroom?"

Our Alice Lake day is a day of doing mostly nothing. As Jean said, "I don't realise how much I like to do nothing." Our ritual of relaxation and doing nothing winds slowly and quietly to a close.