Wet and Windy Cannon Beach

Day Four at Cannon Beach: it is wet, the wind blows, the waves protest and lash the shore, the mist hovers low. We've had bright clear days to walk the beach and watch kites a plenty whipping in the wind. Today will not be one of those days, yet I am not irritable.

Writing has added a new dimension to my life. Wet weather is no longer discouraging; it provides opportunities. Today is a welcome opportunity to write.

After an inspiring morning excursion (see French Bric-a-Brac August 2010), M and I return to our room at the conference centre. The wind has picked up and the rain lashes horizontally across the courtyard. Perfect. We sip our chai lattés, M reads and I write. The tick tick of the keyboard harmonizes with the wind and rain. I am grateful for writing weather.

A blue sky would call us to a walk on the beach or the boulevard at Seaside. It would encourage us to explore the nature park and seek out stunning views of the Oregon coastline. Grey skies and lashing rain are the ideal creative combination and so I write.

French Bric-a-Brac

There is no morning seminar at the Cannon Beach conference. This wet and windy day is ours to enjoy. M and I head out for a drive to the Tillamook cheese factory. I point to a sign which reads, "Mo's". M takes the turn-off. That's one of the pleasures of a long-standing marriage ... when it works. You point, he understands and responds: no negotiation or explanation required.

We've found the restaurant on the beach where we apparently have to stop for clam chowder. Today's not the day but at least now we know where it is. And what a view it has of Haystack Rock. We're sure to be back.

We trundle on to Tillamook, spend time at the monolith cheese factory and drive a little further. We don't know why. On a wet day like this we don't need to know. We pull into The Blue Heron French Cheese Company. No-one said that this is a must-do in Tillamook but it sure is. This is my kind of store: nooks and crannies, tables scattered around the store in private corners or clustered together near the window. It has oodles of atmosphere: bric-a-brac of the French kind, and samples galore of brie cheese, jams, chutneys, dips and mustards - just dip a pretzel stick and savour.

I'm in French heaven.

I find us a secluded table near the window. M orders a toasted ham and cheese sandwich for us to share. As busy as the store is, we are alone in our spot. I feast my eyes on the bric-a-brac: the French style side tables, the baskets and statuettes. A caged planter catches my eye. That will work in our home. I give it closer inspection. Yes, I like it. I lift the price tag.

I think not. It will stay just where it is.

But what an inspiring spot. I'm refueled, ready to be sequestered in my room to write. What a writing-perfect day this is turning out to be.

My Wager Breakfast

I slice into the white of my over-easy eggs. Wait. "Where's the camera?" I ask M. He hands it over. "What now?" his look says. I want a picture of my won-the-wager breakfast.

I bet M that the name of the South African rugby captain is John Smit, not John Smith. M held fast that it was John Smith. I bet that if I was right, I could choose any breakfast I wanted when we stopped at Denny's on our drive to Cannon Beach (we usually go for cost effective options - just so you know). M lay down his side of the bet - I agreed.

Wager on, I googled 'John Smit South African rugby captain' and scored - breakfast! Still working on humility and competitiveness, I gloated to M that I recognised my last name by marriage better than he did his by birth, and now any breakfast was mine.

The way to my heart is through my stomach. I like food and I like to eat. I anticipated the breakfast with glee and now it is here. I snap the picture for prosperity: to remember the cherry tomatoes, red pepper, mushrooms, zucchini, fresh spinach, breakfast sausage and roasted potatoes, crowned with melted cheese and two over-easy eggs.

I savour my breakfast, pleased I won the bet. But come to think of it, if M had won the bet, I would've enjoyed that too.

Bike Hard

My chest burns, my muscles are tight. I breathe more heavily than John Smit after 80 minutes of hard rugby against the All Blacks - and this, at the first uphill, ten minutes into our bike ride at Seymour Demonstration Forest. Don't complain, I say to myself. You chose to do this instead of milling around at the PNE (similar to the Rand Show).

I surprised myself that I opted for a hard bike ride, to slough off sluggishness, over mini-donuts at the fair. In this moment of hard biking I try to convince myself that I made the right choice.

I catch up with M at the top of the hill. "Do you want to rest?" he asks. "Nah, I'll pedal slowly," is my sputtered reply. This is not the Steveston or Alouette River dykes, those nice pleasant introductory rides to summer. This bike ride calls for gear changes and less talking. Saddle soreness and stiffness are its rewards.

I know I'm going to regret my next words, the ones that say, "We should do this once a week until the rains come." M agrees. Neither of us is getting the type of exercise we should. Our plan to do Grouse Grind hasn't materialised this summer and we don't walk the seawall as often as we used to.

Our conversation stops. The next uphill is before us: the next huff and the next puff and the next 'I wish I hadn't just said that' thought. But each hill will get easier and each bike ride better than the one before - now just to follow through on it. We'll never compete in the Tour de France but I'll let you know how our Tour de Seymour goes.

You Live Like Italians

"You picnic every night," Mario hollers to us from the beach. "You know how to live." We smile and wave to acknowledge the compliment. We don't picnic every night and we do not know Mario very well. In fact, we don't even know that his name is Mario.

M and I like to picnic at the beach in West Vancouver during the summer. We keep it simple with a cooler box, a barbeque and burgers. There's no fanfare, no printed table cloth, silver cutlery or candles. We keep it simple and easily repeatable.

One such evening we set up our chairs in our usual spot. Except, there was Mario lounging on a bench in his next to nothing sleek Speedo. His bronzed gut hung over the slip of fabric that offered some degree of public decency. I groaned. He detracted from our view of the water. We really couldn't sit anywhere without seeing him offer his aging body to the sun.

Not too much longer after our first sighting of Mario, we were down at the same spot to picnic with another couple. We hoped to score a picnic table rather than eat off our laps. The tables were all taken including one occupied solely by Mario. He lay on the bench offering his unsightly nakedness to the sun gods. I was irritated - how long was he going to be there hogging a table and being an eyesore?

Mario opened his eyes from his sun daze and, seeing me set up our chairs, called, "Are you having a picnic?" I nodded. "Come, have the table. Me, I just enjoy the sun." His accent was thick with his Italian origins. Mollified, I smiled and thanked him.

And now tonight, this our third encounter of the Italian kind, he hollers to us from the beach. Next he wanders over and strikes up a conversation. "North Americans," he says, "they don't know how to live. Look at all the balconies." He points to the apartment buildings hugging the West Vancouver waterfront. "No umbrella, no chairs, no-one enjoys their balcony. They don't know how to live. But you, you live like Italians. You picnic, you enjoy life."

After Mario leaves, I look at our picnic. I see no Tuscan sun, no vineyard, cypress trees or wicker picnic basket. The only thing Italian about it is the soda I brought as our sun downer beverage. Yet Mario has seen something else - a picture from the old country and we're in that snapshot. We may need to start practising our Italian. Ciao!

Friday Lamentation

August: a month when I should be kicking back my heels, sipping a gin and tonic with Jean in the sun, my keys forgotten on the table, with nowhere to go but right here.

However, August is not a quiet month for me on the work front. I have deadlines and busyness. My writing is squeezed in here and there. This summer even my evenings have been busy. So much so, that I have not renewed my deep breathing and relaxation yoga classes. I have to free up time somewhere.

But all is not lost. Summer has not been abandoned, I remind myself. We did picnic with friends at the beach on Tuesday night. And didn't Morrie and Em join us for lemonade sundowners at Whytecliffe Park on Monday to watch the sunset? And wasn't that as a result of the picnic we enjoyed together Sunday afternoon at that same park?

So what's up with you, I scold myself. Why the niggling frustration that summer is slipping by? Why this lamenting? I have no clear concise answer.

I look at my desk, the unfinished tasks, the intrusive deadline I wasn't expecting, the change to my day I didn't want, and the things I want to do but can't get to just yet. Buck up! I scold myself again. The sooner you get through all of this, the sooner you can get outside and enjoy summer!

And so, I do. I publish my lament on the web and pick up the next item on the 'to do' list of life.

Tea and Scones

I take a break from writing. Breakfast hasn't happened this Saturday morning. M encouraged me to write while he washes the windows. Write or wash windows? I certainly got the better option. After a late night and the substantial wedding reception dinner the evening before, breakfast hasn't been high on our agenda. But now it is brunch-time: time for tea and scones.

I warm four raisin scones in the microwave, slice them in two, spread raspberry jam and dab on a dollop of the real stuff - English double Devon cream. It's my British heritage that has me longing for scones and cream. I'm proud of my home-baked scones. I'm not much of a baker and so I am particularly tickled that I have pulled this off. M's ready to take a tea break too. Amid a bucket of water, a vacuum cleaner and cleaning materials, we take our seats, bite into a scone and indulge.

Tea and scones, so English - my Grandmother James used to bake scones for tea and there were many times my mother baked scones on the weekend as a treat: England in Africa. I remember a trip to London, where M and I hunted high and low for tea and scones. Eventually, we found a coffee shop and tea room in Greenwich that served scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream.

"Mmm, these are good. Make them again," M commends. Yes, I think I will. I'll bring a little taste of England to Lonsdale with the tradition of serving hot scones, a berry jam and clotted cream with our tea.

To Write: More

The editor did call and apologise for his oversight and mistake (see Brooks Reads, Brenda Fumes July 2010) and the writing course material (see The Craft June 2010) arrived in the mail yesterday. So, all is on track again in my writing world; more than on track actually.

With the enclosure of the small balcony off our bedroom, I now have a dedicated writing room: a room to call my own in Virginia Woolf tradition. My desk sits at the window with a view of the North Shore Mountains and the grubby roof-top next door. I have the white citadel of Queen Mary School (see Queen Mary School July 2009) to inspire me and the shabby balconies of neighbouring apartments to give me a window on humanity. Look up and I see the open sky, look down and I see the back alley with its activity of Lonsdalites passing through. Look to the left and I spy the water, the West End, Stanley Park and the dumps of yellow sulphur at the docks.

But more than the view and the activity on the other side of the window, it's the room itself, as incomplete as it is, that calls out the writer in me. Off-cuts of carpet cover the floor, M's tools are stored in a corner and a plastic storage box fills the wall on the other side of the small room. I'm realising that my caramel-coloured wicker chair is a little low for the desk but it works for now. I set a candle on the desk and lit it to commemorate crafting this, my first vignette in the writing room of our apartment. I hoped it would lend some atmosphere to the room, yet, the flame flickers half-heartedly and struggles to breathe above the pooling hot wax. I dislodge the wax and the flame burns brighter.

I'm not waiting for this room to be perfect to enjoy it. Besides which, to reduce the craft to its simplest modern-day form: I require a desk, a chair and a computerised writing implement. I have all three in this little room of mine. Now: to write more.

Wedding White

I love weddings, other people's weddings. There is no stress. I dress up and just make sure we're at the church before the bride. Other than that finer detail, I get to enjoy the occasion, not caring if the flowers are just right, if the pianist is on time or if Uncle Jimmy is going to be scandalous or not. I don't have to visit with every table at the reception, smile until I can't smile anymore or eat my dinner with everyone else's eyes on me.

Rather, I get to sit close to M, hold his hand and get gushy and mushy that it's all worth it: those married moments of cuddly closeness and the irritable ones laced with high frustration. I sometimes think it's not always the big issues that break marriages but the daily wear and tear of doing life together. Like leaving bread crumbs on the kitchen counter, one small idiosyncrasy I have that irritates M. In my defence, I must say that the mottled brown and black of our kitchen counter is a great camouflage for crumbs.

But at weddings, in the romance of the moment, we forget these small indiscretions and irritations of life together. The happiness of the bridal pair takes us back fifteen years to our happy day and what is good about being married. With nostalgia we remember we did say "for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health" and now we'd add "for bread crumbs on the counter or leaving the toilet seat cover up, for grumpy moods and calling a bread board 'a plank', in the heat of the argument or the snoring on your back" I thee do wed!

Bed-Time Romance

"You don't seem very excited about it," M comments as we take the pillows off the bed.
"No, I guess I'm not," is my honest reply.
"Isn't this what you wanted?" He asks as we draw the bed cover back.
"Yes, but to be honest I was hoping for more than just romance."
After nearly fifteen years of marriage, I still sometimes keep M guessing.
"But there is more to it than romance," he reminds me as we slip between the sheets. "There's poetry, children's stories, technical writing and editing."

Yes, he's right. I'm stuck on the one credential I don't like versus the whole picture. The excitement of being accepted for a writing course (see The Craft June 2010) evaporated with the realisation that the personal instructor, to whom I have been assigned, has written four romance novels.

I was hoping my instructor wouldn't be a science fiction writer, as I don't care to read that genre, but a romance novelist never sparked as even a remote possibility in me. I eagerly anticipated taking my instructor's novel out the library to read. And now the disappointment of reading a Silhouette romance novel settles deeply in me. I haven't read one since high school. A literature degree cured me of ever reading fickle fiction again.

And, yet, a long distant memory surfaces. The one time I thought I might make some money out of writing, I sat down one African afternoon, twenty years ago, and started a Mills & Boon romance novel. I still remember writing about a young woman motoring down the M1 into Cape Town to start a new life for herself. She was going to live in a little cottage near the sea, take barefoot walks on the beach, and ... and ... and what? I didn't know, so I stopped. "What are you doing?" I chastised myself then. "You're not even a writer." Those opening lines were deleted never to appear again. Or were they?

M switches off the light and we kiss good-night; we fumble in the dark trying to find each other's lips. As we settle to sleep, the truth of my concern surfaces: it's not so much that my instructor is a romance novelist, but rather, horror of horrors, what if I am?