A New Post!

Anna Leigh was five years old. She had long brown hair which her mother sometimes made to curl, and she wore the same pink shoes every day whether there was school to go to or not. On days there was school, Anna Leigh would wake up quite early, swing her legs over the edge of her bed and poke her little toes into her favourite pink shoes. They had elastic-band laces instead of the tie-up kind and took little more than a hop to put them on. After her feet were snug in her sneakers she would quickly bother about the rest of her outfit and run downstairs for breakfast before skipping out the door and down the street to class. 

The school where Anna Leigh went to kindergarten was exactly seven-hundred-nineteen steps from her house. She had counted many times and knew by certain markings in the pavement or by the shadow of particular trees how many steps she still had in front of her; at five-hundred-eighty-nine steps, for example, she had stuck one of her brother's silver marbles in the dirt between two slabs of the sidewalk where a tuft of grass was growing; at three-hundred-eleven steps she stopped briefly to wave at Mr. Stewart who was a bit of a neighbourhood grandfather; and, when it was still warm enough, at just ninety-three steps she always spit a mouthful of water from her water bottle onto a little rosebush that had grown up at the edge of the school parking lot. Almost the whole of this daily journey she walked with her fingers rap-rap-rapping along the long white picket fence that surrounded Mr. Stewart’s home. The posts were clean and freshly painted twice a year, the wood was smooth and the sound was both wonderful and soothing in the little girl’s ears. The only interruption in the white wooden wall was the gate opening to the path that led to Mr. Stewart’s front door.

On days when there was no school, Anna Leigh did exactly the same thing: up out of bed, down into her shoes, up out the door, down the street and into the world. It was on one of these mornings that she found herself suddenly stuck in her tracks at only six-hundred-forty-one steps to go.

“What is this!” she exclaimed aloud (for there are a great many children who narrate their lives in this verbal fashion). “What are you doing here!”

The little girl took three deliberate steps backwards and turned her whole body to face the pointed piece of wood that her fingers had just skimmed. She stared at it. It stared back, in the manner of its kind. She blinked. It did not. “You’re blue!” she said. It did not reply, exactly, but it made no apologies for the truth of this statement, and made no effort to alter its hue. “You’re BLUE!” with more emphasis this time, ensuring that the post could not possibly have misunderstood her meaning. She double blinked at it quite hard and then hustled down the street to Mr. Stewart’s gate.

“Mr. Stewart!” she panted three-hundred-thirty rapid steps later. “A new post! There’s a new post!”

“Oh?” came Mr. Stewart’s voice from the other side of a big newspaper. “Do you mean I have a letter?”

“No, no! Not that sort of post, Sir! The wood kind! Quick! Come look!” The little girl scrambled up the path and took the old man by his hand. He smiled and allowed himself to be dragged along behind the excited child. Before long they were standing side by side, facing the blue board.

“Well, well,” chuckled Mr. Stewart, “would you have a look at that! Blue. Who would have thought.” Then he made a quick blink with only one eye that Anna Leigh mimicked to her mother that afternoon at the end of telling her the whole story. Her mother told her it was a wink, and that she thought it might mean more mysteries on their way.

After a few days had past Anna Leigh hovered at the blue post for only a moment before rap-rap-rapping along on her way again. She waved to Mr. Stewart at his gate and was already preparing to water the roses when she halted abruptly at one-hundred-sixty-nine steps to go. Packed in the middle of hundreds of white posts was one that stuck out like a bright orange flare. She ran back to the gate and called out to her elderly friend. “Mr. Stewart!” she called to the old man as she clambered up to his porch, “There’s another post! Another new post! Come on, come on, come on!”

“Another post?” mused Mr. Stewart. “They sent me to India once, you know. Something like that, my girl?”

“No, no! Not that sort of post, Sir! The wood kind! This one is orange! Come quick!”

They stood together side by side, facing the orange post. “It is a bit orange, isn’t it?” he smiled. She nodded rather expectantly. “Orange,” he said. “Who would have thought.”

This exchange went for just over two years. Every few days another post would be painted overnight and sure enough, the following morning the little girl would come and take the old man by the hand, help him to the sidewalk and point it out. There were purple and red ones, pink, green and yellow ones, some with polka dots or stripes, and some that faded from one colour to another. Anna Leigh was fascinated, her mother was encouraged, and Mr. Stewart was beaming… and sick.

One morning when Anna Leigh was just about eight she hopped up the stairs in a pair of new pink shoes. Mr. Stewart gave her an approving once-over. “Well, well,” smiled Mr. Stewart. “Your mother told me that you were growing up but I just couldn’t believe it. New shoes, would you look at that. No denying it now… things really are changing.”

“For your fence, too! I found one more, I think. It looks like a sunset, or a lion’s fur or something. Do you want to come and see it today?”

“Actually,” said Mr. Stewart, “I have something to show you, if you’d like.”

Anna Leigh helped the old man to his feet and followed him inside the house. She had never been inside the little white home in all the years that they had been neighbours but had always been curious. When the door opened, she gasped. There was art everywhere! Floors, ceilings and every inch of every wall were covered in beautiful murals that seemed to move about when you looked at them. She was speechless. He led her through the house, talking about the different scenes and colour palettes, influences and genres. Most of what he said didn’t make much sense to her, but the art spoke to her with a clarity that words could never touch.

“My wife was an artist,” he said in the kitchen as they sat down at the table to rest. “She painted all of this while we were together here, while we were raising our family. Now, though…” He paused to clear his throat a little. “Now I have to go.”

“Where are you going?” she asked quietly.

“Not so very far, just a little ways across town. It’s a nice place, with very nice people. I put in my name last month, and now I have a room that faces the street, so that I can people watch like I do here.”

Slowly Mr. Stewart walked over the door of his large kitchen pantry and opened the double doors wide. Every shelf was filled with tiny pots of paint in full spectrum. Old tins and mason jars, the type that once held baby food and re-purposed containers of jelly and jam. While she was taking it all in, Mr. Stewart pressed something into Anna Leigh’s hand. Paintbrushes.

“They belonged to my wife,” he said. “It was in honour of her that I began painting our fence. It was because of her that I learned to stop trying to look so normal in the eyes of our neighbours. It was my beautiful bride that made me so brave… even brave enough to leave her legacy here. With you.”

A tearful week went by on the street. Anna Leigh and her mother held a small going-away party and many of the neighbourhood people stopped by to wish him well. The girl went over every other day to help him pack and clean, and pry off a few painted floorboards out of the closet floor in his bedroom to take with him. Friday morning his sons came up to help him move, and then Mr. Stewart was gone.

It took another two weeks for Anna to find the fastest route. It took three-thousand-two-hundred-ninety-five steps from her door to the new fence. It only took another three days for Mr. Stewart to notice the change as he stared out his window towards the street. “Well, well,” he murmured as his eyes filled up with tears and memories, “would you have a look at that! Blue. Who would have thought.”

Oh, My Heart

Mini-Yo-We is flooded again, but not like it was in April. This time the tide has brought in a rather boisterous collection of cabin leaders, canoeing instructors, craft makers, carpenters (I'm sure we have a few of those kicking around), cooks, cleaning crews and some of those loud ones that I'm not sure what they are doing, but I can hear them from the other end of the property... in a basement... with a fan and printer running. Welcome to Camp.

I've been pretty isolated from the online world for the last few months, so for those of you who have announced a change in relationship status by merely posting it on Facebook, I'm likely out of the loop.

And speaking of status changes, let's jump to the most important bit of news in my life, and the reason that I thought it might be nice to open up and share a little something with you, whomever you are, as I print off another seventy-nine curriculum maps for Sunday morning. I am in love, and quite happy to brag.

Ben Ankenmann. I love him.

I am so proud to be this man's girl. Let me go a little stream-of-consciousness on you and try to explain some of why he is so incredible. Ben is an Old Testament style, Boaz impersonating worthy man; he is driven and hardworking, dependable, trustworthy, inclusive, attentive and cool; he is simultaneously bold and gentle, creative and steady, a source of wonder and of security; he is extremely respectful; he is affectionate; he is brilliant and smart and intelligent and clever and quick-witted, none of which are the same no matter what the thesaurus might tell you; he is generous and wise; he is mine. I admire him deeply, and dream openly about a life-long (and rather intimate) friendship with him. He is my favourite... and the crazy thing is, I'm his.

You will hear more about him in the stories to come, but for now I have a lot of photocopying in my future, and would like to have at least a few hours of sleep before I stand and stare at the old xerox machine for hours on end.

Good night, world.

Good night, Ben.

Sweet dreams.

Adulthood, Here I Come

There is something about living at home again after many years away that has a time-warping, potentially stunting affect on forward motion. When the reality of another year under under my parents' roof and in their generous/gracious care started to settle in, I set about to guard against the strange gravity of my high school self by making an important list. Feels like a good time to share.

Five Ways to Be an Adult

1 • Listen to CBC Radio. It all began with my authorial hero, Stuart McLean and his brilliant and heart-warming stories about Dave and Morley and Sam and Stephanie... but now, as an avid listener of "Q" (with Jian Ghomeshi), "The Debaters," "The Irrelevant Show," the news and an occasional program or interview in French, I feel more connected to the world around me. I have learned a great deal about Canadian politics, the oil industry's plan for new pipelines and how a city in Texas is adding sugar to their water at the source. Okay, so the last one was a joke that I got sucked into believing. For the record, everyone, "This Is [Not] That." Check.

2 • Drink a lot of tea. Without conducting any formal study (no unsolicited surveys were forced upon anyone during the drawing of this conclusion), it has become rather clear that the majority of adults do not drink hot chocolate on a daily basis. On a cold, wintery evening all curled up inside after a long day playing in the snow? I don't think anyone would sniff with derision at a steaming cup of cocoa... but as a matter of routine, most lean towards something steeped or brewed. Having already definitively proven that coffee is disgusting, tea became my beverage of choice. Green tea, no milk, no sugar, piping hot or ice-cold. Check.

3 • Write everything in cursive. When I was in the eighth grade, my French teacher (Mme Norris, I believe) explained to my class that once we made it to high school, no respectable authority would accept a hand-printed essay. She insisted that cursive writing was the universal professional rule. But you know what the rule was in high school? Times New Roman, 12 size font, double spaced. I gave up on joined-up letters until part way through university when I took a good, long look at a letter my mother had mailed me. In a whimsical mood, I spent a few days attempting to mimic her smooth, womanly hand. It was illegible. And embarrassing. Over the last four years I have found the best pens ever (RSVPs, ultra-thin ink flow, amazing) and after much tedious practice, I have a ribbony font all my own. Check.

4 • Go to sleep on the same day I wake up. There are a few days a month that I break it (mostly when I'm trying to talk to Australia), but more often than not I have learned my lesson on this one. Sleep is healthy, and mornings are nice - especially now that the sun is rising so early! There's an encouraging rhyme that I remember from when I was little: "Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy and wealthy and wise." I have no idea if this will ever prove true, or even if it works for women, but it sure sounds good, right? Yes it does. Check.

5 • Befriend my elders. Probably the most important lesson I've learned this year. Old people are awesome. And smart. And funny. And generous with storytelling. They are encouraging of big dreams and minor accomplishments and the learning of all sorts of things. They have experienced things I will never be able to, and hearing about their lives reminds me that, while I am becoming an adult I am still young. I have so much ahead of me, Lord willing. Things to do, people to meet, places to see, moments to capture. As I build true friendships with these living antiques I am absorbing so much love. They are teaching me, and they are letting me teach them.

Maybe one day I will write a blog called, "Senior's Discount, Here I Come." When I get to that stage in my life, I hope that I will look like the ladies in my weekly study who carry around hundred-year-old Bibles, talk about the weather report, drink their tea, go to bed at eight and sign their names with flawless penmanship. I hope I find myself a man who, when he too has yellowed and wrinkled with age, will take my hand in his as we clamber into the elevator because we're both too rickety to take the stairs. I pray for the endurance of affection that I see in my wise old friends every week.

But, in the meantime, I'm going to go down the stairs with the leaping abandon of youth, two at a time, and make myself a tea. Growing up by baby-steps. Check.

Prina

Prina had been sent to her room with four minutes to change for dinner. Her teeth were brushed, her face was washed and her fingernails shone with a bright new layer of bright pink polish, but her shorts and t-shirt combination was not the nice-company outfit her mother had in mind.

Guests were on their way from out of town, and everyone in Prina’s family was supposed to get dressed in their very best clothing and hurry back to the kitchen to help set up.

Prina walked over to her closet and slid open the door. One lone garment, pale blue and without pattern hung on a hanger in the middle of the rack. Careful not to let the dress slip off its hook, she carried it over to the bed and spread it out smooth. She frowned a little as she noticed the soft spots near her knees where the fabric was wearing thin. A patch of green covered up a rip on one sleeve where a pair of scissors had once snipped a hole instead of a loose thread, and the lace around the collar was so old that it looked grey and dull, instead of sharp and clean and pretty.



“Well, you have seen better days,” said Prina in the way her mother often did, “and I have worn you many times before. Maybe tonight something else might be better… like… my astronaut’s suit!” 

Prina turned around and faced her closet again. Hanging right in the middle was a puffy white NASA uniform, complete with space boots, an oxygen tank and a large round helmet with a shiny golden face shield. She had to reach way up on her tiptoes to get everything off the shelves but eventually it was all spread out on the bed, ready for her examination. “You are indeed a wonderful outfit to wear,” she observed, thoughtfully tapping one finger against her chin. “But I think the helmet might make conversation a little tricky. And what if gravity suddenly switched off like it does in outer space?! Then the food would go everywhere! We’d have to eat on the ceiling! No, no. That won’t work. Maybe the mermaid costume.”



Turning back to the closet, Prina retrieved the lovely long green tail and the silver sequined tank top. She found two seashell earrings that clip on and added them to the pile beside the astronaut’s suit and her old dress. “Well,” she smiled, “It sure would be a fun to show up for dinner as a mermaid! But it would be difficult to greet our guests at the door without legs to walk there. And I don’t think Daddy would let me flood the floor so I could swim. It might be easier if I keep my legs. Perhaps a circus performer.” 



The closet was growing, in the same way that a balloon expands as you blow it up: the doors were wider and taller than they had once been, and the drawers were stuffed with hats and scarves and shoes, all overflowing. A hundred hangers were stuffed in a row, displaying vibrantly colourful outfits three layers deep. A look of satisfaction spread across her face as she smoothed out the leotard and feathery bandana of a flying trapeze artist. Attached at the waist was a tiny pocket of crushed-up chalk. The powder would make holding on to the swinging bar safer, but it also sent a cloud of dust into the air every time she reapplied. Because the dust made it hard to breathe, she set aside the entire attire and dove back into her closet for more.



One choice after the next was turned down by the little girl: the firefighter uniform and the parka-mukluk combination were both abandoned due to their encouragement of extreme heat; she cast off the superhero disguise for fear of catching her cape under the leg of a chair; she repackaged the jungle-cat fur to save the sinuses of those with sensitive allergies, the mechanic’s overalls because of grease stains and the suit of armor for the risk of rust. She weighed the idea of wearing Christmas pajamas for a moment, but quickly decided to pass just incase it snowed and the plows couldn’t get out in time for their guests to arrive safely.  



“Dressing for dinner is harder than I thought,” said Prina glumly as she stared at the magnificent mountain of clothing options now spilling over the edges of her bed and pooling on her floor. She tossed her fashion model garments to one side along with the stilt-like high heels, the pirate patch and coat and wooden leg and real live parrot, the karate-man’s black belt, the medieval princesses’ long sleeves, the lifeguard’s red shirt and the sheriff’s gold badge. Her closet had become the size of a gigantic warehouse full of so many props and wardrobe options that it would make your head spin! And yet, absolutely nothing she tried on seemed to work.



Sitting on her bed atop the towering heap of costumes, Prina scrunched up her face to have a think. “I have nothing to wear!” she lamented. “Everything I own is too sparkly or too leathery, too pointy, too furry, too slippery, too glow-in-the-darky, too tight or too baggy, too stripey, too dotty, too matchy or not matchy enough! But there is one thing.” 



So Prina clambered down off her pile and started to dig; past the sheriff’s cowboy hat and the fashionista’s stilettos, past the superhero mask and the mermaid’s long tail. She shoved and pulled and dug her way down right to that very first dress… a gentle blue frock without the distraction of pattern, comfortable and soft with a personal touch of history. It was, after all, her very favourite one that she wore it for almost every important dinner, and tonight was certainly a special occasion. Carefully slipping the shoulders off of the hanger and up over her own head, Prina wriggled into her loveliest nice-company outfit, just as her mother called from the other room. “Coming!” she answered, closing her empty closet doors and twirling into the kitchen. “What do you think of this one, Mummy?”

Her mother smiled and kissed the top of her head. “A perfect choice.”

A Penny for Your...

Something happened to me tonight that stopped me right in my tracks. I was in the Wendy's drive-though (Health Nuts: please hold your critique until the end of the post. And don't judge too harshly. I was driving back to the house after picking up a double armload of fabric and a few groceries to make tomorrow's coffee cake, and sometimes you just get in the mood for cheap meat, sweet bread and a slice of tomato, okay!? This is not the point of my story. Stop getting me so distracted). I placed my order ("Just a Junior Cheeseburger, please.""Bacon Junior Cheeseburger?" "No, no bacon." "Oh...") and pulled up to the second window, as instructed. She asked me for one dollar and ninety-eight cents. I gave her five dollars. This is a scene I have played before.

Then she handed me my change.

I am the first to confess that I suck at numbers. I don't understand math well, and I have the grades to prove it... but I can make change. I've worked a till before. I know how this works... but there it was, in my hand: three dollars.

This is weird. This is weird. Why is this weird? Huh. She kept the two pennies. Fine, I usually leave them anyway, but it's a bit rude to assume that I don't want them. Jaleesa used to collect them, and I used to save them up for her. And maybe I wanted them just to drop into the little penny collector thing under the... HOLD A SECOND?!

Pennies no longer exist. 

If you didn't already click the link above, you should. It's exactly the sort of article I would have written, had I been more on-the-ball (and employed by a big fancy newspaper). This is a sad day, my friends... taking out the little guy. It'll be the nickels next, and soon everything will get rounded to the dollar for the sake of crappy convenience and change will disappear forever! Plastic money for everyone and no more coins at all. It's coming. Mark my words.

Novel Ideas, Round Two

Every once in a while, I get it into my head that a podcast would be a lot of fun. I've tried to set one up before with no success, and after fighting with a few tutorial sites and not-very-polite-and-helpful forums, I've come up with a second best scenario for those (and mostly I mean Missa) who might prefer having my stories read to them, over reading them themselves.

That makes sense.

So here's a link to my mock-pod (which I realize looks a lot like another blog). In case you missed it, there is a little tab above which will also swing you over to the new hosting place.

All of the stories I read will be ones I've already tacked up here, but with more of the verbal pep and pizzazz that I hear in my mind when I'm writing. Happy to take requests, if you can think of a story you'd like to hear!

(If I ever figure out how to get this thing on iTunes, I will certainly let you know. Triumphantly, I expect. Might throw around some ticker-tape... because I believe sometimes even minor accomplishments deserve a little parade.)

Detention

The grey sky stood over the city like an angry teacher assigned to detention. Thick arms of accumulating nimbus crossed themselves in front of me as I drove my car home. His voice purred, but it was the unpredictable, growling purr of a jaguar in the woods. The Grey was quietly asserting his power.

"I don't need to make you miserable," said the Grey. "I am satisfied with sullen weariness or numb solemnity. But if you provoke me - if you so much as smile - I will make you cry." As if to visually punctuate this thought, the Grey picked up a ruler and began to slap it against his open palm. Again. Again. The sound was distant thunder, to match the lightening  in his eyes.

I drove through town in silence.

Waiting at a red, I caught the eye of a girl in the next lane. She tipped her head to the ceiling, miming her subversive disapproval of the weather. I consented her opinion with the raising of one brow and the suggestion of the beginning of a comrade's grin.

I received my first warning in the form of a hailstone striking the windshield.
The chip was small, but noticeable in my field of vision.
I faced the front quickly.

The streets were a slurry of ice and sand and crumpled paper coffee cups. Traffic signals flicked green and yellow and red like the ticking of the classroom clock as it inches towards the end of day. I looked up from my dashboard in time to see an orange Volkswagen Beetle swimming through the slush in my direction. Without my permission, a memory flashed across my mind and jabbed at my sense of humour. At the last second I clamped my jaws around the laugh, cutting its potency from a burst of happiness to a pathetic sort of chortle, but the volume of mirth didn't matter much. The ruler came down hard against the roof of my car, commanding the vibrations to deafen my senses and abolish any amusement in my thoughts.

Then the rain came.
Strike two.

The trees wept and trembled as I passed them, like the kid in the front row who was refused a hall pass when he needed to pee. Grey stomped up and down the aisles called Centre and Main with billowing clouds like furrowing eyebrows and the ominous slap, snap, crack of thunder. Every tone of colour had fled the city streets, taking refuge from the storm in basement record studios and libraries and the country loft spaces where the artistic types tend to live. The whole world looked like it had been shaded over many times, with progressively darker and softer lead pencils.

The candle of hope in my head was struggling against the building wind; its little flame fought with every drop of water. "No fire in the classroom," said Grey as he quickly snuffed out what was left of my withering optimism.

Just as I thought the torrent was going to drown me out for good, as I watched Grey put down the ruler and pick up a yard stick, at the moment I thought, "Well, I'm done for! I'll be stuck in detention for the rest of my life!" and was about to let the tears fall right along with the rain, something happened.

There was a knock at the door.
Look to the east.

A thin shaft of light caught the sky by surprise. Where the sunbeam fell on the buildings, colours rushed back to their proper places. Rust-red brick, evergreen shutters, canary-yellow welcome mats, shimmering chrome towers of industry, the rich coffee-coloured small business signs, the royal blue of a school uniform: a sensational palate of texture and hue that blossomed with life as the classroom door was forced open wider and wider!

"Time's up," said this new bright spot of sky. "The bell is about to ring. Gather your stray thoughts and stack those negative emotions back on the shelf. Misery for another day. Detention is over. You're free."

The patch of glowing, streaming light exploded into a thousand rays of uncatchable brilliance. The Grey was dispelled and Light assumed authority's throne. I smiled broadly to the sun, picked up my attitude and drove down the highway in peace.

It was the end of day.
And the rainbow wins again.

Crash, Bang

Let's start with an honest acknowledgement of stupidity and recklessness, before we go any further. There are driving rules; rules that are written as imperative commands, not flexible guidelines like the Pirate Code. Put simply, persons in the active charge of moving vehicles have the responsibility to obey the laws imposed upon them in order that they, their passengers and everyone else on the road remain safe.

Knowing that - having had the message of "drive carefully" called over the noise of a revving engine every time I have ever left the house - did not stop the foolish invincibility that I felt when I pulled onto Highway 60 without my seatbelt fastened. I was leaving the kennels after a long day, with Jess by my side, just chatting. I was going slowly, driving to the weather conditions, but I still slipped a bit in the intersection. To avoid a dangerous turn, I decided to move forward and catch the off ramp instead, when the coast was clear. FYI, that particular move is called an illegal U-turn, as stated on my fancy ticket. We both looked, both believed that the way was safe, and were both wrong.

Very suddenly, I couldn't hear anything. I saw, but could not understand. I remember Jess screaming something, but all I could scream back is that I couldn't hear her. Then I couldn't see.

I remember Jess jumping out to yell at the other driver. I remember them trying to yank open the door. Black truck. Strange voices. I remember wiggling my toes, somebody called the police, Jess telling me to turn off the car, and then I saw my Mum's sunglasses in what used to be the dash. The lenses were shattered. Something had happened. Not good. Jess sassing everyone, just like she would. Chris and Shayna appeared instantly. A ski patroller held my neck straight. Someone found me a blanket to cover my trembling body. Glass in my teeth. Questions. A familiar face in uniform brought the first of my tears. Blood on my face transferred to my hands. The doors came off, they lifted me out, and I was in the ambulance. Five minutes, they said. Turn off the lights, they said. You can call your Mom at the hospital, they said. But God bless Chris for jumping that call and getting my family there long before I would have been handed a phone. They told me I was out there for 40 minutes. It felt like ten.

Everything comes in flashes until I see my first nurse - Karen Stark - from church. I ask her to pray with me, and she does. Needles and drugs, then x-rays and stitches. The Lord cushioned my night with Christians I knew and trusted. Thank God for Dan Moore and his strength, and thank God for Esther Jennings and her patient care. Thank God for Matt and his coffees for my waiting family, and for anyone else who contributed what they could, whether or not I ever know. Thank God I'm Canadian and didn't have to pay for anything - not even parking.

I left the kennels just before six, and got myself into bed by three in the morning - on my own - no broken bones.

I will need to keep relatively still for a while, but I'm feeling miraculously well. Based on the car, I should be in a wheel chair... or a coffin. But instead I am here, whole. A few years ago someone told me this: "My life is immortal until my work for the Lord is complete." I have claimed it before, and I claim it now. Jesus still has work for me in this world. I still have a job to do - and as long as that is true, I'm not going anywhere.

If you're a friend on Facebook you'll soon be able to ogle my eye. If not, rest in the knowledge that five stitches and a shiner are the worst of my visual injuries. Truth be told, I have more bruises from the last three weeks of dogsledding than from getting t-boned two days ago. My arms are weak and my shoulders and upper back are in pain, so please resist the urge to hug me better or shake my hand. We've resorted to gentle, affectionate patting on the head at home, or kisses on the cheek. I won't be creeped out if you join in.

So... buckle up. Take a deep breath. Count your blessings, and praise the Lord.

Knock, Knock

When you find yourself guilty of the avoidance or neglect of a place, I have learned that it is appropriate conduct to knock before you barge over a threshold un-regularly crossed. Knocking says with an action that which would take much longer with words; a knock simultaneously offers an apology for absence, acknowledges the created estrangement, and requests permission to re-enter not only the physical premisses guarded by the tapped-upon door but also the social freedoms of forgiveness and friendship.

It is with this understanding that I type here, humbly knocking on the proverbial door of my own unattended blog. You, my reader... it is with you that I must reconcile. 

I have avoided any formal postings for months, knowing that whenever I finally came back to these pages I would owe to you not simply a story of my imagination, but also a true story -- an update that I very much need to write, but have been afraid to put down on paper. The truth of it is so straight-forward, the reality of my situation such a blessing and my projected short-term future so bright that the blurred, darkening edges of my outlook are senseless. Please ignore any doubt or cynicism that might slither its way into what I hope to be a hope-filled letter.

I am living at home this year. Home in Muskoka, back with my parents, working part time at the camp that consumed this past summer and has laid claim to the next. Life in Muskoka slows down as the temperature drops in the sweet, stiffening way that pulled maple toffee does when it is moved from bubbling stovetop to a blanket of fresh snow. The tourists that mingle about after the leaves begin to fall have long since cleared out; the dog-walkers and jog-runners are fewer and farther between; windows are shut up tight; cars are armed with a brush and shovel... winter is on its way.

And just around the corner is December; the quietest of months in this place, freezing lake and lung in one chilly blow. My desire is to admire this icy world from the comfort of some soft sofa, on professionally prescribed bed-rest, out of commission and quite literally off my feet. (I'm currently waiting for a call from the hospital that will give me a date for the foot surgery I've needed since childhood. The phone has yet to ring.) In the meantime, I've spent the last several days unpacking many boxes of books, stopping from time to time to read a few pages of the ones that jump out. I've skimmed through novels and recipe collections, atlases and commentaries, comics, journals, musical scores, dictionaries and fairy tales. It's a fragmented sort of learning but I rarely close a cover without some new bit of knowledge.

It's been a season of setting-to-order. I still have a few dusty corners that need sweeping out and washing up, but there is time.

Time.

That, my friends, is a blessing.

Riding (Hard) for Refuge

Okay, so here's the deal.

On a normal day, I am a writer and not a cyclist; most often I find joy between the lines of a book, not the lines on a road and if I am ever going to do any large-scale world-changing in my time it will likely be from behind a desk with pen and ink, and not by crossing the finish-line with a smile on my face and a number on my back. But September 29th is RIDE day, and RIDE day is not your regular calendar Samedi.

The vision of Ride for Refuge is simple: share the love. In a world of practicalities, that love manifests as wealth. The mission is to provide for those who cannot provide for themselves, to speak for those who are being politically and socially hushed or rejected, and to support and encourage the ones who need it most. 

This year our goal is even more personal. Teams from Camp Mini-Yo-We are riding for our Sponsorship Fund - to help kids who would never be able to come to Camp get here - to give them a place of refuge, security, love, encouragement, hope and peace. At the end of the day, half of what we raise will be invested into the larger projects that RIDE is already working on, and half will come right to camp. Win-Win-Win-Win. 

"Four wins?" Why, yes. Their organization and ours, a child or youth being blessed by your generosity and you. "Me?" Of course you. BEING awesome FEELS awesome. Try it out.


Rock this with me.

One Naked Bug

It began with a simple, quiet little bug sitting in a still, quiet part of the African Savannah. Close by she could see many other animals grazing and drinking from a freshwater desert pool. Everything was calm and beautiful, like a great piece of art, but nothing in sight was as beautiful as Bug. 

Her shell was as blue as the deep Indian Ocean, as yellow as the tall grain, as green as the cactus and as red as the reddest of sunsets. Everyone admired her as one of the most beautiful creatures on the continent and it was her pride and joy to be thought so lovely. All day long she would sit on her rock in the shade so that the sun wouldn’t fade her shell and whenever a friendly animal would walk by she would fly through its fur and polish herself until she dazzled. Nothing was more important to her than the appearance of her shell... It was, as some say, her most defining feature.

One day, completely without any warning or time to prepare herself, Bug’s body did something VERY strange... it hiccoughed! Bug had never before in her entire life experienced a hiccough. She had never even heard of a hiccough! In fact, this was the very first case of African hiccoughs that had ever been experienced by anyone since the very beginning of the world. Bug was VERY afraid.

“Help!” she tried to call to one of her friends, but her shout sounded more like heh-culp than help, so no one paid her much attention at first. “Heh-culp! Heh-culp! Heh-culp!” cried Bug desperately as her hiccoughs began to bounce her body around on the ground. “Please! Won’t somebody heh-culp me!” Suddenly one of her hiccoughs jolted her so forcefully that Bug flew backward and crashed into her rock...

“AAHHHHHHH!!!” Bug screamed! For a moment her hiccoughs stopped out of shock. 

She was
completely 
NAKED!

She had crashed SO HARD into her rock that the colours from her shell had peeled right off of her! Her rock was now as blue as the deep Indian Ocean, as yellow as the tall grain, as green as the cactus and as red as the reddest of sunsets. The rock was so beautiful... and she was SO naked!!

Suddenly the giraffe came galloping over to Bug and her rock. “Bug!” cried Giraffe, his long neck swooping down to the ground with a great swoosh, “Bug! I heard your scream! What’s wrong?! Talk to me Bug! Say something!”

(He was speaking to the rock.)

“Giraffe!” pleaded Bug, “you’ve got to heh-culp me!” Giraffe looked at Bug. “Who are you?”

Bug could hardly believe her ears. “I’M BUG!” she yelled into Giraffe’s long face. “I AM BUG!” 

Giraffe gasped. “Bug! What happened to you?!”

Bug quickly explained as much as she could which, unfortunately, wasn’t very much. Giraffe tried his best to diagnose the problem but he wasn’t trained in the medical field and so was not much help. Just when he was about to give up on her, Giraffe’s body did something VERY strange...

It hiccoughed.

“HEH-culp!” yelled Giraffe as he began to run around in circles in panic. He was SO worried about his hiccoughs that for a moment his graceful limbs got tangled up and he lost control of where he was running. In one second of chaos Giraffe knocked into Bug, sending her flying for five feet! When she landed they both noticed something horrifying: Bug looked a lot like Giraffe and Giraffe was NAKED.

“AAHHHHHHH!!!”

They screamed for twenty seconds straight before either of them could even blink. 

“Okay,” said Giraffe as soon as he caught his breath after the very long yell. “There must be some kind of scientif-HIC, logical explanation for all of this. Unfortunately, I am not a very log-HIC-al animal, and both of us failed Jungle Biology last year. We need to call in an expert!”

Giraffe and Bug did what all of the animals did when they needed to learn something; they signalled for the wisest and most medically astute of all African creatures. Both of them lay flat on their backs and stuck their tongues out because, as you know, the fastest way to find a vulture is to play dead.

Vulture showed up two minutes later. He was always on the lookout for an easy meal, but when he saw the big white blob on the ground he was sceptical to say the least. He hovered over their bodies for a moment and just as he was getting ready to settle down, Giraffe’s body hiccoughed.

“Woah!” exclaimed Vulture to the apparently dead carcases beneath him. “That was not normal!” Giraffe hiccoughed again, which sent the poor bird into fluttering hysterics. Worried that Vulture was going to fly away before he could help them, Giraffe swooshed his long neck into the air...

It was like Safari baseball. Vulture’s body let out the tiniest little bitty hiccough that had ever been hiccoughed and then PAASMAAASH! Giraffe’s neck crashed into Vulture’s body and instantly Giraffe looked like a tall, gangly and bald version of Vulture and Vulture was naked from beak to bottom. Naturally, Vulture was a little surprised.

“AAHHHHHHH!!!”

“Please don’t pan-HIC,” said Bug with a new calmness. “Who are you?!” Vulture half-yelled, half-gasped as he stared at the little spotted creature in front of him. “I’m Bug,” said Bug, “and this is Giraffe. We need your heh-culp.” Vulture closed and opened his eyes slowly, hoping that the scene unfolding before him was just a very unusual nightmare. That was not the case. Faced with a confusing reality, Vulture took control of the whole situation.

“Well, there must be some kind of scientif-HIC, log-HIC-al explanation for all of this. Fortunately, I am a very log-HIC-al animal, and even taught Jungle Biology last year. You were right to call in an expert.” 

Vulture listened carefully while Bug and Giraffe told him their story. “I believe that the problem is a synchronous diaphragmat-HIC flutter. I have two ideas that just might work,” Vulture said in his smartest and wisest voice, “but if neither of these plans su-HIC-cceed I’m afraid we’re all going to die.”

Vulture’s first plan was that all three of them might hold their breaths. Neither Bug nor Giraffe could think of a reason as to why this would not work, and so they stood facing each other with noses and lips sealed tight. Perhaps if the animals had been able to hold their breath for long enough this remedy would have worked, however only a few seconds into the experiment a ferocious jungle cat leaped into view and sunk her claws into Vulture’s vulnerable backside! The shock of the whole situation was so great that all four of them hiccoughed simultaneously. Leopard, who had never experienced hiccoughs before in her life panicked and tried to stop herself mid-leap with no success. She tumbled into the other three knocking them over like bowling pins and landing in a tangle of claws and feathers and fur.

“AAHHHHHHH!!!” yelped Leopard as she discovered herself printless from tip to tail. “Vulture! Give me back my spots!” Vulture looked down at his body. “Well,” he said, “on to Plan B.”

Vulture explained his second plan to the group. “This is our last h-HIC-ope,” announced Vulture grimly. “We must ram into each other and jump up and down and try and get our patterns back.” Leopard and Vulture were first to test the theory and they took a running (and flying) charge at each other. Their SMASH was hard and both were stunned by the impact, but the pattern did not move. Even when the collisions happened mid hiccough their colours would not change.

“It’s hopeless!” moaned bug, rubbing her bruised shell after trying a trade with Giraffe and landing upside down in the dirt. “We’ll be stuck like this forever!”

“Should we change our names?” Giraffe asked the group, looking longingly back at his herd. “Can I still be a giraffe when I look like a vulture?” 

The question took them off guard and no one could offer an answer. They stood in miserable hiccough-interrupted silence for several minutes, until...

“Hey everybody! What’s wrong with you? Why are you all so sad?” It was Zebra, the most unusual looking animal in the whole Savannah. They all stared back at him sadly and Bug answered for all of them: “We’re all jumbled up... this is the worst day ever! I don’t even know who I am anymore!” They nodded their agreement.


Zebra stood quietly looking at the depressing clan of animals in front of him. 


“Identity crisis is nothing new to the zebras, you know. We’ve been struggling with appearance for generations! Are we white with black stripes or black with white stripes? Some of us are brown! Some are almost as patternless as you are Leopard, but that doesn’t change a thing.” The other animals seemed sceptical at best. Then Zebra had an idea. “I am going to teach you something that all Zebras learn when they are very young. I think it might help.” Zebra cleared his throat and stood up tall as he began:

“You are who you are
Not because of your skin,
Whether spotted or striped
Whether fat or quite thin.
Your self’s on the inside,
It’s the stuff you can’t see 
That says you are you
And that lets me be me.
So don’t fret about pattern!
Don’t worry ‘bout size
'Cause the fuss about external
Worth is just lies!
Take pride in your spirit
Take care of your heart
Because that’s your most
Valuable, beautiful part.”

None of the animals spoke for a moment or two, but in their faces a change was easy to see. Their eyes had gone soft and their mouths had turned up into a very different kind of smile than they had ever experienced before. 

“I feel weird,” confessed Vulture. “So do I,” added Bug. Each one nodded their heads. “So... what do we do?” asked Leopard, looking to Zebra. “Well, I do have one idea that doesn’t lead to death...”

And so, deep in the heart of the African Savannah on days that are not quite so quiet and still you can still find the effects of the Zebra’s great plan. Each animal stood in front of a stone and with all of their might each one hiccoughed their last.... 

and prowled and galloped and flew stripped clean, into the reddest of sunsets.

Summer's Victorious End

My spirit is in denial. In the space between free swim and tuck shop, in the gap of Bible study and morning meetings, in the shock-silence of lineups and the blissful chaos of an excited gathering of little ones the summer has evaporated. I wasn't counting this one down so somehow along the way I lost track, and now here I am, in a cabin that desperately needs cleaning and with a heart that thinks, just maybe, prolonging the mess will prolong the month as well. Foolishness, of course, but one can always dream.

Tomorrow I will wake up in the summer and fall back to sleep in autumn's cool embrace. Many of you wonder (along with my family) where my life will go from here. I wish I had possession of a befitting answer - some brilliant plan or valiant adventure waiting for me next week - but I don't, yet. I don't have my plan laid and for only one more day is that an acceptable answer in and of itself. I plan to enjoy my one-more-hour of freedom by beginning the process of re-packing my life away. Back into boxes, like so many times before. One more chapter written, one more page on the brink of turning. Only the Author knows what lies beyond these precious words.

Hymnary Wisdom

I've begun a new tradition while living here at camp. Several, really, but some of them I expect will fade as summer turns to fall. But this one, I hope, will persist.

While perusing the shelves in our local Sally Ann this week, I picked up a gem of a book. The cover is smoothed from holding, the pages have yellowed at the edges with age and it has the marvelous smell of history, rightfully earned over the past eighty-two years. It is a beautiful thing, this Hymnary, but it is the words arranged on each page that are capturing my thoughts.

Here is one hymn as a sampling, written by a man called Edward Cooper (1770-1833):

"Father of heav'n, whose love profound
A ransom for our souls hath found,
Before Thy throne we sinners bend;
To us Thy pard'ning love extend.

Almighty Son, incarnate Word,
Our Prophet, Priest, Redeemer, Lord,
Before Thy throne we sinners bend;
To us Thy saving grace extend.

Eternal Spirit, by whose breath
The soul is raised from sin and death,
Before Thy throne we sinners bend;
To us Thy quickening power extend.

Thrice holy—Father, Spirit, Son;
Mysterious Godhead, Three in One,
Before Thy throne we sinners bend;
Grace, pardon, life to us extend."

My goal is to read one every night, to reset my perspective before my ritual rendezvous with my bed and pillow. Pardoning love, saving grace, quickening power. The gospel in six words. I have so much to learn.

Grilled Cheese

I'll let you in on a bit of a secret: I'm not really that okay. I am a master at playing healthy and fine when things go a little awry, but my happy facade has been under more than the usual load of stress over the last few days, and the seams of this mask have started to fray, tipping off the critically attuned. Don't set off all of the alarms at this point - I need neither pity nor chide - this is just a little bite to let you know that not all is always well in the mind and spirit of your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman.

My eager little heart and I have been having a fight with God this week. The cause of our quarrel? Love, how ironic. In my childlike (and sometimes childish) way, I have come to my Dad Proper with a simple request: let me love somebody. In His abundant patience He has let me shout, cry, scream, fume, pout, scoff and worry myself into an emotional exhaustion, quietly waiting for me to shut up. And tonight He answered with a song.

I have had a few moments in my life when (though not in an audible voice, exactly) I have had a conversation with God. "Heart on Hand" is the record of one such encounter - this will be another.

I was working the PowerPoint tonight for Refresh, the training week worship service at Mini-Yo-We. I'm really not very good at this role by nature, but it is one that needed filling and after a few days of fighting with God I knew the proverbial platform was not the appropriate arena for this little soul. Sitting on the floor beside the stage suited my mood and my spiritual posture just fine, but it was a struggle even from such a vantage point to keep up with the band. I kept moving ahead too quickly, minimizing a window in the middle if a bridge, and at least twice I pulled up the songs out of order. The second time this happened, I swore. Quietly. I could almost see God raising His eyebrows in the pseudo silence of facial expression... "Do you see yourself? Can you hear you from there? Stop and look. Listen."

"I know," I said in wordless reply, "I'm a mess."

So when I finally got to the right slide about one second later, I had to laugh. "Take, Take, Take it all," said the song. "I'm gross," I said to God with a dry laugh. "I'm like over-done grilled cheese and hot soup on a boiling day. I'm gross."

"I know," I heard. "You have been acting gross. But you know what? I am still hungry for you. I still want all of you, gross or not."

So I laughed. My anger melted away with my fear as I realized again the goodness and majesty of grace. Did He answer my question? No. It was a gentler reprimand than was given to Job, but in a similar vein of impression: I AM your Father, you are my child; I AM the sequoia, you are toothpick. He's big, I'm little. Just a reminder.

So, while life isn't blooming like a rudbeckia bouquet, I am back in alignment with Christ. I'm still a mess, I could still use a hug and my heart will take a while to settle and reset, but this is the right direction: more like Jesus, and less gross.

Now THIS is Camp.

If we can ignore for the moment that I am scribbling this update post from my iPhone, I think this is an exactly perfect moment. I am alone in a cabin, curled up under my blankets between the bunk-bed railing and the slanted wooden roof. My starry skies tonight are the constellations of names above me: more names over more years than you could count on fingers and toes if every bed was full. Outside I can hear the murmuring of overlapping stories down the hill and the tell-tale clopping sounds of flip-flops against the bare rock path. The night is cool, but not quiet.

Thanks, God. You have snatched my breath away once more and filled me up with joy. Praise and worship. Selah.

Hopelessly

Darling, O Infatuation
Caught in your clichéd spell
A well-framed look, a splitting smile
My give-away, my tell

The moment I am free of you
Again you catch my eye
And whisper every honeyed word
With lips I can't deny

Darling, O Infatuation
How useless to protest
With heart and soul and mind so charmed
By the fruits of your unyielding quest

How laundered is this heart of mine
Sewn, sleeve after sleeve
Yet you take me arm in arm once more
And tempt me to believe

That darling, O Infatuation
This time you'll follow through
And lead me to a love divine,
Patient, faithful and true.

Mellow Milo & Melanie Ryne

It wasn't the eye-popping poster pinned on the porch, nor the cheerful and chortling chatter which charmed the atmosphere outside that drew people in by the droves: it was the air.

A tropical breeze perpetually wafted out from between the two large wooden doors which hung on their hinges beneath the cautionary sign that read, "Take care: this door swings both ways," and trailed off merrily by quoting the rest of the Herman's Hermits' hit. The clinking of cutlery could be heard beyond the entrance was the second most common reason for passers-by to become partakers-in the little shop. The third reason that new people seemed so magnetically drawn to the building was its extraordinarily snowman-like shape. Three large globes sat stacked atop each other in architectural madness. Even the highest of brow and most impervious to temptation were finally broken by the curiosity stirred up by this magnificent feat. No one knows whether or not a fourth reason to enter was ever contrived of, as it was never required; every local, visitor and tourist was inevitably conquered by one of the first three.

Walking through the doors was like diving headlong into a giant vault of rainbow sorbet without any feeling of stickiness or chill. The experience was intensely pleasurable and refreshing, and if staying inside was not so obviously the superior decision, I wouldn't be surprised if people spent their whole day simply walking in, over and over again. But insidewas better.

Suspended in the middle of the enormous, open, multileveled space hovered threehumungous fruits. No matter what day of the week you choose to come you will always be met by one watermelon, one honeydew melon and one of six rotating berries: strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, huckleberry, appleberry and chinaberry (a hybrid of Milo's clever invention which took a juicy, bulbous form with the crisp flavor of an Asian pear). They were open six days a week (closed on Sundays as a matter of principle), and every day the place was packed. It was no surprise, therefore, that Dani Dulce stood in the cue for a full nineteen minutes before finding herself next in line.

"Good morning! Welcome to Milo and Melanie's Mega Melon! Healthy is our philosophy and sweet is our tooth. Do you know what kind of spoon you'd like today?" Mounted on the wall behind the pretty cashier was a rhinocerosly large collection of spoons arranged in boggling spectrum.

"Yes," said the man at the counter. "I'd like a glazed candy-apple red spoon, short handled, medium weight and… let's go with strawberry Jolly Rancher this time. Thanks, Molly."

The girl gave the gentleman a flouncy sort of bow and spun around to face the wall. After a half-second she stretched up on her toes and lifted a spoon from its peg. She handed it to the man. "That will be thirty cents today, Mr. Jordan. If you have dimes, that would be lovely." The man chuckled. "I fill my pockets with them these days," he said, counting three out on the counter. The pair laughed mirthfully and he shuffled on his way. Dani stepped forward.

"I haven't seen you before!" beamed the girl behind the counter. "I've worked every shift since we opened and I can confidently claim that your face is a new one. This is your first time here, yes?" Dani nodded. "I couldn't resist the smell!" "Ah!" exclaimed the girl, "That's our primary marketing strategy - but as you can see, it isn't false advertising! Do you have a preference of spoon?"

The tinkling utensils were displayed without the clutter of labeled explanations. Thankfully Dani's dazed expression was answer enough and she was spared the uncomfortable confession of confusion. "I'll call Melanie and she'll show you around. I know it's a sensory overload at first, but you'll have the codes cracked in no time! Just take a seat over there and she'll catch up with you in a few minutes."

Dani was ushered toward a long bank of chairs that were oblong and dark in colour. They were carved of variously sized giant seeds collected from the days before Milo figured out how to reduce them in size from five feet in height and circumference down to one foot. The seeds collected nowadays were washed thoroughly and dropped into a machine that whittled them into helmets, for customers without the freedom of time to stay their hour. The Melon Baller (an intern in his early twenties, working his way towards a culinary scholarship) would scoop a sphere of their selected fruit into the helmet and send it down a long chute to the front counter. "Protect Your Melon!" was inscribed on the front edge of each container. Almost everyone still chuckled at the little joke.

A designer from California who specialized in the creative upcycling of giant orange pips ergonomically engineered the seats. His only requested payment was unlimited spooning privileges whenever his family found themselves across the country. Melanie and Milo were both thrilled by the arrangement and made a point of inviting them a few times a year. It was a profitable partnership for both parties and in a few short months "Seeded Seating" was in every other household for three towns around. But Dani didn't know any of this and she never thought to ask - there were so many other things to think.

Melanie Ryne, co-owner and co-founder of the Mega Melon, slid across the floor with the tap-dancing suave of Fred Astaire, leaping with the grace of a gazelle and landing with the confidence of a lion and the lightness of a bird. Her dress was of a pearled pink that matched a column of spoons and she wore jewelry of a gold so warm as to almost be rose-coloured. Her voice was both calm and excited: a sound that enticed a listening ear.

"Good morning!" she sang in a tone that reflected the joy of her expression. "My name is Mel. Molly tells me that you're looking for a tour?" Dani smiled and nodded. "Well," said Mel, "first thing first. We need to get you a spoon."

Pulling up a neighbouring seed, Melanie unfolded a large card from her pocket and spread it open across her knees. It was an oversized photograph of the cutlery wall, with pull-tabs at the head of each row and column. "You may have noticed," she politely began, "that our fare is a fairly fine-tuned affair. We peddle plastic and medal handles with sculpted sugar scoops and we sell the dissolving not-so-silver wares to our patrons by the hour. We needn't charge much, as the fruit is donated daily and sugar is cheap. My husband is a brilliant chemical engineer and concocted a formula that, regardless of flavouring, would stay stiff for fifty-nine minutes and dissolve by the sixty-first. We sell the spoons for thirty cents a piece: ten cents covers cleaning and reforming of the spoons, ten from each goes toward the cleaning and maintenance of the building, and ten is divided amongst the volunteers at the end of each day. We don't have a cash register - just four large jars behind the counter. If we are paid in dimes, they are immediately divided among the first three causes. The fourth jar holds any other money that needs to be divided later. We have never been stockless, lightless or dinnerless in seven years of business, thanks to the loyalty and generosity of our clientele."

"But what of the fruits?" asked Dani, still mystified by the magnificent melons.

"We befriended a family of foreign giants shortly after we were married, you see. Each of our great fruits is gifted to us by one of three salad-growing farms. Agriculture in their lands functions quite differently from the fields of the human realm: instead of one or two crops that will be manufactured into many different products, giants simply choose one or two products they most enjoy and raise them directly from the earth. On one of our travels we once came across a greenhouse full of baby ice cream parfaits! Unfortunately they weren't quite ripe and we had to forgo the experience. Too bad, really. But I digress."

Melanie gave the first tag a tug and the column furthest left popped up like a children's book. "From left to right the spoons are arranged by colour. We begin with pearled pearl," she said, wriggling the first tab, "then pearled rose, saffron, apricot, buttercream, wild lemon, aloe, mint, forget-me-not, corn flower, eggplant, mica and chestnut. Then come our glazes in a similar array, then the mattes, the chrome metallics and we're waiting on a new line of organic stained bamboo." She worked her way across the board, tugging out and swiftly returning each tab. In total there were ninety-seven represented pigments on the pop-up pictograph.

"In each colour set," she continued with the rapid precision of language that comes with a passionate and familiar speech, "there are seven rows organized by sets of nine spoons." She indicated the top block of pearled pearl, running her finger along the micro row of three. "By weight across, we have light, medium and heavy; by length down, short, medium and long in each flavour. So, we begin here with pearled pearl, vanilla, light-short and work our way down to black licorice bamboo, coconut, heavy-long, giving us a grand total of 6,111 different options. About half of our flavours never change: vanilla yogurt, chocolate, marshmallow and coconut. The other three rows are on a monthly rotation of popular sweets. Right now we have Fuzzy Peach, strawberry Jolly Rancher and Swedish Berry. We've had everything from Milk Duds to Big Feet and we'll do almost all of them again."

Dani gave her a curious look. "Were there a couple of failures?"

Melanie almost winced. "Last year one of the local boys spent a month convincing Milo that garlic-avocado would be the next big hit. It was not, but even after trying it himself Milo wouldn't believe it was a terrible business move for weeks. When he finally did see the light, he forced the kid to eat all of the remaining stock over a three-day period. It was disgusting," she smirked, "but hilarious. He works for us now, up in product testing. Cast iron stomach, that one."

Melanie moved the card from her knees to Dani's and asked a few leading questions. Before long Melanie was armed with her usual pearled rose, chocolate, light-long and Dani had chosen a sky-blue glaze, Swedish Berry, medium-long spoon which she was quite happy about. After they placed their order with Molly and retrieved their respective thirty-cent spoons, Melanie led the way across the great hall, almost directly beneath the hovering honeydew. She leaned against the simple fence that ran around its base. "This is a giant melon," she said, giving the slippery fruit a little jab with her handle, "and we only have one rule that must, without exception, be obeyed. ONLY spoons may come into contact with the fruit. My Milo has made the mouth-parts of our products to be self-sterilizing. Don't ask me how, he's a genius and the science he can employ is far beyond me! He ran several hundred tests before we settled on the final process, but even self-sterilizing spoons can't stop contact-caused contamination. That's why we came up with this." She walked towards a large wall panel plastered with goofy looking mug shots. A plaque above it read "Melon's Felons" and each person photographed was wearing a look of the most exaggerated guilt. "Anyone who lays finger or face against the fruit gets their picture taken. We keep it fun and as painless as possible for our patrons, but we decided that we needed something to deter misbehaviour. It's been working well so far. Very few repeat offenders. Well, the smell must be driving you crazy! Shall we dine?"

Dani's mouth had been watering with anticipation from the moment she'd arrived and she was very ready to eat. Her shiny blue spoon seemed equally anxious, digging deeply into the flesh of the fruit. She was not disappointed: the first bite was nothing less than euphoric.

Clean, sweet juice flooded her tongue and her mouth filled with the deliciously light syrup; the slice of melon melted away after a chew or two and trickled its merry way down her throat. She could taste that first bite half way through her digestive system it was so good. If it was possible, the second spoonful surpassed the first... and the third the second.

"Pace yourself," Melanie cautioned with a smile in her voice. "Don't fill up on the first floor - we still have two and a half more to see!"

A spiral escalator that wrapped around the perimeter of the building carried them up to the watermelon floor. The bowl that hung below the fruit was more prevalent on this level, as was the tube that extended from the center of it and into the wall... But that may have been because of the man dangling from it by his knees.

"Milo! Honey, what are you doing upside down like that?" called Melanie, running over to help him upright.

"The tube sprung a leak," said Milo after climbing back to his feet. "We were losing a carton a minute all over the tile. Getting mighty slick up here, which would have been reason enough to hurry even without the product loss. A little gumpaste and it's patched for now. I'll have to brew up a batch of caramel caulking tonight and really fix it for tomorrow, but it'll hold okay." He smiled broadly at his wife as she slid her arm behind his back and began an introduction.

"Dani, this is Milo. He's brains and brawn behind every technical operation in the place, and very good at holding it all together. I'm crazy proud of him." Milo glowed.

"If I'm brains and brawn, this woman is heart and soul," he said and kissed her on the cheek. "But don't you believe she's no brains. My girl is a visionary like no other. I'm heading down to Mikey in mailing; we got a letter from another Belgian confectionist and he needs a little help translating. Thought I'd call my cousin again?"

"Good plan. Say hello for me?"

"Will do. Enjoy the rest of the tour, Dani; it was nice meeting you. See you in a while, lovely."

The watermelon tasted everything like a perfect summer day. Every spoonful evoked a memory: the splash of your first dive off the dock; the drip of a popsicle into the sand; barefoot running through fresh cut grass; guitars and lightening bugs around a campfire; new freckles on your sun-kissed face and the tangy, ubiquitous smell of sunscreen. She spent thirty-one minutes in this glorious immersion before Melanie called her back and they caught the escalator again.

The roof of the building was made of a retractable glass. Every morning when the fruit was brought in by helicopter from the giants’ farms the great glass ceiling would sway aside to allow the daily load to be lowered into position. Once everything was in place and the chopper had moved safely out of the way, the roof would close up again like a Venus flytrap. Although the berry station was on the third floor where they hopped off, the escalator didn’t stop with them; it continued climbing another twenty feet up toward the high glass windows, wrapped around the top and then dropped off quite suddenly into a hole in the wall. “That’s our way down,” pointed Melanie, “but not just yet. Raspberry first.”

It had been a fifty-seven minutes between the first bite of honeydew to the first bite of raspberry. For Dani, most of those minutes had slipped away quietly while her eyes were closed and her mouth was full. Time had sped past with the illusion of standing still in those blissful moments, and the candied cradle of all such splendid seconds was about to melt away. The berry was exactly the perfect balance of sweet and tart. The Swedish Berry lacing behind it was a magical combination and her face burst with a wide, unhindered grin. It was wonderful, but it was briefly lived. Two minutes later the spoon felt thinner between her lips, and in another thirty seconds she felt a hole beginning in the center of it, like a lifesaver. Then it was gone. Just the handle shining in its glossy sky-blue remained. She looked to Melanie.

“It only lasts an hour,” she gently reminded. “Come on. This way.”

Together they rode the escalator once again, taking in the whole scene for a moment from the highest possible vantage point in the place. The rising air brought vaporous smells from every floor and they blended together in the rafter spaces like a smoothie of reverie and sensation that could make your skin tingle. Dani took a very deep breath… and then she dropped right out of the world. Gravity vanished. Light vanished. She could feel something smooth and cool against her back and then, just as abruptly as its disappearance, the world popped back into existence around her. She plunged into a deep pit of foam cubes, the kind found near running trampolines in Olympic-quality gymnasiums. In a few seconds she felt four sets of hands hoisting her up, out and onto her feet. “There you go, miss. How do you feel?” She gave her thoughts a moment to follow her back to the first floor. “I’m… elated, actually,” she said.

“Glad to hear it,” came Melanie’s voice from the pit behind her. “I thought about warning you, but by the time it occurred to me you were already dropping past the second floor.” Her hostess was lifted out by her arms and brushed off by one of the littler attendants. “Thanks, Max. You’re a dear,” she said and hugged the boy child. I don’t know how you grew up so fast and so tall, but it is so nice seeing you all the time!”

Melanie walked Dani to the take-out counter. They crossed the parade path of people, each waiting for their helmet with spoon in hand. “Spoons are thirty cents, and one helmetful is complimentary for those in a hurry. Here you can also purchase a carton of pure juice for seventy cents a litre, freshly strained from today’s delivery or iced into a slushie from the frozen collections of the day before. But you get one on the house for taking the tour, if you’d like something. Or another spoon, it you’d rather dive back into one of our levels?”

Dani gazed around the room. She had never been anywhere quite so wonderful, and wasn’t keen to leave. “Well, I was thinking, marshmallow would look pretty great next to a midnight lightning chrome…” Melanie smiled. “Believe it or not,” she said, “I get that all the time.”

The End.