Around a New Sun

Yesterday I had my first taste of race directing. I started small with a Centennial Staff 5 km race of just over 40 participants, which is not bad considering the Boston marathon began with only 18 runners in 1897. Instead of running around to warm up for a race, I was driving around like a mad woman putting out cones and setting up a water station.  Where I would usually be worrying about getting my own timing chip on properly, I was instead handing out chips and race numbers and explaining how to put them on. And rather than standing in the crowd bouncing up and down in anticipation, I was at the front of the group giving directions about where to run and offering the good news that the gusting winds would be behind the runners on the way back to the school.

I liked the whole experience very much. Well maybe not giving myself multiple slivers while hauling  the plywood stage for the band, or watching the maps I had for each student volunteer gallop away in a burst of wind while I yelled shittttt then apologized, then had the students reassure me that they had all heard worse. But other than those minor moments of irritation, the excitement of watching each runner finish was almost as great as the euphoria of finishing Boston. Well, in Boston we got thermal capes which were pretty cool. Then again, roaring around on the gator with my colleague Toffer driving was way cool, though I tried not to grin too foolishly lest I betray my complete lack of coolness.

Watching the staff gather to walk, or run or ride was a little magical, as I couldn't quite believe this many staff were unified in one activity. 

It is appropriate that it is spring as it seems the staff is waking out of a long, dark winter. Use what metaphors you will; it is a time of rejuvenation, renewal and rebirth. We are revolving around a new sun, and it is a chance to be warm again, to blossom without the danger of a killing frost. 

Yesterday made me think of the gradual instant that Anne Michaels talked of in her novel Fugitive Pieces. Since the fall we have gradually been recovering from years of ineffective leadership where we traveled a poorly cobbled road of haphazard intentions. We didn't end up in hell, perhaps, but it sure was a long way from Eden. As the group of runners gathered it seemed to mark an instant when the return of staff morale was almost palpable. 

I don't know if it was the adrenaline of overseeing the race that carried me through my run today, but for whatever reason I was soaring, and it felt so easy even as I picked up the pace. 

It was a dazzling, clear day, and as I neared the bridge on Vance I saw my favourite pet deer. There was a family with two young girls watching Miss Deer from a careful distance, and they were amazed as I slowed my pace, and the deer came up to me and nuzzled my hand. I must have looked like quite the deer whisperer until I told them she was tame, so the girls approached cautiously, giggling and thrilled with their adventure, while I carried on up the road. In the sky above me, a bright red stunt plane was performing balletic pirouettes and dramatic dives, adding to the magical nature of the day. 

I won't be giving up running for race directing any time soon, but I will certainly be organizing the Staff 5 km again next year if only to enjoy the sight at Symposium restaurant afterwards of two long tables full of staff members, drinking and sharing tales of their epic journeys to the finish line. 

When Summer Sees Fit

           I have only anecdotal support to offer, but for what it’s worth, here’s my take on Summer’s early arrival.  She was down in Key West, where she always winters, and was getting restless.  I mean you can only visit Hemingway’s house so often, and with Summer’s allergy to cats, it turns out one visit was enough.  She’d tried her luck with the boys in Key West, but no one seemed interested.  After one rebuff too many, Summer decided she had had enough; she was heading north, and she didn’t care if she was a month or two early.

            After packing her flouncy dresses and oversized hats, as well as a gallon of sunblock (a girl’s got to look after her skin), she phoned Humidity, who rents a place just down the beach, and told him to pack his bags.

            “I’ll pick you up in 10,” she said a little snappishly.

            Humidity, having just woken from one of those sweat-drenching dreams, was a little groggy. “Are we talking ten hours, or ten days? I’m going to need time to find someone to look after the plants and my goldfish.”

            “I'm talking ten minutes, so get ready.  Pack plenty of those drab outfits you insist on wearing, and meet me on the street. It's time to head north. This place is killin’ me. ”

            After hanging up the phone, she locked her condo and piled her floral suitcases into her bright yellow convertible. Well, she never claimed to be subtle.  She left that for her cousin Spring, with her whispery voice and her hair smelling of cherry blossoms. 

            Driving up the street, she could see Humidity slouched in front of his beach house, wearing his wide-lapelled drip-dry suit and smoking a cigarette.  For a guy who spent most of his time with Summer, he looked startlingly pale.

            “You look awful.”

            “Of course I look awful; I’ve spent my whole life with clammy skin and clogged pores.”

            “Well, get in the car before you start your sob story.  We’ll pick up burgers and soda and then it’s straight through to the border.

            “Tell me we’re at least stopping at the duty free.”

            “Of course we’re stopping.  I’m not a complete lout. Besides, I have no gin for the cottage.”

            They made good time, keeping the top down on the convertible even through the dark hills of Kentucky, and they pulled into Ontario late Thursday night. By Friday at noon, Summer had unpacked her new patio furniture and was sunning her rather ample self on the deck.  Her mere presence had driven the thermometer up to a spectacular 27 degrees.  Not to be outdone, Humidity increased the humidex to a blanket-smothering 34 degrees.

            Summer spent the afternoon sipping on a tall g&t, while tweeting out to her followers: #summerisinfullswing. While one swallow may not a summer make, one tweet can set it in motion. The air was buzzing with news of her arrival. People scrambled to get out their wrinkled shorts and too-small shirts, while in the insect world carloads of mosquitoes zoomed north. By Saturday night, the edges of fields and ponds were humming with mosquito tent-cities, while their tiny barbeques glowed and their guitars twanged around the first campfires of the season.

            While Summer and Humidity partied through the weekend and the insects buzzed, those of us used to crisp morning runs, struggled to breathe.  The final kilometers of my run on Saturday stretched ever longer as my legs grew heavier and heavier.  As I shuffled along, I had a hard time believing I had been racing Boston only a few weeks ago. Later in the day while trying to wash my car, Humidity all but pinned my limbs to my side.  Saturday night the dynamic duo amused themselves with a brief thunderstorm followed by even greater humidity.  Then they stayed up all night playing cards while the rest of us tossed and turned in houses with windows still sealed to keep out Winter’s harsh winds. Sometime in the early morning, Summer and Humidity must have passed out, leaving an early morning haze.  I slipped on my shoes and headed out, trying to take advantage of the overcast sky, but by the halfway point, the clouds cleared, and suddenly Summer shone down on me, while Humidity wrapped me in his awkward embrace.

            Hey, don’t get me wrong, Summer, I am glad to see you, if not your rumpled friend, but I need time to get used to your dazzling heat and flamboyant ways, just a little time.

           

When Coyotes Come Calling

Last night our neighbour Deb came by. Deb and Gary live up Vance Rd beside the couple who own the pet deer. Well they may not own it. Deb suggests it might be more like a B&B situation and the deer just really likes staying there.  We often chat with Deb as we walk by with the dogs, but this was our first sit-down-with-a-glass-of-wine-and-discuss-all-of-our-neighbours kind of visit, so this was a big step. Chebbi contributed what he could by barking for attention the entire visit. Phyll finally gave him one of her old sweaters that I won't let her wear anymore, and he happily tore it into small, soggy bits. 

Deb and Gary have lived on their farm for 25 years, so she knows the lay of the land and the coyotes that roam it. She said the same pack has been in the Chilligo Rd area for years, and they are pretty clever at coming into a yard or field undetected, surrounding an animal and whisking it away. With female dogs, she said, they are taken into the pack, whereas the fate of male dogs is a little more grim. 

She recounted a time years ago when they were bringing in the hay and her son was in the field on his little two wheel bike. The coyotes were hiding behind the bales of hay preparing to attack. Gary saw the pack and scooped up son and bicycle onto the wagon while the coyotes slipped away. 

I was riveted by her tales, especially in light of the coyotes that often howl into the night, trying to lure Griff out with offers of cigarettes and moonshine. 

My fascination and terror may explain my dream last night. I was trying to paddle a  canoe with a baby in my lap and I was struggling to keep the baby upright. I mean no one wants a baby tipping over. The difficulty of the task was increased by the fact that my paddle was not a paddle so much as it was a straw broom, much like the broom I had used to sweep the back porch earlier in the day. I am not sure how many of you have experience paddling with a broom, but I can tell you I was not making great progress. 

Skip ahead, as all good dreams do, to a completely new scene. I am walking into a bar with a plastic bag filled with empty bottles to return, and lo and behold when I reach into the bag there is the baby again. I am relieved to find the baby has not tipped over but is positioned upright, which is always a concern when travelling with a small baby in a flimsy plastic bag that I might have purchased at a grocery store for five cents. 

I don't recall much beyond the relief of the baby being okay, and I don't remember finding it odd that I was travelling, as it were, with a baby in a plastic bag. I know this dream doesn't cast me in a very positive light in terms of taking parenting seriously, but, in my defence, I had no sense that the baby was mine, as in, oh the baby in the bag has my eyes. 

When I woke later and Phyll asked how I slept, I mentioned my dream of paddling a canoe with a baby but omitted the bar scene. And the plastic bag. Phyll said she never had such weird dreams and wondered if I was more introspective than her, which is just a nice word for neurotic. She may be right. All I know is when the coyotes come calling tonight I will be holding my babies just a little bit tighter.