There is so much to do when a person is going away. Besides all the obvious, there are things like disguising the multiple trips to the car, so that people think you are doing laundry and not leaving your house empty for a week; adjusting the blinds just so, so as to make it seem as if you are always home; leaving copious buckets of food and water for the cats, and writing down all emergency information for the kind people (Eva and David, and occasionally Susan) who will peek in on them throughout the week; feeding the fish; making the bed beautifully; cleaning the bathroom; tidying up all the garbage; emptying the fridge of any imminent spoilables; watering all the plants, in-house and out-of-doors; making sure the appropriate light switches are off, or on, depending; finding the best t.v. channel that all the animals can agree on (I go through a week's worth and look at the programming on all the movie channels -- the cats are forbidden Oprah and Dr. Phil or any opprobrious talk shows), and making sure the bears' hats are on in such a way that they can see. I also have to clean out all my email, making sure I have answered everyone; check (nine times) to reassure myself I have put my low-sulphite wine in the back seat of the car (the neighbours are probably out there drinking it right now); inhale (but not literally) my armpits for excess smelliness because of all the sweating; anticipate the week ahead, and so on.
There is so much to do while a person is away on vacation. Eat, sleep, swim, eat, canoe, read, eat, do crossword puzzles, eat, paddle-boat, eat, luxuriate, eat, talk, sleep, read, eat. While we were at the cottage I also did something I have only ever found acceptable in movies (see: Hello Dolly!), partly because I am cynical and partly because I am superstitious.
I was hunting through the cottage for the one item I had forgotten -- Skin So Soft, which I use as an insect repellent -- and although I knew I had left it behind because it hadn't occurred to me at any time to pack it, I said in a loud whisper: Don, if you can hear me, if you are anywhere near me, send me a sign that you are close by and find me some Skin So Soft.
I know this was a ludicrous request for many reasons, the least of which is that the product can only be had only by ordering it from Avon (and is therefore not readily accessible), and the largest of which is obvious. I cursed myself the second I made the request, of course, because I knew I was going to be terribly disappointed as well as superstitious about having asked, and even more -- lonely for Don.
I am not sure how much time went by -- maybe an hour -- when I went into the bathroom and there it was: not my exact Skin So Soft (I use the cream version), but an even better sampling of a large-size more-than-half-full bottle of sprayable Skin So Soft, sitting there, waiting for me. As it turned out, I didn't need it for my skin. The mosquitoes were minimal (practically non-existent next to the fruit bats). But I did need it for other reasons, reasons that only Don and I would understand or know about, and reasons that anyone will know when they are walking around in the same-size shoes (9 1/2 to 10, depending).
There is so much to do when a person comes home. Empty the car; talk to the cats; ensure that the fish have survived; turn the light switches off; turn off the t.v.; turn on the computer to briefly check and mentally prepare for answering email; open the blinds; put the wine back in the fridge; sort the laundry; vacuum; dust; water the plants; plan to buy new cat collars and bells as a special treat and reward because they survived one another and the people who came in to feed and water and scoop for them; download the 1,147 photos, 789 of them pictures of the resident beaver doing the backstroke across the lake; find the perfect spots for my two new old glass birds -- one an opaque green, the other a cobalt blue -- purchased for me as a gift at an antique store in Muskoka; shower; fix the bear hats that the cats have tinkered with; reflect on the week that has passed too quickly, and so on. And you can see that the greater energy is dedicated to the going, or else why would I have written that part in the present progressive tense?
But as I sit here a few days later and write this first entry back, I think that if I am lucky enough to go back to the cottage next year, I am going to pack the Skin So Soft and not risk leaving Don behind. Cottages are wonderful things, and comings and goings are special, but there is nothing like that which we have in our own back yards -- the murmuring trees; the purple-blue fat-leafed morning glories; the old wringer washer full of flowers, and the afternoon sunlight reflecting off the bottles of ashes of those we love best.
Archived 2007, 2008
