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Bring Me a Little Water

May 26, 2005

Listened to the show Saturday and it was not bad. It was good to just lie down and relax after a rather tiring week. It was raining, too, after many days of rain, and I had to laugh at the Wailin' Jenny's song "Bring Me A Little Water, Sylvie." As if we need more. Not that I'm complaining. There's nothing wrong with rain and frankly I rather like it because it's not sunny so I don't feel like I should be out doing what everyone else is doing in the sunshine. No. It's the nature of the rain that gets to me. When it just drizzles its way through the month I tend to get a bit irritated. What I'm hoping for is one heck of a storm. The kind of storm where everything is that frog-belly green and you get supplies and run for cover and you find the candles and make sure there's bottled water and then settle in for a good movie, getting up every half hour or so to stand outside with your head tilted back and your mouth open. A good storm would clear the air. Mrs. Gustafson's headaches would leave and Mr. Andersen's herd would get a good washing.

Speaking of washing, a shower never felt so good as it did the night I returned from Ontario. I must have been in there for over an hour. I had the show on, the radio propped up on the toilet, and the window wide open. It seemed appropriate to find joy right there in the hot, hot water with a breeze blowing in. I didn't have much time to luxuriate at the Idlewyld Inn where James put me up during my visit. It was an old Victorian mansion right there in London with antiques and lovely windows and a fireplace in a large, warm living room. I would have been content to hang out there a bit more, really, but James wanted to show me the town. He and his roommate, Robert, took me to the Blue Ginger Lounge and Bertoldi's Trattoria. They showed me the Covent Garden Market and the site of the Belmont Corn Maze, a giant 8 acre maze in a cornfield with a place to rest halfway through. We went to Spike's Indoor Beach Volleyball and Rock Climbing and spent an afternoon climbing rock walls. I'll admit I had my doubts but after an hour I was feeling pretty good. Robert explained about caribiners and rappelling and showed me how not to burn my hands on the way down. We went to an organ recital at St. Paul's Cathedral off Queens Avenue and stopped by the Innuit Gallery to look at Brazilian Soap Stone Sculpture. The exhibit wasn't open but James and Robert have friends there so we had a private tour.

I must say, I'm very proud of my son. It feels odd to call him my son because he has a mother and father, whom I met, who are really wonderful people. They did a fine job raising James. He works as an editor at a small publishing house and plays guitar on Friday nights in a local bar with a group of friends. He and Robert volunteer at an animal shelter down the street, and care for the garden of an elderly woman who lives a block away. They do a lot of cooking and Robert makes candles which he sells at the Covent Garden Market twice a year. When James and I left for the airport, he gave me a candle, a blue one, wrapped in burlap and tied with twine. Come visit anytime, Mrs. Sundberg, he said. Any time at all.

You can tell a lot about people by the way they meet and part. When I said goodbye to James, he gave me a hug. I had to stand on my tiptoes to do it properly. I'm glad I found you, he said. Next time you visit we'll do the Corn Maze and you can find me.

I told him to write now and then and he said he would. I promised to invite him down in the fall when the leaves are turning along the river. He said he'd love to visit and was looking forward to meeting Mr. Sundberg and the kids. It was a bit difficult to leave him there at the airport entrance, I'll admit. Each time I turned to look back, he waved. And I waved. And he smiled. And I smiled. And then there were people all around and he was gone.

We've always loved each other, James and me.

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