Monday, July 28--
10:20 a.m.-
Dear Caleb,
Songbirds
surround. Cloudless sun penetrating skin deep into muscle; a carnival of water
bugs waltzing and performing backflips and high leaps on the still water beside
us, whose hundreds in a cluster appear far off as wind ruffling the river. You
are at senior camp for two weeks and I'm glad of that, but do wish you were
here too to savor the summer office.
A
muskrat just crossed fifty feet from the bow. EZ leaped up to scrutinize its
passing. It is now returning with sprigs of green groceries; just dove under a
maple trunk.
Along
for the day is a cooler of Dew and a bottle of water. In the grocery bag are
the leftover seeded hamburger buns from last Tuesday's cookout, a jar of peanut
butter, EZ's brush--which I will be wielding to resolute extent to give her a
damn fine deep cleaning, and a free small sample bottle of doggie shampoo the
pet food store gave me, GAG-AWAY, with lavender and mint inside and outside on
the label: a terrier caricature, gay after its bath. Concocted in California,
where gothic medicinals are invented, the back label says: "Deodorize,
Moisturize, Rejuvenate - Rich and fluffy lather - Natural herbs and oils - Soap
Free!" EZ could use rejuvenation, as we know, though she's eating well
lately and has peed on the living room rug during the night only twice. The rug
is hanging on the clothesline to dry, though I may just discard it with Friday's
trash if the Nature's Miracle soaking doesn't rid it of urine stink by then.
We
are heading for Wooden Bridge, she and I--and you, and maybe beyond, since it's
a perfect day to do so. Rock currents will be visible on placid water.
John
and I came out on the river after work Saturday. John is a good friend.
Anything that follows about him is to be understood as friendly.
We
made it to Grand Sandbanks by 7:00, him facing forward through the turns,
cupping his left hand to the back of his head, either holding a deerfly inside
or holding his toupˇ in place, but he doesn't wear one. Or maybe preventing his
fresh WalMart coif from mussing. I didn't ask.
I
swam, he didn't, though he'd come wearing swim trunks, bulky but dapper like a
diaper inside his Sans-a-Belt trousers. His "Jail and Bail" T-shirt
was alarming. Before arriving at my place he drove to Country Store to buy
bourbon. (A frivolous trip since we had to drive right past House of Spirits in
town and he could've saved big.) They didn't have his brand so he picked up "whatever"
without checking the $28.99 price. He belly-ached about their inflated prices,
but the county fair was in town this weekend, just a quarter-mile away, and the
demolition derby was held Saturday afternoon, so what did he expect for his
economic inconvenience?
I
changed into trunks. He took up the boat mug, opened a Diet Coke and opened the
Ziplock of ice cubes. Curious to see what could've cost him thirty-dollars,
after tax, I picked up the tall skinny sack hiding his sin, reached into the
top, clasped the glass neck, and drew it out.
"My
God!"
Jack
Daniels, the legendary hero of country music and blues singer wannabes and
Saturday night drunks.
I
asked for a taste. He peeled off the shrink wrap, twisted up the cap and handed
it to me. Smelled nice, I guess. I tipped it back thoughtfully and sipped booze
into my mouth, swished it around and gargled, as fine connoisseurs do,
swallowed. "Burn" is not quite right. "Scald," says it
better. I was transported to a dilapidated rocking roadhouse where futility
slugged back dollars when tomorrow ain't'a-gonna' come, smelling of vomit with
despairing tattoos.
John
constructed his drink. I dove into the river and shampooed my hair. John got
happy and animated fast. I worried about what I'd gotten into.
Clouds
thickened. I took the tarp from the bowels of the tote and set it beside me in
case it might finally be put to use.
We
motored up to the campsite. Light rain hissed the river, strengthening to
drizzle. I drifted us under the wide spreading maples across from Glitter Beach
and kept us under cover by putting the motor in gear, then out, then in, then
out, to keep us safe since the anchor kept dragging, tangling me backward into
spidery low branches, which John thought was acutely funny too often.
We
swatted mosquitoes and waited.
"Tastes
more like a regular Cola," John read to me, stopping his drink-building to
reflect on that Pepsi-Cola slogan. (I'd rummaged through my fridge for Diet
Cokes to bring along. Ran out, but knocked into a can of Pepsi One the grocery
store had given me free a year ago, to taste-test at home and become fixated on
the flavor and become a devoted client everafter.)
"I
never understood phrases like that. What! Am I stupid? Or is it the rest of the
world that's stupid? 'Tastes more like a regular cola.' If I want a regular
cola I'll buy
a regular cola.
"'Rabbit.
Oh, it tastes just like chicken.'" He mimics a dinner party hostess
shoving an unsavory cutlet at him.
"If
I want something that tastes like chicken I'll eat chicken." He slams down
the lid of the cooler, thinking. He swaggers up another idea mimicking a hunter's
boast: "You'll like my venison. It tastes just like beef."
At
8:16 I bowed before infinity and thanked God for visiting our midst. A Wood
Thrush reverberated notes out from the trees and poured it onto the water. The
sound is mysterious and ridiculous, coming from the beak, or the muscularly
constricted throat of a bird. It makes every angry muscle in me relax and want
to apologize to mean people. It makes me want not to care anymore about
foolishness in the world, because something more meaningful is speaking in the
dusky forest off the stern in the stand of dense pines in a language we all
understand but hear too seldom.
Today, 11:10-
It
is infinity to have the whole day ahead, nothing needing doing by 2:23 or 4:45
and nowhere else we have to be unless, by impulsive caprice we want to go
elsewhere. And EZ's always agreeable to changes of plans. The thermometer reads
"72." Humidity is below 40. The sun is warming me in a hopeful way
here in Sonbeam's Secret Channel. EZ too, who's snoozing with her muzzle under
the anchor rope, now aroused by a fly to snap at it.
Am
going to head upriver.
Grand Sandbanks, 11:32-
The
cloud of deerflies we towed along in our slipstream have gone away. (Not all of
them have to fly. Some hear the motor start and grip secret roosts inside the
boat and hold on for the ride.) EZ is wading, pawing, staring at stones under
her feet. The sandbank is dribbling rambling rivers of stone, a strange
liveliness since, overall from a distance, it seems motionless. It's not.
Spiders and grasshoppers and flies "sproinging" up tiny cascades.
Horsefly and butterfly shadows flit across the uneven terrain.
The
beach is three feet wide.
Saturday night with John-
The
western sky lightened pink, sun shining through rain. Rain stopped and we
continued upriver to Black Box Stop where you and I played last Labor Day. (I
am thrilled that you are smarter than me and now always beat me at it, this
game I got in Christmas 1978 and knew how to play it better than you did before
birth. The only thing coming your way in my will is that all-season illuminated
plastic Noel candle on permanent display atop my TV. The burned-out bulb goes
with it.)
Gave
John the rule-book to read for himself, rather than confuse him by explanation.
He read, rapt with an unopened pack of Old Gold Lights forgotten in his right
hand and a single deerfly circling his head. Rain dippled the river a second
time and pissed me off again. The sky brightened and the sun gave a great show
behind John's back, interplaying between towering thunderheads. He of quick
mind and analytical chess cunning fathomed the words, put down the book and
called out "three."
"Hit,"
I said. Then, "Hit" four more times.
He
picked up four marker balls and placed them exactly where he should've, if he'd
known for sure, where the fourth would be, if he'd gone through the trouble of
playing the game right by asking for more information so he could properly
locate it and not see through my simple-minded plan by guessing. Out of
assistance to a rookie I'd laid out a symmetrical pattern, one easy enough for
an astute beginner. But he was too astute so I, seeing his ploy, secretly changed
the location of the fourth ball. You know, to teach him a lesson and avoid an
all-time low score of 4.
He
got grouchy ("How can you do that? That's cheating!") when I admitted
he'd been right, though too right for a novice.
In
the middle of the second game--he hid, I sought--he remembered to tell me the
news of a giant ball of earwax he'd pulled from his left ear that morning. He "once-in-a-while
pulls out a little wax," but this morning pulled out a glob the size of
his thumbnail and now "can hear real good."
We
played two rounds, then quit when darkness made the gameboard too tedious to
see. Fast-moving clouds streaked over and I turned the boat toward home,
berating myself for forgetting the million-candlepower spotlight; not even a
flashlight aboard and the Bic lighter blew out.
"You'll
just have to start flying by the seat of your pants. That's hard to do because
you like things all laid out," John said.
Today, 1:04-
Anchored
mid-stream about a quarter-mile into the wide curving mile above the deep sharp
curve--where the cute white cabin is. Shallow, but hard to see bottom, only a
white ruffled river now that summer clouds have moved in, hiding the sun on and
off.
1:23-
Have
stopped beside your Schools of Big Fish Rock to drink a Dew and give the
deerflies a rest. They've been dogging us. I made the mistake of taking off my
shirt. Put it back on after suffering half-a-dozen bites. A canoe just appeared
around the curve far ahead, sunlight piercing off a paddle. Looks like three or
four nuns all in white. Will let you know.
Saturday night-
I
know that section of the upper river well, but not blind. Or at night. John sat
in his front seat facing back while I steered the boat cautiously, going slow,
abruptly turning left or right when shore or tree branches or stumps I knew
were there, but not quite THERE, loomed reaching to knock John flat. But he
didn't care. "Worse ways to go than this," he assured me and tipped
up his cup.
Passing
the campsite my eyes perceived an faint flicker.
"Naw,"
I said to myself and kept driving. Rounding through Grand Sandbanks I noticed
another intellection of light.
"Did
I just see lightning?"
"Of
course," said John who always tells the truth and gets a kick out of
calamity. I was relieved not to be undergoing psychoneurotic irregularities,
but not so happy about the brightening flashes nonetheless helpfully tracing
brief glimpses of where I should go.
Today, 1:33 p.m.-
I
regret not stopping you to give a farewell hug as you left the store with new
keys Friday. Something was missing, it didn't feel complete, and the customers
lining up to pay me for brass ball valves and ant poison would've surely been
willing to wait, glad to have a Dad hug his son good-bye.
1:37
The
canoe was two canoes and the nuns were young ladies and men wearing deerfly
deflection towels. All seven were relatively still happy about life on a river,
except the stern lady (who's disposition and position back there were apropos).
Sliding past she demanded, "Why aren't the flies bothering you?! Put on a
towel ya Goddamn moron!"
This
last portion has been written while underway, motor tilted up, just now
approaching the steep rope-swing bank where the three girl tubers put out last
time we were here. A beautiful stand of fireweed has bloomed since then, dark
pink flowers spraying tall. I always think of my Dad and the Boundary Waters
canoe trip we took in 1972.
Entering
the final stretch before Wooden Bridge. Motor back down into four feet of
river.
Saturday night-
Lightning
quickened in brilliance and regularity. I speculated whether to hide us under
the bridge or dash for the boat landing two miles away. Would've been nice to
stop in safety and enjoy the show.
"Whatever,"
John said, slopping a new drink. He and I are alike in many ways, kindred's as
you and I are. But no amount of alcohol would've granted me the serenity to sit
facing backward in the bow of a
boat at night as a trusted, but prone-to-mistake-man with three or four beers
in 'im, drove forward with me in the first-to-get-hit seat.
I
sped past the bridge. Lightning lit the hallways. I began to feel better, less
whiny. John turned around so he could see the show better. Through Sandy Flats,
around the tip of Bird Nest Tree, past Late Rufus's place, into the shortcut
which, in John's honor and ease, I had trimmed of branchy clutter Friday
morning. Avoided Death Tree Stump but wound a great weight of weeds around the
prop.
A
raindrop the size of a softball, aimed perfectly from several thousand feet up,
exploded into my right eye. Other raindrops came along too. I didn't see a need
to tell John it was beginning to rain because he sat like a spread-armed Christ
on the Cross singing Gene Kelly songs.
2:14-
Wooden
Bridge. We made it Sonbeam!
EZ
is excited. She caught sight of it five minutes ago and has almost fallen off
the bow as many times. The patio door
on the cottage shows the same pair of legs crossed and the television
airing Judge Judy. The old man inside is irate. I hear shouting and stemware
shattering.
2:25-
EZ
is wading in muck and eating grass at the canoe landing. I am slapping
mosquitoes exactly as you and I did when we were here on the fourth of July.
What do you say we continue on and explore up past the bridge?
2:33-
Damnit!
All this way masterfully, weaving through treacherous rocks and boulder-strewn
shallows, The prop just "wanged" one under the bridge, where it's
supposed to be, by civil design, deep.
Okay,
here we go. Open a Dew. No commitments for the day except sleep when night
comes and rinse out of EZ's fur the medicinal stink she's still carrying from
last Tuesday's antibacterial bath.
2:38-
Too
shallow. I need you here to scout out the rocks and shout out alarm.
"Light
and Variable winds" means "very-able" to break Weather Channel
rules and make up makeshift stuff, and do whatever seems right at the moment.
The "winds" are doing that today. Blowing a gale when it sees me
approach boulder-troubled waters and quieting down nice when current "tells"
don't matter.
Saturday night-
The
weed clot built heavy and dragged down the motor. Entering the main channel I
stopped and reversed hard left and right to rid it of its load, then tried to
go fast. The weeds stuck to the prop and I dithered whether or not to prop the
motor up and hand-clear them or just plow on ahead slower, without wasting more
time. But does it really matter when I am already drenched in warm rain and
John is too, singing a Little Mermaid tune? To say he didn't care is a wrong
statement. He cared a lot that he was out of his routine and out of his
apartment and being poured on by July's bathwater deluge and having a night to
remember fondly, not later in a few years, but then. I love that man.
God
pulled the cord and the lightning stopped. Around past the white arrow (some
neighbor sawed it in his garage and stuck it in the river to show tourists
which way to go). Curve into the boat landing lane. Shove onto shore beside the
dock and walk fast to the car where it wasn't raining inside.
Felt
a bit shameful for leaving John alone in the torrent back in the boat, worrying
that he'd drown. Backed up the trailer. Got out and hollered, "leave the
damn boat for now and hurry up and get in the car!"
"Why?
We gonna' get drier?"
I
saw his point and laughed at living life too priggishly.
God
plugged the leak and the rain stopped. We loaded the boat and unloaded the boat
of goods that would fly out on the highway, though forgotten soaked towels and
hats and swim trunks did not fly out. Too heavy with wet.
Looked
at the Weather Channel radar to see what we'd been through. The green and
orange rain cell shrank and blinked out from the screen, all gone when we left.
Today, 3:17-
Have
been drifting. Light and variable air. Stifling hot sun. A "tap-tap-tapping"
against the hull, a sound frequently heard; I always conjecture that it's a
fish biting algae off the aluminum.
Silent
passage past the fireweed.
3:45-
Broke
the Big Rule about not letting EZ eat people food. Cut a bun in half, smeared
Jif on the top portion--with the sesame seeds, and set it down on her deck. She
bleared up from sleep, noticed it there.
Ignored
it. Even after I pointed at it and said a helpful "okay."
She
scoffed at the trick, knowing full well I don't invite her along on trips to
eat peanut butter buns or any other food I could eat myself. Though last night
at the neighbor's yard she had fun lapping up charred marshmallows and Hershey
bar halves little children forgot on patio steps.
I
nudged the bun. She rose and approached it from the side. Nostrils flaring,
pulsing. She went back to the bow. I coaxed her to come back and believe me,
and eat it. She licked peanut butter and bit a small corner bite. Laid down.
5:36-
Nearly
back to the boat landing. Tired, sun-sapped. Had a bath at Grand Sandbanks,
rinsed EZ, dried off, got dressed. We're weary and sun-drained. She didn't want
to get out at Sandbanks and "yipped" for no reason but for the pain
in her mouth.
May
camp out tomorrow. Will let you know.
Love
you Cabe. Dad.
PS
8:45-
Just
got off the phone with John. He says "hi." I say kiss a nice girl but
don't engage her until you get home.