04 August 2015 – G’s come and gone again. Arrived with the blue moon. Big and low in the summer sky. Departed under scattered clouds and the promise of rain. A four day blitz.
His farmer tan. And those workboot white ankles—at first glance I thought he’d shaved them.
That unruly facial hair. His participation in a summerlong beard-growing competition with the boys at work. A ticklish heap of scruff.
Long walks and drives without aim. Around here. Along the pop-up main streets of smaller towns and down rolling country roads.
Monkeying about in overpriced antique stores. Rummaging the incredible collection of junk. Donning vintage hats, twirling parasols and canes. Wondering what our lives would be like if we mangled our clothes and needed shotguns to ward off large animals and unwelcome visitors. Also wondering how antique stores could stay in business without movies.
A nursery on the edge of civilization. So that G could gawp at the plants.
Happening upon an artisanal farmers festival. All the stalls and activities. The music and people. Horses and donkeys and chickens and cows and llamas and pigs and sheep. Scarecrows. A corn maze. The display of tractors and trucks and other farming machines. Kiddlies running around with flavoured ices and sticked corn and sunflower pinwheels. The pyramid of hay bales. Our spontaneous picnic under trees in an adjacent field. Front row seats to passing train. Counting cars and losing track after 50.
A botanical garden. So that we could stroll in the decadent delight of plants let to grow in the arranged company of their green friends. An older gentleman there, handsomely dressed and roaming the roses with his hands at peace behind his back. He said hello, addressed the pleasant weather, and told us it was his 90th birthday. Reginald was his name.
Used bookstores. Eyes open for a suitable title to add to our ill-fated long distance bookclub. Which has become another inside joke between us. Neither of us being all that inclined to talk about what we’re reading. To date we’ve only completed All the Pretty Horses together. My pick. A fine book but I think the extent of conversation generated was to intermittently report how far along we’d gotten. To follow he picked Infinite Jest. After several attempts I had to call veto. The bookclub has settled into prolonged dormancy theresince. We’re figuring we’ll try another angle when I’m back at the house—a single copy of The Crossing, to read to one another in bed.
Parking behind a cozy camper with Hudson’s Bay stripes. Wanting one of our own. To cruise the highways and byways of this land. Dreaming out loud a time when such an adventure will be ours.
Coming home after work on Saturday to dad and G talking sports and getting drunk in the backyard. Calling Clara, who didn’t have Dustin and was just about to open a bottle of wine ‘to nurse herself through a welcome lonely night’. Her getting a cab. The four of us throwing lawndarts, eating BBQ, yammering nonsense well into the shortest hours.
And Monday night, playing around on the couch, the realization that neither G nor I knew from whence commenced our togetherment.
We read thru delivery. Discovered that it was some day after June 24th (‘a suddenly thick moment’) and before July. We settled on June 25th. Because that was the day I started this journal. Unbeknownstedly.
What are the chances?
Over a year now. How’d that happen so fast?
Time is a woofing barking thing.
Another pair of realizations: close to half our time together has been spent apart, and my contract is up in two weeks.
Near to nail-biting time.