Fresh air and cool temperatures, yes kiddos I'm in Maine. Through the miracle of laptops and really crappy internet connections I'm coming to you from the northern tip of the continental United States. Sort of like Canada except without any of those ugly Canadians about (I have always maintained that the raw natural beauty of Canada is wasted on the primitive savages who reside in the northlands in their little hut groups with names like "Montreal" and their gibberish language)
The drive up here was alright. We had a casualty in that my cat decided to hide somewhere in our country house, which we stayed in overnight, so she's been left down there to be fed by the roofer and hopefully collected on the way back down. There was also a very annoying incident where my cousin Kate's portuguese ex-boyfriend called our house at about 7 AM in an attempt to find her. My mother decided that I should field the call because I just finished learning Spanish and did well in the class. Now anyone who owns more than just the one braincell knows that schoolroom spanish is only related to real spanish by marriage...and a rocky one at that (real spanish is always drunk and he keeps coming home reeking of other languages with words that don't make any sense to schoolroom spanish) so claiming that I "know spanish" is a tenuous reason at best to pawn this guy off on me. It becomes even more tenuous when you consider the fact that the guy DIDN'T speak spanish. Instead he prattled at me in Portuguese and got annoyed when I couldn't understand his rapidfire talk in a language which is only a cousin of a language who'se wife I have a basic grasp of. Finally he gave up, put a Spanish speaker on the phone, and I was able to give them the number of my cousin's parent's in Oregon who hopefully they will bother to a sufficient extent that they will spank her despite her advanced age.
My mother doesn't understand why I don't like this cousin. Here's a little foible that I have. If you are staying at my house rent free I would prefer if you NOT give out the telephone number of that house to your non-english speaking boyfriend who you don't ever want to talk to and are actually trying to ditch so that he can wake me up and say incoherent things at me on the first day of my short vacation after a killer summer.
The car ride itself was okay. We listened to a Spenser for Hire novel on tape after I managed to avoid my mother's attempt to pick a detective novel by a female author (I tend to hate those) by pointing out that they were all abridged (everybody hates that.) There was one brief fight when my mom wanted me to talk about school and I...didn't...but that ended fairly swiftly and I won it anyway.
Being up here is...as always...both exciting and difficult and sad all at once. It was such a...meaningful place in my childhood and naturally there is the aspect of the magic being gone now that I'm all grown up and stuff. Then there's the ghost of my father hanging around the place. I'm sleeping in the bedroom where he used to make up really terrible stories about a distant relative of ours who could ski uphill (I'm seriously not kidding either, and to make it worse the fellow's name was Yachumfluster Putz...my dad was a giant cornball god bless him) The grill he used to make everyone steaks and burgers on is stored away downstairs and all the boats we used to use are, of course, still the boats that lie on the lawn begging to be used.
Then there are his ashes in the lake...a grim physical reminder of both how closely associated this place was with him and just how truly gone he is.
There's a memoir that an old man with a house on the lake is sending around to all the other residents about what this place means to him and how one's life can be mapped out by summers spent up in Rangely. It's funny because in many ways I feel stunted by all the summers I didn't spend here after....it...happened. Even now I know this trip will be but a shadow of the ones that came before. Without a family leader to organize trips, push everyone to DO things, and be the driving force it will be all of the sauce with none of the meat of what time up here should be.
I'll read a few novels, catch some rays, make some weak attempts at boating and swimming, and come back feeling refreshed but still no closer to regaining a grasp on my life than I was when I arrived.
No matter how I try and play it I'm still just dancing at the edge of an abyss that will never be filled. There may be nicer sides and places where things can take root but one can't ignore the yawning black maw of what might have, could have, SHOULD have been.
I can still remember his crooked smile, his playfullness when in a good mood and his snapping anger when he couldn't handle things (so much easier to understand now that I've been apprised of his disease)
Eight fucking years...the missing doesn't ever go away I guess.
I am writing this on my mother's computer which is risky because she's just computer illiterate enough to stumble on it but hopefully I can engineer it so that she won't by wiping the history. Still I think it's worth the risk because I need a safety valve when I'm boiling over the fire of the past. Bottling things up is an unfortunate strategy.
In uninteresting livejournal news I've been added as a friend by another totally random person who has not so much as commented in this here journal like thing. I don't particularly mind, especially since experience suggests she'll be gone within a week, but sometimes I wonder. Is it just a bunch of mass additions that various people do from time to time or do these people really find me interesting and if so why? I just don't accumulate the kinds of LJ friends that I'd expect. It's probably partially because I don't go looking for them...but whatever.
The moon on the water was so beautiful tonight that it almost made the whole summer worth it. Why would anyone go to war when they can sit, read, sip lemonade, and watch a moonlit lake? People are messed up.