Diggers Unite

This weekend I attended a family reunion held at neighboring cottages in Ontario. It was co-hosted by an aunt and uncle, and a couple to whom I must somehow be related. This is pretty representative of the crowd of sixty-plus attendees: intimates interspersed with complete strangers.

Mom, dad, grandmother, sister, brother, sister-in-law, brother-in-law, nieces, aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, second cousins once-removed, random boyfriends and girlfriends, and a host of others I wouldn't know if they sat beside me on a bus.

Any embarrassing displays? No. Not enough booze for that. Although some protested my uncle's insistence that lunch be deferred so he could explain his research into the family tree. Like, who cares who we are and where we're from? Pass the potato salad.

It's good to catch up with people you've known all your life. In recent years my aunt has found her calling teaching therapeutic yoga, and she described the challenges she's faced starting her business. And my younger cousins no longer retreat behind closed doors to talk of things beyond adult comprehension. People have married and started families. Some have new jobs, others have been laid off. Everyone looks different from the last time I saw them.

Observing my father displacing youngsters on the inflatable trampoline boat so he could flop into the water like a sea lion, I also reflected that some people never really change.

********************************

Towards the end of the day my three-year-old niece spies me from across the room and hurtles towards me.

"KIM!"

Hugging my legs she sighs "Oh Kim," as though our time spent apart were measurable in years rather than minutes. She asks a barely intelligible question and gestures towards the door.

"What is it Vera? Do you want to go outside?" She nods. Stepping out into the dusk, she takes my hand. We walk along the dirt road flanked by woods until she slows and puts her finger to her lips.

"Shhhh," she whispers, eyes wide. "The noise." I stop to listen. Crickets sound from all around.

"Yes," I acknowledge. "The noise."

Softly we tiptoe, listening, until it's time to go home.

Hearts of Something

The evening is winding down. The wine's gone, Guillaume's gone to bed, and Kurt's turning off the iPod. Switching stereo functions, the radio comes on. Three seconds of Bridge Over Troubled Waters plays. Kurt turns it off.

Kim: Was that Bridge Over Troubled Water?

Kurt: Yes. I hate that song.

Kim: How can you hate Bridge Over Troubled Water? Who hates Bridge Over Troubled Water? God. You have a heart of stone. Stone and lemon juice.

Kurt: I can't even begin to imagine what your heart's made of.

Oh wait, I know ...

String.

Hairspray.

And bubblegum.

Kim: G'night.

Kurt: G'night.

Sorry Sale

I have a Google Mail account. When I check my messages, Google helpfully offers me advertisements for products it thinks I need. For example, a friend recently sent me a message with the subject heading Yo! Based on the ads for beginner English courses that displayed alongside the message box, my e-mail system has apparently concluded that I am illiterate.

Another recent message from a friend contained the word Sorry. Google took the term and ran with it, returning with the following promotional gold: Sorry Poem, and Apology eCards (“Hurt someone’s feelings? Make your apology memorable with cute eCards!”) Damn, Google. It’s like you can see inside my soul.

I like the idea of the sorry poem. We could all use one every once in a while, right? If you can’t get your hands on a case of beer and a couple of pool noodles, lines of verse can be the next best thing to diffuse tension and bring people closer together.

What I’m trying to say is this: I smell a money-making venture. I’ve been looking for ways to supplement my income, and I think sorry poems are the ticket. Check it out, here’s one with local flavour:

There once was a girl from Quebec

Who was sometimes a pain in the neck

She’d hold too much in

Then make friends’ heads spin

And they’d be all like “Meh! What the heck?”

Oh, wait. That won’t sell. It’s all exposition and no sorry. Maybe the limerick isn’t the ideal vehicle for amends. Maybe I need to try a different form. Maybe I need to haiku.

Pissy bull tips scales

Cherry blossoms float away

Bull says: “Shit. Sorry!”

See? I can totally do this. So the next time you’re in a pickle and duking it out with a loved one, drop me a line and I’ll see what I can whip up for you! 

Note: Will work for food.