So, what’s he doing in my will, you might ask? Well, he has, in my will, been legally proclaimed the person who is to manage all of my writing output if I should bite the bullet, kick the bucket, or go tits up before he does.
Which might sound a tad pretentious. I mean that I consider my writing good enough to require the involvement of legal entities. That I should presume, not only that I am a writer, but that if I kiss the hammer, my writing should be baby-sat until it can be spread around the world like a newly discovered religious scroll.
But, it is what it is, what it is. So, if I die before you wake, be sure to quake knowing that this blog for example, might be shining forth and forth and forth but never fifth.
(PLEASE NOTE THAT I HAVE BEEN SWALLOWING A LOT OF ASPIRIN AND ANTIBIOTICS LATELY, DUE TO A SERIOUS TOOTHACHE)
Last Sunday, our friend and my wordsmith babysitter after I am mort, proved he was the right choice. You see, when they arrived at our little trailer, they showed up with a box of books for us. One of the books was Alistair MacLeod’s novel, “No Great Mischief”. A wonderful story and the only novel Alistair MacLeod wrote.
Anyway, our friend had bookmarked, using an actual, old-fashioned bookmark, the last chapter of ‘No Great Mischief’. He had read and enjoyed the book, even though, as he told us, there were a few times when he’d wanted to close its covers and not finish the novel. However, he hadn’t. He’d finished the book and then bookmarked its last chapter. He’d suggested we re-read the book and that we should read the last chapter first. Apparently, the chapter had really affected my writing preserver and conservator.
He then made another suggestion, late into the afternoon, when our August summer was still in full bloom. (This meaning that the sun was hidden from view and the rain was just beginning to give our ground another good soaker, which it continued to do all evening and as of 1:42 am, it was still drooling all over our property.)
Anyway, he asked us if we would mind listening to him read the last chapter. Which kind of mind-boggled me, as people who drop into our little trailer don’t usually suggest reading anything to us. Except for a few who may be trying to sneak us through the pearly gates by reading to us a selection from their particular religious map.
Because, you see, our friend could barely finish reading aloud the last chapter of Alistair MacLeod’s book, “No Great Mischief”. He began to tear up, had to stop several times, and when he had finished reading it, he had to grab a tissue from a box Sue keeps on the back of the couch, in case we have to blow our nose or we need to stuff the tissue box under our open window to avoid bashing our heads on the window’s sharp edge.
Observing his reaction to MacLeod's story was proof. Proof that he was the ‘right person’ to look after my precious writing output if I should happen to knock off before he does. And, as a matter of interest, he is two weeks older than I am, so we might need some flexibility in this will thing!
A few months ago, pain drove Sue to trying to make an appointment for an emergency get-together with her dentist. Because we were in town, we simply drove to his office, where Sue planned to walk in, while gripping the side of her face and looking like she was in a great deal of pain, which she was, to hit the receptionist up for a quick appointment.
However, when we got to the dentist’s office, the door was locked, as he didn’t work that day. We then asked somebody if they knew where the other dentist was located. Baddeck has two dentists.
We found out and then drove there. Sue went in and the dentist looked at Sue once he had finished with his regular patients. He gave her a prescription and told her to make an appointment with our dentist when she had finished the pills.
He then said, “Why didn’t you phone your dentist at home?”
What?! We’re from southern Ontario. The preserve it, conserve it province. You don’t just go phoning your dentist at home when you want to. Come on.
However, last week I found out, when I went to my dentist’s office with my sore tooth, that my dentist was taking a holiday and wouldn’t be back in the office until the following week. Which actually gave me a little relief, because I don’t much like dentists. I mean in a dentist sense, not a human being sense.
Anyway, I thought, okay, I can deal with the pain. But, as I was shivering and rolling in my bed at four am the next morning because of the pain and the fever, I thought I'd better try phoning him at home. Good luck, I thought.
So, the next morning, after taking Buster for his pee and poo-poo walk, I did phone my dentist. Oh, Sue and I did have a discussion about whether I should phone before or at nine am. It was bad enough, I thought, to be phoning our dentist at home, but before 9 am... come on!
I phoned about 8:30 am. Figured it was a compromise.
The phone rang about six times. I’m thinking, he’s not even at home, Then he answered my call, hallelujah, glory to the great dentist in the sky! He answered and when I told him who I was and why I was calling and apologized all over myself for phoning him at home, he told me, no problem. He said this to me in such a way that I knew it really was no problem. It was expected that we call him at home if it was an emergency and he wasn’t in the office.
We even chatted about my tooth. Not just the bare bone specifics, but non-important specifics which were taking up his dentist/holiday time. And we talked about boating and sailing and the weather. My lord, would wonders never cease?
So, off I went to his office to have my tooth extracted. And today, at around two am, I noticed the antibiotics are starting to work. I was so happy about this that I couldn’t go nigh-nigh. So I got up and decided to write this blog in celebration. The poor souls in medieval Germany didn't have such luck, it seems!
And, as we did the last time, we saw a moose as we were hiking out. Actually, I saw a moose’s butt. And not as clearly as did the tourists from Toronto, who were much younger than I am. Which made me realize I am much older than they are, but maybe closer to the spiritual feeling my friend and I get when we are there. Might this gorgeous setting be a heavenly launching pad for older guys who can barely see a barn door let alone a moose’s arse?
I kind of needed to hear this, as I had just recently returned from Ontario. Where I’d visited my family and friends and of course, missed them, when once again, I left them behind to return to our tiny forty-five-foot trailer in the woods.
As we were loading our stuff into the back of the car, my friend said, “Hearing all the nice things we’ve heard from the tourists today, makes me feel that my decision to move to Cape Breton was a good one.”
All I can say to that is ditto, ditto.