By 9am on Labor Day we were taking the canoe down from its repose in the garage. The ol' hull was going to see water!
The weather was glorious and though we were unsure of the weight-bearing properties of the Ranger bumper, all went smoothly. I canoed by myself out to the little Devil’s Tower island at the end of Dog Lake, circling it as if it were unexplored land and the year was 1590. The birds looked all Galapagan and the water beneath was full of fish, full of bass and blue gill and all good things, as if an Ohio Cape Cod.
I gathered up Steph and Obi and then continued harvesting the field of liquid blue wheat. We rowed to the adjacent lake while Obi laid his head against the side of the canoe and fought off sleep. Later we holed up in the shade and I laid down and looked at the sky. By & by my Guinness cap fell in the water -- requiring the panicky orchestration of an oar rescue.
How many times in the past had I been hiking the shoreline looking with longing at the glistening water? And yet here we were, in the middle of a lake, in solitudinal bliss, cell-phone and interruption free!
What is the fascination with being on the water, the ancient highway of the Indians? “Go jump in a lake,” goes the insult, which is to say I suppose ‘go where I don’t have to deal with you anymore’. A lake, the last place in America where solitude exists?
So I felt summery and full, remembering last Saturday’s long bike ride, the one where I fell off my bike & sustained various minor injuries before continuing down that virgin path.
I’d left the trail when I saw a castle through the leaves, or so it seemed, and I climbed the crumbling ruins of stone steps that might’ve been the envy of ancient Rome. I surfaced to modernity in the form of Ohio State University, to an apartment building (but Sancho, it is a castle!) and busy Lane Avenue. I hurried away, back to the indigenous bike trail, only to have the front tire lose its grip and there was the awful long moment that falling from a height affords. This one’s gonna hurt, you think, and I did the inventory afterwards, getting up slowly while checking for bleeds. “Are you okay?” a concerned walker said who’d heard the crash. “Yes,” I said, gathering a leaf to wipe the blood but generally pleased at the ability of the human body to survive impact. Later I re-grouped while leaning against a bridge and watching the geese move to and fro on the Olentangy. Steph called my cell and I dreamily watched the bucolic scene while she talked about her visit with her parents.
The next day we had the obligatory Labor Day grill out at the in-laws, and I sat in sun salivating as the BBQ ribs cooked. They were being expertly tended by brother-in-law Bud, whose sleeveless forearms reminds one of Reds’ slugger Ted Klusewski’s or Bluto's of Popeye fame.
In the meantime politics were discussed and I was surprised to find Chris and me in the minority as McCain voters. The world has turned while we fiddled. Another brother-in-law tells us of his 80-year old white racist Republican father: “he’s voting for Obama!”. Punishment for Iraq? The economy?
I trade crude German phrases with yet another bro-in-law. He’s seen the Berlin Wall and Checkpoint Charlie while serving in the military. I am envious and tell him so. Growing up, my best friend’s parents (2nd generation Germans) had told me so stories about the Wall. It took on mythical dimensions but I thought of it as permanent as the Soviet Union or God Himself, and thus unworthy of urgency. I could go there any time, even when I was as old as, say, forty.
I tell him that a fellow bingo volunteer served in the army in Bavaria in the ‘80s also and how he had his souped-up car shipped to Bremen.
The rains fall to shine the patio pavers and there is a uniformity in the weedless stones, like the floor of a monk’s chapel.
It’s the little things, like Steph's ingenious introduction of a solar grill light which now opens up the night patio to books. Convenience is the mother of usage isn't it? No light, no use, even though I could always retrieve a night light...
The patter of the rain on the roof encourages the reverie of an '80s song...:
Lying awake intent at tuning in on you.
If I was young, it didn't stop you coming through.
Oh-a oh
They took the credit for your second symphony.
Rewritten by machine and new technology,
and now I understand the problems you can see.
Oh-a oh
I met your children
Oh-a oh
What did you tell them?
Video killed the radio star.
Video killed the radio star.
Pictures came and broke your heart.
Oh-a-a-a oh
And now we meet in an abandoned studio.
We hear the playback and it seems so long ago.
And you remember the jingles used to go.
Oh-a oh
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