|
Fire House "Hope is the worst of evils, for it
prolongs the torments of man." In the morning, we phoned Sharon's mom and dad to find out if the sale of our house had been finalized. "Still in process," they said. "Call back in a week, in case anything needs to be taken care of." It was an ominous sign. We loped back to Pat's campsite. Pat and crew reclined in lawn chairs, lolling in the weak morning rays. Pat lounged in the same lawn chair (and the same position) as when Sharon and I shuffled off to bed the night before. She had moved though - at least she was sporting a different housecoat. Pat wagged her head as we approached. She clucked her tongue, and chastised Sharon. "You haven't learned a thing!" she scolded anew. "I saw you over in the phone booth. Pair of fishing worms, that's what you two looked like." Klaus scrambled up to make tea, toast and cereal. "Your hair looks great," I complimented Pat, attempting to sidetrack her from her pet subject. "Oh, yes," she burbled, coiffing the back of her head in an animated manner. "I was up every hour changing sides so it would be even." "Yeah, you look like you were up half the night," Judy croaked in with her two cents, her inflection betraying that misty area somewhere between sisterly love and sibling rivalry. "Could have been worse," I offered. "You could have been in a tent." After another bowl of cereal, ready to hit the dusty trail, Sharon and Pat hugged like two bears. Then Pat surprised Sharon. She presented her with a tiny gold angel pin. Sharon accepted it with a smile, brushing away an unexpected tear. We pedalled away, waving and waving. "Good thing we're not staying longer," Sharon said. "It's hard enough after one day." She was right. We had arrived complete strangers. A few hours later we were departing, feeling as if we were leaving family. It was truly amazing how folks 'adopted' us on such short notice and made us feel like long-lost kin. Even without Sharon's new angel pin, we felt truly blessed. All across Canada, generous folks opened their homes, and hearts, to us. "How do you tell a happy cyclist?" Sharon asked, grinning. "Count the bugs in her teeth." With smiles plastered across our faces like wallpaper, we rode south through Mooretown and Wallaceburg - zigging and zagging - following mainly traffic-free country lanes. At Mitchell's Bay, perusing our map over lunch, I sucked up several cups of tea (talk about being hydrated!). "Hey, check this out!" I said, pointing to the map. "There's a place near here named Lighthouse Cove!" (Being from landlocked Alberta, we loved lighthouses and coves.) So, after lunch, we set off for Lighthouse Cove - just because we liked the name. "That's the beauty of unscheduled travel," I crowed. "We're free to choose anywhere we please." And Lighthouse Cove didn't disappoint. In a powder blue sky, puffy milk-white clouds hovered on the horizon. At the water's edge, amidst neon green grass and waist-high shrubs, we found the lighthouse with its beaming white tower and faded red cap. A wrinkled reflection stared mutely back. Tranquility permeated the atmosphere. Sharon yawned. "This place could be named Sleepy Hollow," she decided. Before I could agree, the sound of lapping waves shifted my tiny bladder into overdrive. "Jeez," I grimaced, "my back teeth are floating." "Little wonder," Sharon frowned. "How many cups of tea did you drink at lunch? Five?" "Six," I corrected, an indigent contortion straining my face. "Seemed like a good idea at the time," I said, sucking in my cheeks and hopping from foot to foot. Instead of slipping discretely behind bushes, I did the civilized thing, and struggled to a nearby grocery store. I zipped in. The place was deserted except for one lone woman behind the counter, working on a crossword puzzle. She glanced at me in disdain. How dare I interrupt her concentration? In far too great an urgency to even pretend I was a customer, I hastily asked to use the washroom. The woman glared over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses and hooted, "Employees only!" "I only have to pee," I beseeched, hoping to appeal to her maternal side. "I won't even use any toilet paper," I promised through clenched teeth, my feet tapping a little jitterbug dance. She growled again, but pointed toward the store's rear. Perhaps she decided it was in her own best interest to grant me passage to the sacred room with its gleaming porcelain god? Or perhaps my impromptu jig was the most entertainment she had had since completing the New York Times crossword puzzle back in the summer of 79. A few minutes later - bladder wrung out - I thanked the woman (she didn't even look up), and stepped back outside and into warm afternoon sunshine. I found Sharon dozing. "Talk about Sleepy Hollow," I said. We pedalled away from the hamlet, the dark forest buzzing around us like a symphony of insect bebop. Mosquitoes hummed. Crickets chirped. Katydids chirruped. "More like Frog Hollow," Sharon grinned.
At Stoney Point, wild town kids greeted us. Complementing their barbaric behaviour, an assortment of weirdos plied the sidewalks. Both locals and weekenders seemed united in their unfriendliness. While Sharon foraged in a grocery store, I stayed outside and guarded our bikes. One teenage hooligan roared up and down main street on a high-powered unlicensed dirt bike, ignoring yield signs, stop signs, personal and public safety. Within minutes he nearly caused four accidents. "His girlfriend just broke up with him," a kid beside me said as I watched the motorcyclist's bizarre antics. "So he's trying to kill himself." "He's going to succeed," I replied. "The sad part is he's going to take some innocent person with him." "All the world's a stage," the kid replied. "Ain't that the truth?" I responded, pushing out my lips. A throng of teenagers mobbed me. "Where you guys from?" one asked acerbically. "Edmonton," I answered. "I doubt it," another gangly member spat. Our exchange continued in that venomous vein. They would ask a question. I would answer. They would spit, and say "I doubt it." I found it rather remarkable how much spit, and doubt, they possessed. Sharon reappeared. They pounced, immediately asking where we were from. "Edmonton, Alberta," Sharon replied. More spit. More doubt. They still weren't convinced. "Aw," one drawled, "they probably rode here from Tilley." (Tilbury was a small place a few kilometres away.) With that proclamation, the gang drifted away. Sharon and I stuffed supplies into our panniers. "Is it just me?" Sharon wondered aloud. "Or are the people here really unfriendly?" "Gee, what do you mean?" I asked in feigned wonder. "Well, the store owners went out of their way to inform me that no camping is allowed at their municipal park." The loser on the motorbike roared past at 80 kilometres an hour. "Not that we'd want to anyway," I said. "No doubt the store owners' warning was for our own safety." More than happy to be leaving Stoned Point, we headed out of town on double lucky Highway 77. Suddenly, the kamikaze motorbiker howled up behind us. He pounded past, hard, inches from our elbows. He downshifted, engine screaming, and turned at a right-angle into a plowed field to bounce over furrows like riding a bucking bronco. "Gawd," Sharon shuddered, "I'm grateful that kid doesn't have a car." We rolled into Comber with waning rays of light, and wheeled into a ball field. Four kids, aged five through eight, came running over, saucer-eyed, as fast as their little legs would propel them. "Do you want to camp here?" they asked. "Please!" When we agreed, they accompanied us to the park caretaker's house. A well-fed Dalmatian ran out and licked our hands. The caretaker turned out to be as congenial as his dog. "No problem," he smiled. (That's what I like to hear at the end of a long day! Maybe Ontarians weren't so bad, after all.) We pushed our bikes to a picnic table. "Can we watch you set up your tent?" the kids asked. "Please!" "Sure!" I replied. But even before I pulled the tent bag off my bike's rear carrier, the children's mother arrived. When they told her of the plan, she scolded the eldest, "You have papers to deliver first." Sharon and I watched them go and decided to leave setting up the tent for later. By the time we had eaten and washed up, the eager kids were back, their haggard mother in tow. "This is big time entertainment!" she grinned. We threaded the poles through their nylon sleeves, then, as we had a hundred times in the past, popped the tent up. From the kids' response, you would have thought our tent was a Big Top circus tent complete with three rings of non-stop action. The four children, oohing and aahing, took turns peering inside. "Perhaps they think we've hidden Dumbo the Flying Elephant in there somewhere?" Sharon kidded. "This'll be Show and Tell on Monday for sure," the mom laughed, playing along, taking her turn to peer inside. Jim, the kids' muscle-shirted father swaggered over and introduced himself as "a truck driver and Harley rider." I could tell right off we were going to be friends. After all, he rode a bike, too. Near the end of his summation of the area's history, Jim cautioned us, "Watch out for the wild cottage kids at Stoney Point if you go that way!" "Too late!" I cried. Apparently we weren't the only ones who thought the Stoned Point rich kids a deplorable bunch. The sun had long since turned itself in. The mother and father bid us good night, and rounded up their brood for home. I headed to the porta-John. Upon exiting, I observed a glowing orange cloud hovering low in the otherwise clear sky. Huh? Hasn't the sunset already finished? I watched in wonder as a pair of lanky youngsters sprinted past the park's gate. A break-in getaway? Jim had mentioned there had been two break-ins the previous night. Flashing red lights flickered in the darkness. A fire engine, its siren full blast, hotfooted it past. Fire engine! Orange glow! Aha! A fire! (It may take me a while, but I eventually get there.) The blaze was one street off the main drag. Sharon and I - suddenly wide awake - hastened toward the glow. Orangish flames crackled and leaped, licking the black night sky like tongues of tiger ice cream. As we neared the hot zone, we recognized Jim leaning against the tailgate of a pickup - one of his young sons standing next to him. We stopped alongside them. "Someone's garage," Jim said. "It's filled with paint and other combustibles. Arson. Someone set it on fire." A smoldering team of firefighters hosed down the structure with robust streams of water. Paint cans exploded like fireworks detonating on the Fourth of July. "I've lived through two house fires," Jim said, as a second fire engine rushed onto the scene. "The first time," he said, "my son was playing with a cigarette lighter in a closet - one of those gun-shaped lighters. He liked how it sparked when he pulled the trigger." More paint cans exploded. "Our entire house burnt down." Jim paused, then continued. "The second time," Jim related, "he was playing with matches under his bed." The boy looked up at me, his blue eyes wide, his gentle features enlivened. "That stuff under the bed catches fire real easy," he whispered. "Sounds like you've got a promising career as a Fire Chief," I wisecracked to the wee firebug. An ancient fire truck barrelled up. A three-alarmer! "Must be having trouble with the paint cans," Jim remarked. "That old thing is usually reserved for parade duty only." "It's a really big fire!" the little guy exclaimed. A half-hour later - excitement burnt down - Sharon and I bid Jim and his fiery son good night and trudged back to our tent.
Surrounded by the ball field's high fence, we fell asleep peacefully. Some time later, a blinding flashlight beam lambasted me square in the eyeballs, jarring me from a wonderful deep sleep. "Get that light out of my face!" I commanded groggily, one hand groping upwards toward the offending beam like some cross-eyed monkey attempting to shove a cork back in a diarrhetic cow. "This is the Fire Chief," a booming voice at the other end of the spotlight said. "We had an arson fire earlier this evening. I was checking around and saw your tent." "I know," I mumbled incoherently. "We saw it." "Where are you from?" he demanded. "What do you do? Why are you here?" A midnight session of Twenty Questions was shaping up rather well. Oh, joy! I thought. Now I'm an arson suspect.
But, hey, no problem. I have an alibi. I was with that kid. What
kid? You know - the one who started his house ... on fire ...
twice. Terrific. |
Book Info
