Michelle and I took a road trip to see Kimberley. A 24-hour excursion.
Michelle got to my place around 11:30 on Thursday morning. I was running my meds off the dining room light fixture. Once I finish, we're ready to go. I grab my knapsack and the care package I put together for Kimberley. That should be it, right? We'll be home tomorrow. What else do I need?
Well, there's a box full of supplies: a handful of tube sets, arm load of saline syringes, alcohol, cannulas (2 different kinds, lots of each), and a couple liters of hydration. There are bags of meds packed with ice packs in a thermal bag, the pump, hangers, and a blackout kit to keep it all going, just in case there's a battery or power problem.
Andrew packs the road trip staple (Tootsie Pops) into my purse. We rearrange the trunk to accomodate my extra gear. If there weren't 4 of us loading the car, I wonder how many trips from house to car this would take me. It seems everyone has an opinion about whether my bony butt is suited for travel. I do not think my backside is too bony and when I defend my derriere, everyone's a comedian, like they've been holding onto these lines forever just waiting for the chance to use them, you know?
We stop in Woodstock. Not because we want to, but because we have to: a truck had rolled over earlier in the day. We clear the area and get back to cruising speed. Michelle's car is comfortable enough. As we come to London, I remind Michelle that we only have a few exits before Hwy 402. And we stop. Everyone stops. It takes us an hour to clear the construction zone and get to the exit we want. We laugh at how incongruent it is to almost be crushed by a lasagna truck in the process. See, I was afraid you wouldn't find that funny, but if you loved lasagna yet couldn't eat it, and were crushed by a truck carrying lasagna...
The precarious pasta predicament reminds me of that box of Oh Henry bars I won. I relate the story to my sister, who laughs uncontrollably. She says it is another example of how life is cruel to Chris. She likes the account so much, she reaches into the backseat, grabs her day-planner and writes it down, so as to not forget it. Our family is generous with compassion, but we are a little short on sympathy, you know!
The Tootsie Pop is the running joke. Apparently, it is not so usual to have the pop and leave the Tootsie.
A 45-minute delay at the border and we're across. People are sometimes uptight at border crossings. Michelle travels a lot, but what's she thinking here:
Customs officer: "Are you bringing anything into the U.S.?"
Michelle: "We're going to see our cousin."
Customs official: "Huh? Go ahead."
We need to stop. Michelle is the scout. She checks out places to make sure there isn't a display of coconut cream pie or pecan tarts and that the place isn't decorated in balloons. I stretch my kneecap and walk around in the parking lot. The first place fails the inspection. The second place passes.
Back on the road, we roll out our first car-game: 'Name 5 things that...'. I discover that my sister easily recalls dead celebrities, but is, sorry, a little out of touch with pop culture and late night television.
We look for a grocery store close to Kimberley's to get stuff for dinner. Michelle won't let me go into the store, because we don't know the layout, and can't guarantee the safety. She worries too much. It's not like I shop by some special arrangement with the grocery stores at home. I drop her off and head back on Gratiot to get some coffee. I am not even embarassed to order Michelle's triple-milk coffee. It is unlikely I will use this drive thru again, but we all know that no self-respecting coffee drinker takes triple milk!
She recounts for me her exchange with the cashier...who carded her over the wine. Michelle admits the clerk was truly surprised to discover that she is over the age of 21.
Catching up. Listening. Perspective. Focus. Humor. Laughter. The light fixture in Kimberley's dining room is suitable for hanging IV's, too. Agree that we need a Cuz-in-Weekend - Spring 2007.
Showing posts with label Michigan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Michigan. Show all posts
Sunday, August 20, 2006
And Back
In the morning, we walk around the marina and back. It's time to go. No trick questions at the border. I prime the IV at a park, test-hang it in a few different spots and find the visor is the jackpot. Back on the highway.
Cruising along. People who pass us stare. I mean stare. They turn their heads and keep watching. It's the hot red sports car, the IV hanging from the sunvisor or both.
Somewhere around Forest, I mention that Theresa Baird is a real estate agent in my area. We went to school with the Bairds. Our parents were friends. I was riding with Van Baird, speeding down Zion hill, when I fell off the bike I borrowed from Lisa. It was a pretty severe crash. I was unconcious. I don't even know how my parents got there. Zion hill is paved now, but still intimidating.
We name the Baird children: Van, Lisa, Theresa, Mike, Derek. Michelle insists there was one more boy in the family. Older. I don't remember him, but then again, if he was older than Derek Baird, he had to be at least 10 years older than me. It's not surprising that I don't remember him. Naming him is now an obsession. Michelle is certain his name started with 'D'. From London to Kitchener, we name every D-name we can think of. I mean every name. Dewar? That's not it either, but we know a Dewar. Michelle comes up with a lot more than me. My brain is very slow. I'm dehydrated. I've had some water, a little lemonade, a little lemonade mixed with water, some water mixed with lemonade. A collection of nearly-full bottles at my feet, other unfinished beverages have been unloaded as we go.
For no particular reason, I take Michelle into Waterloo via the scenic route. Several times, she thinks we're lost. I reassure her. I've never been to Shannon's place in Waterloo, but I can get us to WLU, and count on the driver from there. I'm back. My brain is working again. Two hours running the IV (1/2 liter of fluid) and there's a definite difference. Michelle notices it too.
While Michelle cuts the grass, I stroll around the neighborhood. Discovery! There's an art gallery right behind the house. It is incredible. The owner is closing up. I explain that we are from out of town and my sister is an artist and would die to see this place. That's her right there. I point out the window where, 30 feet away, she's mowing the lawn. The owner agrees to stay open for a few minutes. Michelle cuts the motor, hops the fence and goes in. There are some really breathtaking pieces here. Her eyes light up in the gallery. She and the owner discuss the Pino and that Michelle is studying at Michael John Angel Studio in Toronto, and so on. This is all above my head. Michelle is passionate about art. We thank the owner for staying late. We keep to the sidewalk and return to the house.
Michelle has this thing about cutting the lawn. She puts patterns in the grass. A different pattern each time she mows. I insist on cutting the front lawn. She watches. I divide the lawn by making a large X. I go to the center of the yard and cut a circle. Around about 5 times, then back to the X pattern. I stand on the porch when I'm finished and look. Very erratic. Perfect! I think Michelle will go back in a few days to "fix" it.
On the road again, we consider calling Mom to get the name of the oldest Baird (if he really existed). Batteries dead on both phones.
Take the scenic route home so we can check out the country mansions. At home we unload the car and Google the Bairds.
"There!" Michelle exclaims.
"Where?" I ask because I still don't see this irrefutable proof.
"Right there!" She points at the screen. "Stephen!"
The gallery: Double T Fine Arts. 76 Regina St. N., Waterloo (519) 746-1291.
Cruising along. People who pass us stare. I mean stare. They turn their heads and keep watching. It's the hot red sports car, the IV hanging from the sunvisor or both.
Somewhere around Forest, I mention that Theresa Baird is a real estate agent in my area. We went to school with the Bairds. Our parents were friends. I was riding with Van Baird, speeding down Zion hill, when I fell off the bike I borrowed from Lisa. It was a pretty severe crash. I was unconcious. I don't even know how my parents got there. Zion hill is paved now, but still intimidating.
We name the Baird children: Van, Lisa, Theresa, Mike, Derek. Michelle insists there was one more boy in the family. Older. I don't remember him, but then again, if he was older than Derek Baird, he had to be at least 10 years older than me. It's not surprising that I don't remember him. Naming him is now an obsession. Michelle is certain his name started with 'D'. From London to Kitchener, we name every D-name we can think of. I mean every name. Dewar? That's not it either, but we know a Dewar. Michelle comes up with a lot more than me. My brain is very slow. I'm dehydrated. I've had some water, a little lemonade, a little lemonade mixed with water, some water mixed with lemonade. A collection of nearly-full bottles at my feet, other unfinished beverages have been unloaded as we go.
For no particular reason, I take Michelle into Waterloo via the scenic route. Several times, she thinks we're lost. I reassure her. I've never been to Shannon's place in Waterloo, but I can get us to WLU, and count on the driver from there. I'm back. My brain is working again. Two hours running the IV (1/2 liter of fluid) and there's a definite difference. Michelle notices it too.
While Michelle cuts the grass, I stroll around the neighborhood. Discovery! There's an art gallery right behind the house. It is incredible. The owner is closing up. I explain that we are from out of town and my sister is an artist and would die to see this place. That's her right there. I point out the window where, 30 feet away, she's mowing the lawn. The owner agrees to stay open for a few minutes. Michelle cuts the motor, hops the fence and goes in. There are some really breathtaking pieces here. Her eyes light up in the gallery. She and the owner discuss the Pino and that Michelle is studying at Michael John Angel Studio in Toronto, and so on. This is all above my head. Michelle is passionate about art. We thank the owner for staying late. We keep to the sidewalk and return to the house.
Michelle has this thing about cutting the lawn. She puts patterns in the grass. A different pattern each time she mows. I insist on cutting the front lawn. She watches. I divide the lawn by making a large X. I go to the center of the yard and cut a circle. Around about 5 times, then back to the X pattern. I stand on the porch when I'm finished and look. Very erratic. Perfect! I think Michelle will go back in a few days to "fix" it.
On the road again, we consider calling Mom to get the name of the oldest Baird (if he really existed). Batteries dead on both phones.
Take the scenic route home so we can check out the country mansions. At home we unload the car and Google the Bairds.
"There!" Michelle exclaims.
"Where?" I ask because I still don't see this irrefutable proof.
"Right there!" She points at the screen. "Stephen!"
The gallery: Double T Fine Arts. 76 Regina St. N., Waterloo (519) 746-1291.
Wipeout Hill on Zion Road 
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