300 km, Windsor to Kincardine, from the border of Detroit to the doorstep of the cottage. Due to the break-up, John was too jittery to drive. I took the wheel until he could compose himself.

This weekend was especially important for John; it was his birthday and an overwhelming number of families wanted to visit in celebration, including his father. Being the maternal cottage, Dr. Lea hasn’t been up since his wife died, and this was more important to John than anything else.

By May, the weekends are already booked past August at the cottage. It’s filled with rooms, beds, cots, couches that can accomodate more than a dozen people. Families come and go, and only Gramma Currie remains constant. For most of the year she lives in an apartment in town, but when it’s warm enough to live by the fire, the cottage is opened for lodging.

This time there was Ross, the cousin who’s since finished paying off his tattoo. There was Ray, husband of Fran, father of Heather, uncle of John, who eats his hard-boiled eggs by regimented routine: dash of salt, dash of pepper, scoop of margerine, scoop of yolk in sequence. There were all the associated families, about five in total, and even a few kids running around, making four generations of the Currie family.

I couldn’t even remember the last time I was here, but my last entry in the visitors log shows that it was three years ago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The best cottages are off the beach, and the beginning of fall is the best time of year to appreciate such things. Even though the wind coming off the water keeps the area relatively cool, the summer heat can still overwhelm such delights.

There’s nowhere else like this.

My house was 650 km away, nine more hours on the road by car, bus, and taxi. On Sunday night, it was good to be home.

A short detour, 80 km, Toronto to Hamilton.

We met up with Sandra for dinner. Prior to this, I only knew Sandra as John’s “best friend from school”, the one he spends most his time with when he’s not with his girlfriend. On the drive up my curiosity was killing me. Was this Sandra person a threat to my friendship with John? Would she eventually replace me as the one he goes to with his problems, his insecurities, his excitements, and would I lose my best friend in return?

No.

Social graces dictate that you don’t strike up a dinner conversation on which not everyone can opine, but when you get two legal-minded people together, there’s isn’t much non-law-student can do but listen and observe.

They got along well, but there’s a certain level of intimacy missing. They still feel each other out, whereas John and I have conversations with a single look. When we left, I was reassured of my position as best friend, and felt silly about how I could be so insecure about a bond so strong.

300 km, Hamilton to Windsor.

I had never been to Windsor before. It’s always remained a place in my head, never tangible, because it’s always John who visits me. Windsor is where he goes to law school, where he spends the majority of the year, and where he works. This was the first chance I had to submerge myself in his life and lifestyle.

I went to work with him at the community law office. It’s here that he shares an open office with a dozen other students, who defend clients from bad landlords, tenants, parents, children, shoplifters, or any other type of living thing.

Law students are a different breed. They’re people who have initiative, who can be extroverted at the right time. After work, they meet at a pub, sit on the patio, and talk about their cases, about the crown attorneys who have vendettas against them, about moronic clients who speak out of turn and plead guilty to a charge before a bargain can be reached.

I was a fish out of water.

Given a short tour of the University of Windsor, I took a few quick snaps.

The first night we arrived in Windsor, John noticed the window was open, with a note from his girlfriend about caring for the hibiscus just outside. He stuck his head out the window to see. “How fitting”, he said. “The plant has fallen over, and died”.

Minutes before leaving for the next part of our trip, they broke up.

Before leaving for the next part of our journey, John and I revisited our old stomping grounds: the high-school where we grew to be friends. We didn’t get to know each other until we had to share storage lockers in computer class, even though we had already met four years before that another elementary school. Everyone else paired up for the lockers, but being the loners that we were at the time, we had no one else with whom to share, so we resigned ourselves to being alone together.

Turns out things worked out for the best.

While we were there, we found a photo montage of a trip the band took to Hungary back when I was around 15 or 16, probably in ‘95–’96, and not ‘98 as I say in the video. They needed more flutes to fill out the wind ensemble, and there so I was invited to come along for the three week trip. The framed montage still hangs in the music room, next to the double basses.

We also visited his mother’s grave. It was fresh with flowers, laid there for the anniversary that week. We stood in the mild rain, and John told me the story of her death for the first time: how he cried, how it affected his father, and how long it took them to get over it. I had never brought it up until then; it took nearly ten years until I was comfortable enough to say anything.

Taxi, bus, car, 500 km from Ottawa to Toronto.

John, coming from a weekend wedding, took a flight from Thunder Bay to pick me up. We spent the first three days at the house of John’s parents. Circumstances like these always put me on edge; with adults around, we tend to behave, and I’m generally obnoxious when I’m with John.

The step-mother rules the house with an iron fist. No noise after ten. No noise before seven. No using the guest towels or soap.

One morning, I was having toast with some marmalade when I realized that the orange, unlabeled spread in the back of the fridge had a rather sharp taste, signifying that it was either offal or expired. John stopped me as I opened the kitchen garbage bin.

“You can’t throw that out”

“Why not?”

“It’s food. Food smells.” John pointed to the dish drying rack. It was filled with milk bags which were used, emptied, washed, and dried before being thrown out.

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“We’ll throw it in the back yard for the birds”

“What if the birds won’t eat it? A piece of toast covered with marmalade would be harder to explain than food in the garbage.”

Eventually, we put the toast in a Zip-Loc bag and disposed of it in a public trash bin four blocks away from the house.

The beautiful garden in the back presented some great photo opportunities.

Toronto was our chance to relax. We just hung around and rented movies. When I’m with John I get to see the classics that I’ve missed — every time it’s mentioned that I haven’t seen a certain title in the store, it’s always met with his button-pushing, “You haven’t seen that?!”. He already has of course, but his memory is so bad that it’s like he never watched them in the first place. This time it was The Shawshank Redemption (very satisfying), Diner (a great coming-of-age film for guys), Four Weddings and a Funeral (ruined by Andie MacDowell’s delivery of “Is it raining — I hadn’t noticed”), and Sideways (fucking amazing). We also saw Out On Bail, which garned many an excruciating reaction.

I still laugh my ass off every time I watch this.

Carlo, who lives somewhere in Metro Manila and sometimes, not most of the time, in Pangasinan, Philippines, has stolen from me. There are others who steal my work, but this is usually the pictures I take, which they use as backgrounds for their own sites (most commonly the starry sky at Bancroft). I try not to take offence to this; the file sizes are commonly small, so it doesn’t make much of a dent in my monthly bandwidth. There are also people like Sophia, who has made her presence known to me, and uses my words every so often in her own writing as a flattering gesture.

Carlo is different.

This entry, which I struggled days to write, into which I poured my heart, was posted on his blog a day after mine. He did change the title, although I think this hardly ameliorates his actions. He also used my Petal Game picture (perhaps without noticing my watermark in the lower right-hand corner), as well as a line from my post inspired by Eternal Sunshine, for a different entry.

It saddens me to think not of how easily someone can steal things on the internet, but how willing they are to do it. I can only wonder how many other people have stolen from me. Lorelle, who offers some great points on what to do if someone steals your content, suggests open communication, in combination with as a letter of cease and decist. And while I’m in complete agreement with this, I felt that for the first time I should write about it instead, to make it public, so that others may be aware of their own works. There are people who will quote without referencing. There are people who will take without returning.

Because what’s the point of blogging, when one’s words aren’t one’s own?