PELEE ISLAND, ONTARIO, Aug 21. – It’s raining. It’s pouring. If it doesn’t break it’s gonna get boring.
No radio. No TV. Just Harry Connick Jr. crooning over the iPod and wireless speakers (we’re not complete cavemen!) as the waves wash ashore and everything else drips sleeplily. Clothes hung out to dry are anything but dry, but nobody’s terribly concerned. It’s Saturday on Pelee Island. No worries, no hurries.
John and Eric are napping. I just woke up from a brief snooze. It’s been raining for four or five hours (and will continue to rain for three or four more hours). Nothing stormy or violent. Just drip. Drip. Drip. The girls are next door (I think). Matt is upstairs with some required reading before he begins freshman year at Firestone High. A little down time isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
The morning was all about the beach. Although yesterday’s stout wind had died down, the surf was still pounding the beach behind us on the island’s east side, where my sister and brother-in-law have a nice cottage.
This made for some fun splashing and body surfing. I caught a pretty decent 3-, maybe 4-footer just before it broke, and later a smaller wave flipped my raft chair as it broke over a sandbar closer to shore. Alas, that image was not preserved for prosperity or Facebook. But there are others. To wit:
Now, having played several hands of double solitaire and several games of euchre and having read several more hilarious chapters of When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris, and having gotten rid of distractions such as “lunch” and “children,” it’s time to get serious.
About what, I have no idea. None. I just instinctively know I’m supposed to get serious about something.
My wife is here, being reasonably civil but not especially festive. It takes her a while to catch the island groove. She is serious enough for the both of us these days. Maybe that’s how I should play this card. Pass the serious card to her. Here. Go fish. Better yet, that’s what I’ll do: go fish.
Eric has just awakened from a deep five-minute slumber to announce, “It’s gonna rain all day.” Yup. This leads to wisecracks about John taking his tent outside in the rain instead of under the steps “like Harry Potter.” Did Harry Potter sleep in a tent under the steps? I don’t know, I didn’t read the series. Seriously, do I look like I’m 11 years old? (Matt, who was 11 much more recently than I was, informs me that indeed young Master Potter did at times dwell beneath the stairs. Tommy, from the rock opera of the same name by The Who, might have been a more appropriate cultural reference for me, although I was a tad young for that. I’m an orphaned stair-dwelling-oppressed-child-pop-culture-reference person.
Dinner tonight is burgers, tater salad and beans. I am the chief cook and bottle washer tonight. Good thing the windows will be open all night.