BY CATHERINE DOOK
directions from the highway to here and figure it out. You wash the dishes with the rainwater that collected in the dishpan overnight. I love you.” John likes to get going as soon in the
Americans The
John and I woke up in Millersylvania State Park in Washington. “Te trees here grow as straight and tall as ship’s masts,” I told John. “Don’t be talking like that to any park
rangers,” he told me. “Tey’ll confiscate our firewood hatchet.” Ignoring such discouraging
talk from the man I love, I picked up my recorder to practice another chorus or two of ‘Yesterday’, but at the first notes John fled outside into the drizzle to set up the camp stove for coffee. We ate a hurried breakfast of Raisin Bran and fresh milk and leſtover pie. Our refrigeration system consists of a built-in Styrofoam-lined cooler, so I felt it imperative to gobble my way through the pie before either it spoiled or John got the lion’s share. But John had his mind on things other than pie. “I want to gas up before we get back on the Interstate,” John said. “Wasn’t there a gas station by the highway?” “Yes there was,” I said. “Can we find our way back there?”
mornings as he can encourage me to be ready, but I had to linger to do my morning rehabilitative calisthenics – arm lymphodema exercises sitting on the bed in the back of the van, foot fasciitis exercises with my heel hanging off the edge of the running board, and back flexibility exercises on the shag carpet floor next to the porta-pottie. “Hold on while I brush my teeth too,” I told him. “My gums need attention.” John was very patient. He recognizes
that old girls, like me and the van, require more maintenance than when we were young. But soon enough we were underway. Te skies were grey when we pulled out of our campsite, but the rain began again in earnest before we got to the park entrance. It was with the greatest happiness we spotted signs there directing us to the Interstate Highway 5. “You know, darling,” I said as we settled
into the first interminable leg of our journey to the highway, “Years ago when
said. Te windshield wipers squeaked rhythmically for a moment. “I wonder what Americans are really like,” I said. “I’ve never really met any except our friend Tim, and he’s a helpful guy with a big heart. Oops, there’s our turn. And a sign! We have a sign and an arrow!” John swung the wheel leſt, and we drove
for another few minutes until we got to the gas station we’d spotted the aſternoon before. We’d gassed up for the first time at the Safeway in Lynden, which was a disappointment because of its similarity to Canadian Safeway gas stations. I couldn’t wait to taste the flavour of a real American gas joint and I had great hopes for this one. I flung open the screen door, pushed my shoulder into the solid door behind it, and entered. I was met with the delicious heavy
scent of grease. Along one wall was a white-backed breakfast and burger menu offering every variety of food you could imagine, either fried or deep-fried. “Grits!” I breathed. I could hardly believe my luck. Te room seemed low-ceilinged, but it was probably just dark. To one side sat six or seven wooden counters boasting an astonishing display of candy, but not one Mars Bar could I find for John, who pretty much requires a steady diet of them when he’s on the road. I settled for a Hershey Bar and a postcard. On my way to the till I passed a small coffee kiosk and made a note to tell John. Te woman at the till was
Notice the recorder lying on the bed next to John.
Poor man - he barely got used to my rendition of ‘Yesterday’, when I started in on ‘Hey Jude’.
John asked me. “I think so,” I said. I was at the wet
picnic table sitting on a sodden towel. I placed my recorder carefully on the table. “I’ll deconstruct our friend Tim’s
I tutored a very bright Korean student (he’s at Columbia now, you know) he said American students at his school used to gather in the common room and complain Canadians were dull and stupid, and then Canadian students complained Americans were rude and arrogant.” “So what did he do?” John asked. “He said he used to sit in the corner and pretend he didn’t speak English.” I
24 RVT 144 • NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2011
young and thin and her hair was scraped back into a pony-tail. She looked generally displeased. I placed my purchases on the counter as deferentially as I could. “Tese, and I’m paying for the gas,” I said. I ventured a fiſty- dollar bill towards her, but she tossed one back at me. “You had two stuck together,” she said. She whipped the
change at me, rattling the coins across the counter. She spoke so quickly I had trouble understanding what she said. “Coffee’s free with a fill-up,” she added, twice, because the words tripped over each other in my head. “Uh, how do you get back on the
Interstate going South?” I asked her. I felt indescribably stupid. I don’t usually feel stupid in Canada, but I felt stupid talking
Page 1 |
Page 2 |
Page 3 |
Page 4 |
Page 5 |
Page 6 |
Page 7 |
Page 8 |
Page 9 |
Page 10 |
Page 11 |
Page 12 |
Page 13 |
Page 14 |
Page 15 |
Page 16 |
Page 17 |
Page 18 |
Page 19 |
Page 20 |
Page 21 |
Page 22 |
Page 23 |
Page 24 |
Page 25 |
Page 26 |
Page 27 |
Page 28 |
Page 29 |
Page 30 |
Page 31 |
Page 32 |
Page 33 |
Page 34 |
Page 35 |
Page 36 |
Page 37 |
Page 38 |
Page 39 |
Page 40 |
Page 41 |
Page 42 |
Page 43 |
Page 44 |
Page 45 |
Page 46 |
Page 47 |
Page 48