Off

The Fraser River’s inexorable and, today, measured, flow to the sea mesmerizes me.  Across the opposite bank, the Cariboo Mountains oversee its progress, and a small white glacier surveils the area.  The surface of the water is glass, to this unpracticed eye; the forest along the riverbank finds its twin in the stillness.  Were I more of a student of nature, I would know whether the almost imperceptible blemishes on the surface that betray the serene river are fish (and what kind) or insects or even undercurrents.  The reality is I think of the bumps as eggwhite clumps that might mar a smooth sponge cake.

This vantage point materializes quite by accident.  Only when I scan the campground map to locate our site do I realize that our campsite belongs to the row that abuts the Fraser.  The foliage on our assigned site obscures the river.  Five campsites down, however, that’s not the case.  Huge bonus:  the site is empty, lonely, now that the gentleman who had been sitting on the picnic table has left.  Now, it’s my turn.  I stand, transfixed, in disbelief at my good fortune.  Nothing else needs my time.  I can stay here as long as I like.  For today, and a few precious weeks to come, I have pulled the plug on my life.  I’ve powered off—

·  obligations.  Creative ideas, reports, phone calls, plans, liturgies, meal prep, shopping, cleaning, sorting, laundry—relegated to irrelevance.  For now, I enjoy just being.

·  complexity.  Issues of social justice, politics, spirituality, connections with friends—on the back burner in this Limited Internet Service environment.   For now, I focus on those around me at any given moment.

·  convention.  To travel for three weeks in our 1978 camper van, I left anything good at home.  For now, my wardrobe choices can withstand rain, mud, wrinkles, stains, cold, heat, neglect, prolonged activity or indolence; maybe not scrutiny or a "must have" list, though.

·  sweating my appearance.  For now, I’m okay with hair that’s endured rain, hoods, hats, a few nights’ sleep, little brushing, zero washing.  Instead, when I look at the photos and want to wince, I’ll focus on the freedom and the adventure.

Restored, from being "off" and showered.

In an unexpected paradox, powering off has enabled me to charge up.  As we drive the scenic highway from Terrace to Prince Rupert, eyes wide in awe and mouth open in astonishment at the remarkable landscape, I remember that, in my old clothes, in an old vehicle, with my true self and my better half, I am content.  What happens when I reboot my life?   The calm and simplicity of my unplugged weeks will, I hope, continue to grace my days.

Football

In the corner of my eye,  I see a sixtyish mustached gentleman moving toward the van.  I surmise that he will ask my husband if he can help.   The hood of our campervan is up, and Elmer’s head is in the motor.   He’s checking the water pump, and anything else that might be contributing to a sound he doesn’t like.  No time like the present, in the Safeway parking lot in Prince Rupert, British Columbia, before we take the ferry to Haida Gwaii the next day.   Despite the driving rain, the football fan sports a beige ball cap, and a quilted sleeveless beige vest over a plaid flannel shirt and beige pants.   

"Someone here a Rider fan?  What happened in the BC game on Sunday?" I hear him ask my husband.    So it’s not about mechanics at all.  He must have seen our license plate and taken a shot.  Saskatchewan equals Rider Nation, right?  It’s axiomatic.

In a reflex response, my husband replies, "No idea.  My wife is the Rider fan.  She would know."

I roll down the window.   He reiterates, "Did the Riders lose?  I haven’t been able to find out."  I wonder how it’s possible not to know what happened, if you want to know, in the Internet age, four days after the game. 

"No.  In fact, they trounced the Lions 41 – 8!"  I feel thrilled to be able to say it.

"You mean they won?"  He can’t seem to get his head around the concept.

"Yes.  Ed Gainey had four interceptions."

He laughs, his eyes dance, and he claps his hands together.  He turns to leave.  After all, he’s getting soaked.   "I’ll tell my buddy," he adds, as he strolls off.  "You made my day."  Anytime.  That was easy.

Until just the next morning, that was a quaint story to file away for the next round of small talk over beer and wine at a neighborhood fire.  Two and a half hours before departure for Haida Gwaii, we arrive at the BC Ferries terminal.  It’s early, and the attendant has lots of time.  He’s feeling chatty, too.  When he finds out we’re from Saskatchewan, he brings up the game.  "The Lions just didn’t come ready to play," he mourns.

"Well," I say to console him a little, "it was revenge for the Riders.  The Lions devoured them the week before."

He nods.  "I couldn’t watch," he comments, looking dazedly into his computer.  I know the feeling.  "They’re really up and down. Some days they’re ready to play, and others, not."

"That’s why the Riders are 3 – 4.  Same problem," I add.  He hands us our photo IDs and boarding passes.  Time for us to move on. We smile and wave.

I shake my head.  Football is an instant conversation starter.  An instant relationship forger.  My knowledge of the game has taken me through parent-teacher interviews, awkward introductions in professional circles, and chats, with men, notably, when I have found myself next to a man I don’t know well around a formal dinner or a lawn chair circle at yard gathering.  I imagine it must be the same for hockey aficionados.  Can’t say.  I know enough about other sports only to comment intelligently and to ask questions, not to draw any kind of informed conclusion.

Football, though, especially in Saskatchewan, and, it seems, throughout Canada, connects people, gives them a starting point to break the ice, and, just maybe, time and opportunity dovetailing, the confidence to explore somewhat more delicate subjects.