Yesssss! We have met an actual marine mechanic, bless his buttons. His name is Mark. We think we love him. He looked at our transmission, and he diagnosed it immediately. “Your transmission is F****ed,” he said. I believe this is a technical term.
As a friend of ours said, “Your transmission is sexually active? Wait seven months and you’ll have a new one.”
But that’s an aside – back to the point. Mark says that for money he can fix our problem. We are ecstatic. Also, for not as much money as we had feared. Double ecstasy! We may yet be able to go sailing this summer. So, yea!
My young student’s walk-up is tonight. I can’t wait to see her graduate. She has a killer gown and great hopes for the future. May the blessings of heaven be upon her as she ventures forth into the world!
This morning, an actual day off, so I am cooking vats of rhubarb jam. The Bernardin recipes are never-fail fantastic. This one is a ginger-citrus combination that explodes in your mouth. Since I’ve been churning out jam, the scales have not been with me at my fat-lady group, but the payoff in jam has been worth it.
Our friend Screaming Liver has a new boat, but he has moved onto another nearby dock. We miss him, and so do the dock swans, who used to come caging around looking for bread. Screaming Liver foolishly fed them from his lips – he’d hold the bread in his teeth and lean sideways over the water and the swans would snatch the bread from his mouth. Don’t try this at home. He got away with a few nicks, which is more luck than he probably deserves.
That is the news from here. School is almost done, and I look forward to more days off. More jam. More boating. We live in a remarkable and beautiful part of the world.
We have some good news and some bad news. With great difficulty, John and I managed to solve our water problems – the major leak, the minor leak, the fouled tanks, and the bilgepump that needed to be fixed. But our transmission lies in the engine room inert and suffering, and our transmission guy (whom we have never met) is flying about Vancouver Island sending messages of hope to us, and then not arriving. We are heart-scalded. What is it about us that discourages marine mechanics? Do our drains smell? And what is it about me that discourages magazine editors? Does my writing stink?
So we wait. We wait all in the sunshine while birds chirp at us and crows caw and seagulls thrash about the water looking for food and our twp swans glide majestically toward us looking for handouts too, only they’re more polite than the seagulls.
I have a lovely part-time weekend job working at Pier 66, which is the local convenience store. The other day I sold a packet of condoms to a young man. This is worth noting, because most of the condoms in the store are stolen, not paid for, and when I came home to report it to my husband, he said, “Good for him. He obviously has something in mind. Maybe he’s going to fill them with water and throw them at people.”
John is creative.
Then one recess at a school where I was teaching, three lovely young Muslim girls taught me to say, “hello” in Arabic. What they taught me actually translates as ‘I am a donkey.” One of them let it slip.
My students are creative.
A tutoring student is graduating from highschool this year. She will be the first member of her entire extended family to finish highschool, she has a ticket into Vancouver Island University, and she cleaned up on the bursaries. I have helped this young lady with her studies for 10 years. At her walk-up I am going to sit in the front row and bawl my eyes out.
So we can cope with a little thing like a busted transmission because overall, life is wonderful.