TubaOrNotTuba

A bundle of grapes, some fresh cheese, a gentle breeze and a washing machine. The life of the longterm camper must, inevitably, fall into the domestic. No laundry, no clean clothes; a life of drive-thru for you. Actually, a quiet day also gives us a chance to do the campground cha-cha-cha, where we move our tents to another site. Reservations are respected, even in a camping reserve. Others have longed for our view, for months, and the promise was that we would move when the time came. Pick up your dome and shuffle.

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Our new neighbours remind me of the backup cast for an episode of Desperate Housewives, right down to the Porsche SUV and the wine in huge plastic goblets. Since the chatter continued until well after the witching hour last night, I may begin to miss the bamboo windchime that they’ve replaced. Camping by the ocean, with the sound of the surf blanketed by tales of brave Ulysses (I think that was his name); the true test of our mettle.

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Reading through the various newspapers that now have a porch on that Internet Highway often leads me to think about how good life is at home. Today an editorial that tried to compare the two big kids on the Canadian coffee bench (you know, Timmy and that Starbuck fellow from away) helped to reassure me; my daily cuppa is “just fine”.

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The dog has found another place to dig a hole. Worse, she has help and a model (albeit, one with a shovel). You see, seasonal decorating has begun in the neighbourhood. Not wanting to be the only house on the block (not counting the grouchy couple several doors down, who don’t believe that such efforts have meaning in this age) to be undecorated; orange and black stuff hanging from the tree, we turned the responsibility over to the one who profits most.

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Without hyperbole, bad coffee is just plain wrong. We’ve returned from close to a month of access to our personal espresso world. Conclusion: in a proper universe, only good java would be allowed.

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If a second day in a row can indicate a trend, then summer has arrived. In time for us to be tent people. This is good. We were able to enjoy a hot coffee and the newspaper of the day before heading in to town to do what else; drink coffee. Not our real reason for going, as son #3 wanted new shoes and Corney’s was open for business, but we did have the opportunity to sample a new restaurant.

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You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Probably untrue. Dogs and tricks go well together. It all depends. I am admittedly ambivalent about where the dog and the trick should meet; after all, not all tricks are necessary or useful. Think about it.

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This may have been the best day we’ve seen, in terms of overall weather. The kind of day that actually saw me shed my shirt and wet my legs in the brine. Even the dog broke her resolution to avoid salt for the holidays. Then as the afternoon kept its warm and sunny character, a chance to sleep in the tent with all portals open to a light breeze. Bliss.

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Given the ambivalent state of the weather, and my need to improve our lighting supplies, we returned to the camper stores today. Two of them, this time, since our curiosity assured that once we’d parked in the shoebox lot at Latulippe (one of three lots) the store across the street was fair game.

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Today was my first visit to the “pound” as it was called when I was younger. A refuge, according to the sign on the door, where for a fee, one could adopt a new family member. Then, the trip out back, with stern warnings to wash (actually, spread a gelatinous cream) between touchy-feelie sessions. There they are; the orphans, all being as polite (and noisy) as possible, in hopes of getting a better accommodation and meal plan. The poor one that “hurls” when left outside. The one that tends to play beaver around a house. The one that looks ready to head on down the road at the first opportunity. The one that wants to play kissy with everyone (strange behaviour; guess mother didn’t discuss how to deal with strangers).

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