Gibsons Gabbings

Kolaf Kaboodle

Shea — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 16:41:48 +0000

As much as I hate to admit it, mum was right – I have gotten used to the deer head. I think it’s almost cruel to keep referring to him as “the deer head” when he’s got just as much right to be here as I do, and after all he can’t help being what he is, and he sure as anything is as stuck in Robert’s Creek as I am. And (as strange as it sounds), he does grow on you. I now know that I’m (dare I say it?) ‘home’ when I see the deer head, because there’s no other place in Robert’s Creek with a deer head that I know of. To make up for my rude behavior to him upon arrival, I have named the patient fellow Kolaf Kaboodle, because he looks threatening when you meet him (like Count Olaf from A Series of Unfortunate Events), but unlike the Count, is actually harmless. I will call him Kolaf for short, if I ever need to call him, that is.

A new addition to the family

PS: Mum is thrilled that I’ve warmed up to Kolaf. She’s welcomed him to the family by putting a ceremonial garland of forget-me-nots round his neck. Brings out his eyes, she says.

Moving in, still

Shea — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 04:51:12 +0000

We’ve been here a couple of days now. The deer heads that preside calmly over our meals and activities haven’t become any less noticeable. Before I enter a room I try and remember whether it is deer-free or not, and brace myself before going in. I try to avoid eye contact with the Former Happy Camper as much as possible, and therefore my setting-up- house mostly involved scurrying from one room to the next staring at my feet. I have now bumped into three closed doors and upset one hanging plant, at which mother snapped and told me to stop overreacting. I would have told her that I was just an agent of the Flow of Things that wanted her potted plant broken, if it wasn’t her precious geranium that I had impaled.

My rendition of the Former Happy Camper in our living room

I skyped the new address to some friends yesterday. Aubrey and I skyped again this morning and she happily announced that she had just been to the post office to send me a housewarming card and it should arrive in Gibsons shortly.

Me: Gibsons?

Aubrey: Yeah, Gibsons. You live in Gibsons, right?

Aubrey seemed to forget that no, I didn’t live in Gibsons, which has nothing to do with Gibson Guitars, but to add insult to injury, I live in Robert’s Creek. I think she’s in denial. I don’t blame her. Robert’s Creek sounds like an obscure little off-radar place surrounded by a density of forest where nefarious criminals enjoy free reign and strange murder mysteries never get solved and people don’t talk about them anymore and don’t dare leave their houses after 6 p.m. Like the scenic getaway of bad horror movies that is actually more of a murder capital. I know all I’ve seen of Robert’s Creek is our gravelly driveway and the small porch, so I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but what am I supposed to think of a town that stuffs deer heads for fun? Not sure if the previous inhabitant of this house was all there, if you know what I mean.

Tomorrow Mother, Garth, The Child and I are off to see what we can of this . . . Creek. I wonder if it qualifies as a real town. Do towns that don’t meet town requirements end up as Creeks? Back tomorrow, with more news.

I miss Vancouver.

Shea

Guitars > Rocks

Shea — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 22:40:58 +0000

Listening to: “B.C. Orienteering” by Said The Whale

Okay. So I guess I feel a bit naive. But who would have thought it? Gibsons B.C. doesn’t have an apostrophe.

Big revelation, right? Well, it was to me. You see, I thought it was “Gibson’s.” As in, the place where Gibson guitars (the like, sweetest guitars in the world in my opinion) are made. I know I was going on about wanting a natural disaster to strike so we didn’t have to move, but I guess I was actually a tiny little bit secretly excited about moving to “Gibson’s,” because I figured maybe I could visit the factory and make friends with someone who would let me play some of the guitars. Instead, it turns out the company was actually named after some guy by the name of Orville Gibson (there are actually people in the world named Orville.) (For real.) and Gibsons B.C. is pretty much just any other town. Lame.

To add insult to injury, we don’t even live in Gibsons, which is a small enough town, thank you very much – we live in Robert’s Creek, an even smaller town. Maybe even a village. All I know is it has one street. ONE.

Creepy deer head in our new house

To top it off, there is a deer head on the wall in our new house. A real one, taxidermy style. The previous owners left it there, so it’s probably ancient (it certainly looks it), and mother and Garth (my quasi-Neanderthal step-dad) were all like, “it adds character! We’re keeping it!” It adds creepy, is more like it.

Well, that’s all for now. I’ll write more about the journey soon. We just got the last of our boxes in place, although Garth is still struggling with the wood stove. In July.

Miss you guys!

-Shea

The Night Before the Move

Shea — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 22:39:52 +0000

It’s really happening. Until now I thought some twist of fate would save us from the move; maybe an earthquake or (the less common event of) the tyrant mother changing her mind. I guess moving never really seems real until you see your whole life packed up in neatly labeled boxes, and when that dusty, empty smell gets stronger and when the whole family is fighting over the sticky tape.

Marauding, Merciless, Malevolent Mother. I’ve huffed and puffed trying to change her mind, even as Garth and her were separating our clothes into “for keeps” and “for Salvation Army” piles, but my arguments just made mother shake her head and wonder aloud about what could have made her child so resistant to change? I seem to have convinced her even more that moving will be an exercise in accepting the Flow of Things. If any of you want to know about the Flow of Things and what we should all do to Accept it, call my mother, because she obviously has a personal hotline to the Flow.

I called Toby several times today having less and less to say each time, so I gave him the details of our trip a few times, and he was a good sport and pretended he’d never heard them before. He says he’ll come visit soon as we get it together over there and that we’ll Skype every day. . . It’s 10 p.m. now and we’re leaving at 8 a.m, so maybe there still is time for a minor earthquake that hurts no one and just blocks the roads so that we can’t travel and mother takes it as a sign that we never should.

Kermit (in crayons)

My boxes are my only comfort. I haven’t sealed them yet because I like looking at my stuff, especially the picture of Kermit the Frog that Toby gave me last Valentine’s Day. He gave it to me because I told him that Kermit had a very encouraging face. I have him on my desk so that I first thing I see in the morning is Kermit’s soppy little face, staring lovingly back at me, reminding me that it’s not easy being green. That and my record collection (okay, so they’re CD’s….whatever) make me feel better . . . going to listen to some Said The Whale before going to bed. Back tomorrow!

xox,

Shea