hello

Will and Don have gone to see the movie Shutter Island.  Not me, no way, here I sit, in a hotel/apartment in London, typing to you. 

Why didn’t you go with them?  You might ask. 

Well, I don’t do scary.  That’s something me and Gemma have in common.  Had too much of that in my life.  I can act in scary, play scary, write scary, but I don’t do scary.  Try not to read scary things, go to scary movies, eat scary foods. 

Lots has happened since I last visited you.  I spent a day reading and talking with students and teachers and visiting with Ruth Wadsworth (librarian/friend) at Claremont Secondary.  Pictures were taken, but not by me.  Alas, I forgot my camera, however if Ruth sends me one of her photos I will post it.

I’ve been to Houston and back.  Had a great time, good talks, met interesting people,  after the second reading a crowd of us went out for some margaritas and mexican/texan food and laughed more than we should.  Jennifer, from Central library, generously gave me a ride to the airport and we talked about writing, hers and mine.

I arrived home in the wee hours of the morning, Don was in Vancouver Olympiasizing himself, I finished up readying our little beach house for someone who was flying in from Edmonton to see it.  They saw it that afternoon and by that evening we had a deal. 

Then I went to Seattle for my reading at Barnes and Noble.  LOVED Terry who set the whole thing up.  And the close and loving relationship/friendship between her and her daughter warmed my heart to no end. 

Then back home, unpack, pack again, take the ferry to Vancouver to do a little looping for the Caprica episode, stayed over night and then the next day, off to England to see my boy Will! 

And here we are.  It’s odd how quickly one can slip into living in a place one is only temporarily in.  We have our rituals, our daily things to do.  Don got his copy edits the day before yesterday on his new book, so he’s a bit grumpy.  I have a plethora of books and chocolate digestive biscuits and tiny sweet loosely skinned orange clemintines, and crunchy crisp thin salt and vinegar potato chips to keep me company at night.  Which is a very good thing, because it takes me at least 10 days to get over jet-lag.

I go to bed around 11 with Don and Will, I sleep for a couple hours and then wake up, bright eyed and bushy-tailed (not really)  Don’t have a tail, and my eyes feel like sandpaper, but my mind is jumping around doing cartwheels and sleep is impossible.  So I get up, grab the thick white terry cloth robe that the hotel so generously provides, fumble around on the bedside table, find my glasses, perch them on my nose and then find my way to the bedroom door, ease it open, not to far, because once it’s around half-way open the hinges creak.  Then I slip out to my arm chair by the kitchenette, flip on the kitchen light, and nestle down with a book.  Finally, around 5 or 6 in the morning, my eyes get sleepy and I can crawl back in bed and go to sleep.

And in the morning, there is another book for the housekeeper to bring home to add to her stash.  I love that.  That I discovered the majority of women who clean the rooms of hotels and short rental apartments, are avid readers, and if they aren’t, their mother, friend, brother is.  Some of them don’t know that they rescue them from the bin, but I when pass their cart, I see my discarded books tucked in amongst the shampoos and soaps.

Or, if I’m in the room, they check to make sure, “is it okay?“ 

“Sure,“ I say.  “I was hoping someone would want it.“ 

I always leave the books in a clean garage can.  Not the mucky ones with used Kleenex and tired dental floss.  That way they don’t have to root around.  Can see it sitting there like a promise.  Pick it up, nice and easy.

And it makes me feel so happy when they do, the smile on their face, holding the book to their chest.  Reminds me of myself.  But I only leave happy books.  Picked up a Henry Miller at Waterstones.  Thought I’d give him another chance.  Sampled him when I was in my twenties, thought maybe I’d feel different now that I was a mature woman of 50. 

Nope.

Still didn’t like him. 

Didn’t leave that book in the clean garbage can.  Didn’t even want to donate it to the library.  Buried it deep in the mucky kitchen one, wrapped it in a bag within the bag.  I didn’t think this housekeeper would appreciate his writing either.  Might shock her.  Might find it offensive and self-indulgent.  Didn’t want her to open it up thinking it was going to be another nice happy-ever-after treat.

Wouldn’t leave my books for them either.  I imagine they’ve had enough hardships without having to experience mine as well. 

Anyway, Don and Will should tumble through the door soon, carrying the outside night air on their coats, full of the movie and what was good about it, and what wasn’t.  And they will joke and Will will say, “hey mom, you should have come with us, you would have liked that movie.  Your cup of tea!“  And I’ll say “oh no, not me, no way!“  And we’ll all laugh and their eyes will be full of warm fondness and affection, because they don’t mind that I don’t go to scary movies with them.  They love me and make room for my peculiar little differences. 

Posted by Meg Tilly on Saturday, March 13, 2010 in