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Oba, Ontario |
Portage
June 2008 Newsletter In This Issue...
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| Welcome
Hey All Thanks to all of you who emailed or called me last month with your kind thoughts and words about my Mom. One of the things I've discovered from writing this newsletter is how important you all are to me, even though I've only met a few of you in person. I appreciate your frequent emails when I've written something that resonates with you. I especially appreciate your stories. Please continue to share your insights and learnings along your own path or trail. I'm still grounded. Mom's needs demand that I hang out here in Northern Michigan instead of my usual frequent trips to Northern Ontario this time of year. Michigan is oh so beautiful and I love it here. It's just that Northern Michigan does not scratch my fishing itch the way Northern Ontario does. So what you're getting in this newsletter is my daydream. A substitute for being there. And, as last month, I'm getting a little help from a friend. This time, from Madeleine Beaupré, who lives in my beloved N. Ontario. She offered to help while I'm feeling so overwhelmed with Mom's care issues. I said, "Oh, yes, please!" She asked what she should write about and I requested she take me back up north. Thanks, Mad! Thanks to your story, I'm feeling a little less urgency. My intention, if anything, of this newsletter is just to present the musings of a wandering woman. Take what works for you. Discard what does not. As a child, did you want to change your name? I did. And a lot of my friends did too. I remember sitting outside with my childhood friends imagining all sorts of better names. Most of them were not traditional names. We wanted to be called names like Chipmunk or Daisy or Leapfrog or Brook Trout or Dragon or Gray Girl. Don't ask me why. I may have understood our logic then but it has escaped me. But opportunity is knocking. I'm looking at a camp on one of my favorite lakes just outside of Oba, Ontario. So Oba, population about 8 full time residents, could soon be my summer mailing address. In Oba, everyone's "real" address is General Delivery. The mail gets thrown off the train about three times a week. The Postmaster rides his 4-wheeler to the train crossing, catches the mail bag, and delivers the mail on the spot. If someone is not home, he just takes it back to his house to be picked up or delivered later. Everyone in Oba, because they are General Delivery, gets to create their own address. My friend Sam is at #1 Shoreline Drive. This is not because his shack in Oba is on any shoreline. it's in the second row of houses back from the tracks. But his camp, www.mcbridefishingcamp.com, is 14 miles down the Oba River from town. So Sam figures he has the longest “Shoreline Drive” of anyone in town. When Tex the old trapper was alive, his address was #13 Sled Dog Lane. As the dogs got older and died and Tex slowed down and didn't need to replace them for his work, his address became #12 Sled Dog Lane…#11 Sled Dog Lane…#10 Sled Dog Lane… So it may soon be my turn. I've entertained Walleye Way, Pike Place and River Route, but they all seem too obvious, too ordinary. Maybe Wondering Woman Way? Hmmmm, not quite. What do you think? I'm taking suggestions. I could wait until I bought the camp. But I'm well aware that we manifest better and more in our lives when we name that peg we plan to hang our fishing hat on. “Always end the name of your child with a vowel so that when you yell, the name will carry.” ~~ Bill Cosby How I Threw Out My Shoulder Wednesday Morning
Because, you see, this piece pertains to a highly sensitive, but seasonal (it changes in winter) hate-object: the minuscule but intensely phobia-inducing... MOSQUITO! So, I asked Deb: "How do the good people of Michigan cope, when those pesky critters are driving them stark raving bananas?" Quick as a whip, just like that, she quipped: "Well, we just drop everything and run into the house! Duh!" To which I replied: "But, Deb - I AM in the house!" Do you now understand the sheer intensity and depth of my torment? Our home is in the mid-north. That's what the news anchor calls it. Northern Ontario, that is. It is also the home of the dreaded mosquito. As well as the lowly blackfly...but that is another story. I was
not sure how to start. I thought a catchy opening line might be:
Instead, I decide to go with my original How I Threw Out My Shoulder Wednesday Morning. Now, it's not like I have no ammo here: an arsenal of anti-bug implements, supplies, and equipment have been put to the Test. Every conceivable lotion, potion, lamp, candle, spray, garden stake, zapper, stick, and trap has failed the Test. Every electric, electronic, butane-fuelled, battery-operated, as well as hand-held weapon has failed the Test. Every conceivable attire such as netted hats, jackets, pants, jumpsuits, gloves as well as domed food covers has failed the Test. A four-poster bed frame was purchased for the sole purpose of holding up a home-made mesh enclosure, fashioned from a whole bolt of fine wedding tulle. Failed. They used GPS and found their way in. Had my husband dip himself in Deet. Then, armed with hockey tape and various sizes of cut-out screen, his mission was to creatively install a barrier onto every possible aperture leading into the house, from the dryer vent to the wash-bay drain hole, including the chimney (we agreed to desist from using the fireplace - a small price to pay indeed). They are still getting in. Yet here I stand before you, swearing to the efficacy of the common bedroom slipper. Size 7. Long ago, it became clear to me: There must be something in the water at our place. There was. Literally. Larva: huge, mutant-ninja Larva - that soon hatch into huge, mutant-ninja Skitters. This unnamed species, an aberration of nature, is limited to one biosphere: our property, both the house and our very wet and wild backyard. The catalytic nature of the local water seems to dramatically increase, in the female of the species Culicidae, both the size of the proboscis and the creature's I.Q. I'm theorizing here, but based on my clinical experience, I can personally vouch for their superior intellect: take it from me - those suckers are a pain to kill. But they shouldn't, should they? After all, their brain is but a fraction of the size of mine. Yet they are born innately knowing how to strategize, regroup, huddle and plan their attacks with military precision. They are a formidable foe indeed. They can even tell time. And their tiny little ears are highly developed, for they know the sound of snoring. Snoring occurs at approximately 2 a.m., in our house anyway. This signals the deployment of the first bloodthirsty troop. Anyone sitting in the dark on our street, in the dead of any summer night, will bear witness to the lights suddenly turning on in our bedroom window between 2 and 3 a.m. Regularly. And when those lights go on, then, my friends, so is the War. You can hear thunderous thumping, explosive smacks, and sometimes - o.k., many times, there is crashing. Unfortunately, the source of the wails, shrieks and howling is not from any winged insect, but from the grimacing, disheveled, evil-eyed Medusa, swaying in the middle of the creaking bed, brandishing her deadly slipper menacingly: moi. Yes. Beware. She may be panting and worn down, but has learned to remain persistent, obsessive even, and will strike at the slightest flitting. Her nerves are frazzled, but her eye is keen. After a whole contingent has succumbed to the zeal of her blows, she spies a lone straggler! It is fully laden and slowed by its' burden of blood: HER blood! This sends her into a frenzy of ill-choreographed prancing, which inevitably leads to grave injury, to both pest and swatter. Hence the injured arm. This is a true story. "If you think you're too small to have an impact, try going to bed with a mosquito." ~Anita Roddick Peace and much love
The Fine Print
You can subscribe to this newsletter by visiting the subscription box on my home page at www.portagecoach.com If you find value in Portage please pass it along and ask your friends to subscribe. Thank You. Help me stay with you. If you are enjoying Portage, please protect your subscription. If your email address is about to change, please remember to visit my home page and subscribe your new address. And if your email service automatically deletes large broadcasts like this one, let them know you want Portage from Deb Martin to come through. Portage is published 12 times a year and distributed monthly by e-mail. Comments, submissions and suggestions are welcome. Please forward any or all of this newsletter to those you know will appreciate it and encourage them to subscribe for themselves. Although this material is subject to copyright, you may reprint this publication, in whole or in part, in your company publication, in training, presentations, or wherever you feel it would be of benefit. This also holds true for members of the media. All I ask is that you include the following: Reprinted with permission from Deborah Martin of Portage at http://www.portagecoach.com The names of newsletter subscribers are not shared or sold. Copyright (c) 2008 by Deborah Martin. All rights reserved. |
I
am submitting this contribution to Deb's monthly newsletter, for her perusal:
to accept, reject, or modify, as she sees fit. It matters not what she
decides: my venting will have been done, and I will thankfully move on,
all those pent-up emotions having been expressed.