Milton Greer

Milton felt the weight of being the storyteller. He wore chain mail, which had been hand crafted by the, somewhat dwarf looking, armor smith at the Ren Faire a couple years ago. On his back he carried a replica of Glamdring, Gandolf's sword. He wore these things so he wouldn't break the immersion of the game.

Around him stood a girl dressed as an elf, complete with ears, an old wizard, red robe and stage beard and a warrior, a cardboard shield and a grey foam sword. They waited for his description of what it was they had stumbled into. To them, they were not in the woods down the hill from his house, they were in the Forbidden woods trying to recover the Claymore of the Ravenlocks, which had been taken in the most recent orc raid.

Milton pulled the dice cup from his pocket and held it out to each of his players. They then dropped a twenty sided die into the cup. He shook the cup, poured it into a cigar box, discarded by me of his roommates, and turned to the waiting players. "With every gentle breeze in these woods, the trees creek and moan. Whispering voices carried from the dark tell you to get out. You are not wanted here. You elf guide seems to take in everything, she watches the movement of the animals, the bending of the branches, the play of sun and shadow. She watches a single orange leaf drop to the ground in front of you and it draws her attention to a foot print. The foot print of an Orc."

From up the hill a motorcycle came to life, drawing everyone's attention. "Damn," thought Milton, "I had them." But it was Frank, and it had been Frank and McCafferty who had made the decision he could take the spare room and even use the woods for his new company. They didn't understand why people would pay to dress up and hear a story, but they didn't see any harm to it.

After moving in, it was clear Milton was not one of them. Gabe, who would have preferred to rent the room to someone else, was obsessed with his Mustang and spent hours missing. Who knew what he did? McCafferty was probably the most like Milton, knew Tolken and liked Penny Arcade comics, but he was a doctor, sure a pathologist, but still, and he hunted. Frank, though, was cool. He seemed to have some military background and he was a motorcycle mechanic. If they were an away team, Frank would be the captain. Then their was Milton, recently lived in his parents basement, never really had a girlfriend, owned fantasy swords, including a battle ready lightsaber, and made his living on computer repair and telling stories for rich nerds.

Milton realized he had been lost in thought of his life, distracted by Frank's bike, and his players were waiting. "When she walks to examine the print, lifting the leaf which had fallen into the imprint, she catches the smell of them in the air. She can feet their heavy footfalls, as vibrations coming through the tree she rests her hand on. They are close."

"Milton," he could hear the voice of McCaffrety, as if down a long hallway. "Milton, get up.". He was no longer in the forest, no longer concerned about how his life had turned out. He made out the features of his doctor friend in the dark. He was in a cave in Arkansas. He and his roommates had made this their home when they heard the meteor was going to impact the earth. They fled Memphis as it was falling into chaos. Three guys who had useful skills in this situation, and Milton. The least he could do was take his watch.

Milton got to his feet, ignited his lightsaber, so he could make out the path in front of him, and walked the room in the cave while his fellow survivors slept.

The value of quitting

Reuben and I just finished walking. He made a left and went into the building, under the giant celebration banner and into the glass door. I, though, needed to get lunch. So, I walk a few more feet and walked into Nino's, the little deli we share a parking lot with.

I haven't been in this place since they changed owners, about two years ago, so I take in the look of the place. The left half looks like a small convince store, with chips and Smart water and the right half of the room is set up with blue and white tables and chairs. It is like a mini dinner attached to a corner store. Behind the counter is a woman who looks a little stressed, well dressed. She is probably the owner.

After a moment of composing herself, adjusting her large dangling earrings, she ask what I would like. I order reuben and fries, my test food for any deli, and she doesn't immediately write anything. The pen she picked up pauses and she hold up one finger, letting me know there might be a problem. She talks to a guy, maybe her son or little brother, who stands in front of the grill and frier and asks if he can make it. He says he can, but he needs to go in three minutes. The cook just walked out she confides in me.

I am sure she is thinking about the changes she will have to make in the schedule, I expect she wants me to feel bad for her. I do, but only briefly. What I quickly start thinking about is this faceless cook. I think about the phrase, "If you are going to fail, do it quickly.". I think about a newsletter I heard about on an old This American Life on quitting.

We live in a society which values loyalty and endurance. We like sticktoitiveness and pushing through against all odds. I love those things. I am slow to start something and very slow to give it up. The truth is, this is the worse way to be. When we hold onto something which is not working, we are not enjoy, that will not benefit us, we squander the life we have. The reason we celebrate those that win against all odds is most people fail.

Think for a moment about something you quit... got it? Ok. Did you quit at the right time? Would it have been better if you had quit sooner? Most people, by the time they quit, wish they had done it sooner. They want the time they wasted back. If you discover you don't like woodworking, quit buying tools. It is a waste of time and money; time and money you could use on something you do like, something you don't want to quit.

The reuben and fries come up while I am lost in thought about waste created by not quitting. I thinking about the abundance of opportunity now available to the cook. I'm thinking about how few things in my life I actually want to quit. I resolve to keep my eyes open, so I can get some of that opportunity for myself.

I grab the white container from under the cold heat lamp. I think the man who prepared it and the owner behind the counter. I grab a little ketchup and walk across the lot and into my building.

Lost and not found

The other day a friend of mine, Linda, posted some pictures of her daughter, who I have only seen in face book and her son, who looks nothing like the baby he was the last time I saw him and I was struck. I was struck because she has this relationship with her kids, and she has a relationship with the parents who adopted her, but she never had a relationship with her birth parents. Don't get me wrong, I don't think adopted people need to do this, nor do I think it is always wise, but I'm kind of invested in this relationship.

Many years ago, when I first started t find people she asked me if I thought I could find her parents, at east her mom. Part I think was for medical history, but I think the larger part was a discovery of her heritage. She loved the parents that raised her, but she wanted to know about the linage of her DNA. I'm much better at having these discussion now, but then I was just ready to go. It was a new puzzle for me to solve.

Linda sat across from me and gave me the details she knew. I took note with a failing ball point pen in a notebook which was used for a dozen other things. This would be my log, my guide, but I didn't yet have folders or a system. I gave her the hope I had.

This was a hard one. A closed adoption. Records at the hospital were lost. Could guess at the area she was born in, but didn't know what high school her mother went to. I think we knew her age, but that was about it.

In these days, there was no Facebook. I had found people on MySpace and in court records and in electronic yellow pages and even by good old fashion, pick up the phone, but none this hard. I worked to find people in the right location with the right birth year. I had narrowed it down to the school I thought was most likely and found people from the school. None could help me. I tried to find doctors who would have been practicing and church's where her family might have gone. Hours of the search became days.

When Shelly or I would talk to Linda, I would relay what Little I had found, but it was never much. I kept looking, but I was running out of new things to try. I never told her I couldn't do it, but at some point, I just stopped and her life got so crazy, she stopped asking. It didn't end in some screeching halt, it just kind of rolled to a stop.

This feels like a black mark on my record, and I don't like it. I could peruse it again, but I'd have to go back to square one and I now know how hard of a find this would be. I'm afraid of failing again. I could let it go, but that fells like saying I'm ok at failing at this. I'm ok saying I can't do this. I'm not ok with that. So, I think about my options, finish my lunch and get back to work.

The Plymouth Fair

The year was 1886, nearly a full year before the Plymouth Mail, Plymouth's first newspaper is published. It is two months before Coca-Cola will be invented and tried for the very first time and three before Grover Cleveland will make history by being the only president to get married in the White House. The small community is made of farms, a town center, the Daisy Windmill company and the railroad, which has a station in the more built up portion of the town.

In April of that year T.C. Sherwood, J.M.Collier and L.C.Hough formulated and became officers in the Plymouth Fair Association. It was a stock company with a starting capital of $1,200. This new company quickly acquired 22 acres of property, not far from some of the Kellogg's property, in the southeastern portion of the village of Plymouth. This put them walking distance from both the train station and the frowning area around Kellogg's Park.

They built a wooden barricade around the property, with a gate facing what is now Ann Arbor Trail. From the road you could see the rails to tie your horses, if you travelled on them, the large race track, a kept picnic area and a place for vendors and showmen. Family admission was $1. The first fair was held that September and it was a huge success.

In 1903, the Association held its last fair on the grounds. Eventually they sold the land to developers and by 1920 the first houses started to appear. As the grounds and the fence gave way to homes and streets, they needed to give these places names. The street which would have been under the Plymouth Fair Association sign, had they existed at the same time, became Fairground. The street which branched off of Fairground, going toward the railroad track and being placed just where the south end of the race track ended, became Fair.

Today, you can come onto these grounds from a variety of directions and the history which was there is almost undetectable. If you enter from Maple street though, you get to this spot where you look left on Fairground and you can imagine the tall wooden gate which once stood there. Then as you look ahead, you'll notice how the road take a strange bend to the right. This bend roughly follows the old race course. If you move along and take this bend, you are now looking down Virginia street, which was built along the old strait away. At the end of Virginia, where it ends at Fair, is the house I grew up in. The house we pulled plates and spoons, horseshoes and old medicine bottles from the ground. The history was around me, under my feet and even wondering about these treasures, I never knew.

Before there was Minecraft

The sun filtered through the branches of the tree into the sand box of our backyard. Justin and I were working different sides, working on our own creations, trying to share the story of our Matchbox cars. My knees were outside of the wood sides of the box, outside of the world we were building. I am certain my Wrangler blue jeans and t-shirt with a silly picture on the front were completely trashed, but I didn't care. I leaned over the edge, kept my head low, trying to get my eyes to the level of the little cars.

There was a pit in the middle, which Justin and I had both dig out before we started constructing the roadways. Around the inside of the pit was a flat path, just a little wider than the cars we had run around it. From here I could see spots where we had left clear finger marks. I imagined they were just dips in the road. Above this road, closer to the edge of the sand box, we were working on a second road. For this one, we were able to use little construction vehicles to finish off the details. So, with my eye near the dirt, I watched my bulldozer push a stick to the side. I could see Justin parting the path flat across the way.

A squirrel started making a clicking sound in our direction and a leaf dropped from the tree above us into the granules, which looked like rocks I was so close to them. Justin grabbed his crane, wheels clogged with slightly moist earth and pushed it along the road to where the leaf fell. Using his hand he placed the stem of the leaf in the hook of the crane and then backed it towards his base of operations. It would become the roof of his stick garage, which housed the half dozen cars he was playing with.

In the years that followed the sandbox went away and we played further and further from the house. This didn't mean we were out of the yard, just we were further and further back on the long piece of property my parents owned, in this gradual creep, one of my favorite spots was a big gap in the lilacs the boarded one side of the yard.

Justin, some neighborhood kids and I were in the gap of the woods. Our base. It offered a little cover and had a big enough area for us all to hang out. On one side of the gap, was my backyard, on the other half was apartment property, but it was unkept. You could, with just a short walk through, get to the dumpster of the two brick buildings. The dumpster was great, close enough you could hear if Mom called, far enough she couldn't see what you were doing and it held mysteries. Today, we were going to see what we could find to improve our base.

I climbed inside and started handing out anything I thought might be useful. Bent pieces of plastic, boards, a portable rug sample display all made their way over to the base. We imagined we were building a shelter, someplace we could go to if we had to. We built a roof, which would keep the rain out. We used board to make a ladder like climbing system. I say ladder like, because we didn't cut the boards or use nails, we just wedged them so they were climbable. We made a little space to keep treasures, digging a hole in the ground and covering it with a section of board. Then, up in the branch of the tree, we placed the portable rug display, opening it, propping it in the tree so it looked like a multicolored seat. Then, I secured it with branches and a little rope we had.

When it was all said an done, it felt like we had really done something. We had built a base of operations, a fort. The kids from the surrounding houses needed to go home, but this was still our place. It was gritting towards dinner, but I wanted t try the seat just one time before we went in to wash the sap and trash stickiness off our hands. I climbed the rough ladder, shimmied along the branch and sat, gently in the seat. I smiled at the view, but immediately the seat was lowering. The branch was bending under my weight. Six inches, a foot, then two feet. Then, with a loud crack, the branch completely failed and I dumped, throne and all, to the bare ground of the base. There it sat, while my brother and I ate dinner and considered if it could be fixed.

20 minute close

The store wasn't closed yet, but we were beyond ready. A few hours earlier, after the dinner rush, but before we started looking at the horizon of closing, Pete and I had discussed our plan for the night. It was Tuesday, which meant we would be slow, which meant it would be a great day to set a new record. Brooke was the closing manager, so we would be able to get away with thing ps Debbie would never go for. We talked about what would need to be done to beat the 30 minute mark.

I looked to my right, past the slicer, past the fryer, which was already half cleaned and to the black and red Arby's clock. Fifteen minutes until we were legal. If corporate walked in right now, there would be write ups for all of us. Brooke was in the freezer doing her count, so she had no idea. The lobby was locked and cleaned, including being swept and mopped. All but one of the pop machines were broken down, the black and white nozzle pieces soaking in soapy water beside each. The shake machine was broken down and the parts were completely cleaned. They were drying on the cart, which they would be stored on. The bun toaster had been taken apart and washed and the removable parts had been cleaned. For the last couple orders, we had toasted the buns by holding them directly to the hot plate.

Pete took over for me being the sandwich station and I started pulling all of the topping containers. We used sandwich wraps to hold the bits of lettuce and tomatoes, just in case we did got a last minute order. I made my way to the back and made the hottest soapy water I could I could stand. Cleaning was so much faster is you had enough heat to instantly melt the grease. In minutes, Pete had the complete sandwich station and then, just a couple minutes later, the complete slicer back to me. I took a quick peek and saw he had cut some roast beef, probably a pound, and the just left it on a paper underneath the heat lamp. This was a big no, no, but we had a clock to beat. I started cranking out the dishes, plastic sauce containers and rubber spatulas. I cleaned the blade guard and scrap tray.

At some point, Pete ran back to get the keys and Brooke began to realize what we had been up to. She was shocked and gave us the disapproving, but silent shake of her head. The doors were locked and it was on. Pete was cleaning like a whirling dervish, I was dunking over thing he brought back in water that very nearly burned my hands, rinsing it off and leaning them to dry. In just minutes he had brought me the last dish and I changed modes, wheeling the cart back up from and reassembling everything. Toaster, slicer, sandwich station, fry station. He started sweeping and I made mop water. Brooke was mostly silent, with bursts of her shouting for us to slow down.

In twenty minutes, the two of us, so very proud of ourselves, sat in the lobby. We had closed in an unheard of twenty minutes. To the Arby's world, we were gods among men. We shouted back to the office, where Brooke sat fighting with her numbers, we were done. She, hating being alone, hating being the one we were waiting for, hating we had done all that stuff without asking her, broke into tears.

Teaching Children's Church

This was before Liz and I took turns filming the service with a camera in the second row. Before college, family and children. Before the church struggled finding a new Pastor. It is in the hazy days before high school, days when I was taken with a girl, Melissa, but had no idea what that meant.

The two of us, Melissa and I, had worked the week before as assistance in Children's church. I don't remember who the teacher was, but I remember we had the combination to the lock of the supply cabinet and with that knowledge we were able to create, for all those supplies, a craft. Glue and popsicle sticks were glued on paper and the handful of kids took home a little something at the end of service. It went well.

This week, though, was different, they had sent the kids back for children's church, but the teacher was gone. Looking back, I don't think the Pastor knew, but in the moment, I thought it was up to us.

I thought about what we needed to do, what we had done the week before and how we could fill the gap. I started with a prayer, I like to say it was to pray to God for help, but that was only a small part of it. It seemed to me, I needed a little more time to scan the room and plan. Hold hands and let the kids take turn, Melissa opens and I close. It ate some of the time and gave me long enough to spot the children's Bible, a white one, with lots of cartoon pictures.

The prayer ended and I told Melissa we could read a story from the Bible and then make up a craft based on the story. This seemed good to her. She opened the grey, metal, supply cabinet and began pulling out the things we had used the week before, plus some colored pipe cleaners and brads. I smiled with the thought of how group we were and how well we were working together.

I gather the kids around me on the carpeted floor. The indoor/outdoor carpeting stretched over concrete was not the most comfortable space, but it was good enough and it felt like a story circle to the kids. I flipped though the pages of the Bible. I didn't know what I was going to read, but I was looking for something with Jesus, when in doubt talk about Jesus. I read from the pages the story of Jesus calling the disciples, brothers who were fishermen, how they left their nets where they were and began following him. It was an easy story for the kids to talk about, about how they would follow Jesus like that if he showed up. I wasn't knowledgable enough to take it much deeper.

At the end, we move to the craft table and had the kids make Jesus and new disciples with the supplies and had them act out the calling and the leaving of the net. It was fun and memorable. The kids loved having a little stick Jesus. Who wouldn't.

When it was done, we cleaned up the room, found our families and went home. There was to celebration or feeling we had done anything special. To us, it was just dong what we needed to do. It probably would have been something I would have forgotten, but a few days later, one of the parents came up to me and told me how well his son remembered the story and how they had reenacted it with the stick figures they took home. Then, they told me I did a good job and thank you. Such a simple compliment, but when you are a kid and an adult goes out of the way to let you know you have done something well, it has an impact.

Rejuvenation

It started with Shelly getting a text, actually a string of texts from Simon. They ranged from mysterious to plotting. It turned out he wanted to crash Jim and Karen's house for dinner. This, to Shelly and I, seemed a colossally bad idea. They have had a long week, days of meetings, paining a house and just the da before taking thirty youth to Cedar Point. So, trying to be responsible, we told him he was crazy.

In just a few minutes, a little before six, it was time to go pick up the girls, they had been trying to finish up the youth house with the other kids. I expect my wife to be twenty minutes, maybe a half hour, but she is gone for, what seems a long time. As it turns out, once she got there, Simon was asking Karen what is for dinner and Myra showed up asking what we were doing tonight. In spite of the long week and the tiredness, there as a desire for togetherness.

Karen and Jim, invited us all over, we grabbed a few things we had, chips and salsa, brought money for the meats Kim and Myra were buying to grill and headed over. In spite of having the girls change out of their paining clothes and having to put away the things we had pulled out for dinner, we were there pretty early on. It didn't take long, though, for the other to start to trickle in.

Everyone pitched in, helped set up, guided the kids. Everyone made sure the others were tended to. We were one family. A family that had been hurt and needed this more than I realized.

Just a few days before most of the people gathered here had been in a tough meeting. A meeting in which several had been called liars and slanders, suffered accusations for things they had not done. They had been abused and those who had handed them abuse, not only showed no remorse, but they felt justified in their position. Worse, these were supposed to be people of the church who could act maturely. So, that break between expectation and the violence of their accusations had left a wound.

Even though that was not why we were here and was not the topic around the dinner table, we knew. We knew that being here, breaking bread before God, talking about the new music pastor and motorcycle Jeff just sold, was a conversation which said, we are OK. That in spite of the hardships we face, we can still gather together, break bread and be family.

After the meal, the guys pushed away from the dinner table and made our way out to the fire. A small pit, with camping chafes and lawn chairs around it. We leaned back and looked up into the night sky. We appreciated the stars we had and talked about the skies we had seen when we were further from the city lights. We talked about the beauty God had prepared for us. I helped Ethan, Simon's son, whittle a stick to cook marshmallows on.

Soon, the whole area was full of the families. We cooked marshmallows and made S'mores with peanut butter cups. We laughed and bumped each other, just to say I'm there for you. I understand you. Simon is still nuts, but because of him, we healed a little.

Artillery Park in Quebec City

The streets are like winding through a little piece of Europe. The lanes are narrow, designed for cars smaller than ours, and the streets have steep angles and sudden bends. It takes a wide left turn and a pass through one of the three fortress gates to get to the historic grounds where the kids will play. This trip is one of the more chaotic, the group getting separated by city lights and knowing we would have to find our own parking once we dropped off out drummers, fifers and guardsmen. I stuck to the back bumper of Frenchy's car, since he knew his way around and I didn't want to get lost.

The two of us climbed the steep hill to the place where the kids were to assemble and pulled off to the side, into spaces clearly marked no parking. It was across from the Hippocampe a place that looked like a historic pub or Inn, although the rainbow flag in front indicated it might have been something else these days. This kids got out of out cars and Frenchy stepped out to make sure everything was arranged with the people running the place. I stayed with the cars in the event the tow trucks came.

Frenchy beat the tow trucks and we started looking for the black Ps in green circles, which indicated parking. Up and down, turning right and left we wound around the block right next to the starting area. We turned down a street, with steps sticking into the narrow road and doors much closer to the pavement on one side than the other. The kind you see in National Geographic with a dirty kid and a dog looking at you from the stoop. Then, as if dropped from another place, we found a parking garage. It was a small entry and all the levels were beneath the ground, but it was manageable. As we walked out, I thought about how the Flex looked like a grown man in a children's dress up clothes, so tight was the space it was squeezed into.

When we got back, all the kids were there getting into uniform and I actually got to look at the space we were in. On one side of the street a grassy section dropped down, revealing a portion of the city and the hills beyond. Where the kids were was a long path with two long building on either side. To the right was a place with air conditioning, chairs and pop, but the outside looked a little more like a barn. To the left, cannons lay outside of the long buildings. Chains and hooks and horseshoes indicated it was either a sort of blacksmith shop or a warehouse. Even without going in, history radiated from these things.

I could see the red shirt of Jim at the far end of the path, he was looking at a little area, talking to Brad and Matt and Bridgette. From here, we couldn't see what the space looked like, but it meant he was planning how to make use of the space. This path would provide a dramatic entrance, I thought, the sound reverberating off the buildings and the approached of the uniformed corps members would draw all kinds of attention. As it was, the kids kept having their warm ups interrupted by people taking pictures and asking them questions. This place was full of promise.

The director and others return. Bridgette calls the corps to order and they will move out shortly. The guest, who don't know what is going on gather around. They point at the banner, which reads Plymouth Fife and Drum Corps. They, like the parents, feel the electric nature of anticipation. The parents, though, know to move up, to the place of the performance, rather than try to navigate this narrow path beside the marching.

It is a small area, very small. It is clear there is no room for the guard feature. There is a small flat area with rock wall terraces up the back, which lead to steps, which appear to take you to the top of the wall. The other side of the little area, has a black iron fence separate the little bushes and the dip down not the bowl from the crowd walking between the historic area we came from and the numerous tiny shops and restaurants which ran the other direction. It was a perfect intersection.

The drums stopped just outside of the mini arena, because it was too tight and steep to march in normally. Then for the next few moments, section by section, the kids were arranged up the terrace. When they were done, it looked like it was preparation for a photograph. People just watched as the kids stood at attention, waiting for the signal.

We could see the faces of all the kids, except for Bridgette, the drum major, who had her back to us. Jim explained what we would be doing, in French, and when he finished, with the drop of the mace, they began. The crowd swelled around. People in costume, from the historic area came to see, the girls selling ticket came out of her booth to watch, the people who had watched us warm up, hung on the fence. You could see the hands of the drummers, every movement of the muskets and swords, every serious face as the kids bowed in respect for the soloists.

At some point in these performances, though, you stop watching the kids and you start watching the audience. You can't but smile at the stranger snapping photo after phono, or the guy who strains to hold his arm trying to video tape the whole thing. You love hearing people marvel about who these kids are and how good they are. Artillery Park, this tiny spot we played had all of that and applause and a people who waited just to be sure they caught the last note.

Arrival to Quebec City

We wind through the dark streets of Quebec City. I know we are headed to a school, maybe a seminary, and will be sleeping in a large common room, but right now I am just following the bumper sticker n the car in front of me and listening to the CB for directions. In six days these places won't look so foreign to me, but for now I have no idea where I am.

Frenchy gives the final instruction and we enter the steep driveway down and around the school. The parking is not designed for anything larger than a Mini Cooper, so it takes me a couple moments to finagle the Flex into the parking spot market. It is marked reserved, with a few accents to remind us it is the French version of the word.

We are tired and ready to get out of the car. I hop out and see Frenchy and a few other parents getting a tour f the facility. I hear that we are to wait for them, but they are taking a long time. I walk and look, return to the car and take a look again. The ride has been good, but a little long and we are all antsy. Some of the other adults join the tour, others sit on their tailgates, I can see in the back a few walking around and talking.

Ten minutes, fifteen minutes pass and we don't see any progress. Ryan, Alex and Kory, the boys who have ridden with us are getting fidgety and irritated, so I allow them to get out of the car. I hop out and go look to see if they are getting close. I look through the glass and realize I can't tell by the glob of people talking how close they are.

Then I hear it. A woman I don't really know is yelling at Kory, then yells at her husband about how Kory talked back to her. I can tell Kory is mad, and he probably did talk back, but this woman, in my opinion, is loosing it. If I new her, I might understand or would be able to diffuse, but I don't. She then goes back to yelling about how they are not supposed to get out of the car; not to me, but to Kory.

I can't do anything about her, the adult who had the luxury to get out of her car and wonder the parking lot and sit on her tailgate and wonder why a boy can't stay put in a still car, he has been in for hours, for an unknown amount of time. I can though, ask the boys to get back into the car. I can tell Kory she is tired and cranky just like he is and that even if she is wrong, he should try to be nice. I can join them in the car and try to see about a legal way to let them free. I do all of these things, but I am worried immediately about what I have gotten myself into.

Alien World

I am writing the the morning of August 5th, 2012' but I have no idea when I will actually be able to post it. Shelly and I are on tour with Savannah and the Plymouth Fife and Drum Corps. We are in Quebec City.

The walk through the mall is surreal. The shop that sells cookies and chocolate dipped brownies is directly across from a novelty electronics store. A little further down is a store selling soaps and lotions. In front of this store are chairs that look like lazy-boy recliners, but they will give you a massage for some changes. The colors, size, the smells and even the air all look right. It is part of what is so disconcerting. The words all use the same letters and they look close to some English words, but they are not readable to me. They are in French and know almost no French. They when you think to ask someone, because Frenchy, who has been our translator, is not around and the locals you talk to know almost no English. I should point out they know more English than I know French, but there is a barrier. It is like being dipped into the unknown, a mirror image world, which feels dangerous.

We don't stop anywhere because there is nothing so attractive we are willing to try to hop the language barrier to get it. I look at the coffee shop, think about how long it has been since my last cup, and keep moving. We are headed to the food court, I know how to say poutine.

For those of you that don't know poutine, you are missing what might very well be my favorite part of this trip. Ideally, they take fresh cut french fries and prepare them normally. After putting them into a basket, they cover them with very fresh cheese curds. Then, finally, onto this fried, fatty, cheesy goodness, they pour a beef gravy, which is kind of like a thick au jus. I'm convinced this is the next craze to his the US.

Anyway, the one thing I want from this place is this delicacy. So, through the vortex of strange words and unintelligible conversation, we make it down to the food court. There are two places I can easily read the names of, A&W and Smoked Meats. We tried the A&W a couple days ago, so I head to the place called Smoked Meats. The people behind the counter look friendly, although I suspect they will be frustrated by me soon. I see the items I will order, poutine with extra cheese (something fromagge) and poutine with smoked meat.

The ordering process goes smoothly once I communicate to the lady I have no idea what she is say, because I am the stupid American. I place my order adding in a couple diet drinks, you know to offset the calorie count of the poutine, and hand her my card. At this point in time I have only Canadian change, but have been assured that my bank card will work, with a small international fee. The lady looks at the card and tells me no. It won't work.

Quickly, realizing she needed to tell me more than she knew how to say, she drags a guy out from the back. The English speaker, I guess, and he tells me, as best he can. No credit cards and only local debit cards. My mind goes into overdrive. I'm now need assistance to get the cash, I wonder how common this setup is, I don't even know how to ask for an ATM. I tell the guy hold on. The riptide has just grabbed me and I need a lifeguard.

Today, Keith is my lifeguard. He came much more prepared and quickly does an exchange of our American cash for his Canadian. In just a couple minutes I am safely able to return the the English speaker of Smoked Meats with cash in hand. It feels good to claim our lunch, but I am very aware of eddies that swirl around us as we eat.