The Cloud

Of course, all my friends are not dead.
I still know a few stragglers out there who narrowly escaped the Grim Reaper by smartening up, and turning down the music. They put down the booze and the smokes and embraced kale, hobby farming, or opted for long runs and paddles and simply forgot to take me along.
And of course, I have Facebook friends, boat loads of Facebook friends from childhood, journalism, bar-hopping and other work-related details. Those friends, too, live in the cloud, just a different kind of cloud than the dead ones.

Scott and I used to have grand barbecues, attended by tens, but those friends have evaporated. Jennette was the last person to come to our place and celebrate my birthday but this year, she is also in the cloud so she would be marked as a no show. Her plus one, Roger, is spending eternity with Jennette, so he couldn't be counted on, either.

Thank goodness I had three kids. When you have three kids, just invite them and various spouses and grandkids, and you'll always have a party. Alas, I didn't feel like cooking for a crowd, and Scott had to work so I was left to my own devices.

I'll admit to feeling a little lonely these past few months. A lifetime of home-based writing has left me talking to Wolf Blitzer and pining to be lifted into the television screen as one of Donna and the Dynamos in Mama Mia! It's my own fault, really. I never really invested in relationships because I hated to be obligated to go anywhere or do anything when I could be couch surfing and playing video games.

Even the Puppy Pearl, curled at my feet can't take away the quiet fear that my Third Act may be a soliloquy.

So going to the lake meant I'd either have to go by myself, or invite someone. A lot of my peeps live too far away. Some are in poor health, and couldn't make the trip. And, to be honest, I've alienated some with my sparkling wit and personality.
And let's face it, people know better than to accept an invitation to a cottage unless they know the host incredibly well. I remember my own horrific cottage experiences, one involving the television presenter Wendy Mesley in a bikini, but that's a story for another time.

I didn't want to spend my 62nd birthday alone, so I reached out on Facebook to one of my high school friends, Renee, whom I hadn't seen since we took the bus together more than 40 years ago.
It's a real test, meeting up with someone you haven't seen since you each had your own real hair colour and you actually remembered what that colour was. Renee was a year behind me at West Park Secondary School in St. Catharines, and we used to spend hours eating caramel ice cream at Diana Sweets and talking about boys, and the future.
Neither of us came from well-to-do families so we managed to bond over hopes and dreams and some days. I liked her, and when I met her on Facebook, I instantly reconnected. There was an actual vibe between us.
And so it was that we decided to set off for Lac O'Neill in her husband's red work van, with no air conditioning and two puppies in tow.

Renee pulled up in Big Red after a having a fitful sleep at her son's place. The day before, she drove through grueling Toronto traffic and record-setting heat all by herself -- a trip I would never take, not in a million. But here she was, still petite, with a shock of dark red streaming through her greyish locks.
She was the same, slim, bright eyed, with a killer smile.
Renee looked the same, except with a bit of the confident swagger we get in our 60s after years of faking it.
She had perfect skin, and was fully toned in contrast to me, with my underwire and Lycra. We are true opposites, physically, who could both be easily identified in a lineup.
After quick pecks, we started loading up the van. She came with health food, and homemade skin cream, and I boarded with canines, tequila, diet pop and a few foods she regarded with distain.
"Do you know what's in that?" she asked over my diet ginger ale.
"Yeah, and frankly, I don't give a shit!"
The battle lines were drawn.
It took us four hours to make an hour and a half trip, thanks to my stellar navigation skills and a GPS that didn't understand Quebec roads. We drove over gravel, and were directed to a short cut with an unfinished bridge.
Scott, I'm sure would have flung me over that bridge, but not Renee; she had a stoicism about her that I hadn't remembered. She didn't even blanch when the puppies puked all over her van.
Wow! I remember a friend not speaking to me for decades after one of my drinking buddies spilled yogurt in her new car. This friendship might be worth working on after all.
The time didn't matter. We had forty years to catch up on.

When we arrived at Lac O'Neill, we were greeted by Geri, the proprietress, who gave us a warm welcome, as usual. I've gotten to know Geri through the years, over cocktails, and I consider her a pal. She's strict but good natured, having sharpened her tongue as a station agent for Air Canada.
As long as you followed the rules, and kept the head count under four, she is the best landlady ever.
Geri left us alone, and we jawed all night long, and well into the next day.
No strong drink was needed to pry out happy and painful memories.
Now that was a first!
As usual, we talked about boys. But instead of talking about our hopes and dreams, we reminisced about what happened and what could have been. There were a few tears shed, but mostly, there were a lot of laughs and long debates over skin care, fat management, and food.
There was a lot of talk about food.
I discovered that Renee was an excellent cook who mostly shopped organic and made her own baba ganoush and hummus. For my birthday, she whipped up the best steak I'd ever had -- one we found at the local grocery store for two bucks! It went along side my signature shrimp, arugula and grapefruit salad. It was an awesome meal, ate by firelight since the power was out for most of her visit. More on that later.
By the end of it all, we were stuffed, and not entirely talked out.
Don't get me wrong. We had a few missteps, mostly relating to her being on one end of the OCD spectrum and me being on the other. She's what my mom would call a person who has a place for everything and everything is in its place. At my end of the OCD spectrum, I believe that perfectionism is impossible and the best life management skill is not giving a shit.

Eventually, the power came back on, and it was time for Renee to take her leave. She managed to get to Ottawa without my help in one and a half hours. I managed to take a nap.

Renee left a water jug for me to bring home, I think as a marker to ensure we would see each other again.(Left up to me, we would probably meet in the cloud.)

After she loaded up, hellbent for Toronto, she thanked me on Facebook and added this note.
...to be continued".

I smiled at that.

Maybe I do give a shit after all.