A Weekend With Angela

It's another "Mono-Blog".  Twice as long as my usual limit, so please feel free to skim.

Hmmm?  Oh, my seat belt.  Right, I have to put it on before take-off, don’t I.  …  I’ve been on vacation.  In Vancouver.  Just for the weekend.  By myself.  My husband wouldn’t come with me.  I tried to get him to take a break.  Just a couple of days.  We won’t be seeding for at least another month, but I still couldn’t get Frank to leave the farm.  He’s too antsy, this time of year.  Out in the yard pacing around his tractor, like that’ll make the snow melt faster so he can get in the field.  I threatened to go by myself if he wouldn’t come with me.  That worked two summers ago, when I wanted to go to my niece’s wedding, out in Moose Jaw.  So I said, “Fine.  If you won’t come with me, I’ll just go myself.  I’ll go to Vancouver.  And stay with Angela.”  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I’ve only flown once, when we went to Frank’s uncle’s funeral in Thunder Bay.  Never by myself.  I’ve never been west of Calgary before.  But damned if Frank didn’t take me up on it.  He told me to go ahead and buy a ticket.  Have myself an adventure.  I’m sure he never thought I’d do it.  He thought I’d be too afraid to go alone.  That I’d just go back to the kitchen and finish rolling out the cinnamon buns.  But not this time.

I didn’t recognize Angela when she picked me up at the airport.  I’d just pulled my old blue suitcase off the conveyor belt when a young-looking woman in sunglasses and a big red scarf grabbed me by the arm and hugged me.  I’m five years older than Angela, but I hadn’t really noticed before, when we were living just down the road from each other.  Our kids were the same age, and our husbands loved to talk about farming together.  But now – ten years and two husbands later – Angela seemed a whole generation younger than me.  I felt so…. frumpy in my Lee jeans and wrinkled white blouse. 

But spending time with Angela again was a great adventure.  We had drinks with lunch – something I’m sure Frank’s never even thought of.  Angela showed me the sights downtown – there were so many things to see.  And we went shopping.  Angela helped me pick out some new clothes.  Cropped pants.  New blouses.  Even a scarf of my own.  I’ve never been the type of woman that could really wear a scarf.  But I felt like a movie star when I watched the ends of my new pink scarf trail down over my shoulder. 

I was there two nights.  The second night, Angela and her new husband made ‘pasta’ for supper, and had a bunch of friends over to their condo.  Frank always says he’d never live in a condo, but this place was really nice.  Angela’s new husband and most of her friends looked even younger than her.  They seemed to be artists, mostly, as far as I could tell.  Talking about their poetry, or pottery. 

We sat in the living room, drinking wine.  By my third glass, I was feeling pretty good.  I don’t write, or do pottery, or anything like that, but I read when I have the time, and I’d just been admiring some pottery in that store at the airport while I was waiting for my plane.  Here I was, in Vancouver on my own.  Doing just fine.

Then Angela’s husband rummaged around in a living room cabinet, pulled out a joint, and started passing it around the room.  Listen to me – telling you about all casually, as if I knew exactly what it was right away.  As if I’m always going to parties where people smoke marijuana.  But I figured it out – I’ve seen a lot of TV. 

My heart sped up while they passed the thin cigarette around the room.  I’ve never used drugs in my life.  It’s just not something Frank and I ever thought of doing.  I haven’t even had a regular cigarette since 1973, and Frank never smoked at all.  But these people all seemed so cool about it.  What would I do when it came to me?  Would it make me sick?  What if I threw up on Angela’s carpet?  Or what if it made me high right away?  These people looked relaxed, but what if it was different the first time?  What if I ended up standing on the coffee table, twirling the ends of my new scarf and belting out some old Helen Reddy tune? 

But then it was Angela’s turn.  And when I saw how …. elegant she looked when she held it up to her mouth between her thumb and her finger, I decided this would be part of my adventure.  

The joint reached the man next to me.  I could do this.  I would do this.  I would try it.  Just this once.  Heck, if it was so dangerous, everybody else wouldn’t be doing it.  I was not too old to fly across the country, and I was not too old to try marijauana.  Heck.  I might even like it.  I might get some at home.  I imagined myself pulling a bag of dried leaves out of the sideboard in the dining room and casually rolling a joint after supper, while Frank ate his pumpkin pie.

Then the man next to me finished his turn.  He took the joint in his hand and reached out in my direction.  And I was just about to take it from him, when he….   He reached right past me and gave it to the woman on my other side.  And she took it from him, as if it was obvious that I was some old hick woman from Saskatchewan that wouldn’t do this.  Or….  As if I wasn’t there at all. 

This morning I got a cab to the airport.  Angela was still sleeping when I left.  And when the plane lands in Regina, Frank’ll be there to pick me up.   Hmmmm.  Wonder if he’ll like my new scarf.

Comments

[Maureen]

I love this story! I even like frumpy Frank! I look forward to reading more Frank vignettes!