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Summer refuge in relativity

by G.D.Maxwell The trouble with relativity is its lack of immediacy. I’m not talking about the E=MC 2 kind of relativity, nor do I refer to the kind of relativity packaged as family values or milked as now-outdated mother-in-law jokes.

by G.D.Maxwell

The trouble with relativity is its lack of immediacy. I’m not talking about the E=MC 2 kind of relativity, nor do I refer to the kind of relativity packaged as family values or milked as now-outdated mother-in-law jokes.

The insidious relativity to which I refer is of the one-upmanship or, in this case, downmanship, that knocks the legs out from under a perfectly good snit. For example, I know, within the context of Canada, things could be worse. I could still be living in Toronto where, no doubt, I’d be wheeling around a canister of oxygen and darting from air-conditioned building to air-conditioned building seeking escape from the heat, humidity, visible pollutants and noxious fumes of modern, urban hell. Relatively, that’d be worse.

I could live in Manitoba or Saskatchewan. That train of thought could be derailed right here and make my case but let’s feel the prairies’ pain for a moment. After an interminable period of drought, during which the beleaguered farmers prayed for rain, their prayers were answered. And answered. And answered. My fields of genetically modified canola, if I had any, could look more like Asian rice paddies. Relatively, that’d be worse.

Or, there are large swaths of Alberta where I might be pumping raw sewage out of my basement… for the second time this summer. Relatively, that’d be worse and it’d stink.

So, relatively, without even going to places like Africa or Florida, things could be a lot worse. But I don’t live in any of those places. I live in a place where the sun doesn’t shine, the rain hasn’t stopped and the deeply beloved respite from Canadian winter – summer – didn’t show its face during the entire month of June and isn’t anywhere in the forecasted future. This sucks!

Being an ancient civilization, the Chinese reputedly were the first to recognize the demoralizing, deranging effects of persistent rain. Over the course of many centuries, they realized the slow, steady drip of simple water could not just wear down great mountains, but wear down the resistance of men and drive them crazy. In the overall scheme of things, watching men go crazy, especially your enemies, is way more fun than watching mountains melt.

They were also smart enough to realize how useful a trick like this would be when the British ultimately arrived to trade opium for tea. Reputedly, the first English Gentleman they guinea pigged water torture on laughed and called them crazy. After several hours, he was in a more conciliatory mood. By the end of the day, he was reluctantly willing to eat Chow Mein and not call it "filthy Woggie swill". After a couple of days, he actually admitted Chinese Checkers was a superior game to cricket. What isn’t? When a week’s worth of drips had dimpled his forehead and he was completely starkers, barking like a Yorkshire Terrier and speaking in tongues, he finally capitulated and agreed to bathe. The Empire was saved.

Having long ago been broken by 2005’s version of water torture, I have resolved to pledge what remains of the months formerly known as summer to spiritual matters. This new lifestyle quest was working relatively well until the world’s most expensive molar went supernova, had to be removed and put me on antibiotics that warn with skull and crossbones, DON’T EVEN THINK OF DRINKING ALCOHOL WHILE YOU TAKE THESE!!! So much for condolence and enlightenment in spiritual fulfillment. Back to the material world for me.

"Chilly. The water’s chilly." The words were uttered over the holiday weekend by a post-adolescent male clothed in a dripping swimsuit and enrobed in not quite lost baby fat reinforced by a supersized lifestyle. They were uttered in a strained falsetto masking pain, astonishment and that particularly self-conscious loathing one feels for oneself when one is stupid enough to take a bet best left on the table. He’d made the mistake of accepting a dare and jumping into the still frigid waters of Sulfuric Lake. Normally a refreshing swim on a hot, dry day this time of year, the rain-swollen lake is reclaiming long abandoned high water marks and is so cold I could have sworn he was wearing a bow tie when he quickly jumped right back out.

Ironically, as summers go, this one is very reminiscent of the winter just past, which is to say, crappy. I’m pretty sure that’s what makes it so hard to take. Having soldiered through winter with the resolve of a 12-Step program survivor, it’s all too much like a rerun. The grass is too wet to mow, too dry to swim in. Having grown tired of repeatedly emptying it, I’ve repositioned the garden’s rain gauge as a birdbath. As soon as any of the birds dry out enough to feel the need, I’m certain they’ll appreciate my kindness.

I’ve lived in British Columbia long enough to accumulate a breathtaking variety of all-weather – waterproof – clothing. Nonetheless, I’m resigned to running in the rain, paddling in the rain, gardening in the rain and generally hanging in the rain long enough and actively enough that the accumulated sweat underneath the Gore-Tex reaches stasis with the outside air and I wind up just as wet as if I’d just been wearing a cotton T-shirt or nothing at all. Working on the theory that if I ever get to the point of actually liking being in the rain it’ll stop just to spite me, it becomes clearer and clearer that SAD is not an affliction limited to winter months.

So I seek refuge in things relative. The strawberries growing in their ramshackle yet animal-proof enclosure are managing to ripen and give the appearance of being bountiful. Little plants that could be peas or could be weeds haven’t yet drowned and may one day be edible. A crescent of blue sky holds the promise of a shaft of sunshine to dance along the water. A new family of loons hasn’t had their chicks eaten by the eagles yet. A week’s worth of hot sun might warm the lake enough to swim in. I could win the lottery.

There are a lot worse things than a no-show summer. I’m not certain what they are right now but I’m sure there are a lot of them. As soon as I figure out what they are, they’ll make me feel a lot better about the thunderstorm that woke me up this morning and the horizontal rain that obscured the soggy view out my window. Until then, I’m going out to stand in the spot of sunshine falling on the lawn, before it vanishes for another few days, and pretend it’s summer.