Northern Romance / Disaster on Crozier Lake
On Thursday night of last week, Chris picked me up from my folk's place in Newmarket, and we drove up North to his grandparent's cottage on Crozier Lake (near Dorsey). The plan was to spend the Thanksgiving long weekend with him and his extended family, getting to know them.
I put a lot of time and effort into the weekend. I made a ton of yummy baked goodies to bring, in order to impress and help out Chris grandmother. I chose warm, snuggly, and conservative, but still very "Jazz" outfits to wear. I was on my most sweet and charming behavior. I wanted to make a good first impression with my man's family.
The majority of the weekend was lovely. On Friday, Chris and I went fishing on Skin Lake with his Grandfather's best friend, Bob. I don't fish, so I volunteered to drive the boat. It got me out of slaughtering innocent cold-blooded, scaley friends, while proving that I'm not a useless city girl. It went well. I've been driving boats since I was little, and it shows.
Saturday was magnificent. Chris and I took our own private boat ride on Crozier Lake, this time, without the fishing rods. It was, perhaps, the most intensely romantic thing I've ever participated in. The sky was a bright, pale azure near the treeline, that darkened to a milky indigo color above us. The birch tees were still ablaze with golden fall color on every shore, and the water was as still as deep blue glass. After circling the entire lake several times, Chris and I cut the motor in the center. We sat down in the bottom of the boat, snuggled close, leaned back, and watched the clouds. We were lulled by the gentle rocking sensation of the tiny wavelets, and the sun and wind on our faces. It was absolutely sublime. What else could we do but fall even more deeply in love?
On Sunday, total disaster struck. Chris and I were eager to go on another boat ride, and repeat our previous romance. Even though Thanksgiving dinner was fast approaching, with the hideous, smelly, death-bird in the oven and all, we decided to sneak out for a pre-meal boat snuggle. Armed with a bottle of wine in one hand, I made the jump from the private dock to the boat, only to feel my left leg buckle sickeningly beneath me. The silence was broken by a nauseating cracking sound. The next thing I knew, Chris and his Aunt Deb were hauling me back out onto the dock on my back. They removed my socks and shoes to discover that my ankle had already swollen to the size of a grapefruit.
I ended up spending Sunday night in the hellish hospital in Huntsville (an hour away from where we were staying). There, I had x-rays of my leg taken. The doctor on duty splinted the injured limb, prescribed me some pain killers, and informed me that I needed surgery. Apparently, I had fractured my tibia all to hell. What was far, far worse, was that I had also torn all of my ligaments on both sides of my ankle. Basically, my entire foot was only being held in place by the skin. Ew.
There was no one capable enough to perform the needed sugery in Huntsville, so the next day, my baby drove my broken ass all the way back to Newmarket.
I put a lot of time and effort into the weekend. I made a ton of yummy baked goodies to bring, in order to impress and help out Chris grandmother. I chose warm, snuggly, and conservative, but still very "Jazz" outfits to wear. I was on my most sweet and charming behavior. I wanted to make a good first impression with my man's family.
The majority of the weekend was lovely. On Friday, Chris and I went fishing on Skin Lake with his Grandfather's best friend, Bob. I don't fish, so I volunteered to drive the boat. It got me out of slaughtering innocent cold-blooded, scaley friends, while proving that I'm not a useless city girl. It went well. I've been driving boats since I was little, and it shows.
Saturday was magnificent. Chris and I took our own private boat ride on Crozier Lake, this time, without the fishing rods. It was, perhaps, the most intensely romantic thing I've ever participated in. The sky was a bright, pale azure near the treeline, that darkened to a milky indigo color above us. The birch tees were still ablaze with golden fall color on every shore, and the water was as still as deep blue glass. After circling the entire lake several times, Chris and I cut the motor in the center. We sat down in the bottom of the boat, snuggled close, leaned back, and watched the clouds. We were lulled by the gentle rocking sensation of the tiny wavelets, and the sun and wind on our faces. It was absolutely sublime. What else could we do but fall even more deeply in love?
On Sunday, total disaster struck. Chris and I were eager to go on another boat ride, and repeat our previous romance. Even though Thanksgiving dinner was fast approaching, with the hideous, smelly, death-bird in the oven and all, we decided to sneak out for a pre-meal boat snuggle. Armed with a bottle of wine in one hand, I made the jump from the private dock to the boat, only to feel my left leg buckle sickeningly beneath me. The silence was broken by a nauseating cracking sound. The next thing I knew, Chris and his Aunt Deb were hauling me back out onto the dock on my back. They removed my socks and shoes to discover that my ankle had already swollen to the size of a grapefruit.
I ended up spending Sunday night in the hellish hospital in Huntsville (an hour away from where we were staying). There, I had x-rays of my leg taken. The doctor on duty splinted the injured limb, prescribed me some pain killers, and informed me that I needed surgery. Apparently, I had fractured my tibia all to hell. What was far, far worse, was that I had also torn all of my ligaments on both sides of my ankle. Basically, my entire foot was only being held in place by the skin. Ew.
There was no one capable enough to perform the needed sugery in Huntsville, so the next day, my baby drove my broken ass all the way back to Newmarket.