Home game: Visiting hours
I frown at the scrawled note. 146 Bayville Road, 4 p.m. today, it reads, and then something that looks like... corny. Corny? Is that an assessment of my headline writing skills? Damn my editor's cryptic notes anyway. Why can't we talk about assignments on the phone like normal reporters? But I know it's because we're North America's only newspaper staffed entirely by the phone call avoidant. Which is good, because otherwise I couldn't work there.
Still, the notes leave me scrambling to figure out the situation on occasion. Once I went to something that said candlelight vigil, 8 p.m. thinking that it was going to be the service that palliative care holds for all the people who've died on its watch in the past year, and it turned out to be a candlelight vigil for bereaved parents commemorating their dead children so they could get throught the Christmas season. I was the only one there who had never lost a child. I interviewed people right before they bawled and then I said to the woman in charge, right, I will do this story again next year but give me your phone number and we'll talk about it the week before, because I think it's more important for the bereaved to know its going to happen than for people who aren't bereaved to know that it has happened.
Bayville Road is this little dirt road back of town that I've never been on before. Thank Christ for iphones and google maps. A few years ago people used to give me directions like turn left where the liquor store used to be. Right, where it used to be before I moved here? Sometimes I wonder how safe it is, going to these middle of nowhere places to meet strangers, nothing but a trail of cryptic notes to mark where I've gone.
146 isn't a house at all. It's a neat little wharf, with several fishing boats and pleasure cruisers tied up at it. I didn't know this was here. How come I didn't know this was here?
There are several cars parked on the grass. I pull mine in at the end and jump out, shouldering my purse and my camera bag. I stroll over to the wharf, hoping someone will recognize me.
There's a woman in a golf visor sitting on a rock. She is slathering sunscreen on her arms.
"Are you looking for Corny?" she calls out.
"You know what, I think I am," I say.
"He's down on the boat," she says, jerking her head towards a green and white fishing vessel.
"Thanks," I say as I trot down the grey gangway.
Corny is revealed to be a slight man with prominent teeth. I ask what we're doing here today and he says we're going over to the island. I thought it was off limits to visitors. Not today, apparently. The owners have invited their mainland neighbours to join them for a party.
I think it's the fact that they own an island that causes resentment. They're not from here (well, it would be worse if they were, people from here don't own islands) and they own a beautiful island that we can see but never go to. Except we are going there. A crowd of people climb aboard, including a three piece band and all their gear.
The crossing is calm, though the boat is full of excitement. At the dock on the island, we all jump down and make our way to land. There's only one road on the island, leading from the dock up to the lighthouse. People set off in little groups. I walk alone, observing, letting the smell of wild roses and bayberries soothe me. There's a steep hill and the end and I'm panting embarrassingly when I reach the clearing at the top. There's a red and white lighthouse at the far end, the keeper's snug house, a shed. This is a summer place now.
The lighthouse is open and I go halfway up before my fear of heights kicks in and I realize if I go to the top I may have to live there forever. I love fresnel lamps but not that much. I give my camera to an acquaintance and she takes pictures from the top while I wait anxiously below. I interview the owners, chat with a man whose dad lived here in a fishing shack during long ago summers. This was always a summer place.
Tomorrow I will write my story about this, and the day after it will be in the paper. This really happened.
Still, the notes leave me scrambling to figure out the situation on occasion. Once I went to something that said candlelight vigil, 8 p.m. thinking that it was going to be the service that palliative care holds for all the people who've died on its watch in the past year, and it turned out to be a candlelight vigil for bereaved parents commemorating their dead children so they could get throught the Christmas season. I was the only one there who had never lost a child. I interviewed people right before they bawled and then I said to the woman in charge, right, I will do this story again next year but give me your phone number and we'll talk about it the week before, because I think it's more important for the bereaved to know its going to happen than for people who aren't bereaved to know that it has happened.
Bayville Road is this little dirt road back of town that I've never been on before. Thank Christ for iphones and google maps. A few years ago people used to give me directions like turn left where the liquor store used to be. Right, where it used to be before I moved here? Sometimes I wonder how safe it is, going to these middle of nowhere places to meet strangers, nothing but a trail of cryptic notes to mark where I've gone.
146 isn't a house at all. It's a neat little wharf, with several fishing boats and pleasure cruisers tied up at it. I didn't know this was here. How come I didn't know this was here?
There are several cars parked on the grass. I pull mine in at the end and jump out, shouldering my purse and my camera bag. I stroll over to the wharf, hoping someone will recognize me.
There's a woman in a golf visor sitting on a rock. She is slathering sunscreen on her arms.
"Are you looking for Corny?" she calls out.
"You know what, I think I am," I say.
"He's down on the boat," she says, jerking her head towards a green and white fishing vessel.
"Thanks," I say as I trot down the grey gangway.
Corny is revealed to be a slight man with prominent teeth. I ask what we're doing here today and he says we're going over to the island. I thought it was off limits to visitors. Not today, apparently. The owners have invited their mainland neighbours to join them for a party.
I think it's the fact that they own an island that causes resentment. They're not from here (well, it would be worse if they were, people from here don't own islands) and they own a beautiful island that we can see but never go to. Except we are going there. A crowd of people climb aboard, including a three piece band and all their gear.
The crossing is calm, though the boat is full of excitement. At the dock on the island, we all jump down and make our way to land. There's only one road on the island, leading from the dock up to the lighthouse. People set off in little groups. I walk alone, observing, letting the smell of wild roses and bayberries soothe me. There's a steep hill and the end and I'm panting embarrassingly when I reach the clearing at the top. There's a red and white lighthouse at the far end, the keeper's snug house, a shed. This is a summer place now.
The lighthouse is open and I go halfway up before my fear of heights kicks in and I realize if I go to the top I may have to live there forever. I love fresnel lamps but not that much. I give my camera to an acquaintance and she takes pictures from the top while I wait anxiously below. I interview the owners, chat with a man whose dad lived here in a fishing shack during long ago summers. This was always a summer place.
Tomorrow I will write my story about this, and the day after it will be in the paper. This really happened.