Chapter 2: The usual suspects, plus one…

By now the faithful reader has become accustomed to the entourage that accompanies us when we escape the confines of the West Kootenays.

There is Fred, my Samsung S5 Neo; always looking for mischief, falling off tables, getting drunk in a puddle of beer, wrapped in his Otterbox Commuter shield. His current home screen shows Carol and Puny Sis (Darlene, a female spawned by my parents after my father was unable to provide a fourth male child, so they settled with her) in a YMCA-like pose when I captured them wandering on the Spanish Banks in Vancouver.

Then Carol has Wilma, her stalwart Samsung S4, robed in a clear vinyl case, tucked in her purse pocket; older than Fred and not as immature or foolish as her male counterpart. A no-nonsense blue background for her main screen so the miniature fonts exposing battery charge, time, and date details are visible. Her heart (battery) is nearing it’s Best Before date and requires constant observation. She’s a sweetie and we love her.

Then we have Julie, Carol’s Galaxy Tab A. She’s slim, trim, intelligent, not power hungry like some of her contemporaries, and swathed in a magnificent blue/gold, almost Asian-styled wrap. Known for her e-book prowess, as well as Pinterest ideas, she is always close at hand. Her primary screen exhibits the requisite shot of the grandkids in all their nonsensical glory, tongues exposed, eyes askew; not a Nobel laureate among them.

Rounding out our electronic family is Randy, our beefy Galaxy Tab E. Big screen, big memory, a real workhorse when storing images or meeting the fast pace of the blogosphere. He’s The Man. Randy has a rotating slate of images for his home screen. Sometimes it’s an image from a previous out-of-country excursion of castles or vineyards and other times it’s a local shot of mountains and rivers. He’s a real renaissance man/tablet. We do spend a lot of time together in bed but he’s been neutered with a child-lock and has no time for racy fare… at least with me. I have seen him glancing toward Julie when Carol is perched beside me under the covers reading from her latest fresh young author. It’s probably nothing.

Now, onto our newest addition.

Lately I celebrated another birthday; it’s almost like an annual event, like an unwanted guest. Sure it was fun when you turn 16 and you can cruise to the drive-in with your arm around your girl, or 21 when you put aside bush parties and can drink in some scuzzy bar legally with your buddies. But then it’s 40 and your not a kid anymore and there are expectations to meet (especially with the in-laws). Then 50 and onto 60; at least at 65 you get paid for your birthday with government pensions that help pay for the extra medical bills and your walker.

But now it’s 68. It’s not a noble number by any stretch. It’s like you’re putting in time until you’re 70 at which point if you choke on a piece of meat at your brother-in-law’s summer bbq everyone will shrug and say, “oh well, he was 70 anyways, no big deal, pass the bratwurst”. Remember that term... gag me with a spoon? Hey it could save a life!

A ritual that accompanies meaningless birthdays is when people who should love you give you cards that mock and embarrass you. Obviously consumed by jealousy they try and belittle you to increase their own stature. A particularly sad case is one of my three sister-in-laws. I won’t say which one, but her name begins with D and ends with onna. While she does excel at a few useless skills she seems to think that her wit is mature enough to match my own; it’s like bringing a crayon drawing to the Louvre. We’ve had a few evening texting matches where she did make me smile, but, Hey, I don’t see her name under any blog! Nice try sista. Go pet your dog.

Speaking of sistas… the aforementioned Darlene has tried poking the bear with her Manitoba barbs on occasion, but alas it’s like speaking a two syllable word to Trump, nothing registers.

Although she did get lucky this year with her attempt at humour. Her card poked fun at my manhood with a photo of a well-rounded blonde, young woman, whose father is obviously an orthodontist, leaning against a car holding a running hose. The abridged text says “Hey brother, I bet when you look at this picture you’re thinking that you need to wash your car” Har, har… did I mention that she’s from Manitoba?

Well, as a matter of fact I was about to slosh around some soapy water and a sponge later in the day but it did prompt me to give the young lady a closer look. I could read her like a book.

Caucasian, tall, slim, good posture, so obviously she wasn’t from south of the border. Her bikini was not overly revealing and was of a sensible fabric so she wasn’t from France, Spain, or Italy. Her teeth were impeccable so that eliminated the UK. There was no snow so Canada was unlikely and that led me to Scandinavia. No unibrow so Denmark was out There were no skiis in the picture so Norway and Finland were no longer contenders and that left Sweden. Sherlock Krahn at your service!

She had a trusting, wholesomeness in her stance that made you wish she was your daughter. Not a daughter that smokes in her early teens, skulks around with ne’er-do-wells, and needs to be rescued in the middle of the night from way up the Slocan valley because all boys are slimeballs (any resemblance to a real daughter is purely coincidental). No this girl volunteers at the food bank, visits her grandparents, bakes cookies for her dad and washes the car. Her name is Cindy. Cindy is now the seventh member of our travel entourage.

Fred and Randy each have a copy of Cindy in their memory banks should something untoward happen to her.  Hey Carol… have you seen Cindy today? We were supposed to go for lunch. Paper shredder? What would we do with a pap…! Hey! Thats not funny! She has feelings you know!