Happy Victoria Day!

As an occasional Canadian, I like to mark the start of Summer with Victoria Day, because it gives us one more week of easy books, car dancing to with the windows rolled down and beach trips without the funny looks.

Happy Victoria Day!!!!

That means summer’s here!  That also means that it’s raining on my parade in Oregon, because this map is 900% accurate for my region until August when it get’s mildly hot.

This is also why I like to close summer with the American Northwest end of summer weather- Halloween, but that’s beside the point.

Because it’s summer!

Time for shorter hours at work, cute skirts, fresh local vegetables, farmers markets during the week, happier coworkers, mini-cations on Thursday nights because it’s not dark at 5pm, eating on patios, festivals, and rain.

Rain.  Because even if it’s the summer- it’s still Oregon.

And it’s only May.

What are you doing this summer?  Tell me in the comments!

Loves, Mae

 

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B is for Boundary Road

Boundary Road

Dirty lace curtains
hang in the windows
of a little house
beside the highway
running fuel
from the south.
In the dark of the night
the lace sways with air displaced
by diesel fumes and headlights
and I count them like sheep
on these hot summers nights.
Five full, rumbling north
to the ranchers and the woods
and my future hopes.
Seven rattle south
to the border, to my home
and everything I’ve ever known.
As a young me lies on Boundary Road
watching dusty lace blow.

For the month of April I’ve committed to writing 26 poems, falling into the Alphabet.  To learn more about my project, check out my introduction.  To learn more about the A-to-Z Challenge visit www.a-to-zchallenge.com.

And passersby were shocked when I greeted the receptionist in French.

Because I’m secretly

Canadian.

And I took French in college.

Bonjour! Parle l’anglais? No… c’est bien- je cherche un voucher de reste.

It’s not good French (I’m confident that the French and/or Quebecois have a word for receipt- but I don’t know it. “Voucher of stay” was the best I could come up with on the fly), but it works in a pinch.

Apparently it is impressive to know where all 10 provinces and 3 territories are, and how to say things like Regina, Saskatchewan, and Winnipeg, or how ice hockey and curling and darts work.  It might impress people here (many of my co-workers have never been out of the states of Oregon or SW Washington), but I said a little prayer of thanks when the accountant spoke crystal clear English.  Because you know- I know it’s not good French.

What do you do to surprise those around you?
What “secrets” are you inadvertently hiding from your co-workers?

Loves, Sarah Mae

PS- I don’t actually try to hide the fact I grew up partly in Canada.  I really love many places there, and tolerate enjoy visits to my family there.  I even bust out an Scottish Canadian immigrant accent (a cross between my grandmothers strong Scottish brogue and my cousins soft Ontario drag) when I speak to our Canadian divisions (or my family).  I just do really well projecting American when I’m in America.

Inspired: Foolish Oats goes Home

Recently I found Foolish Oats on YouTube randomly.  It was her black and white video montage paired with delicately read insights that let me get lost in the words and images and the false nostalgia for a different, quieter, more intelligent life.  I find myself transfixed, and usually end up having to watch episode twice or three times before I can internalize it.

There was something in particular about this one, I was surrounded by others in the company break room, and utter enthralled.  And so I wrote.

Don’t feel pressured to read it- it’s just a little pen to paper, but here it is, just in case you are interested.

Loves,
Mae

It’s easy to pretend to live, in this quiet city life, when hustle and bustle surround you and you can exist alone.  It is east to live that way.  No friends, no family, just an eclectic gathering of acquaintances and regular strangers- co-workers, baristas, the fluffy dog that walked at the same time she ran.

It is easy to pretend in the city.

But then it is different here, in the borrowed mother’s mini-van where childhood overwhelms the sense of familiarity.  This place, a place no longer belonged to- where from I embarked on the road trudging away from these people in these areas.

But I am here, returning here, for duty, and truth, and the lost nostalgia which has plowed the road for me.  He- here with me, old friend, old man now, everything we though he’d be, driving the future we knew he’d have.  Two sons, names I don’t know, hockey playing growers like we used to be.  And this map I’ve wrestled a thousand times, find our way to a place we once knew.  This city of past of presents.  Fear, loathing, and home.

Here to bring one more son.

Home.