9.43 am. . .waiting, waiting. . .
Today we are off to scrutinize the cottage we are planning on renting for a week in August.
After our disasterous trip last summer to Merigomish, NS, we want to take any and all precautions.
I'm ready, the dogs are ready, directions are ready, the only one who isn't ready, who is refusing to get out of bed is, of course. . .
Stephen.
Who is still in bed telling me how tired he is.
But, when I got up this morning, he was reading his latest book, Julia Child's My Life in France.
While I stumbled around trying to garner enough co-ordination to take the dog's out for their morning ablutions.
And now I am fighting with him to get moving.
Because we ARE going.
I promised Tikka and Frankie.
So one tired, cranky husband isn't going to get in my way.
Never has before, so why now?
Plus, I'll just leave without him.
9.20 pm. . .back from another adventurous day in the life of Dawne and Stephen.
My not at all veiled threat about leaving him here on his own was enough to get Mr. Man out of bed and moving.
Sort of.
He certainly didn't move as quickly as I'd have liked him to.
So while he puttered and pottered around the house, getting himself ready to go, I packed our lunch, a water bucket for the dogs, filled two, one litre bottles with water, also for the dogs, adjusted the dog gate so they could have a little more space than usual, packed the car, did some dishes, started the dishwasher, collected my purse, a book and the camera, left directives for the kids, hugged and kissed them, put the dogs in the car, and then we waited for Stephen to shuffle himself outside so we could leave.
FINALLY!
As we were at the intersection of Kimble and Wetmore, me behind the wheel because Stephen can barely get dressed first thing in the morning, let alone drive an automobile, a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria pulls up beside us.
Meaning between him and me no one was moving at the intersection of Kimble and Wetmore.
Luckily, it was a Sunday morning, so there wasn't any traffic anyway.
He is obviously in need of directions to somewhere. . .Beaconsfield Street at it happens.
I know where it is.
We have friends who live there.
But I couldn't give him proper directions because neither of could hear the other over the cacophonous canines.
So we showed him how to get there, weaving in and out of the suburban streets like a two man luge team.
Seeing him on his way, we were able to get onto the highway and head to our one and only pre-visit stop.
My parent's house.
My mother has been asking me to go to her house and take pictures of her clematis.
She has stunning clematis, so I can understand why she want pictures.
Plus, she probably wants evidence that my father hasn't yanked them all out by the roots.
He's already cut all the trees down.
So I was more than happy to oblige.
On the highway we are, puppies happy in the back because they know we are going somewhere to do something fun.
And just before exit 303, the exit to Oromocto, Geary and Base Gagetown, our nasal passages were hit with an all-to-familiar-and-always-unwanted-stench.
Emitting from the back of the car.
A result of an over-excited Frankie.
We get onto the exit, and at the stop sign, turn left instead of the usual right.
A dead end.
Backing in to ensure that neither dog bolts from the car thinking this is where we were planning on taking them for our fun day out, we get out.
Each flanking the car, ready to grab the leash of whichever dog is closest.
Meaning Stephen got Frankie and I got Tikka.
But not before she managed to step right through Frankie's steaming pile of poo.
I'll take a picture of anything.
Once we, meaning Stephen, collected the offensive poo, bagged it, and got back into the car, we stopped for gas.
More to dispose of the poo, but we also did need gas.
And not just that which is manufactured by Frankie.
Because it was Sunday, a long weekend, and beautiful, the gas station was unbelievably busy.
You'd think it was the only gas station in Oromocto.
Which definitely isn't the case at all.
Eventually we filled the car and Stephen paid, and off to my parent's house we went.
There was no fear of encountering my father.
He goes to bed at 6.00 am, so our being there at 11.30 in the morning wasn't going to disturb him.
I wouldn't have minded seeing him.
But I was not waking him up.
He makes Em and Stephen appear kind and caring first thing in the morning.
I got the pictures my mother wanted.
This is actually only an okay summer for this clematis. Normally it's literally bursting with blooms. I think it had something to do with all the rain in May.
They sit like sentries guarding the front door.
A door no one ever uses.
Not looking it's best.
But obviously still alive.
Hopefully that will be enough for my mother.
Once I was finished snapping photos for Mum were FINALLY able to get on the road to Murray Corner.
The drive was fine.
As with all roadtrips with just the two of us, we had the opportunity to talk about things we may not always get around to talking about in the hurly burly of our busy everyday lives.
Accompanied by the background whining and whinging of the Frankie and Tikka Duo.
A couple of hours into the drive, we decided to stop at the Irving Big Stop in Salisbury.
Or, Stephen's bladder decided we would stop.
Unfortunately, this place was also psychotic on this early sunny afternoon.
So we went to the Tim Horton's instead.
Literally just to the left of the Big Stop.
We parked as far away from every other human soul as we could, and after Stephen did his thing, let the hounds out to relive themselves.
It was less traumatic than usual.
A nice change.
I, too, decided to use the bathroom, but the Tim Horton's bathroom had only two stalls, one of which was out of order, and a line up of women over 65 practically out the door.
Meaning the likelihood of me getting into a stall before 2.00 pm was slim to none.
I go back to the car, dejected, and decide to brave the psychosis of the Big Stop.
It was that, or pee in the same place as Frank and Tikka.
Which is probably illegal.
Inside the Big Stop, you'd think it was Mardi Gras.
I head for the bathroom and see another line up of mothers and children waiting, less than patiently, for their chance at the loo.
Forced into extreme decision making, I used the bathroom in the Trucker's Only section of the Big Stop.
Vacationers bring in all sorts of summer bucks to the Big Stop, but their stock and trade rests primarily on truckers.
There's a whole section devoted just to truckers.
Lounges, places to sleep, shower, eat. . .
Bathrooms. . .
Male and female.
Because the Big Stop is nothing if not equal.
And I used the women trucker's only bathroom.
Which started a revolution because some of the women from the Tim Horton's line up were came into the bathroom as I was leaving.
Non-trucking women also have to pee.
Back on the road.
Again.
Dogs still whining.
We are heading to the part of the journey we were not familiar with.
Getting off the TransCanada at exit 467B, we found ourselves on the Veteran's Highway or, as New Brunswick is bilingual, Autoroute Anciens Combattents.
60 kilometers later, after following a convoy of classic cars that had Stephen salivating more than the dogs, we finally reach Route 955 to Murray's Corner and twenty minutes later were sitting in the driveway of the house we are renting in August.
And we were happy with what we saw.
Which was a huge relief, thank you very much because I'd rather stay home and have no vacation than experience what we went through last summer.
Once we saw the house, felt good about we we saw, we were had to deal with part two of our journey.
Finding a piece of secluded beach on a beautiful, long weekend summer's day, where we could let our crazy canines run free.
It took a while.
Believe me.
We thought we'd found a place when we came upon Wharf Road.
And it was quiet.
And secluded.
And bursting with locals.
The difference between Murray Corner and my beloved Northport is that we know Northport.
The hidey holes and out of the way beaches upon which our cavorting canines can run free.
So we were in a bit of a pickle.
While the beach at the wharf was busy, the wharf itself was quiet, so we took the dogs out of the car, with Frankie on his harness. . .
. . .we actually had to adjust the harness. Seems Frankie may have gained a couple of pounds over the winter. . . .
. . .and went for a walk on the wharf.
Which was fine until a couple of cars decided to drive down the wharf.
Frankie isn't aggressive from anger, but from fear.
He is afraid of everything and everyone.
Couple that with his territoriality of any space we are inhabiting, and he is wild.
In fact, one of the things to come out of today's excursion is that we are going to have to do some intense training with him before the end of August.
Time to call in Annette-the-most-amazing-dog-trainer-in-the-world. . . www.barkbusters.ca.
It isn't Annette or Frankie's fault that Frankie's training has lapsed.
It's mine and Stephen's.
So it's time to step up to the plate and get things moving again.
Because I am NOT going through another barkfest with him again.
Stephen's nerves and blood pressure can't take it.
Anyway. . back to the wharf. . .
At the entrance to the wharf is the place where they back the boats in.
Not certain we were going to find a place for the animals to run free, we decided to let them swim at the wharf entrance.
Which mollified them somewhat.
It was a longish drive for them.
They needed to stretch their legs.
Plus, the second we turned onto Route 955, and the scent of sea air permeated the car, they KNEW where they were going, and they acted accordingly.
They do love the beach.
The water. . .
The winds were so strong today that Frankie's ears were up all day.
Making him look like he was ready for take off.
He dives right in.
Tikka is more of a shore ambler.
Anything past her first leg joint is too deep for her.
If we go any deeper, she paces back and forth in the water and barks at us.
And even God cannot help you if the tide comes back in before she gets back to shore.
I know.
I have the scars from the time she tried to climb up my legs, wanting me to carry her.
Imagine.
This small wharf interlude, however, was not going to satisfy either one of them.
We drove further down Route 955, looking for a public, empty bit of beach we could take them.
All the "street signs" we in blue.
Meaning they were private roads.
Green signs meant public, but they were in short supply.
Out of desperation, we stopped at Murray Corner Provincial Park.
Lovely place.
But no dogs allowed on the beach.
By this time it's after 3.00 pm, we haven't had lunch, the dogs are fed up and very vocal about how they felt about the situation, and Stephen's blood pressure is climbing, climbing.
I went inside the command center for the Provincial Park, desperate for someone to tell me of a secret, only-locals-know spot where we could take the dogs and dial down the gauge on the pressure cooker that was the inside of our car.
I must have looked very frazzled and desperate because the two young girls behind the counter rattled off at least three places we could go.
Armed with this knowledge, I go back to the car and tell Stephen all is not lost.
And it wasn't.
We never did get to any of the spots they suggested because we found one on our own.
At a construction site.
Complete with port-a-potty and dumpster.
Stephen actually used the port-a-potty.
I'd rather squat on the beach if I was that desperate, thanks all the same.
As well as construction machinery, in case we had difficulty getting on and off the beach.
No one around.
And in spite of being a construction site, there was the most beautiful site we'd ever seen.
Lovely beach.
Lovely, empty of any living human beach.
All we had to do was climb down an rather precarious embankment of large rocks and the beach was ours.
At this point, I would have walked over hot coals with broken glass interspersed, carrying both dogs to get to the beach.
Frank and Stephen were over those rocks lickety split.
The only reason Tikka wasn't was because she was attached to me.
Slow, unsteady, always-takes-forever-to-decide-where-she'll-put-her-foot me.
It was either free her from the confines of the leash, or risk being dragged over the rocks, potentially shattering a femur or cracking my skull on a boulder.
Tikka ran free.
I eventually caught up.
Me and the camera.
Heavenly.
Simply heavenly. . .
Usually the beach is peppered with jellyfish who were unable to make it back out to sea. This time we only saw one.
Luckily, Frankie didn't.
I love this picture.
Imagine outgrowing your residence and simply sliding into another, large home more suitable for your needs.
The dogs like them, too.
I had a heck of a time getting Tikka to NOT put this one in her mouth.
Ah, yes. The inevitable results of Frankie's encounters with sea water.
We can never leave until this happens.
Once it happened all over Tikka in the back of the car.
Hence why we don't leave until it does happen.
And why we always carry fresh water with us.
He's a fun guy, our Frankie, but he has a short memory for the repercussions of ingesting sea water.
Kind of like some of my students, and alcohol. . .hmmmm. . .
On this journey, Stephen decided it was time to test his camera wings.
This was the only picture I was willing to make public on my blog.
One made me look pregnant.
Another made me looked like I just had a stroke.
So this is it.
I did capture Tikka and Frankie on video, frolicking in the water, but the wind was so strong that all you can hear is the wind.
And none of my witty commentary.
Plus Em said it was too long and too boring.
I think she was just upset that she wasn't there with us, and that she had to work instead.
At least that's what I'm sticking with.
Our journey home was blissfully uneventful.
Except for another encounter at the Salisbury Big Stop where no bathrooms were available, and I just waited until I got home.
I didn't want to chance violating the trucker's bathroom twice in one day.
Tomorrow is another busy day.
Simply for Life.
Making a dentist appointment for Em because I think she has TMJ.
Work.
I do work you know.
Nursing Home because I got home too late to go see my mother.
I called.
She didn't answer.
That could mean all sorts of things.
But for now, the dogs are too pooped to pop.
Stephen is too tired to email.
And I am heading to bed.
But think about this. . .
If all this could happen in just a few hours, imagine what kind of chaos we'll be able to create in an entire week.
Title Lyric: At the Beach by The Avett Brothers
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