Sitting sculptures

The line of cars led from the centre to the exit of the park. We pulled cautiously past pedestrians hunting for a spot. Out of the driver’s seat college students played ultimate Frisbee, out the passenger’s a tot in a pink tutu clutched parental fingers, en route to the ballet.

We dropped off Andrea at an ice cream stand and headed towards the sculpture garden. The parking lot at the zoo was empty. We pulled in and popped the trunk; she put on heels and jeans.

We climbed on the bears and hid in exposed logs of granite wood, exchanged smiles with children on an evening stroll with their grandparents who tugged on arms and said, “Me next??”

Into the fountain we saw our reflections, gliding past green lilies. Sunrays ran through the flowers, sent what was left of the day into the trees. We walked back to the zoo, and booted up the engine.

Dear Manitoba: in the words of the great teen lyricist Stephen Lee Klein, it's been a summer.

Ballet in the park was beautiful.

He can't see the forest for the trees.

Sunnyside and other stories

A parade of boys on bicycles greets me as I pull up to the cottage, circling round my car like seagulls swarming the latest visitor to the beach. In the distance is their leader, the tallest of the bunch, who raises a hand up to greet me.

After hugs and hellos we prioritize a beer run, head into Winnipeg Beach to buy a silver beer bucket to sit in afternoon sand. Lie out a blanket and let the afternoon roast into warm fuzz at the bottom of our pilsners, shallow shores and sunburn.

Curry come dinner, all apple slices and sweet potato. Vodka espresso evening; sit round a table of rainbow chairs and a bonfire. Drink till it becomes a good idea to pull guitars out, shout mindless absinthe lyrics and strum the g chord.

Drop shorts and hurtle self off the blue-lit late night pier, crash into the blackness. Rinse, repeat, and howl at the moonlight. Stare into dead darkness, bush and endless water. See only a blank canvas that will not be empty, ever.

Saturdays and sister time

Etched into what’s left of the wood panels above the door is white writing: “The old barn is gone and so am I.” Return to four walls forgotten, no roof, just crumbling bricks and rubble.

Spotted from the highway, a house and barn abandoned is the perfect pit stop on the two-hour too long drive home. The barn is fading fast, walls drooping into soil littered with axes, tires, and lanterns left long ago for field mice to play on.

Out front the lane the mailbox sits empty, no letters sent or crews to clean the lot up. Find found art out of the left-behinds, use as props in photos. Watch cars whip by the yellow lines, climb on bales and jump towards the heavens.

Tales from Gimli (hospital)

Up an hour on highway eight there is a small pool where children used to dive for toys. In that sleepy beach side town were summers spent straight through teenage years. And into twenty-something territory the drive north still offers the same escape.

At Kris’ fish and chips we bought food to eat on boardwalk strolls. We shopped for tees and towels at Tergesen’s, ate ice cream in the evening. Walked along the pier past fishermen out towards the lake. Lay out on the rocky sand, hunted for pretty pebbles.

The sun starts the day at Grand Beach, crosses over to land in western prairie. Clouds puff purple, draw dark blue with wet water dropping, and explode into one last look: bright orange. The day rises to drive again, but wheels turn knowing the beach will always be here.