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Going Off the Grid.

I was asked the other day if I had ever considered “going off the grid.”

I am still laughing. Granted, it’s a hysterical laugh because the mere thought of moving off the grid leaves me shaken.

The person asking me this is what the current culture would term a survivor – ie. a survivor in the outdoor, who needs pesky running water, I can start a fire inside a sleeping bag in a rainstorm kind of a person. And indeed she has been completely off the grid for longer than I have been wearing nail tips.

Propane factors heavily in her life as do multiple layers of clothing in winter and hypothermia. I told her that not only had I never considered going off the grid but that I may even be considered married to the grid in some cultures. I know it’s a close call as to which I value more, my husband’s affection or an indoor toilet. Just don’t make me choose.

She said there were two types of people and when she said this I knew it wasn’t going to be flattering to me. Don’t ask how I knew that: I just did. She said the first type could be dropped off naked in the forest and feel comfortable. The other type, well, the other type wouldn’t. Feel comfortable, I mean.

I clarified for her that not only would I feel uncomfortable but that even entertaining the concept was causing me to take short, gasping breaths. I told her that I didn’t feel comfortable naked in my own shower at home, but I don’t think she believed me.

She said we have too many possessions and that we are plastic people. I had several reactions to that, all unspoken. The expression plastic people is so 1979 I can’t even begin. And yes, of course we have too many possessions. Blah, blah. Just stay away from my itemized, alphabetized shoe closet.

She said I had to be prepared to do without, that the time is coming when we’ll all be forced to live by our wits and eat berries and wash our hair with lichen.

I asked her what lichen was and then assured her that if we go apocalyptic, she’d be the first person I’d call.

Aloha!

Looks like it is going to come to pass. Off to Hawaii on Tuesday. The poet Goethe was right when he said: “Be brave and mighty forces will come to your aid.”

Or as a childhood friend mispronounced it, HeeWee.

It should be a balm for the four of us. Bring on the champers and the hula girls, the latter not politically correct anymore – alas, because although some of that old (other) world stuff was horrendous, granted, but some of it which has been lost was just plain fun. I always enjoyed having a door opened for me, not that I expected it. But I enjoyed it when it happened. Nowadays at the shopping mall I consider myself lucky if I am not kicked through it.

HeeWee hee wee come.

Returned from Eleuthera!

We returned to below zero temps so it wasn’t the most eloquent of homecomings. But still good to be back and ensconced. And this helped immeasurably to soften the blow…

Walking in to a warm house with a stocked fridge and handmade notes from the two wee kids next door. Evan, the 4 year old, launched himself at me from across the threshold, a long hug first, and then, when he had collected himself, demanded to know just how long we were away. Arms folded on chest, scowling, looking quite miffed.

I am ecstatic to report that the news on my brother Scott is good. His CAT results came in two days ago and showed nothing of significance. But the oncologist cautions it is early days. (This doctor sounds like a real charmer: very dour and to the point, but Scott says he prefers that to the Disneyland approach.) Scott will be retested in May and of course his testing will be frequent and thorough from now on. Apparently the first three years are the most critical for metastases activity. This makes our Hawaii trip all the more special for us and most certainly for Scott and Kim. They are over the moon about it, and with this reprieve we can all breathe easier for a while.

When I think back now to Eleuthera and the magical Double Bay, even though only days have passed, it has a dreamlike quality. It is ever thus when I leave there. We thought last night of everyone around the piano at Tippy’s, with the swells of the ocean as backbeat. Driving on the 401 at the time, amid eight solid lanes of traffic with an icy rain descending, needless to say which scenario was the more appealing.

We are preparing our letters toward a possible home exchange for next year. I like the barter idea, much like thrift shops – bring one bag in, take one out. A lovely economy.

Off to manage this mountain of luggage and laundry – and, oh joy, oh bliss, my tax return, now there’s a page turner, but buoyed with Scott’s recent news – and we were all on tenterhooks – I’ll be singing through it all. (OK, calm down, Tricia, maybe not the tax return…)

I already have chosen our film selection for 2010’s movie nights in Double Bay: Glengarry Glen Ross (David Mamet’s absolute brilliance at work here– he is also a gifted short story writer – see if you can find or download “The Rake.”); The Winter Guest, (Emma Thompson) The Visitor, just saw this one and loved it. Full of spaces and silences, the camera lingering – deliciously – as in the Leone movie, Once Upon A Time in America.

I miss Eleuthera already.

t.

Writer and Poet

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Tricia McCallum

Always be a poet. Even in prose.
Charles Baudelaire.

In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]

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