The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma (19 page)

He shakes his head in disgust, releases his grip on the door ledge, and is gone. He waddles back to his shelter without stopping at any other cars.

“What was that?” asks Grandma, when the window is back up.

“I have no idea, very weird. I think he was asking about, uh, Amish girls.”

Grandma just smiles. “I told you it was going to be a fun ride.”

Ten minutes later, we've docked. We're waiting for our turn to accelerate off the boat. Our row is last. It's Grandma who sees them. She taps my arm and points to the top of the ship. There are four girls distinctly dressed in Amish attire. They are wet and look doleful.

“Well, those are the Amish girls,” says Grandma. “But I don't know what happened to our friend.”

I see the man in the car to our right for the first time as he moves past. He's wearing armless sunglasses, like Morpheus in
The Matrix
. He grins at me and points at my broken licence plate. There have been no Daliesque melting clocks. Regardless, this has been a surreal boat ride.

Surreal, weird, wet. Hardly fun.

JUST LIKE AT
the liquor store, we've found ourselves in another empty lot. Mine is the only car here. The painted yellow lines marking each allotted space are faded from weather, I imagine, not use. I pull into the spot right in the middle, facing the water. Lake Ontario lies calmly in front of us.

“I can't believe the rain has let up; it's almost stopped. It was so heavy before. And it almost seems like the clouds are clearing, too. You can see so much farther out to the lake now. We might even get some sun.”

“That would be something,” I say, stepping out of the car, stretching.

We've decided to get some lunch before we explore further. We leave the car and walk across the street to a restaurant.

I packed some sandwiches, but something went wrong. I'd put the peanut-butter-and-jellies in my bag, but when I retrieved my water bottle from the bag on the ferry, I caught a whiff of something horrid. Once inside the bag, the sammies took on an entirely new smell. Outside of the bag they were fine, but after the bag smell, I was done. I told Grandma we'd better just have lunch at a restaurant.

We enter one large, open space with wooden tables and wooden booths along the windows. There's a hardwood dance floor and a large bar in the corner to our left. It, too, is made of wood.

None of the tables is occupied. Seated at the bar are three men wearing sweat-stained ball caps. They're drinking coffee (presumably) and don't seem to be talking much. Or moving. Or breathing. Every so often, one of them brings his cup to his mouth and may or may not sip. Like everything else, they also might be made of wood, except their hands, which look like uneven balls of clay. They aren't holding their mugs with human appendages but with gnarled fingerling potatoes.

We wipe our wet feet on the frayed blue mat. Before we reach our table, Grandma informs me she's in the mood for soup. I confirm I could also consume some hot soup. The bartender arrives with menus and tells us he'll also be our waiter.

“It smells so good in here,” says Grandma.

“Do you guys have any soup?”

“Yup, still a couple bowls left. It's cream of asparagus. It's delicious. That was my lunch, too.”

Grandma insists I get something else. Soup won't be enough for me. I tell her a dense cream soup with bread and butter probably will be. Her eyebrow shoots skyward. I ask for the menus back.

We each decide on an order of fish and chips. “Homemade beer batter,” he tells us, “really delicious. I had some earlier.”

I come close to ordering a club sandwich (that I won't eat) just to see if he tells me it's delicious and that he also had it for lunch.

It doesn't take long for the soup and fish to arrive at our table. The soup is steaming and the fish is golden brown and glistening with that inviting blush of grease.

A few spoonfuls into our soup and bites into our fish, he's back at the table. He's just topped up the farmers' cups. He's holding the coffee pot casually at his side like a top hat. “So, where are you guys from?”

Everyone always seems to know we're on vacation. Sometimes they want to chat. This is rare when I'm out somewhere eating alone. Usually I'm just left to consume in private. I wipe some tartar sauce off the corner of my lip. “Ottawa,” I say. “Well, I live in Kingston now. But she's from Ottawa.” Grandma points to my nose and makes a wiping motion. I wipe my nose, too.

“What are you guys doing on the island?”

“We're on vacation,” says Grandma, setting down her cutlery. She picks up her napkin off her lap and wipes the corners of her mouth daintily.

“Cool. I grew up on a farm near Ottawa. But now I'm trying to make a go of it around here. It's a nice area. I'm loving it.” He talks quickly.

“Have you been on the island long?” wonders Grandma. Grandma's genuinely engaged; she's interested. Whereas I'm just impostering someone who isn't more concerned for his cooling soup and haddock.

“Only two weeks. And I like it.” He lowers his voice. “But it takes a while to get to know the locals.” He motions toward the farmers. “It's nice to be working here, near a kitchen. I'd like to work as a chef one day.”

“That's wonderful. Iain here also loves to cook. He could be a chef one day, too. He's been making me some amazing meals.”

“Well,” I say, “I mean, I'm not sure . . .” I don't think there's a booming demand for a toast-and-cheese-only restaurant.

He sets the pot down on our table and pulls up a neighbouring chair to my right. “Do you ever watch the Food Network?”

“Oh, we were talking about that. Iain loves the Food Network. You're always watching it, aren't you?”

“Well, I mean, sometimes I might . . .”

“Really, eh? Yeah, I love it, too.”

“I always want to watch the hockey,” Grandma's admitting, “but I get the feeling Iain would rather be on the food channel.”

“Ha, I'm like that, too. Amazing! I'll take Bobby Flay over Sid Crosby any day.”

Have you ever watched tartar sauce congeal? I don't mean see it
once
it's reached room temperature. I mean actively observe it
as
it warms. I don't recommend it. It's a wretched evolution. It not only congeals but changes colour. It starts out chilly, white, and appetizing when it arrives fresh from the fridge. Then it becomes yellowish, sluggish, as you leave it be.

“So is this a quiet day for you guys?” asks Grandma.

“It's been like this most days since I've been here. I guess last year there was a real boom on the island. Our restaurants were filled pretty much every day. It was because they were building the turbines.”

“We can see those wind turbines from Kingston,” I say. “I wondered when those went up.”

“The island was full of contractors and builders. They had to eat. It was great for business but I think tough on the residents, who are used to the normal pace of island life. For the most part that's what they like around here. Can't blame them, really.”

“Are there a lot of people who live on the island?” asks Grandma.

“Not really, a couple thousand, maybe. Obviously more in the summer. It's not a huge place, I think only about thirty kilometres long.”

Ten minutes later, we've moved from island politics to covering the many uses of chicken stock (homemade, of course). Now we're touching on the nature of infidelity. I didn't anticipate this last topic. I have to admit, he's winning me over. He's poured each of us (including himself) a coffee. “I've had the same girl for over a year now. I'd never, ever cheat on her. How could you ever live with yourself?”

“It's true,” I say. Somehow I've been promoted to
CEO
of the discussion. It's not a title I covet. Grandma held the position for about three minutes when she got the ball rolling. But now she's balancing a piece of fish on her fork with a few strands of creamy coleslaw.

“It's not worth it. And it's lying. It means you're a liar.” I'm just waiting for him to reach out and help himself to a chip on my plate. He's been eyeing them longingly.

“You're right,” I say. “I agree.”

After he returns to his post behind the bar, I think about eating more but cover the remainder of my meal with my napkin. I push my plate away. I watch Grandma eat every last morsel of edible fare on her plate.

“So,” she says loud enough for everyone in the restaurant, including him, to hear, “what was he saying?”

“He doesn't like people who cheat on their girlfriends,” I whisper. “And also that chicken stock is best with some fresh thyme.”

“I could tell he was a good guy. Now, what are you going to get for dessert? And remember, it's my treat.”

IT WAS MY
suggestion to drive west, along what I believe is the island's main road. It was the faithful bartender/waiter who told me we could get a good look at those turbines if we went this way. A leisurely drive through the island farmland seems about right after our heavy lunch, even if we don't find the turbines.

The island is very green. I consider it a visual substitute for our lack of salad at lunch. Grandma is commenting on how quiet and peaceful it is. She says it reminds her of the area around Lilac Hill, my parents' farm.

Ten minutes or so down the road, we come to a gravel lane on our left. “Should we try going down there? What do you think? Or do you want to go back?”

“I think we should try it.”

I turn and accelerate excessively, spitting gravel out behind us. We haven't passed any other cars, or people. The gravel road enhances the mood of isolation that comes with being on an island.

We've seen a few of the wind turbines already on our drive. We've been pointing them out to one another. “There's one,” Grandma would say as we passed, or “Another windmill to your left.” But now, unfolding in front of us, is an entire field of them. Not four or five but twenty, thirty, maybe forty. They're like giant creatures grazing on the wind.

I slow our pace and pull off the road, up to the entrance. This is the wind farm. I've read a few articles about it. It was big news for a while in Kingston. There's been a great debate regarding the turbines and if they are a positive or negative thing for the island.

It's entirely different to see them so close, so many together. From Kingston they look like lawn ornaments, modern and pretty but not serving a purpose. When you're here beside them, their labour is clear. I can also understand why those living near the turbines would find them invasive.

“They are graceful,” says Grandma.

“They are. But there've been some complaints from people who live around here. People in other countries say living close to wind turbines has made them sick.”

There are no electrical cables running from the mills. It gives them each an air of individuality. Each is rooted directly into the earth.

“There must be some lines buried underground.”

“You think?”

“Must be,” she says. “That's the point after all, to generate power.”

“I wonder if they make a loud noise. You'd think they would, but looking at them this close, they look so sleek. It's strange, but they almost look noiseless.”

I turn off the engine and step out of the car. Grandma stays in her seat. I walk around and lean on the hood above the right tire. Grandma's window is down.

“I think I can hear them now,” I say.

“Yes, but it's not nearly as loud as you'd think.”

“No. There's a noise, but it's subtle.”

“It sounds like strong wind. How many are there in total?”

I wish I knew more. I should have asked the waiter, but I wasn't really expecting to find the wind farm.

“I'm not sure. Something like seventy-five, maybe. You should step out here for a minute. It's pretty cool.”

“Oh, sure. I probably won't have a chance like this again.”

I open her door and carefully help her out. She uses my forearm for leverage.

“I bet Grandpa would have loved this. Being an engineer, he would like seeing these types of new developments.”

“He would have loved it. There are so many things I wish he could have seen, Iain, things we could have talked about.”

“Like a field of windmills.”

“Exactly,” she says.

I help Grandma around to the front of the car. She lets go of my arm and leans back on the hood, above the bumper. The few steps around the car have tired her. Her breaths are heavy and laboured.

“Before the war broke out, George had enrolled in university. But it was during the Great Depression, and after a couple of years he had to leave school because he couldn't afford tuition.”

“What did he do then?”

“Well, he had to find work, but there wasn't much in those days. He decided to ride the freight cars. He'd jump on and jump off to try and work on farms. There were a lot of farms in those days, and he'd work as a helper, a farmhand. He used to say he was hungry during this time; work was sparse. That's really all he said about it. He said he didn't mind, but for some reason I hated thinking about him being hungry.”

“But then war broke out overseas?”

“That's right. He enlisted in the navy. He was stationed on a minesweeper in the English Channel.”

“Wasn't he some type of navigator?”

“Yup. It was a role he was good at; it suited him. And after the war, once we were married, we went out west.”

“How come?”

“Originally we thought just for our honeymoon. We took the train from Winnipeg to Vancouver, then went on to Victoria. George wanted to stay at the fanciest hotel, the Empress. We couldn't afford it, though. And George was thinking maybe we should just stay out in Victoria and he would start a business.”