Misunderstandings are a common devise of comedy writers. A characters says something that is misinterpreted by another and a comedy of errors ensues. (Pun most definitely intended). When misunderstandings happen in real life, however, they are usually funny only after some time has passed. Beyond misunderstandings, it has often been stated that, "comedy is tragedy plus time".
What I have to recount here Dear Reader is in the vein of misunderstanding not tragedy. It only took about a day before I was able to tell this story with a smile, instead of a grimace. And so I begin. It was a dark and stormy night. Kidding! Actually, it was early one morning, on an English train platform awaiting the train to Cardiff, when the conditions were ripe for this particular personal blunder. I was travelling alone with my daughter who was five at the time, to meet the rest of the family who were already in Wales. We'd flown all night from Vancouver. After listening to the carefully scripted, new age, useless, children's sleep-inducing meditation once, my daughter handed me her ipod and turned instead to the personal screen in front of her. She proceeded to watch the movie Bolt four times through before we landed at Gatwick airport. She fell asleep 20 minutes before we landed. Let's just say we were both very tired when we arrived. We hopped our train at the airport and finally made it to our last stop before Wales, where we had about a 45 minute wait. Fortunately, we were travelling relatively light. But after the five year old fell asleep on my lap in one of those heavy deep sleeps that adds some mysterious physical weight to a child, that meant I was on my own to manoeuvre a suitcase on wheels, two small daypacks and the child herself slumped heavily on my hip and shoulder. There would be no waking her up. As I sat on a bench waiting for our train, my first mistake in my weariness was not noticing we were waiting on a first class bench. Dear Reader I can assure you we were not travelling first class. Trying to stay awake so we didn't miss our damn train, I engaged in the people-watching that is ever rewarding at places of public transit. At this particular platform, I soon noticed a small group of people gathered who seemed to think themselves rather important. They just had an air about them. I should back up. First I noticed the English bobbies. A couple of police officers appeared and circled around two women who, strangely, did not have any luggage. Why were the police here I wondered. Why did these women not have any luggage? One of them merely clutched a plastic bottle of water. Feeling cranky I began to weave uncharitable stories about these women in my mind. They did pace about that platform as though they owned it. Who did they think they were? Royalty? They seemed to think they were going to be first on the train. First! Can you imagine? When I'd been waiting there before them with my sleeping child. I noticed that one of the belt loops on the dress of the woman with the water bottle, had come undone and was hanging off at her side uselessly. (I want to state for the record that the belt loop looked as though it had popped off due personal negligence, not because of any weight gain.) That's when I realized this red headed woman looked familiar. I actually couldn't remember her name in my weariness, but I did place her. She was famous all right but that did not mean she was getting on that train before me. I needed to get on that train first. The sooner I got on that train, the sooner I got to Auntie Megan's house, a cup of tea and good long nap. The train thundered into the station grandly as they do. I staggered to standing with my hundred plus pounds of child and baggage, and positioned myself on the platform near the famous woman and her entourage. I did not at this time bud in front of her mind you, I just stood closely. I silently let her know I knew what her game was and she was not going to win. Passengers got off. That's when I made my move. I gave the famous woman a scowl that said, no nannies or handlers here sweetheart. I'm doing this on my own. Now move aside! I'm not exaggerating when I say the famous woman and her people did move aside. I must have looked half-crazed, determined to get on the train first with my heavy load. I would have moved aside too. (You know what train stations are like for crazy people.) I heaved myself, my daughter and our luggage up, onto the train step. One more step and we were on board. We were on the train! I half-heartedly glanced back to see my platform mates were getting ready to board, now that the coast was clear. The problem that soon became apparent was that we were on the wrong car. Once you get up in the train, there are signs posted everywhere. THIS IS FIRST CLASS. IF YOU DON'T HAVE A FIRST CLASS TICKET YOU CAN'T SIT HERE. MOVE ALONG TO THE BACK OF THE TRAIN PLEASE. The signs may not say exactly that, but that is what I recall. Gritting my teeth, my head and shoulders slumped under the physical and emotional weight of my baggage and my blunder, I slowly made the walk of shame to the economy cars. When we arrived in Cardiff, our happy family was glad to see us but they were more excited that Sarah, the Duchess of York, had gotten off the train before us. Had we seen her? Did we know she was on the same train? As we made our way past the TV and newspaper crews, all I could grumble was, "Yeah, I saw her."
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Hello Dear Reader, I have been away. Away in a tropical paradise. It sounds cliché to call it that, but it was tropical and felt like paradise (and that's not just the mai tais talking), so I'm sticking with that. I had planned to produce extra blogs before I left so you wouldn't miss me. But, if I had a GoPro attached to my head in the days leading up to this trip, you would be laughing now as hysterically as I am at that idea. There was just no way that was going to happen. But I'm back and feeling restored to full health. Not that I was sick, just every nerve was frayed and I needed a break. This is, I guess, why people vacation. Something I haven't done all that much. I don't consider family vacations, in which we visit more family, a vacation. (Sorry extended family in far away places, I love you, visiting is fun and heart warming, but not restful. You know what you're like). This trip was restful. I read books, I swam, snorkelled, hiked, played in the sand. It was even sometimes hard to read because of the scenery. I was reminded of an Irishman I met on a trip to Greece once, who said that Santorini was so beautiful, 'you can't read books". Then he illustrated what he meant. He'd start reading a line or two and then have to look up, stare at the ocean and sigh. The view kept interrupting his reading. It was just like that where I was. I even got to a previously unimaginable place about two days before we left: I felt a bit bored of swimming and lying around. I did! Can you believe that? When the idea struck me, I thought 'Well, Crocker, you've made it now. Have another mai tai'. I think this trip also played out my childhood fantasy of being restored like Clara in my favourite kid book Heidi by Johanna Spyri. I've always been a sucker for stories of redemption and restoration. As a kid, I re-read Heidi so many times I lost count. For some reason I was mesmerized how the sickly Clara was nursed back to health by the clean air of the Alps, Heidi's robust spirit and Grandfather's goat cheese. What grandfather's goat cheese was to Clara, the beaches of Maui were to me. Also, I saw my husband in a new and refreshing light. One day on this trip, I mistook him for a marine mammal. I think that's good for a marriage. This isn't a beached whale reference. No, I was swimming and glimpsed the end of a flipper further out at sea just submerging, about 50 metres away from me. Of course I scoured the horizon waiting for something to surface. Was it a seal? Do they have sea lions in Hawaii? It wasn't big enough to be a whale. What was that? And then up popped a snorkeler's head. There he was, the guy I'm married to. I didn't even know he was out there. It's also refreshing to lose track of someone who is usually underfoot or who you are trying to track down to complete various household tasks. Always good to see the people close to you from a new perspective. It's too bad he can't snorkel here. He's a happy snorkeler. As I am a happy warm ocean swimmer. (I love where I live, but Lord the water is cold here. You can only stay out so long in a wet suit after your ankles go numb.) One more thing before I leave you. I was browsing my blog on my phone while away and I noticed not only a slew of typos and punctuation errors, but on the mobile version, my full name, Elizabeth, is credited. I'm not sure why that is, but I will get to the bottom of both issues. I don't know why the errors were more visible in the mobile version. Perhaps I need to proof in that format. I apologize for the typos and punctuation. That is not OK. I will make myself a mai tai and spend an afternoon fixing things up. Probably, I should have the mai tai after. Don't fear. I'll do it in that order. I've spent a lot of time at a particular park with a lake not far from my house. As I walked the dog there last Saturday I remembered a few stellar moments.
I was once a Park Interpreter at this place. Park Interpreters basically "speak for the trees", to quote the Lorax..They are the communicators and educators for everything that is protected within that park, tangible and intangible. Ecosystems, animals, plants, cultural history. But let's get away from the higher level stuff, shall we? It's the day to day where all the fun happens. Take the hundreds, of school kids who traipse into that park on a regular basis every year for educational field trips. Mostly it is challenging, fun and inspiring to create experiences for children to be in nature, but sometimes not. Sometimes it's just absurd. This particular park is loved by dogs and their owners. Unfortunately, as we all know as with anything, there is a small, but strong contingent of bad dog owners. In short, this princely lot don't pick up after their dogs. Let me explain the situation as delicately as possible. After seeing one too many small child pick up dog droppings on the trail, which to their minds looked a lot like the Banana Slugs we were encouraging them to pet, we started to patrol the trails early in the morning before the kids arrived. We did this with an old discarded golf club someone had left behind. We'd jog around the trail, rain or shine (the wet days were the worse for the misidentified-slug handling fiascos) and putted the lonely fecal remnants off the trail into the bush. My teaching partner and I would take turns putting and slow golf clapping the accuracy of the shots from the sidelines. (Note to any errant dog owners reading this: This is not ideal either, but the scope of applying the proper remedy was well beyond what the hours of our day entailed and what our patience allowed for your kind.) I used to also lead canoe program for all ages on this lake. One particular early morning canoe stands out in my mind. All the sexy wildlife came out for us that day. In every cove we paddled into there was something new. Soaring Bald Eagles, gorgeous Wood Ducks, kingfishers, ospreys, Painted Turtles, River Otters, Minks they all showed their feathered, scaly and furry faces. The lake kicked in too by decorating herself in a lovely mist, not too thick, but just enough to add to the feeling that each siting was like unwrapping a gift. Each time we turned a corner and the mist parted there was something else. It was magical The visitors in all the canoes ooohed and aaahed accordingly. And then something otherworldly. From out of the mists, just mere metres from the boats came a rowing scull. And in that scull was a famous Olympic rower who had just recently won some serious medals. No one squealed or pointed like they did when Mink pranced over the rocks. They just watched silently as athletic greatness glided past. To train for these canoeing excursions, I've purposely capsized my canoe so we could practice rescues. I did this weeks before my wedding and ended up getting pink eye, that only cleared up the day before. I'm not blaming the lake. Wait, yes I am. Finally, one class of kids will forever remain in my heart because there was this one boy. (Teachers will recognize this one boy. He was the one running around bouncing off the trees before we could get the program started). I was standing at the front of the group about to start and he whizzed past me and then darted back in front, hovering like a hummingbird. He read my name tag out loud as though I wasn't there and said to himself, "Zil? What kind of a name is Zil? This energetic, dyslexic little boy gave me a nickname I still hold today with my Park Interpreter friends. Remember that olympic rower? Not long after the canoe siting, she ran by me on a park trail with her unleashed dog. He stopped to relieve himself. She kept running. And so the circle of life and this blog is complete. “By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing. And he vows his passion is, Infinite, undying. Lady make note of this -- One of you is lying.” -Dorothy Parker I memorized this little verse during my Dorothy Parker days in my 20s. I'm sure there is absolutely no correlation between this particular verse and what was going on in my 20s. Leave that errant thought behind Dear Reader. What you need to know is that Dorothy Parker was infinitely more talented than her cynical quips and ditties about romance, But oh she had such wit! More recently than my 20s, I was able to pull another one of Parker's famous lines out from the recesses of my memory when my yoga teacher sprung one of her lesser used props on us one evening. I came into the yoga studio to find she had placed these carefully carved wooden devices (that look like broken coat hangars) next to each mat, What we were to do with them I did not know, but I was sure they would be coming into contact with my body in some way. I turned to the woman beside me and said, "What fresh hell is this?" My use of the quip aptly suited the moment, but even better is how Parker herself originally used it. Reportedly, she'd say it in response to a telephone or doorbell ringing. What fresh hell indeed. Thank you for the segue Dorothy. And so I write this during the first week of January. I live on the west coast of British Columbia where, it is true, we live in an earthquake zone, but we are also blessed with the mildest weather in Canada. Still, we like to talk about the weather like other Canadians. Sometimes I find it funny when life long west coasters, (those rare individuals who haven't come here from somewhere else), talk about winter. And by winter I don't mean grey skies and incessant heavy rain as we mean on the west coast, I mean ice and snow as experienced by the rest of the province and country. This week I overheard a darling stairwell conversation by several folks who were eagerly citing the coldest temperatures they ever experienced. Their tales were qualified by details explaining the singularity of their experiences. "One time we went to Winnipeg for Christmas and it got down to -30!." "Oh yeah, well I visited a friend in Yellowknife in March one time and with the wind chill, it was -50" Here's me sounding west coast precious. Several years ago, (the last time we had snow here), I overheard some moms in the playground complaining about having to drag out all the snow clothes for their kids for the snowfall we'd just had the day before. It was an extra pain because they were just going to have to put it all back in a few days when the snow was gone. There was not a hint of sarcasm in their voices. They were truly put out. Still, the days are short and we have to layer-up like other Canadians. Except of course the mail carriers who wear shorts all year long. (But we all know they are originally from Ontario and they just do that so they can call their friends in Toronto in January and say, "Yeah, I wore shorts again today.") Best thing about winter is hibernating. A cup of something warm and a good book. I just finished reading Dorothy Parker Drank Here, by Ellen Meister. If you like Dorothy Parker or don't know anything about her and want a taste before you dive directly into her work, I recommend. It's a good, quick, fun read. Thank you Dorothy. Thank you winter. As you were. As I sit here nibbling the last of the stale gingerbread, preparing my wardrobe for the return of Downton Abbey this evening, candles lit, tea at my side, I am swimming in warm holiday memories. (I have already blocked out the bad ones and will dredge them up later when required). For tonight People, we brace ourselves for the first full week of January, which will come all too quickly tomorrow morning. It will be brisk, so we must be kind with ourselves. Here are a few of the happy holiday memories I am carrying in my heart to get me through the next week. Feel free to borrow if you can't access your own. Let me begin by drawing your attention to the photograph of the elf. I'll tell you more about the elf later, but I feel the elf is worth mentioning twice. For now, just look and imagine the joyful industry it took someone to build that elf. Look at him with all his smug elf-ness! He is joy embodied. Funniest Family Moment: My mother in a dark, rainy parking lot, after seeing The Force Awakens, desperately, though skillfully, (not unlike a Jedi might) holding out the key fob to her mini-van at arm's length and pointing it at any vehicle that looked remotely like her own. The important detail of this image is that my mom was not in the least trying to appear warrior-like in any way. She was earnestly trying to find her van as quickly as possible while her grandchildren darted about the dark traffic. (So, there was an element of danger). Eventually it was a combination of her skill and my keen eye (I see a white van! It's white, right?) that found us our trusty ride. It was very Star Wars. Possibly you had had to be there. Best spontaneous moment: Watching The Sound of Music. I have loved the Sound of Music since I was wee and I don't associate it with Christmas as some people do (it's a bit tenuous don't you think? Just because there's a song in it that mentions a package tied up with string?) but I got a hankering to watch it a few nights ago and so we did. It was as good as ever. A long aside about The Sound of Music. I'm not a fanatical about The Sound of Music as some people are. However, in my lifetime I have:
Funny thing about being in the Nun's Choir. At the same time as I was singing all that glorious Latin, I had just started a new job, in environmental education. I was very quiet in the beginning while my co-workers were not. At all. To set the scene, it was at this job where I first heard the term "vegan Birkenstocks". There was also a couple at this workplace who had met while strapped to the front of a bulldozer at a logging protest. Although it was a whole new world for me, parts of it were strangely similar to the bible belt I had grown up in. (Angry fundamentalist Christians pretty much sounding the same as angry fundamentalist environmentalists). Thankfully not everyone I worked with was angry and judgey. Far from it, and eventually I loosened up and had great fun with some wonderful people. What has this got to do with The Sound of Music? I will tell you. One day after a long meeting, the admin person came into the room to give us all our phone messages. "And Liz, Nun's Choir practice has been cancelled for tonight." I thanked her. There was a small silence and then she moved onto the the next message. I suppose at the time I was mildly embarrassed, but didn't really know anyone well enough yet to explain what I was doing on the side for fun. Months later, one of my new work friends shyly said, "Liz, can I ask you something? Are you a nun?" Turns out since that message had been handed out, rumours had been madly circulating that the reason I was so quiet was that I was in fact a nun. Good stuff. But back to the warm holiday memories. Best holiday purchase: The fiercely knitted elf (pictured) that I bought a local craft fair. The sign said "Lumberjack Elf". Of course he is! Look at his checkered pants. Can you make out the pocket on his right hip? Regular elves don't have pockets! I can't explain it but this elf makes me smile every time I look at him. Thank you Elf and thank you to the mystery woman who knit him. I can't put it off any longer. January is here and tomorrow I will have to leave the house. Good luck to you all! The Christmas tree looks so pretty with my glasses off.
The rays of the fuzzy coloured lights bleed out into broad holy halos of unfocussed festive delight. It's like my own private light show. It's come to this, Dear Reader, that by the end of the year I am so practiced in mindfulness, gratitude and seizing every moment that simply walking into my living room without my glasses becomes a moment of rapture. This year I may have actually become whole, enlightened and self-actualized. Yes, it must be true. This leaves what to strive for in 2016 wide open. This time of year being more 'rush-y than usual, I have been reflecting more often on my ancestors. I do this when I feel like I want to sit down. Which is most of the time. When I think I can't possibly fit in a load of laundry before bed, I think that kind of defeatist thinking would have had me drowned in the cold Atlantic or worse,have had me putting out an untidy clothesline for all my neighbours to see. (Atlantic Canadian in-joke). My daughter watches cooking shows with her dad. They like Jamie Oliver. Yesterday they watched an episode where Jamie catches some fresh scallops and cooks them on the boat. Apparently, she was enthralled by this. The idea of cooking food that fresh. This kid has been lucky enough to eat a lot of seafood and some of it that fresh, She's spent time with my dad on his boat catching crabs and then watching him cook them up. But Jamie Oliver is Jamie Oliver I suppose. My daughter is also not scarred as I am, from watching my dad pick oysters off the beach, shuck them with a screw driver and slide them into his mouth. That's fresh. Also, that's gross or at least my 10 year old self thought it was gross and now I can never eat bi-valves. Solstice is here today. The days will start getting longer, but there is still plenty of dark time for reflection. Tis the season. Another year and what have you done, etc.. I for one am still here, still in love with world and also saddened by it. I suspect I am not alone as all the best Christmas songs capture the idea that we are caught up in both emotions at the end of the year. Let your hearts be light Dear Reader. Happy Holidays. Dear Reader, I have missed you! I know there are a few of you out there and believe me nothing makes me happier than knowing I'm being read. A very close second is writing this blog. I am happier when I'm regularly posting. But alas, I have been busy. There is no other way to describe it. Busy is a lazy word. But I'm still using it. I hesitate using the word 'busy' because it almost means nothing these days. Everyone is busy and as all writers know, 'busy' is the least valid excuse for not writing. You gotta make time. Yet here I am tonight, mid December, with nary a Christmas task complete, surrounded by laundry, overdue bookkeeping and writing a blog. With this I feel buoyed enough to tell you about this morning. What you should know is that I've become one of those people who start up conversations with store and restaurant staff. Sometimes it works, sometimes it backfires. The results don't bother me, I just keep doing it. This morning I walked into my favourite independent coffee shop on the way to work. and Led Zeppelin was blaring. Led Zeppelin in the morning! I couldn't help myself, as I was paying for my coffee, I blurted out to my hipster server, (quite loudly so she could hear me), "This music is an awful contrast to what Starbucks must be playing two doors down. It being the Christmas season and all." I meant to say 'drastic contrast' not 'awful', I quite like Led Zeppelin, but it was before 8 o'clock and I had not yet had coffee. I can get the Led out like anyone else, but not at 7:50 am on a Thursday morning. She studied me carefully, not smiling, the coffee scented air blowing through her gaping earlobes. Eventually, she figured out that I was just one of those harmless old people who think they're funny. She politely turned the music down and explained to me that in fact Led Zeppelin is mentioned on their store receipts, As if this somehow explained the decibel level of the music. Not that I have ever seen one of their receipts and even if I had, I probably would not be able to read it because the type is too small. Whatever, Sister. You turn the damn music down, get me a coffee and next time I'll keep my mouth shut. Unlikely, but maybe. As I sat reading this morning with my coffee, immersed in the moment, enjoying what I thought was solitude, I suddenly felt like I was being watched. Without moving my head, suspecting the dog, I use my peripheral vision to glance to my left. Indeed, there was the dog standing silently outside, less than a metre away with only a pane of glass between us, staring intently at me through the window.
Usually when he wants in, he barks. He has this annoying bark he uses only for that purpose. We call it his 'pushy puppy' bark. It has a hint of whine. It's demanding and needy. Lately though he's taken to this psychic communication. It's as though he's not only read Rupert Sheldrake's book Dogs that Know when their Owners are Coming Home but also his work on The Sense of Being Stared At and decided to combine them both and see how far he can get with them. It is mildly unnerving to realize the dog has been staring at me for God knows how long, waiting patiently and for some reason known only to himself choosing not to bark. Once I turn my head and stare at him directly, he doesn't move his body, but his tail wags slightly while he continues to look keenly into my eyes. It's like he's reeling in a fish. Like he's a duck toller and I'm the duck: "That's right Master. I'm looking at you. Now get up. Walk to the door and let me in." When I do just that and greet him at the door, he's freezing. He's only been outside about 15 minutes but it's a cold morning. There's frost. "So why not bark if you're cold?" I ask him this out loud. His response is to lean into me while I rub all his favourite spots and silently will me to never stop. My reward is this moment, realizing again just who the Master is in this relationship. I don't want to be too graphic. This is a family-rated blog after all. But the dog has taken an unholy interest in my undergarments. Let's just say he knows where the laundry hamper is and leave it at that. I figure he's either trying to tell me he really loves me or he's very angry that I'm not spending as much time with him as I used to. Either way, he's got my attention. The dog getting my attention is a good thing. In general he forces me to walk more, spend more time outside, rub his belly. This is good for both of us. Like Mary Oliver says in Little Dog's Rhapsody in the Night: (Percy Three): ... his four paws in the air and his eyes dark and fervent. Tell me you love me, he says. Tell me again. Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over he gets to ask it. I get to tell. Much has been written about animals and spirituality. How they are unburdened by ego like we are and are simply in the moment. This could be true. But much has also been written about what animals are up to when their people are away from home. If our pets are a marker of what an egoless life could be we should take note, but a guarded note. There's little spiritual purity in the domesticated life. Take the wild away completely and, ego or not, there's some unhealthy behaviour going on. I'm off to work now, but before I go, I will do a thorough check to make sure all my clothing is safely tucked away. Thanks to my dog, it's my new spiritual practice. I started thinking about this blog on Halloween. I started writing it on November 1st, (Day of the Dead). Then I stopped. Then it was Remembrance Day. More death. Then the bombings in Beirut and Paris. Let's face it, November is never a barrel of laughs and this one in particular has been dark. Even the silly James Bond movie I saw on Friday opened with a Day of the Dead scene in Mexico City.
It's not as though I was looking for a way to be funny about November or write lightly about death, that's not my intention at all, but I was looking for an angle. A way in. A way to think about it, with a little space around it. This is what I came up with: None of us are getting out of this alive. Not really funny or meant to be, but this sentence helps me to not cling too tightly to the less important impermanent things of the world. Things like mortgages and mean, crazy people. It helps me to better focus on the living, breathing (also impermanent) beings that I do love. The people, dogs, critters, trees, oceans, rivers and forests that I share the world with. When I started to write this blog, I immediately started writing about my maternal grandmother, Grandmere. Grandmere comes to my mind in November quite often. Not because she died in November or because she was all sweetness and light. She certainly was not, but because she loved ghost stories. I wanted to include a picture in this post of the my copy of Bluenose Ghosts by Nova Scotia folklorist Helen Creighton, but I can't find the book. I will admit that when I couldn't find it, I had a fleeting thought that Grandmere had taken it. I thought this even though Grandmere has been dead for quite some time. It's not a stretch for me to have a thought (although fleeting) about a ghost taking a book. Grandmere, loved telling ghost stories and I loved hearing them. It's probably why she gave me the book (which I will find). Wiccans consider this time of year, specifically October 31st (Samhain) the holiest time of the year because they believe the veils between the two worlds are the thinnest at this time. When I first heard this 'thinning of the veils' and two worlds idea, I did not think this was strange at all since I had a grandmother who regularly spoke of spirits and ghosts and The Other Side. In fact, the last thing Grandmere said to me on my visit to Nova Scotia before she died was, "See you on the Other Side." Grandmere had a wicked sense of humour but I knew she didn't mean the kitchen. If she had meant the kitchen, she would have meant The Big Kitchen in the Sky, which I just made up. The Big Kitchen in the Sky could be an imagined heaven for Catholic raised French Canadian women like Grandmere. who go on to make endless batches of divine chocolate fudge for their also deceased friends and family while telling riveting ghost stories about the lives they left behind. This is not such a stretch for me to imagine either. I inherited Grandmere's imagination, her fudge making and storytelling abilities. Not a bad legacy and a good enough reason to spend a November afternoon in my own kitchen, stirring fudge over the stove and telling stories to whoever will listen. |
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