Here I sit at the picnic table in the “Land of Departure” at the Ellerslie campus–directly between the girls’ dorm and the boys’ dorm. I’m overlooking the lake as the sun goes down–silhouetting the mountains against the faintest pink of the sky.
Music floats softly from the girls’ dorm as one of the students is playing the piano. The whirring of a vacuum is escaping from one of the boy’s windows–assuring me that that work duty is being completed.
Laughter and voices float around me as I type–a couple girls are sitting down on a bench by the lake. Happy geese couples are teaching their babies to swim and dive.
All is peaceful on the Ellerslie campus…
AND I AM BEING EATEN ALIVE BY THESE STINKIN’ MOSQUITOES.
Ok, now I’m sitting in the Victory Wing on one of the lovely red couches, and peering triumphantly and smugly out the window at the masses of mosquitoes. You can’t touch me here, little beasts!
A couple days ago I was standing in line at a local coffee shop–I needed something cold. I can’t have caffeine, but so long as I can still have a tall-decaf-caramel-frap-with-half-the-syrup-and-caramel-sauce-on-the-sides-of-the-cup-please?-thank-you! well, by golly, I’m going to have one. So, I was standing in line patiently waiting my turn, really not paying much attention to anything around me–eerily oblivious, really, considering the way I usually pay attention to the things around me
As it came to be my turn to order, I stepped right up and rattled off my order, dug out my pocket-book, and prepared to whip out my credit card with a flourish, when suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder–
“Excuse me, ma’am.” A voice floated down at me from somewhere far, far above the region from which I’m generally accustomed to hearing voices.
I halted in my diggings through my pocket book and turned myself around to see who was poking me and, furthermore, to see from whence came this disembodied voice from above me.
As I turned, I came face to face with…some knees. No, really, this chap was tall…which explains the second-story voice quality he had. But back to the knees, though–I was very close to these knees. Fortunately, they were knees which even P. G. Wodehouse would have been proud of–fine British (German?) knees, I’m sure.
Now that I had discovered from whence came the voice and the poke–although, really, he would have had to quite bend in half to reach my shoulder, so perhaps the jury is still out on whether or not the poke actually came from him–I had only to answer his query.
“Yes?” I called up at him.
“I should very much like to buy you your drink, little girl.” He vociferated back down at me. And perhaps he didn’t call me “little girl”, but with the sheer height of the chap, I’m not sure that any other moniker would have been appropriate coming from him. Next to him, I am little. Minuscule, even.
I gaped back up at him awkwardly for a moment–awkward because I was gaping up at him, and awkward because I was gaping up at him. Very far up at him.
I finally nodded and said something quite inane, I’m sure, and he then dug for his pocket book, and whipped his credit card out with a flourish and paid for my tall-decaf-caramel-frap-with-half-the-syrup-and-caramel-sauce-on-the-sides-of-the-cup-please?-thank-you!
I thanked him profusely, and he nodded a few times, but not another word of conversation passed between us while we each waited for our drinks to be delivered to the counter. Once he had acquired his tall-skinny-something-or-other drink (ironically, it really was a tall-skinny drink–this was Starbucks we were at, and thus they use such verbiage), he high-tailed out of the store with his knees and that was the last I saw of him.
I’m still wondering what I ever did to make him want to purchase my drink for me. But, such details aside, I shall forever be impressed with the sheer height of the chap.