Poison ivy, Publicity, and Ostriches

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I applied the salve that night and the next morning I saw amazing improvement. The swelling had subsided and the old layers of skin were actually sloughing off. From then on it healed with remarkable speed.

Even so, I wore long green sleeves when I read at Elaine's Books that Thursday. Despite the anxiety, which had made me into sausage the preceding week, the actual gathering—consisting largely of friends from the North Shuswap communitywas low key. And to my delight I discovered that I enjoyed sharing passages from my book aloud—words born and shaped in the solitude of the Coast Mountain forest. Having read stories aloud to my children for so many years, I was comfortable with my own voice.

The reading launched me on my small publicity tour. Whitecap Books had reserved a room for me at the glittering Waterfront Centre Hotel in Vancouver. Affluent-looking tourists and porters with sky-high piles of luggage glided across the floors, in front of columns and mirrors, beneath a glass ceiling that hovered somewhere in the outer galaxies. I felt my country roughness grate against the slickness of the city. I would rather have been sitting on a mountaintop breathing in the wind. No less than five uniformed receptionists waited behind a roped off counter. I had the misfortune of being summoned by what at first appeared to be a nine foot blonde Barbie with an attitude. Flipping with lethal fingernails through her file, she then asked to see my credit card. When I told her I didn't have credit cards, she opted for a twenty-dollar deposit for each night. When Whitecap got wind of this the next day, it resulted in a personal apology from the manager.

That evening after, the Canucks lost to the New York Rangers and 90,000 people rioted in downtown Vancouver. When the swell of sound rose to the nineteenth floor, I hopped out of bed and rushed to the window. The riot's epicenter was several blocks away. The next day I drove down Robson Street and the elaborate display of smashed windows spoke volumes about a spiritually bankrupt fragment of society. Desperate to believe in something, sports heroes were elevated to the status of gods. When their gods lost all hell broke loose.

I returned to Shuswap Lake with renewed gratitude for our home in the country. Meanwhile, the North Shuswap community was gearing up for another hectic summer. Events included the nineteenth annual Squilax Powwow, the eighth annual Shuswap Bluegrass Festival, and also the first ever Spaghetti Western. A group of local actors and musicians were pooling their talents, and along with an array of songs and skits, they planned to serve a spaghetti dinner complete with homemade sauces and desserts. Rumors of six thousand meatballs for each performance were rolling through the neighborhood.

I also got back in time to accompany Ben and his class on their final field trip of the year. I wasn't the only local bird to be enjoying publicity. Three males, named Banjo, Blueboy, and Bullet, and two females—Lady and Hope—were basking in the limelight at Oliver's ostrich farm, at the junction of Line 17 and Evans Road.

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