Oh, to play tennis now that Spring is here HEATHER DAVIS
It's Tuesday, May Whatever.
I think I counted about thirty-two stuffed animals hanging on the clothesline, mostly bears, hanging neatly by their ears, and dripping water on the sun-warmed concrete. Clearly the resident little person had been doing his/her Spring cleaning.
It wasn't the only sign that Spring was here. I also saw luminous green grass, candy-coloured tulips, and topless old men riding rickety bicycles. And of course, with the trees and the flowers and the grass came the (ah-ah-ah-) aaaaaa-allergies that conspire to make my life miserable.
But they weren't the only thing bothering me this Spring. I was bummed because we were broke -- a really 21st century broke -- meaning up to our noses in debt. A student loan kind of broke, a recently moved across Canada kind of broke, a no-credit to buy a house kind of broke, and partly a quality of life choice kind of broke.
Of course, the problem wasn't being broke. I had been broke for a long time.
The problem was that I wanted to play tennis.
This was something I was able to do in Vancouver whether I was broke or only half-broke. But in Drummondville it was going to cost us at least $100 to gain access to a court and needless to say, we didn't have it. And so, I became depressed at the thought of a tennis-less summer.
Then I thought: Why be depressed? Why not be rebels with a cause? Why not play tennis wherever and whenever we can? (Long live free access to recreation!)
So on Tuesday May whatever, we headed down to a set of beautiful courts by the river. And we played. Only one of the four courts was being used, anyway. And somehow, I felt better.
Maybe Spring has a way of making you believe nothing matters. After playing, we sat by the St-François River. Ghis meandered off to get the sunscreen from the car and while he was gone, the wind gently flipped through the pages of his book.
When he came back, I put on the sunscreen which smelled like a giant papaya. "Things are not so bad," I thought as I gazed across the sparkling river.
I played an old trick and imagined myself into an empty-looking house on the far bank -- an expensive one. It was close to the water and had a pool. "I could laze around there on hot days," I thought, "the icy cold water reviving and revitalizing me."
Or how about the two-story blue house with the round submarine window? I could carry a tall lemonade up the stairs in the afternoons and sit in my submarine office and write a novel.
Suddenly, like a rock splashing into the glassy water, I woke up. I was not there, I was here, and I didn't have a house. I didn't have the money to buy a house and I wasn't sure when I would -- unless the river bank could give us a loan.
Then a realization floated by on a Spring breeze and I grabbed it. It was Tuesday May whatever and I was not at work like the people who lived in the houses. Maybe we didn't have money, but we had time. And playing rebel tennis and sitting in the sun with the-one-I-that-I-love? What could be better than that?
Copyright © 2000 Heather Davis/Log Cabin Chronicles/05.2000 |
