Miles Away

She was no more than nineteen or twenty, tall, maybe six feet, with wide hips and a flat stomach. She had long auburn hair that framed a pretty face and a smile that made working nights a profitable experience. When the Fabulous Bee told her the cigarette machine took our money but didn't give us the cigarettes, she took charge of the situation and brought her hips to bear on the problem. She checked the machine once, twice, and then two or three more times, with no result. I was enjoying the show and the cigarette machine stubbornly held on, while the small crowd in the bar watched; this was a regular confrontation and they had money on their girl. Her feet took over for awhile and she steadily kicked the face of the machine with the flat of her foot about seven times, the last from about five feet away and finally the machine spit out the package. The bar erupted in cheering and the bartender, glorious after battle, threw her arms in the air while I grabbed the cigarettes and the Fabulous Bee laughed so hard I thought she would pee herself.
There have been people living on the plains, on the shoulder of the St Laurence river, for close to two hundred and fifty years. Kamouraska is still a small town but there is history under every rock and along the seaweed encrusted beach, enough to fill the houses for rent every season, but not enough to last into the winter. Just like any tourist destination, however, the local people have a love/hate relationship with the crowds who file into the bakery every morning, or fill the pews of the magnificent Catholic church on Sunday mornings. At this time of year the streets are empty and the wind blowing in off the river has convinced all that this winter will be no different from any that has proceeded it. I imagine that this is a desolate, lonely place to be in February.
I walked the length of town one morning, while the girls slept off a pre-wedding hangover and felt as lonely as I ever have in my life. The tide was in, covering the eel traps and the walk along the beach left me at odds with the ocean once again. I had seen the ocean once briefly, years ago and I thought nothing of it. It wasn't until Beth took me swimming in it did I notice the pull, the sleepy consciousness of the waves and the mystery. I'm beginning to understand why people can't leave it alone.
I know so little about the world, it's hidden pockets of beautiful anger, it's mesmerizing touch. As far as I've traveled, I have so far to go. For now I've wrapped that memory and folded it away; the long drive, the cottage on the beach, the symbolism of the wedding ceremony and the dancing until two in the morning. Unwrapping it later will be like finding a time capsule filled with a shell, a picture of a couple, happy at the beginning, a memory of hotels perched on the hill, empty until spring and the arpeggiated whistle of the wind over the waves.
Kamouraska? I've been there. Once, at the end of the summer, for a wedding. It was beautiful.