Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
When Favorite Young Man was a rowdy Favorite Young Boy and The Hurricane was so little that she didn't even show signs of becoming a tropical storm, we lived near Seattle. Every now and again, we'd hop on a ferry to visit the beauty that is Canada.
On one trip, we spent the afternoon in Stanley Park in Vancouver, British Columbia––one thousand acres of heaven.
We went to an outdoor show at the aquarium:
It was a perfect, early summer's day.
We also strolled around the park for a while, and stopped where we saw swings and children playing so Favorite Young Boy could expend some of his boundless energy. Now, you have to understand something about the person who is now Favorite Young Man. When I popped him out at the hospital, he came out screaming I'm gonna end up with all sorts of injuries and scars from skateboarding, roller blading, bicycling, and a bunch of sports. I'll cover myself in tattoos, too.
Therefore, Favorite Young Boy didn't find some other kids with whom to play tag or claim a swing. No, he ran off to climb a tree.
Before we could say, Where in the hell has that kid gone now? he had his foot stuck in the crook of a tree and was hanging upside down, well above the ground.
He has always sworn that his father and I simply stood there and looked at him while he swayed in the breeze, but in reality, we dashed over to pull him out of the tree. On that one occasion, he did not suffer any injuries.
The subject of You stood and looked at me while I hung upside down in the tree continues to come up, but now Favorite Young Man has changed his tune. Last week he told me that he wished we had left him in the tree so he could have become a Canadian.
Hell, yeah, I said. Some nice Canadians would have pulled you out of the tree, taken you home with them, and given you an excellent childhood. Now you'd be a happy Canadian. What a mistake we made when we saved your sorry now-tattooed ass.
No doubt the story of the boy in the tree in Stanley Park in Vancouver, British Columbia, will come up again, as these tales do. Until the day I die, I expect to be accused of standing around to watch as he hung upside down in the tree. But now, I stand accused of eventually rescuing him when he could have had a better life as a Canadian.
I can't win.
Infinities of love,