Happy Canada Day!

Talking (complaining) about the weather is practically an official national pass time up here in the great white north. So patriotically speaking I should give a weather report today. Here it is the 1rst of July and there is frost on the ground. My Japanese bell fountain has an actual layer of ice floating on the water. I’m afraid to go out to the gardens. I don’t want to know what I’ve lost this time. Last year it snowed on July 13th.

Generally when the mornings are this cold and the sky is this blue, it’s a pretty good indication that we’re in for some blistering weather. Guess I’ll go thaw out the sunscreen. I love my Canada—yes I do! I’ll be doing my flag waving from home. The cowpoke and I are just not good in crowds.

We shop for groceries once or twice a month. Last time we made the trek to town it was a complete zoo. The mercury was peaking out of control. The tourists were swarming like locusts and parking their giant RV’s willy-nilly all over the place.

To make matters worse we are in the ‘give me forty acres and I’ll turn this pig around’ farm truck. Now, one of the cowpokes philosophies on life is, ‘God wouldn’t have created horses if he expected us to walk.’ You can probably see where this day is headed.

It begins with a long line-up at the bank. No, that’s not accurate. Make that a long wait in a short slow line at the bank.

Next stop--the grocery store, and it’s insane. After what us gals like to refer to as ‘the forced march’ around the store, we reach the check out zone, only to discover that one of the bagboys is directing traffic.

Are they still called bagboys? If they were--would the female ones be referred to as bag ladies? Apart from the obvious silliness of that one, it wouldn’t be politically correct. Would it? On the other hand… they do have a lot of handy shopping carts at their disposal. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

Anyway, the bagboy, or whatever he’s called, is directing traffic and forming one long line that stretches way in hell back to the deli. The cowpoke, who is usually a very polite yes sir thank you ma’am kind of guy, rudely responds with, “You’re jokin’ me!” and begins grumbling something about herding people like stupid cattle as he shuffles off to the back of the line.

So we get to the back of the chute, I mean line, and make half-hearted jokes with the other folks there about how the establishment should be bringing us coffee and sandwiches to sustain us through this ordeal. Well some of us do.

As we approach the check out lines, for the second time, I notice that the bagboy sporting the cheeky green apron is frantically shooing the person ahead of us down to a distant check out. I look around. That’s funny, I’m thinking, because there is one teller available who has a much shorter queue. Huh. Maybe the bagboy is hoping to cheer up the cowpoke or--maybe he just wants to get the brooding cowboy out of the store quicker. Yeah, that’s probably the one.

I make eye contact with the little bagboy and smile knowingly. I feel sorry for him after the cowpokes uncharacteristic and uncharitable behavior earlier. The bagboy grins back. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. His smile reminds me of a laugh that my granddaughter has described in her writing. ‘It’s not the one that rings like a bell, but the other one-- the evil one.’ Oh, oh.

My curiosity is peaked now. What is that bagboy in the kelly-green apron up to? Hmm. I love poetic justice and I can detect the sweet scent of it hovering in the air.

Ahhhh! There is an elderly couple going through our designated check out. Slowly. And they only have three items for the poor bag lady to run around and price check. The old man walks back and picks a huge watermelon off the conveyer belt. “I’ll just move this big pumpkin into our shopping cart before it rolls off.” He says. “The sign said it was $5.00.”

I smile. They might be slow but they are cute, and they are attempting to lighten the mood. Unlike some people I know. So I’m a little surprised when the, as yet unseen, tellers voice rises sternly from behind the big screen. “Do you mean the watermelon sir?”

Snort! She can’t be serious.

I’m in an exceptionally good mood at this point. Because… I have just advanced to the point in the check out line where I can see the tellers name plate. It is inordinately large and says. ‘My name is CHARLENE. I’m in TRAINING.’ Oh ya! I look around to tip my hat to the precocious bagboy but he is nowhere to be seen. Chicken.

The cowpoke finishes unloading the shopping cart and moves up to stand beside me, he’s all cool, and resigned now--he can see the door. I hold my breath waiting for that golden moment when he notices the billboard on CHARLENE’S chest.

I flash a sidelong look at the cowpoke. His eyes are narrowed to slits beneath the brim of his weathered straw cowboy hat. He nods his head slowly, up and down, and speaks dryly. “That Check-out Police Guy put me in this line on purpose.”

“Yes,” I say. “He did.”

I feel a bubble of laughter rising in my throat.

And 'it's not the one that rings like a bell, but the other one—’