Break a Leg

Post-Trip Post-Script

I was ambling outside at the witching hour last night, frustrated at yet another lost Internet connection. Walking through the warm air in the utter dark, I wondered about the nature of our dependence on technology, its deep mystery (to me), and the nature of fandom.

The latter came up for me about two weeks ago, when I made my bi-annual trip “up North” to my parents’ Northern Albertan goat farm. It’s beautiful up there. Usually the drive takes me 9 hours, and people ask me how I can stand it. Music obviously goes a long way, as do pleasant thoughts to keep the mind occupied. But deeper than that, I love it there. The three hours between Edmonton and Calgary are a straight road; no worries there at all. Through Edmonton, which seats so many pleasant memories for me, and afterwards—the wild. Of course, between stretches of bush, with lakes and swirling rivers, there are tamed lands, farmland, some with gigantic houses on them, pristine and pretentious looking, others with run-down shacks rotting slowly into the ground. But this is my home, this “up North”.

The night air outside tonight is swoel, a Dutch word that has no proper translation into the English language. No word captures the connotative essence that is associated with that word, as so many meanings are lost in this way. Swoel means that the air is a little soft, a little warm, pleasant. I wish others would understand this word the way I do, could share with me experience that is so tightly wrapped up in language.

I feel, oddly enough, a little the same about Break a Leg. For the first time ever, I have allowed myself to sink fully into fandom, from my first post to now my first blog. And yet, as I burrow deeper and deeper into this blissful state of appreciation, pampered by weekly humour, fan-creator interaction, and the comfort of fellow fans, I am aware that here, not many others speak this language. Quotes are lost; jokes are missed. It’s like I’m a foreigner again.

It is up North that I first realized I had, despite my best intentions, fallen in love with Canada. I’d vowed, in my childishness, to hate it forever, but I still remember the moment I knew I was lost to this place. Traveling on a Greyhound bus between two small towns, I looked out the window upon the hills of the Peace Valley and saw shoots of dried, yellow-brown grass sticking up through the encrusted snow. It was so familiar, so remarkable in its simplicity. I was hooked.

Being up there now is different. My parents’ farm counts two of the most wonderful people in the world, five dogs ranging from tiny to giant, a cat, chickens, ducks, hundreds of goats, and sometimes a herd of foster children. The welcome they bestow upon any guest, let alone their daughter, is heartwarming; however, I miss city life whenever I go. I can’t just go for a quick visit—it’s a nine hour drive and I have to make it worthwhile—and often I am afraid of how much I’ll miss the things I’ve grown used to: paved roads, manicured parks, an Internet connection. Despite the beautiful greenery that has sprung up after last week’s rain, the heat since has reduced everything to a dusty crumbling. While I’m there, I write a horribly unfunny blog about BaL withdrawal. I read St. Anna’s blog, which is just about the only thing on the BaL page that will load out there on the farm, and delete mine in frustration. I’m determined to hate it there.

But slowly, as I spend time with my family, things get a little better. The Pomeranian, Pasha, is the cutest thing to play with and drive crazy. His level of being adorable is surpassed only by my niece, fed pieces of garlic bread and soup by her dad, my brother, my favorite person in this whole Universe. (She has her own soup bowl. He doesn’t like the thought of her dipping her drooly bread in his bowl. It reminds me of the times when, gagging, he’d make me clean up after his cat got sick.) Watching movies with my brother, crafting with my inspiring, creative mom, writing and talking with my brilliant dad, all seems to while the time away and suddenly, I don’t miss the city as much. Suddenly, it’s like recognizing the familiar, the simple, like a reed in some snow, and marveling at just how beautiful it is. And how easy to take for granted.

Now that I have stocked up on Northern memories to tide me over for a while, to be among my own things, in my own little niche of Femke energy, is like a breath of fresh air that I can appreciate more after breathing in the actual fresh air of the farm.

I love the farm, but it’s good to be home.

Break a Leg is here.

Femke

P.S. Does this picture look familiar to anyone...?

Always Fresh looks a lot like the Break a Leg font... with the Break a Leg highlighter on it. Are the guys making their money by advertising at supermarkets?