One week till Con-Version. Oh. My. God.

My holiday starts tomorrow. One week off work, most of which will be spent in preparation for the convention. The program books need to be put together, junk for the slave auction has to be made and printed, and our registration guy may need some help too. Sigh. I sure hope I can find some time to spend on my bike.

You may not hear much from me this week, but I'll do my best.

Last night was another typical 'no time to spend at home' evening. At least this one wasn't too much in the way of obligations. Just lots to do.

Picked up the car from Lisa's work and headed over to... (dum dum DUM) the Comic Shop!

ah, tim. i think i missed you most of all... what do you mean this is the last issue???

I haven't bought comics in about three years. I ran out of money back then, as the company I was working for thought it would be a brilliant idea to not pay me for the last two months I worked there. But now that we're starting to get our debt behind us, we thought it might be nice to invest a little of our money back into fun things.

We budgeted $20 a week for each for us to do whatever we wanted. In Lisa's case, she found a riding stable that would do half hour lessons for $20. She and Ronja have been taking lessons for the last couple weeks and are having a grand old time by the sound of things.

My choice was comics.

Yeah, I know. I'm 28 (29 in 5 days!). So what?

I'm not going into a big argument about comics as a viable form of literature -- I'll leave that to the greats like Scott McLeod and such -- save to say that some modern comics are better written that your average hack novel, with richer detail and more in-depth background and characterization.

I missed the comic store. Browsing through the new titles, flipping pages, picking and choosing your purchases with the care in which you would pick a fine wine or brand of massage oil. Chatting with the owners about the state of comics today, what's hot and what's failing. It's a sub-culture of it's own, baby, and bears only a passing resemblance to the comic store on The Simpsons.

After making my purchases, I stopped off at my folks' house to use the washroom. They're off in BC right now, so having the house to myself I succumbed to temptation and sat down at the piano.

Another thing that has been missing from my life for years. I haven't played since I moved out six years ago. I'm not a terribly good player, and have a real phobia about playing in front of anyone, but I love how it feels to have the keys slide under your fingers and to feel the music flowing from you, into the piano and back.

(Side note on my playing phobia: Whenever Mom would hear me practicing on the piano as a kid, she would be so happy that she would creep down the stairs, and stand just at the bottom, so she could hear me better. Problem was, where she stood was usually just within my range of vision, so I would spy her and be startled. 'Mom!' I would bleat, and she would grin and go back upstairs. Left me scarred, emotionally speaking. Another story for the therapist.)

I don't know how to explain it to anyone who doesn't play music, but when you everything works, when you don't have to think about what key to press next or when to let up on the pedal or how you are going to turn the page without dropping it on the floor... it's magic. The music simply flows from you. You are not so much its creator as its carrier. Tapping into something majestic and powerful. Admittedly, there was little enough of that the other night -- it's horrifying how much I've forgot -- but there were a couple moments when I could feel it.

The next stop on my journey was over to my grandfather's house to pick some raspberries. One corner of his backyard is infested with these bushes and it's the middle of the ripening season here. He's off on holidays with my uncle and cousin, but he left a bucket for me to fill and take home.

Before she died, my grandmother used to spend countless hours in the raspberry patch, choosing each berry she picked to make sure they were ripe (but not too ripe). She would fill every piece of Tupperware and every old margarine container in her house with them, liberally coated with sugared. She would make jar after jar of raspberry jam -- enough to keep the whole family happy for the next year, if not more.

Grandma didn't even like raspberries. But she knew we all did.

Once in a while we would go out and pick with her, our little hands stuffing every third one into our greedy mouths while Grandma admonished us with a gentle smile, 'If you eat them all now, there won't be any for supper!' Which was silly, because there was always more.

I miss my Grandma a whole lot. It didn't matter how many years went by, she just kept going back into the raspberry patch. She was like that, you know?

I've missed Grandma a lot over the couple years since she died. It's worse, of course, around holidays and birthdays and such, but I've never felt so... so much like there was something missing from the world, as when I stood there last night with berry juice on my hands.

I felt so close to her, to my memories of her. But still so very, very far away.

Need a kleenex?

What was yesterday again?

Why don't you have a forum?

Take me home, big fella