Okay, here’s the truth. I haven’t read a book in three weeks. Yep. Revoke my bookselling license.
I went from Boston to the Tidewater to attend back to back conferences and do my rural schtick. Meanwhile Jack and his team ran the Celtic Festival without me and the bookstore turned into command central. I STILL don’t know the names of the guys who slept in the Science Fiction section. But they had towels, and that’s the important thing.
My dad’s heart scare turned into open heart surgery which started the day the conference I actually run started, two days after the conference in Tidewater ended. No pressure. With the excellent assistance of my friend Beth and her minion Mindy-the-amazing, we pulled that off. We even managed a really nice tie-in featuring Barbara Dickson, from our Celtic festival, as the entertainment at the historic Lincoln Theatre for the conference attendees.
Holding my annual board retreat three hours after the conference ended, in the same resort, was one of those ideas that seemed good at the time. I had even pre-packaged folders for each board member and left them in a box in my car. With a couple of hours of down time between the attendees leaving and the board convening I figured I’d move the folders to the meeting site, then have a nice leisurely lake swim. I’d be headed to my parents’ after the board meeting, so a chance to relax sounded good.
Arriving at the lake behind the rest of the leisure-seekers post-conference, I found mhy husband Jack sunbathing on the pier and asked him where our car was parked. “Oh,” he says, “Barbara and Oliver took it to the boat docks so they could rent a canoe. They’ll be out on the water by now. And the car will be locked. They said they’d be gone all afternoon. Why? Did you need something from it?”
I stared at him. Looked out at the lake. And saw Barbara and Oliver stroking into view, headed upriver to the Great Unknown.
Without hesitation I dove off the pier, leaving Jack somewhat startled behind me. And wet.
Making for the canoe with all the speed a lifetime of lifeguarding had taught me, I shouted “I need the car key!” (I was doing breast stroke by then so shouting didn’t make me drown.)
A bit nonplussed, the pair heaved to alongside a floating dock in the middle of the lake. Oliver hauled out the electronic key and gave me a dubious look.
“We can’t bring the canoe to shore in the swim area, and you can’t get this wet. How are you–?”
I opened my mouth. He sighed and placed the key. I fought the urge to cough as I swam back to shore, bobbing above the waves, not thinking about 20 feet of dark water below me and what would happened if I sneezed.
As I reached shore, the onlookers clapped. I handed the key to Jack, who trotted off to fetch the board folders. I swam for another hour, threw my blazer, blouse, and fresh black trousers on over the damp suit, and dashed around the front of the restaurant to meet the first of my board members. We had a lovely time setting strategy for the coming year, and ended in a timely manner with good vibes all around. No one commented on the fact that my clothes were slowly showing dark patches of water.
So no, I haven’t read a book in three weeks. I rather look forward to getting back to it. Meanwhile, let the Stupid Key Swim of 2016 stand as a metaphor for all the moments when we act with desperation rather than thought–and it works.