I thought I would see if I could squeeze in a quick blog post here. Not that I don’t think I will be able to get this blog done but the operative word in that statement is “quick”. I seemingly never can have a quick anything. I always end up dawdling, starting in on something not meant to take up a whole whack of time, but it ends up consuming more than I ever intended it to.
I get that (amongst other things) from my dad. One day my brother and I went fishing with my dad–ice fishing to be precise. While en route to Pigeon Lake, we stopped for gas at the Shell gas station in Calmar. My dad hops out, starts to fuel up while my brother and I sat in the truck, waiting. Well, there is nothing quite so hard as waiting, especially when you would rather be fishing so as the tank filled my brother and I filled the void by listening to the rhythmic ker-chunk-ker-chunking of the gas pump, impatiently hypnotized by the sound. After what seemed like a decade, there was the welcome and loud sound of a thunk! which signalled the tank was full and that we would soon be on our way. My brother and I both unconsciously adjusted ourselves in our seats, tightened our lap belts and settled ourselves in preparation for resuming our trip; but that was when dad proceeded to head inside to pay.
“Sigh,” I said. “He didn’t pay at the pump.”
My brother exhaled, re-centering his chakra in preparation for the prolonged wait. We watched the station’s door and awaited my father’s return. With a tinkling, the bell that hung above the door announced his coming and he reappeared from inside, heading toward the truck. We occupants inside the cab performed the same ritual of settling ourselves again for the inevitable drive–only we were to be confounded once more. My dad opened the driver’s door and, instead of jumping aboard, began to root through the centre console. We watched, alarmed that we had been foiled again as, after a moment of searching, he produced a tire pressure gauge. He exited the truck, closed the door with a bang and went around checking the pressure of all the tires.
“Sigh!” I said, again but this time with more feeling.
“We are never gonna make it at this rate,” my brother replied to my audible expression of dissatisfaction.
“Can you believe all this lollygagging?” I asked.
“I know. Just look at all that lollygagging.”
“Consummate lollygagger, I should say.”
“And I’d agree,” my brother said, nodding solemnly. “Look at this!” he added as we watched my dad start squeegeeing the windshield clean. “Will there be no end to the lollygaggery?”
“The fish are all going to be dead by the time this lollygagging comes to an end!” I added emphatically, listening to the interminable squeaking of rubber against glass. Our conversation–no our whining, was about to be cut short. At that exact moment, my dad stopped his lollygagging and looked at my brother and I through the side window where we sat in the truck and said,
“Maybe if you guys would help me with my lollygagging?” he said, punctuating his statement with a shake of his head.
“Gulp!” I said.
“He could hear us the whole time?” Ben said under raised eyebrows. By this time my dad finished doing his lollygagging and jumped back in the truck. My brother and I did not settle ourselves in or sit nearly so comfortably for a moment before my dad looked at us and then burst out laughing.
“Lollygagging, hey?” he said and my brother and I joined in laughing with him.
Since then the term lollygagging is one frequently bandied about in my family’s circles–aimed mostly at my dad who is lovingly bugged about his lollygagging–a trait I have been saddled with to a small degree as well.
Take today for instance. It is well past 7 o’clock and I have yet to post. And, what’s worse, in all this meandering narrative I have still not even gotten to the original point I set out to cover when I began writing. I think it was something about Charles Dickens and how I think he is my ancestor, if my memory serves me correctly. That was what I wanted to write about; but, yet again, I have lollygagged my way into a corner and there is no easy way out. So, after all that and for the sake of decency, I think I will leave it at that and save good old Charles Dickens for tomorrow.
What I will do is leave you with a photograph of cookies. Because fresh cookies are awesome. And right after these were strewn about my countertop this afternoon still hot from the oven, I ate four and then took a picture and ate four more.
I’m a pig–but a pig with no eater’s remorse whatsoever.