Incensed

I was two weeks post surgery when I got the call that my Grandmother had just had two strokes. She's the closest thing I've ever had to a mother and I desperately wanted to see her again before she died--and, from what I was told, it looked like the end was near. Talking it over, Jim and I decided that we would leave as soon as I was well enough and he had a break in his classes.

So two days after the doctor released me to drive, Jim and I packed up the family and began the long drive to Vermont. Thankfully, for my early birthday present, Pat cleaned out the van and helped me pack up everything our family of five would need in the Deep North.

There wasn't much I needed to bring other than clothes, some good books, my knitting and one fir-scented candle that I lovingly and carefully transported over 600+ miles. A good candle can soothe the soul and it's always nice to have the scent of Christmas in December. Also, the cabin we stay in is a converted hunting camp. The children call it "our cabinet" and it's not too much bigger than that: three "rooms" separated by walls in some places, but not by doors. That's part of the beauty of it, and another reason why a scented candle would be a useful thing.

One night during our stay at the cabinet, Jim came to bed and as we sat there reading I noticed a very strong perfume scent.
"Are you wearing perfume?" I asked, starting to sniff around for the origination of the odor.
"No!" he said as he self-consciously rubbed his hands together.
I grabbed his hands and sniffed them: the strong scent of pine emanated from them.
"Why are your cuticles green? Is that wax? Why do you smell like my candle?" I shot out of bed and into the kitchen where my candle sat on the table...only it wasn't my candle any more. Sticking two inches up out of the middle was one of those white emergency taper candles and the green wax from MY candle looked like it had been regurgitated by a chipmunk and piled up around the emergency candle.

Here's something you may not know about me: when I get really upset or angry, my voice reaches octaves so high only dogs can hear it. Instantly I reached that pitch, rounding on Jim.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY CANDLE? YOU RUINED MY CANDLE!"
I was livid, furious, turning red and purple and screaming at a pitch so high I could hardly hear myself.

Without moving, Jim replied, "If you had just waited two hours, you never would have known that anything had happened to your candle. I fixed it!"

"YOU FIXED IT? YOU DIDN'T FIX ANYTHING! YOU BROKE IT!"

"If you calm down and wait a while, you'll see that it will be fine," he said, returning to his book.

Eventually the vein in my throat stopped pulsing, the emergency candle burned down to the green wax and the candle reconstituted itself. Sort of.

The next night, we were again reading when Jim got up and went into the kitchen. Two minutes later I heard a thump, a crash and the tinkle of delicate glass breaking.

I didn't even get up. I knew what had happened.

"Did you break my candle?"

"Don't worry--I can fix it!" Jim replied from the kitchen.

At that point I resigned myself to the reality that the candle was no more and I went on reading. It couldn't possibly get worse....

I couldn't possibly have been more wrong.

For dinner that night, Jim had made himself spaghetti with a mackerel tomato sauce. He "fixed" my candle by replacing its glass housing with the tin can from the mackerel.

I now had a mackerel-infused fir scented candle in a tin can. I resisted the urge to get up and hurl it out of the window.

When I calmed down *again*, I told this story to my family. My Aunt Sarah listened intently, no sign of surprise on her face and, when it was over, she looked calmly at Jim and asked, "What was going through your mind the first time you messed with the candle?"

We all laughed...until we realized she was serious: she really wanted to hear the answer. "Because it seems to be something about men and candles," she continued. "They can't help but touch them. All my boys did. And I want to know what it is that makes you do it."

No Problem, Mon

Beach view, Negril, Jamaica

Just got back from a four-day Girls Vacation to Jamaica. No children, no men, no cooking, no cleaning, no laundry, no driving--for four whole days. Clear, jewel-colored water; fine, white sand; alcohol and food on-demand and nothing to do. Absolute bliss. I discovered a love of snorkeling and spent at least an hour watching the way sunlight ran across the rippled, sandy bottom of the ocean. Others in my party enjoyed the culture and nightlife of Negril, doing their best to learn a few Patois phrases and Jamaican hand gestures.

What struck me about Jamaica, aside from the breathtaking beauty of the countryside and ocean, was the authenticity of the Caribbean vibe. Stories of the laid back and chill nature of Caribbean cities, not to mention Reggae’s everything’s all right attitude, seemed exaggerated. No place could be so idyllic, so stress free.

Me, getting ready to snorkel

But visiting Negril and spending time with the locals, I discovered that “No problem, Mon” is more a way of life than a glib indigenous statement. It’s true that not much is a problem and no one is in a hurry. Even the nightlife is slow and easy--people smoking, standing around listening to music and leisurely drinking their Red Stripe. Places like Jamaica seem too good to be true, an impossible last place on earth where people aren’t rudely tromping on one another in order to arrive at their destination two minutes earlier. It was beautiful, serene and authentically easy.


And speaking of easy.... When a person is funny, Jamaicans say, “You are not easy, Mon.” An interesting turn of phrase: to roll along in an easy way, to go along with the conversation, is laid back. Humor puts a wrinkle in the fabric of our communication, one that makes us stop and laugh or stop and think. To the Jamaicans, this is “not easy” which makes a certain sort of sense.

Here comes the real conundrum, though. Why do people go to places like Jamaica, buy all the tourist swag and then wear it while they are still there? It’s not impressive that you have shorts on that say Jamaica when the rest of us are in Jamaica with you. We are all here and we are not impressed by your gift store goods. 

Take for example the gentleman who bought a Jamaican t-shirt, complete with large picture of a marijuana leaf on the front; shorts imprinted with “Jamaica” on the pocket; a Rasta hat in the colors of the Jamaican flag and matching bracelet and wore all this on a boat trip to a small, off-coast island: is he trying to impress someone? And who would that someone be? Is he trying to look like a local? That seems absurd: the locals don’t wear any of that stuff, nor could they afford it. Is it just consumer exuberance caused by being in such a dreamy place?

In addition, why would a person want to buy pants with “Jamaica” emblazoned across the butt? Those pants aren’t giving the country any respect and neither is the person wearing them. We’ve already covered the silliness of wearing such pants while still visiting the country, but then why wear them at home??? Here’s my thought: If you carry beautiful memories of the country in your heart, you don’t need to have the name screen-printed on your ass.

“Maybe they can’t remember,” Jim said when we were discussing this. “I can’t remember crap. And if I’d been to Jamaica, I sure as hell would want to remember that. So I’d buy something with the name on it. And the date, too, if I could find it. And if they could put MY name on it, too, that would be awesome because then I’d have everything I needed to remember in one place!”


Anyone care to explain tourist consumerism to me, especially the country-on-your-ass pants? I really want to understand.

Jamaica Lion of Judah Pants--even these are better than the ones I saw on the beach