| Sunny Side Up Aug.11, 2004 �2004, Kathleen Gibson Talk big, tumble bigger My sister Beverly's summer place on B.C.'s Nicola Lake sits on a pebbly beach generously strewn with oddly twisted bits of driftwood and glowing shards of shore glass. Last year, she and I sat on the edge of the bluff there, eating Bing cherries and spitting pits to see who could land one the furthest away. Not I. We beachcombed too. To the laughing lap of baby waves on the shore we wandered, plastic buckets dangling from our hands. Now and then we stooped to pick up a treasure, and just like we did as children, returned with our buckets full of driftwood. And one pair of brand new beach flip-flops found at separate ends of the beach. The flip-flops went into the shoe reserve for tender-footed guests. The wood I suggested we craft into a pair of wind chimes, without chime. Wind 'chimeless-es', I suppose. Mobiles, most correctly. "Okay, let's!" Beverly said. Then, "How do you do that?" "With fishing line," I said, "and an electric drill." She hauled my father's fishing rod, line loaded, from the shed. At the mention of power tools, our husbands leapt to help. One had a drill, the other (the preaching one) offered to make the holes. He knows better. I know power drills. I taught willow furniture workshops for years, showed dozens of women how to use them. I reminded him of this. "I'll do my own drilling, thanks," I sniffed. He shrugged. Sank back onto the chaise lounge. Began a card game with my brother-in-law and niece, and pretended to ignore us. If only I'd thought to take off that silly plastic cloth. After about the thirty-seventh hole, I put the drill down just before the shaft stopped turning. Its point touched the cloth, snatched it up, and wound it tightly around the bit several times. Up went my sister's squeal. Up shot the men's antennae. No problem, I thought. I picked up the drill and flipped the switch to reverse. Reverse on a drill, (for those who aren't handy like me) is full speed backwards. The tablecloth unwound all right, and just as quickly wound up again the other way, sending driftwood, glass, and fishing rod into orbit. Shocked, I threw the drill back down. Having no automatic stop, it kept on gathering in that plastic tablecloth. Long after the drill had that cloth completely cocooned, it was still going; a huge cone shape that flopped like a freshly caught fish over the edge of the table, onto the seat, and finally to the ground. Not until it bounced toward my feet did I think to yank the plug. The Preacher sniggered. My brother-in-law and niece howled. My sister (pale, pressed flat against the trailer) bellowed, "I thought you knew how to use a drill." Ouch. I deserved that. I talked big, and tumbled bigger. The Bible warns about that. But honest, I do know how to use a drill. It's plastic tablecloths I can't get the hang of. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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