The fruit farmer
Feb. 19th, 2004 03:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaneramosHe had a trim grey beard, an average face, gentle eyes behind his glasses, and a faded beige cap on his buzzed head. He boarded the train in Chatham, a small city in farm country forty-five minutes east of Windsor. His eyes hovered for an instant in mine, then he passed to the back of the coach. That face seemed familiar. When I walked to the bathroom a few minutes later, he glanced up then quickly buried his eyes again in a brochure about ryegrass.
I had to transfer trains in London with a 75 minute stopover. Walking through the station I met the glance of an even more familiar face: a handsome, middle-aged woman with dark, shoulder-length hair. She wore stylish glasses, a yellow ski jacket and blue jeans. We studied each other for an instant, but I couldn't place her.
I stopped and turned in a circle to look for the clock. Then I saw the cute man in the cap approaching the woman in the yellow jacket. They smiled like a married couple, but instead of kissing she took his elbow gently in her hand. The gesture emanated a distinctive tenderness that exists between gay men and lesbian friends. I smiled inwardly and watched them leave the station.
I spent the next hour debating whether to go straight home or stop for the night at Club London. It draws friendly farmers from around Western Ontario, a different clientele than frequents the Toronto bathhouses. I wandered down Dundas Street in search of the gay bar, H2O, not realizing it had closed for good. On the way back past King Street, a big rainbow banner caught my attention. There I discovered Club 181, which opened since my last stop in London several years ago. I went in and had a couple rye and gingers, but didn't find anyone to talk to except the bartender.
Back at the station I continued my debate. I wasn't particularly horny, just stressed from a two-day visit with my parents. I haven't visited a bathhouse since last summer. Mere restlessness is not the best reason to go looking for casual sex, but I made up my mind and headed toward the ticket office to see whether my fare was transferable to a morning train.
Walking down the ramp, I met the lesbian in the yellow coat with her cute friend following two paces behind. This time he paused to look me up and down. Obviously he had only met his friend for a stopover. He would catch the train.
And so would I.
Our train, due from Chicago at 9:35 p.m., got delayed at the border and didn't arrive in London until almost 10:45. He made a couple phone calls on his friend's cell phone, then she disappeared. After the initial bald stare, he seemed shy about meeting my gaze, so I didn't approach him. When the train finally arrived, he boarded immediately behind and took the seat directly across from me, at the back of the car. He took off his work boots and put his feet up.
I'm normally shy about approaching strangers, especially ones who won't meet my gaze. He wasn't arrogant, just shy like myself. But if it hadn't been for those two rye and gingers, I probably never would have met him.
"You look familiar," I said, feeling stupid about the cliché, but it was true. "We probably have a mutual friend."
"Maybe from Toronto," he said noncommittally, but gestured for me to sit down beside him.
"Are you in horticulture?" I asked.
"I have a farm in Cape Breton." Now my introduction sounded particularly stupid, but he quickly saved face for me. "I bought some land and moved there two years ago. Before that I lived in Toronto for a while."
His name was Gary. This was his first return visit to his see his family. He had spent the past couple days with his parents on the farm where he grew up. He planned to spend the night with his brother in Kitchener before catching a morning plane to Halifax. The woman in London was his sister.
"And here I thought I recognized her, too," I said, feeling stupider than ever.
"You probably did. She's a lesbian. My parents had the luck: two out of four. Her partner has a baby due in two days. We went to see her. If I'd known the train was going to be late, we could have had dinner."
Gary told me how he left the farm as a young man and went to live in the city, but in his mid-40s he decided to get back in touch with himself. He looked for property in Northern Ontario, but found his dream in Cape Breton. He had a partner of ten years who followed him out there. With love in his voice, Gary described the land that had drawn him: a glen on the side of a mountain, with a natural spring and brook where they get their drinking water. On their property they have seen a bear, a moose, foxes, coyotes, mink and other wildlife.
I told him about the day I spent in Cape Breton when I was eleven. It rained. I can hardly remember it, but I loved camping in Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. I told him about my cottage on Lake Fletcher; how I dream of living and writing there and commuting to the city on weekends to spend time with my friends.
"Dorset!" he said. "That's a beautiful area. I can understand why you love it."
He grows blueberries and has planted a forty-tree orchard.
"People in Cape Breton are more down-to-earth," said Gary. "They don't judge by preconceptions. They take you the way you are."
They made friends with a straight couple and formed a partnership. This spring they plan to open a cafe garden centre.
We talked cats, cooking and canoeing, gay life and the ghetto. For several years he was active in Bearbuddies Toronto and rode on the Pride float. That's probably why his face is familiar.
We talked about wanting to do work that means more to us than just putting in time. That's why he farms and why I write.
We talked about love and life. He asked whether I have a partner. I told him I'm in love, but enjoy my independence. After a string of disappointing relationships, I decided to concentrate on a relationship with myself. I'm happy on my own.
"You have to be reasonably self-contained to have a good relationship, too," said Gary. "A partner can complement you and fill in the spaces."
Without my requesting it, he gave me his phone number, email and mailing address.
"Come out and visit us," he said. "We have lots of room, so you can stay with us. Just be warned I'll put you to work in the cafe or garden centre."
He disembarked in Kitchener and I slid into the window seat for the final half hour to Guelph. Someone was waiting for Gary. In the pale light under the shelter of the platform, I saw him search the windows of the train. Finding me, he raised a hand, and I waved back.
Plane fare to Halifax isn't expensive as I would have thought.
I had to transfer trains in London with a 75 minute stopover. Walking through the station I met the glance of an even more familiar face: a handsome, middle-aged woman with dark, shoulder-length hair. She wore stylish glasses, a yellow ski jacket and blue jeans. We studied each other for an instant, but I couldn't place her.
I stopped and turned in a circle to look for the clock. Then I saw the cute man in the cap approaching the woman in the yellow jacket. They smiled like a married couple, but instead of kissing she took his elbow gently in her hand. The gesture emanated a distinctive tenderness that exists between gay men and lesbian friends. I smiled inwardly and watched them leave the station.
I spent the next hour debating whether to go straight home or stop for the night at Club London. It draws friendly farmers from around Western Ontario, a different clientele than frequents the Toronto bathhouses. I wandered down Dundas Street in search of the gay bar, H2O, not realizing it had closed for good. On the way back past King Street, a big rainbow banner caught my attention. There I discovered Club 181, which opened since my last stop in London several years ago. I went in and had a couple rye and gingers, but didn't find anyone to talk to except the bartender.
Back at the station I continued my debate. I wasn't particularly horny, just stressed from a two-day visit with my parents. I haven't visited a bathhouse since last summer. Mere restlessness is not the best reason to go looking for casual sex, but I made up my mind and headed toward the ticket office to see whether my fare was transferable to a morning train.
Walking down the ramp, I met the lesbian in the yellow coat with her cute friend following two paces behind. This time he paused to look me up and down. Obviously he had only met his friend for a stopover. He would catch the train.
And so would I.
Our train, due from Chicago at 9:35 p.m., got delayed at the border and didn't arrive in London until almost 10:45. He made a couple phone calls on his friend's cell phone, then she disappeared. After the initial bald stare, he seemed shy about meeting my gaze, so I didn't approach him. When the train finally arrived, he boarded immediately behind and took the seat directly across from me, at the back of the car. He took off his work boots and put his feet up.
I'm normally shy about approaching strangers, especially ones who won't meet my gaze. He wasn't arrogant, just shy like myself. But if it hadn't been for those two rye and gingers, I probably never would have met him.
"You look familiar," I said, feeling stupid about the cliché, but it was true. "We probably have a mutual friend."
"Maybe from Toronto," he said noncommittally, but gestured for me to sit down beside him.
"Are you in horticulture?" I asked.
"I have a farm in Cape Breton." Now my introduction sounded particularly stupid, but he quickly saved face for me. "I bought some land and moved there two years ago. Before that I lived in Toronto for a while."
His name was Gary. This was his first return visit to his see his family. He had spent the past couple days with his parents on the farm where he grew up. He planned to spend the night with his brother in Kitchener before catching a morning plane to Halifax. The woman in London was his sister.
"And here I thought I recognized her, too," I said, feeling stupider than ever.
"You probably did. She's a lesbian. My parents had the luck: two out of four. Her partner has a baby due in two days. We went to see her. If I'd known the train was going to be late, we could have had dinner."
Gary told me how he left the farm as a young man and went to live in the city, but in his mid-40s he decided to get back in touch with himself. He looked for property in Northern Ontario, but found his dream in Cape Breton. He had a partner of ten years who followed him out there. With love in his voice, Gary described the land that had drawn him: a glen on the side of a mountain, with a natural spring and brook where they get their drinking water. On their property they have seen a bear, a moose, foxes, coyotes, mink and other wildlife.
I told him about the day I spent in Cape Breton when I was eleven. It rained. I can hardly remember it, but I loved camping in Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. I told him about my cottage on Lake Fletcher; how I dream of living and writing there and commuting to the city on weekends to spend time with my friends.
"Dorset!" he said. "That's a beautiful area. I can understand why you love it."
He grows blueberries and has planted a forty-tree orchard.
"People in Cape Breton are more down-to-earth," said Gary. "They don't judge by preconceptions. They take you the way you are."
They made friends with a straight couple and formed a partnership. This spring they plan to open a cafe garden centre.
We talked cats, cooking and canoeing, gay life and the ghetto. For several years he was active in Bearbuddies Toronto and rode on the Pride float. That's probably why his face is familiar.
We talked about wanting to do work that means more to us than just putting in time. That's why he farms and why I write.
We talked about love and life. He asked whether I have a partner. I told him I'm in love, but enjoy my independence. After a string of disappointing relationships, I decided to concentrate on a relationship with myself. I'm happy on my own.
"You have to be reasonably self-contained to have a good relationship, too," said Gary. "A partner can complement you and fill in the spaces."
Without my requesting it, he gave me his phone number, email and mailing address.
"Come out and visit us," he said. "We have lots of room, so you can stay with us. Just be warned I'll put you to work in the cafe or garden centre."
He disembarked in Kitchener and I slid into the window seat for the final half hour to Guelph. Someone was waiting for Gary. In the pale light under the shelter of the platform, I saw him search the windows of the train. Finding me, he raised a hand, and I waved back.
Plane fare to Halifax isn't expensive as I would have thought.
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no subject
Date: 2004-02-19 01:09 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2004-02-19 01:48 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2004-02-19 03:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-19 01:25 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2004-02-19 01:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-19 03:09 pm (UTC)Our train, due from Chicago at 9:35 p.m., got delayed at the border and didn't arrive in London until almost 10:45.
Does this always happen? The one time I took a train across the US/Canadian border it spent an inordinate time waiting for customs/immigration both ways. Into the US was especially bad, and the train was way late into Albany (our destination).
Trains are unreliable.
Date: 2004-02-19 03:23 pm (UTC)During this incident on Monday morning and the one on Tuesday evening I heard other passengers complaining about numerous similar experiences, some involving Customs and others not. I would still choose the train anytime, and count on delays. Buses are more reliable, but the milk run from Guelph to Windsor is tedious, uncomfortable and exhausting.
Re: Trains are unreliable.
Date: 2004-02-19 03:28 pm (UTC)Re: Trains are unreliable.
Date: 2004-02-19 03:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-19 09:46 pm (UTC)very lovely
Re:
Date: 2004-02-19 09:57 pm (UTC)Those were my feelings exactly.
Hugs.
no subject
Date: 2004-02-20 09:46 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2004-02-21 12:21 pm (UTC)