Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo
The first and only
vacation I took out of Nova Scotia with Father Mine and Step Mum was in the
spring of 1988. With bulging suitcase in toe (I still have not learned how to
pack light), I gleefully bid my gang adieu (except LP who came with me
as my plus one), boarded an airplane for the first time in my life, a plane
Orlando bound. Disney World or bust. I felt super worldly sitting next to the
window, a brand new-to-me pair of sunglasses atop my head (pinched from
Rock Star Brother but shush don’t tell him), and a carry-on full of snacks and
a fancy bottle of Evian water. I was cool as a cucumber until the plane started
to ascend, its nose pointing in a Heavenly direction. I almost choked on the
complimentary peanuts I popped in my mouth as we gained speed and rose higher
into the air. I was quite certain I was going to have a heart attack and end up
in the wrong Magic Kingdom. Once we
leveled out amid a mirage of billowing clouds, my stomach returned to its rightful
place and my heart slid back into place after almost coming out of my mouth.
And, for the next few hours everything was right with the world. Smooth
sailing.
Landing in Florida
was like something out of a beauteous reverie, even better than the
daydreams I’d been conjuring up pre-departure. We left the chill of early
spring in Nova Scotia behind for an easy breezy dry delightful heat. So long dampness,
my old friend! Upon arrival, the glorious sun was slowly starting to sink into the
Orlando horizon painting everything with a buttery haze that shone through the
languid palm trees. Anyone who knows me knows I love palms, and, that
was the exact moment I fell in love with them. A short stint inside the
busy airport to retrieve our baggage, acquire our rental car, and we were on
our way to home for the next week. Our hotel reminded me of a larger scale ‘Melrose Place’. And the pool, a curvy blue lagoon lined with uniform white long
lazy lawn chairs. It was an intense thrill for a nerdy kid from Cow Bay to be
in such exquisite surroundings.
One of our first
adventures was Sea World. Father Mine, who refused to ask for directions when
he got us lost in the middle of an orange grove, I mean deep in an orange grove. So much so that the farmer dude who
flagged us down to politely tell us to get lost, offered to let us pick an
orange each to take with us. Father Mine, his pride a little bruised, declined
and hightailed it out of there lickety split. Our trip to Sea World really made
me miss Way Cooler Big Sister who was back home working. I felt a little guilty
seeing whales in person without her even though we found their being in
captivity cruel. I won’t lie, while waiting for Shamu’s show to begin, thoughts
of the movie ‘Orca’ crossed my mind.
You remember it, the gritty film about a callous profiteering fisherman who
unwittingly kills the pregnant mate of a clever killer whale. The fisherman
then becomes the target of the enraged, grief-stricken creature. It’s ‘Jaws’ meets ‘Moby Dick’. That pivotal scene where the Mama Orca is strung up on
the boat and miscarries Baby Orca traumatized me for life. No scene in any
horror movie ever disturbed me as much. The sound of the Mama Orca screaming
out in pain, the Papa Orca replying with deafening rage, and the sight and plop
of Baby Orca on the ship’s deck. I plead with you, do not Google the scene. Nope. Don’t do it. I am happy to report there
was no screeching from the pool, nothing put playfulness expert whale
acrobatics. It was awe-inspiring. Their size, their smarts, their style.
We got some
serious shopping done in the greater Orlando area. I hit the mall hard. I
bought myself a bright blue California Raisin tee, peach shorts, Rick Astley’s
‘Wherever You Are’ and Pebbles’ self-titled cassettes, and a new Walkman
for the plane ride home. As a side note, who didn’t own the Rick Astley!? And,
I only bought the Pebbles tape because I kept missing being able to dub ‘Mercedes
Boy’ from the radio. Not that I need to explain myself, I’m not ashamed! Our
shopping day is kind of a blur. Step Mum probably bought new fluffy towels and
LP bought Lip Smackers and a kitschy Florida tee. Of course, Father Mine was
nowhere to be found until we met up for a quick supper and a ride on a
riverboat.
Next stop, Walt’s
World. Walt Disney. Me and Walt, we share the same birthday, which is also the
date Mozart died but I digress.
Disney was, for
lack of a better word, magical. In every sense of the word. I got
goosebumps when I passed through the entrance to Epcot Center. They were still working
on it so we weren’t as thrilled as we could have been had we gone ten
years later. I did love the World Pavilions, especially France boasting
a replica of the Eiffel Tower. Much like palm trees, I fell head over heals with
Paris during my Florida trip. I loved the Haunted Mansion, a New Orleans
antebellum manse that was more comical than scary. I particularly
enjoyed when the little cart exited the house and if you looked in the mirrored
walls alongside of you, it looked as though a ghoul had hitched a ride with us.
I stood in the long line for Space Mountain but as soon as it was our turn to
hunker down and buckle up in one of the buckets I chickened out. LP shot off
into the rollercoaster abyss with a total stranger and when she emerged from
the other side her face was a brilliant shade of alien green. She said it went
so fast one of her hair combs blew out of the side of her head. Father Mine and
Step Mum accompanied us for the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. The tiny vessel
chugged along the canal and then did an ungodly drop. Father Mine cursed. And,
when it dropped the second time down into the main caves of the attraction, he
cursed more, “Is this a god damn roller coaster!? Jesus Christ.” We
busted, “Dead men tell no tales, Dad.” He sucked his teeth and shook his
head remaining quiet as our little boat floated by a slew of animatronic
pirates and pillaging.
One of my favorite
days was the day LP and I got to stay behind at the hotel for the day while the
parentals went off on their own. We lounged by the pool like two starlets
awaiting Oscar noms. I wore my favorite maroon strapless one-piece bathing suit
and my John Taylor tee (circa ‘Sing Blue Silver’) over top to hide my
back fat while I floated around on a flutter board. While I fluttered, I watched
an oh so glamorous fashion show circle around the deluxe oasis. I started
to get prune-like so I made my way to our lawn chairs and asked my bud if she
could share sunscreen. She happily agreed since she had just bought something
new from the vendors’ poolside, so she tossed me the goop she brought from
home. I bravely shucked John from my glut and slathered myself head to
toe with the silky lotion, got horizontal in my swanky chair, and loafed.
Unbeknownst to me, LP shared her lotion that was SPF ZERO while what she bought
poolside and coated her own self in was like SPF TWO MILLION. I noticed I was a
little pink in the mirror as we got ready for the parentals to come back
and pick us up for a dinner outing. I felt a little queasy on the ride over. On
the small walk to the non-descript restaurant, Father Mine stopped to say hello
to folks he knew. It boggled the mind he could be in a whole other country and
still bump into people he knew for a longwinded chin wag. There was a bit of a wait
to be seated. I leaned on the wall to hold myself up due to the fact the world
was slowly started swirling like a pastel kaleidoscope, voices slurred, my eyes
rolled. I attempted to straighten myself up, talk myself back but grabbed hold
of Father Mine’s arm instead, startling him. Sun stroke. A bad case. Mad
as a Hatter, he drove LP and I back to the hotel, chewing me out for not being
more careful in the sun. The more he moaned the deeper the burn sunk into my
teenage flesh. That’s when LP confessed and told me the SPF she gave me was
sub-zero. Father Mine was not impressed
and scolded me again for not noticing. LP was spared a tongue lashing
because she was holding the guest card. Heck, I trusted my bud to
not give me sunscreen that would brand me. Father Mine squealed the car tires
as he and Step Mum drove off to dinner, “Order room service. Make sure you
eat. Get some water and hydrate. We’ll be back later.” Still Mad as a
Hatter.
I made the grave
mistake of taking a cool shower in a feeble attempt to calm down. It bolded
my burn blazing red. From my hair line to the tips of my toes, just on the
front side of me, I was covered. It felt like my body was one giant bee sting.
My skin was tight and aflame. I laid on my bed in cool pajamas, arms and legs
outstretched and I didn’t move until our Cokes and generous plates of stir-fry
arrived. There was a knock our door, “Ello, room service.” The young man
who wheeled our grub in was a lovely and quick-witted Jamaican. He took one
look at me and in his heavy accent said, “O my girl, when you are finished
with dat sunburn you’ll be as black as me!” I confess, I wasn’t exactly
sure I was supposed to laugh but when he threw his head back in it, I joined in.
He took pity on my amateurish Floridian stance and told me if I needed
anything, a medic, an aloe plant, to let him know. How embarrassing, eh?
The plane ride
home was hell. I was sat between LP and Father Mine. To add insult to injury,
he wouldn’t let me have the aisle seat even though it’d be more comfortable for
me to rest my crispy limbs. It was the most painful few hours of my life.
Father Mine would occasionally nudge my charred flesh with the rough elbow of
his sweater and grin when I winced. It may have been the only time in my whole
life that I felt any kind of contempt for him. My Mother was waiting for me
when I got home. I knew she’d lavish the kind of support and comfort I
required. The bends of my arms were bubbled by the time I reached my bed, my
bed with cold soft cotton sheets my Mother had rolled down for me to slip into.
The blisters were sore and raised, threatening to burst. A one week vacation to
Florida turned into two weeks off from school. It took good few days to be able
to not hurt and be able to put socks on my feet.
While I
recuperated from my burn, LP stopped taking my calls. She hugged me gently due
to my third degree burns and thanked us all for a wonderful trip and said she’d
call me later. We waited until she was safely inside her apartment building
with her Mom. I should mention that before we went on our trip, she moved into
the city and started going to another school. She never called. I tried her a
bunch of times, but she wouldn’t return any of my calls, even when I left
messages with her Mom. It was the strangest thing. I couldn’t understand after
all the fun we had singing and dancing at the Country Bear Jamboree, buying
Goofy tees, and a stuffed Donald Duck for Way Cooler Big Sister, eating greasy
hamburgers and fries, having our picture taken with various Disney characters –
I couldn’t understand her silence. That was 1987 and we haven’t spoken since.
Not all friendships are meant to last, not even with the awe of the spectacular
Magic Kingdom fireworks display overhead. It was a heartbreak as much as it was
an excellent adventure.
***
It has always been
important to me, even from a young age, to foster positive and healthy
relationships – both with my family and friends. Our trip to the US was so much
fun and even as an adult I’m perplexed by the gaslighting behavior of my then
friend. There were no signs of discord (aside from the sunscreen fiasco but we
mostly laughed about it on the drive between the airport and her house). There
were no warnings. I was a child with abandonment issues (which I haven’t
written much about yet) so the mysterious loss of my friend, the only one who
has memories of any of the above, was crushing. I’m a lesson learner. And, from
her clear and present rejection, fully realized the only constant in life is
change and that her behavior was more of a reflection on her character than on
mine. Heavy stuff for a kid, pure gold for an adult to keep in mind.
In propinquity,
Nic
