Moscow Mule Part 2

Someone was pissed about something, obviously.

Patrick thinks I shouldn't speculate about people's sexual orientations in public, and he's probably right. My point is just that it doesn't matter, it shouldn't matter, but to a Mennonite, to much of the Evangelical church, it matters, and it has to be hidden. It was one of my cousins who pointed out that there are tons of middle-aged lesbians in the Mennonite church, but none of them would ever admit to it - instead, once they've passed a reasonable age for marriage, they become missionaries, go off to Africa with other single women to drink tea and teach Sunday School.

Christy is my age, despite being my mother's first cousin (my grandmother's parents had quite a few kids), and I was enamored by her growing up. Her house perched on the edge of the Qu'Appelle Valley near Lumsden; she had a posh white bedroom with a patio door out to the valley, a rec room with bean pillows, a tennis court, a swimming pool, and forts in the forest that she'd built with her brothers. I first tasted an avocado at her house. She had long blonde hair in braids, and took piano lessons. She reminded me of Anne of Green Gables. We played hide-and-go-seek in the dark in her basement. We watched "A Room With a View" together, laughed at the naked men romping around the pond.

I just want her to be content with herself, not afraid. Maybe she is. Read her book, though, and then reassure me: it's called "Widows of Hamilton House." My grandmother was sorry she'd picked it up, wondering why Christy would choose to write about such horrible things: seances and lesbians.

Anyways, about the Moscow Mule - we used to drink Vodka Specials in Saskatchewan, and no one outside of Saskatchewan seems to know what they are - just vodka and lime juice and Sprite, liquid sugar basically. So now at least I know where it comes from. Patrick introduced me to Vodka Specials like he introduced me to rye and Coke, Kokanee, fast cars, Saskatchewan back roads, and work without sleep. Sloshing on the dance floor at City Slickers in Prince Albert, some stranger yelling "Get a room," Jill singing along to "When I think about you, I touch myself," Sheldon, red-faced, not knowing quite what to do. Regina bars, cavernous spaces with long vinyl tables sticky with vodka, Pat's high-school friends, strobe lights - I was a mere six months past legal drinking age when we got married. Pat phoned my parents from a pay phone at Emma Lake the night we got engaged, and instead of "Congratulations," my dad said, "We'll talk." They didn't think he was good enough for me. I would be going off to medical school, meeting all sorts of brilliant, privileged young men. Most people these days would have waited, tried out a few adult relationships before settling. So why did I marry him, at nineteen? Because I wanted to have sex with him, I was ready, but I am Mennonite, and my mother's oldest child. Which is not to say that I shouldn't have, necessarily. He was my first love.