Swimming with alligators
I came upon this recently. Something I wrote down in January 2003 and forgot about on my hard drive.
My family use to go to Canyon Lake in Texas in the summer. I remember as a child that I had mixed feelings about the trips. I wanted to go, since it was fun. I was also filled with trepidation at what my father would pull, or try to pull.
I was usually alright as long as I didn't go into the water. I couldn't swim, so the jokes my dad like to play held no amusement for me. My situational awareness was honed to a high degree by the need to keep an eye out for him at all time, and sometimes for my brother. A source of amusement for them was to sneak up on me and drag me into the deeper water. Since I couldn't swim, you can imagine what was going through my mind.
Whenever I forgot myself and really started to enjoy myself in the water, I would notice them sneaking up on me in the water. It reminded me of those nature films of the alligator slowly stalking an animal drinking on the riverbank. It was bad if either of them was between me and the shore. Usually we were both parallel to the shore, so I could get away.
Now, other than that, it wasn't so bad. There was a lot to do at Canyon Lake other than swim, and children could wander out of sight of their parents. The lake wasn't build up extensively. There was beachfront, rocky shores where the forest met the water, a dock for boats, and lots of other attractions. There were usually other kids around that my brother and I could play with. We liked to move around while my father fished and my mother read books.
We took our dogs with us as well, which was always fun. I remember one day in particular when an angry pair of birds kept diving at our German Shepherd because she was too near their nest. She couldn't figure out why they were attacking her, but she didn't like it one bit.
They were good times, but I think I would have enjoyed them more if I was able to go into the water without worrying about alligators.
My sense of humor
I was having a conversation with Anne the other day, and we were talking about my sense of humor. She said that some of what I say isn't funny, and that others don't or wouldn't find it funny. I had one of those quick comeback moments, you know the ones where you have a snappy comeback that just comes out of nowhere and is completely appropriate, unlike the norm where you think of it an hour later. My answer to her was I wasn't trying to amuse others with my humor, I was amusing myself. If others found it funny, well and good, but it wasn't for them.
Does that make me an artist?