First date

Love is blind? Or is it blue?
—Anonymous proverb

I want to make a good impression; to get our first date right. We had met in other ways — by happenstance, at church events, at choir practice, and at community meetings. I had noticed Ronni from a distance. She’s attractive, and I sensed interesting. I am hoping our  first date will lead to many more. I have done the asking; she has responded. Good so far with apparent interest.

I have little experience with dating, or romance for that matter. I don’t know how to read body language well. In such matters I am under-confident. Many previous attempts have led to gracious refusals: “Let’s just be friends shall we,” and a very kind “Here, you can hold my hand.” One woman told me I needed to get my priorities straight — then she dumped me. With Ronni I hope for a nice time together with the possibility of future opportunities if things go well.

So, first things first. Where to go? A walk in the woods? A walk on the Spit? Weather permitting, the Spit could be nice, though hardly intimate; a bit too public possibly. I can imagine meeting another church member on the trail: “Hi Minister . . . Well, who have we got here?” Small towns breed large stories. Nope. A more discreet setting seems best. There are a couple of bars in town but they’re noisy and I’m not much of a drinker. Pretty stupid if I fall asleep and she needs to drive me home. Kind of like going out with your mother.

What will we talk about? I tend to chatter; I think she is more quiet and reserved. Should I go with prepared questions? This isn’t a job interview for heaven’s sake: “Are you working on any personal passion projects?” That’s a bit alliterative. “What does a typical day look like for you?” Too invasive for sure. “Anything surprising happen today?” That might open up some story-telling.

How about the three topics I am always told to avoid: politics, religion, and sex. Truthfully, they are the best subjects for conversation,  the most interesting, the most revealing, and the most fun. Politics: There’s lots in play here right now. Religion: Well she attends the church I  serve. Sex: Best tread lightly here, but my word, her eyes sparkle; she has a lovely smile; and a fine figure. There is much to admire — but this is our first date, remember. Down boy!

At last, the evening has come. We arrive in separate vehicles at The Greenery, our local slow-food, locally-sourced restaurant, a national award winner several times over, located at the west end of the spit. While a little splashy for a first date, other options are less appealing. What the heck, I figure. Owners Paula and Marcus greet us warmly at the door. They take our coats and show us to our window table overlooking the Spit and the strait.

“Is this your first time here?” I nervously ask.

“Well no. Think about it; I am the one who lives here, remember? You’re the newcomer. This must be your first time.”

“Oh yes, that makes more sense. Silly me. So tell me more about the restaurant. I hear good things about it.”

“It’s famous; some call it a national treasure. The first thing you need to know is that the menu is table d’hôte, which means a fixed price menu of many courses. I am surprised you chose to come here; it’s won’t be cheap; but it will be delicious; and the food will look marvellous.”

“Guess I was hoping we were going dutch. Sorry . . . my joke; a very bad joke.”

“Hey that’s just fine with me. Anyway, the greens will be in season and seafood will be fresh catch only. Bread grains are milled here, sustainable dairy, fine wines well matched to entrees, that sort of thing. You won’t be disappointed.”

“So, ah, if we don’t need to study the menu what shall we talk about?” I mumble.

“I really want to hear what you think about the war in the woods, about the arson, about the mayor’s handling of the community meeting. I’m curious what else you have picked up from talking to people.”

So much for my opening questions. If I thought that she was reticent to talk, I was totally wrong. Somewhat accusingly she continues:

“What can you or our church add to the conversation that might be helpful? We need to calm things down somehow. We really need a decision, or a solution, or some sort of compromise between loggers and environmentalists. If nothing changes, who knows what might happen next.”

Now I wish we had a menu to study; I wasn’t expecting such a  direct line of questioning, so soon, and so bluntly put. I don’t know how to respond.

 “Well, I’m still learning about life in a resource-based community, about the characters who live and work here, about their loves, ambitions and fears, and how they connect with the environment. So I’m not sure if I have an adequate answer for you right now.”

“Fair enough, but you are a leader of a faith community. In that sense your perspective is unique, and your views might help us get through all this. You had no problem with marching for peace. How about working for peace between factions, each with their strong opinions. There must be some way we can get beyond jobs and . . .”

A young server approaches our table with our first course, baked clams with bacon and garlic. Conversation pauses as other courses follow in short order, each competing for first place in our hearts and taste buds. The bread is a flavour explosion of savory, seedy goodness. The braised lamb shank falls off the bone, only to melt in the mouth. For dessert, we savour the dark chocolate ganache with Tonka Bean ice cream. The restaurant’s reputation is obviously well earned. Sipping freshly roasted Guatemalan coffee, we return to our earlier conversation. Ronni picks up our earlier thread:

“What were we talking about anyway?”

“You asked me to somehow introduce the wisdom of faith into the community conversation. Truthfully, I don’t know where to begin. I agree that Christ has brought peace to earth and to all of good favour. I also note that peace here, in the woods, is elusive right now. I am not yet sure how the two can join together.”

“Great. Keep going please.”

 “I must say that you seem to have high expectations for me and for our church.”

“Why not? Someone has to speak the truth or offer a strategy for constructive dialogue to occur. Surely Christian tradition has something to say about the environment, the economy, and for community living.”

“Obviously yes, but I haven’t thought about such things in the way your suggest yet. But I promise, I will do my homework.”

“In my own family, I am out on a limb here. We’re fishers and loggers, not academics or philosophers.”

“I bet table talk at Sunday supper is lively,” I wonder aloud.

“We rarely eat together. Unfortunately, family collegiality is not our  forte. Drugs and alcohol, and the occasional brawl, feature significantly in the life of our family.”

“Ar you safe?”

“Thankfully yes. I have places I can go when things get wild; but it’s lonely for me at times. At the end of the day, we’re all forceful personalities who don’t change opinions easily. I often feel like an island liberal in an ocean of conservative grumblers.”

“So why are you the outlier?”

 “Three years at community college showed me things about the world my brothers cannot begin to consider, at least, not yet.”

“Well here’s my promise. I will participate as fully as I can in community conversation. I will do my homework. I will keep my ears and eyes open.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks for the support.”

That I can offer. As we prepare to leave, and as our hands accidentally touch, I wonder about a hug or even a kiss. Shyly, I demur. I do have one final question for her however:

“The other day while fishing I noticed you in what looked like an argument on a trawler coming around the Spit. What was that all about?”

“That’s a conversation for another time.”

Another time, for sure. Elated, I try not to look too excited. “I think Marcus has our bill. Dutch treat?”

“Absolutely.”

For other chapters in the series go here

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