I'm writing this down for posterity. As you may or may not be able to tell, I'm very big on posterity. I figure that writing down pre-stuff will broaden the perspective of�myself. Austin Powers moment right there. Anyways.

This summer, I'm going to be embarking on a personal journey. Rather, a not-so-personal journey during which I will travel to the Queen Charlotte Islands (or Haida Gwaii, as the Native Haida population refers to it) in British Columbia. With my sister. Granted, we're not roaming the wild prairies, but the opportunity to travel sans parents is a very exciting thing indeed. We'll be staying with my Uncle Quinn and his fianc�e Brigitte in their humble abode, deep in the heart of Queen Charlotte City. It's not exactly a booming metropolis; the city reached around a thousand inhabitants sometime in the mid-nineties, but it takes the cake for the "charmin'-and-disarmin'" award. The city boasts exactly one of each: grocery store, all-purpose store, bar, espresso joint, Chinese restaurant (superb), post office, gas station, and extensive fisherman's wharf. These are all clustered together in the "downtown" part of the city, and the rest is left to an extensive (and impressive) expanse of wild-growth forest.

I've loved it ever since I first visited back in 1992 with my nuclear family and Japanese grandmother. Granted, I was toted along on several torturously boring touristy bits and subjected to the usual family vacation regime: cramped quarters, weird wake-up calls, and the fun-filled experience of sharing hot water with seven other people and a cantankerous well, but I still enjoyed myself. Sharing a bed with my sister, however, is a nightmare to be reckoned with. She will pull the blankets off of me, roll up in them cigarette-paper style, and immerse herself in a sleep so deep that even my warmth-deprived whimpering won't stir her. That's not the worst of it though. She's what I call an "aggressive sleeper," that is, she likes to punch in her sleep. I woke up one night in New Orleans (when we were sharing a particularly small hotel number) only to discover that Aeren was plowing into my shoulders with her feet and pummeling my lower back with her fists. This generally is an unpleasant feeling, and if I hadn't thought that she would step on me, I'd have moved directly to the floor.

Crazy bedtime habits aside, I'm fairly sure that I'll at least have a bed roll to myself in the Charlottes. We shared a tent once, and that was all right, but the whole punching thing kind of turns me off. And while she is high-strung sometimes (who isn't?), she is a remarkably cool person whom I get along with smashingly when we're not warring over the phone or the computer. And since she's packing off to Scripps (an all women's college) this summer, I figure some much-needed bonding time is in order. We may end up killing each other or bonding, but catastrophe aside, I think it will be a crash course in "character building."

Of course, I love Uncle Quinn fiercely. When I was a child, he was the only relative who I could really latch onto. We were similar enough that we understood each other, but different enough so that there was enough of him for me to look up to. My mom's sisters were okay, all four auntastic women, but they were in league with each other, including my mother. And they always had a passel of screeching brats tagging along behind them. (My opinions on motherhood are somewhat of a paradox, I suppose. My uterus is a ticking biological clock; I have a serious nesting instinct, but the screaming, whining, and vomiting, sometimes simultaneous, all grate my nerves like they were cheddar.) Anyways. Quinn's lack of an apron and "spit cloth" ("vomit rag") augmented his appeal as a fellow-free thinker. The way my grandma describes him in his youth reminds me of myself, perhaps a little bit calmer. I was like Punky Brewster on speed with a strong hankering for alchemy. And like a lot of disturbed children, I was attracted to the unorthodox and creative; Quinn presented himself as an obvious outlet.

I'm sure that I'll get a chance to illustrate my most perplexing and favored uncle in my impending transcribings, but here's an excerpt from the birthday card I received from him on my sixteenth birthday:

"�I've been wondering what your priorities are for the rehabilitation on your new faithful steed in the 4 wheels variety. Have you named her yet?? That's a very important part of owning one's first car�and by now, you probably have an inkling as to the subtle nuances of her sterling inner being which is only slightly marred by her somewhat neglected exterior robe. As Lao Tsu, the founder of Taoism said, 'Sheer white appears as tarnished.'� I don't know what was in my coffee this morning, (perhaps that sneaky Brigitte slipped me some supplement) but the bottom line of this seemingly infinite ramble is that we wish you a happy birthday with all our love."