Mickey don't lose that number

THERE MAY BE SNOW ON THE ROOF: But there's no furnace. 
Michel's living in a uniquely unwinterized bungalow.

My son Michel, 33, lives by himself in a small house about two hours north of Toronto, in a wee village called Severn Bridge. 

Michel's place is on the bank of the Severn River. And in the summertime, the  Severn Bridge area is alive with tourists. 

One of the coolest things? The all-day, everyday watercraft parade, featuring  multi-million-dollar yachts, one-person kayaks and everything in between that passes by Michel's front door. It's a huge part of a  hot-weather day's entertainment. 

But in winter? Hah. 

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to see some riverside action:  A beaver played on the ice a few minutes before gracefully slipping below the surface. How they survive remains a mystery to me. 

Similarly, how Michel--who sometimes gets called Mickey-- thrives is a mystery. But since he moved to Severn last spring, he texts me several times a day, to tell me how much he loves his country home.

That said....

Exactly 36 hours ago, my wife Helena and I were not sure if our Mickey was dead or alive. (Spoiler alert: He's fine. And happy as a beaver.)

But there were a few rough hours, I'll tell you.

We'd lost touch. 

Most days, Michel and I exchange a few texts but mid weekend, he went silent. I pretended not to worry. Monday morning, still nothing. Helena and I thought I'd better head out. (Mick has no wheels at the moment.)  All sorts of scenarios wafted through our worrywart parental noggins.

A RIVER RUNS UNDER IT, SOMEWHERE
The view from inside Michel's place

At 6:30 Monday morning I headed up highway 400. It was dark, snowing and I was uncharacteristically unable to just listen to music and drive. Michel lives like a frontersman up there. His digs aren't winterized. It's been a record-breaking winter. People fall and hurt themselves. Power goes out.

My trip didn't get any more fun when, 10 klicks south of Michel, an ambulance, with siren sounding and lights flashing, passed me, headed his direction. 

Sometimes, "it made my stomach churn" isn't a figure of speech. I tried to keep up to the ambulance but the paramedics left me in their snowy dust. I couldn't see whether they turned off on the road that leads to Michel's place. 

By the time I arrived at the turnouff, my gut was sore, my mouth dry. I switched off the radio and did my best to not outdrive the snowy condtions. 

Though I've been up that road dozens of times, I usually do so in the summer. Snow-covered landscape looks completely different. As embarrassed as I am to admit this, in my anxious state, I drove right past Michel's sideroad and found myself on an unfamiliar, curvy, single-lane snow-covered backroad. Turning around isn't that easy.

I eventually did a three-point turn (a double-you-ee?) and found my way to Michel's. It was dark. I knocked hard. Peered through the window.  

Michel appeared from the shadows and leaned through the door frame to greet me. If I look happy in that photo up there, it's because I can't remember being more relieved. The stress disappeared just like that.

Turns out that early Sunday morning, Mick's phone cacked out, and he hadn't made it to town yet. 

He knew we'd be worried, he said, but he'd also had a buddy staying over and had told his friend when he was leaving to give us a call to let us know everything was okay. 

Of course because his buddy happens to be a card-carrying guy, when Michel asked if he had our number, he said "yeah," and left. 

Except he didn't.

Michel told me he would have asked another man who lived down the road to give us a call but Michel  only knew our landline number. We don't have a landline any more. 

To be fair, I don't know Michel's cell number. Or those of his sisters, either. Or, for that matter, yours. 

Seriously. It's a thing. And there's no cell-phone directory, though that is a bazillion-dollar idea.

Mick said he tried to log on to an old laptop so he could email us but forgot his password. The  BOT at the login gate indicated it would text him a security code.  A lot of help that was.

Michel: "I knew you'd be worried. I thought about going onto Netflix and changing my user name to 'My Phone's Broken' thinking you might see that but then how would I know if you did or not. " (I love this idea.)

Short story long, Michel now has a new phone, he and I had a marvelous visit and as recently as two hours ago, Mickey reported that a souvenir fridge magnet in the shape of a penguin is safely adhering Helena's and my numbers to his fridge.

 I asked if was okay with me blogging about our adventure and he texted "Go for it"

As soon as I finish this blog (with its attendant earworm) I am going to write down all the important numbers  and stick them in my wallet. 

Truth to tell, I almost learned the same lesson exactly two years ago.

Helena and I were at Mardi Gras when she got separated from all her documents. The fact that she had our phone numbers in her wallet saved us from a wrecked vacation. I wrote about the close call at the time, and probably vowed to take steps.

Wonder whether I'll follow through this time around.