9/11 Memorial

During my planning of our summer holiday to New York City I had decided to include a visit to the 9/11 Memorial.  Initially I hesitated.  Who wants to spend a happy, carefree summer day in a place that is shrouded in so much agony, pain, grief and suffering?

When we drove into the city from JFK airport it became clear to me that we would.

The skyline of Manhattan is one of the most AWESOME sites in the world.  No matter how many times I see it, I am inspired and mesmerised.  It doesn’t matter if it is day or night, cloudy or crystal clear blue.  The sheer enormity of it quite simply takes my breath away.

Before this summer, my last visit to NYC was a business trip in September 2000.  My husband was in Princeton, New Jersey for a business trip as well so we overlapped the weekend and a couple days either side and partied like we partied in 1999.  Both on expenses accounts, we ate at the best restaurants, drank cocktails and champagne, and saw a few tourist trail highlights.  Mostly, we shopped til we dropped, literally.  We could do that back then:  loads of disposable income for a figure not yet ravaged by the demands of pregnancy and the lethargy of age.

After suitably exhausting our credit cards in the shops on the ground floor of the World Trade Centre, my husband suggested we go to the top floor and enjoy the view.  Being the expert of all things New York, I informed him that a better view was to be from the top of the Empire State Building.  I’d been to the top of the World Trade Centre before during my 35^th birthday celebrations and preferred the less crowded view from midtown.  He reluctantly took my expert opinion and we left.  I promised we would come back some other time.  We never made it back and my promise was broken.

I remember standing outside and looking back up at the buildings and being amazed by their sheer size.  They weren’t beautiful buildings but, holy moly, they were big.   They had a buzz about them.  they looked like they would last forever.

Life took over.  We discovered I was pregnant in October 2000 which put an end to my gallivanting about the globe.  Our next trip was to introduce our newborn son to my family in Texas, Colorado and Missouri in late August/early September 2001.  We were exhausted by the end of the trip and eager to get home.  But fate had other ideas.

Flying out of Kansas City on 9 September, we were delayed due to bad weather in Chicago.  There’s always something going wrong in Chicago.  Don’t fly through there if you can avoid it.  Don’t get me wrong:  I love the city of Chicago but as a hub for flights, it sucks.  Big time.

We eventually arrived in Chicago and raced through the airport just in time to see the door to our boarding gate being closed.  I begged.  I pleaded. I cried.  I made Sebastian cry.  Marc yelled.  But United Airlines would not allow us to board that plane  I whipped out my platinum frequent flyer card (this was back when it meant something) and gave them one of my evil eye looks.  It worked.  Sort of.

The airline staff were very apologetic but they kept going on and on about security requirements and our baggage and blah blah blah.  At one point, they had to pull the airplane back into the gate and remove one piece of luggage because the passenger associated with it had never boarded the plane.  But would they let us on the plane?  Nooooooooo!

We were given vouchers for a hotel at the airport and dinner.  We were even given some nappies for Sebastian.  We made the best of a bad situation and went to the hotel and enjoyed a romantic dinner for 2 (pretending that Sebastian wasn’t sound asleep in his car seat hidden under the table).

On September 10 we boarded the plane with the airlines every assurance that our baggage was on the same flight that we were and would arrive at Heathrow at the same time that we did.  This was a very important point as Marc was scheduled to fly back to Princeton, New Jersey in just a couple days.  His days of gallivanting around the globe hadn’t ended.  We needed his suitcase and most of the contents in them to make the return journey with him.

We landed at London’s Heathrow airport on September 11, 2001 at 6:30 in the morning Greenwich Mean Time (GMT).  At 9:30 am we finally gave up arguing with the airlines about our lost baggage.  United Airlines had absolutely no idea where our luggage was.  We had been assured that they were on the same airplane as we were.  Then we were told they were still on the ground in Chicago.  As the last flights had left Chicago for the day we were promised that our bags would be delivered to our home the next day from the first flight out of Chicago

Defeated we headed home.  We had a doctor’s appointment to get Sebastian his second set of immunizations.  As we parked the car outside the doctor’s surgery, we fleetingly heard on the car radio that a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Centre buildings.  As we waited in the queue, I joked with Marc that some flight controller was going to lose his job and we discussed how those buildings had been designed to withstand an airplane collision.  The immediate anxiety associated with my child being jabbed by a large needle took over and we forgot about it.

Upon leaving the doctor’s surgery we heard that another plane had crashed into the other World Trade Centre building.  And this wasn’t some light aircraft.  These were passenger jets.

When we arrived home, I ran inside and left Marc to get Sebastian out of the car.  I turned on CNN and could see both towers before me with smoke coming out of them.  I turned to Marc and said “We’ll never get our luggage back. And you certainly won’t be going to the US tomorrow.

Over the next few hours we watched horrified as people jumped from the burning buildings.  We watched the firefighters rush to and enter the towers.  It was difficult to believe that we weren’t watching a film.  I kept hoping that Bruce Willis would appear or that the broadcast would be interrupted with someone telling us this had all been a mistake and Hollywood’s next blockbuster had accidentally been premiered simultaneously, on every news channel in the world

I kept trying to ring my family.  All the circuits were busy.  No one from the UK could ring the USA.

And then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, the South Tower collapsed in on itself.  I fell to the floor of our living room.  It seemed to happen in slow motion.  There was a knock at our front door.  Our neighbor, Karen, had arrived to just say how sorry she was.  Marc let her in and she wept with me on the floor.

Then the North Tower collapsed. And then the smoke and the debris filled all the cameras and we could see no more.  There was no more to see.  It was all gone.  All of it.  All of them.

Another plane was reported to have flown into the Pentagon and mysteriously another plane had crashed into a field in Pennsylvania.  No one knew how many planes had been hijacked and it took a long time to discover the heroic actions of the passengers on that flight that crashed in Pennsylvania. 

At 5 pm (GMT) there was another knock on our door.  A man in a taxi was delivering out luggage.  No one knows where our luggage had been.  And at that moment, I really didn't care.

The airspace over the USA was closed.  Planes all over the world were grounded.  The world to stopped.  The world cried.

Hospitals in New York prepared to treat thousands of injured people but they found so few that the hospital emergency staff was stood down.  Donors of blood were sent home.  The dead do not need blood.

Thousands were reported missing.  Thousands were never found.  In all nearly 3,000 people died in the towers.

I felt helpless.  I felt hopeless.  I wanted to come home.  and I wanted to run away.

I still can’t watch footage of the planes flying into the buildings, or the people jumping out of the wreckage, or the buildings collapsing to the ground without crying.  I can feel my heart race as I recall the terror of those moments and the disbelief of what I was seeing.

There was a part of me that needed to see it to believe it.  As I approached the area where those giants of buildings used to stand I could not only see their absence.  I could feel it.  I could feel the sadness.  I could feel the pain.  It still feels and looks like a bomb site.  I suppose it always will.  I suppose it always should.

As I stood at the fountains and read the names, my tears started to flow.

When I tried to explain to my children what had happened here, my daughter looked up at me and with disbelief she asked, “But, mummy, why would anyone fly airplanes into buildings on purpose?”

Why, indeed?  How do you ever explain that level of hatred to a child?  I still struggle to understand the hatred of a terrorist. 

When we read the names, I tried to explain, that many of them were firefighters who had selflessly entered these burning buildings to save other people.  “Why would anyone go into a burning building to save other people when they might get hurt themselves?” 

Why, indeed?  I struggled then to explain the heroism and the sacrifice of the people who tried to help the helpless. 

When I explained that there were new buildings being built here, she asked me, “Won’t someone just fly more airplanes into them?” 

And then I struggled to explain hope.  For without hope, there can be nothing else.

Day 1 NYC

Our first morning in New York City started earlier than most.  I find with the jet lag you might as well rock with it and get started.  No sense trying to hang about in bed when there is a whole city just waiting for you.

We had to go from midtown all the way down to Tribeca for breakfast.  I know, I know, this sounds like lunacy.  Well, yes, it is.  But it is also the place you go for the best meal in town at just about anytime of the day. 

I first discovered Balthazar's way back in 1998.  My friend, Kerry, and I decided to stop off in New York for a long 4 day weekend before I went on to Denver for my sister's baby shower and she went on to Florida for, well, whatever you do in Florida.  Besides, it was my 35th birthday and where else do wild and crazy single girls go to let their hair down and celebrate? 

My birthday dinner started off by us being seated in a corner table right next to the windows with members of the Kennedy family sitting to our left and Cher across the room.  Steven Spielberg was also in the house but he didn't have as good as a table as we did.  I ran into Madonna when I went to use the loo.  But most importantly, and this is an important point, this place introduced me to a life long passion for white burgundy.  I think Kerry and I drank the place dry.

This morning the children were promised the breakfast of a lifetime and no one was disappointed.

The youngens ordered waffles with berries and maple syrup. The husband had a ham and cheese croissant and I had Eggs Florentine made with spinach and artichoke.  Given that it was our first morning of the holiday we decided to start as we meant to go on and ordered a couple mimosas to set the tone for the remainder of the day.

The fly in the ointment was we didn't seem to get our mimosas with our breakfast.  About halfway through I started looking round for my drink and the owner of the restaurant caught my eye.  He rushed over and asked if he could help.  I explained our wee little problem and he immediately delivered the 2 most perfect mimosas ever made,  Even more perfect as he decided they would be on the house.  Now I ask you, could this day get any better?

Suitably carb loaded, we headed further downtown.  A leisurely walk across one of the most under appreciated parks in the city, Battery Park, we headed for the ferry port to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. 

As we rounded a corner, there she stood, so majestic, regal, composed, elegant, and unwavering in the promise she has made to hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of immigrants since 4 July 1876.  Abigail was so excited she was shaking and jumping up and down.  She couldn't speak except to say almost in a whisper, "There she is, Mummy."  I thought, I wonder how many other small children have hung on to their mothers hand with that excitement running through their bodies and said those exact same words.

The queue looked worse than it was although the sun was beating down and we had been warned that it might rain.  There was no sign of rain.  Nor was there any sign of our sunblock.  At the price of the tickets ($18 adult, $12/child), I had hoped they would throw in the sunblock.  But no.  Luckily, the ferry came equipped with just about everything a person could need, including sunblock.

We took up prime position on the bow of the boat and doing our best Titanic impression took endless photos and video.  With all four of us running various devices I reckon there was no angle of Lady Liberty that we didn't capture.  Trust me though, she looks great as a result of exceptional lighting and that bone structure, I say!

The park rangers were running a scavenger hunt which the children participated in and even got a badge to prove it.  We grabbed a cool drink and the requisite souvenirs (T-shirts, mugs, key rings, hats, etc) and headed for the ferry to Ellis Island.

I'd been to Ellis Island the first time I was here and was so impressed with the quality of the museum I could hardly wait to share my enthusiasm with the children.  They were struggling with it.  But we persevered.  I was less impressed with the museum this time.  It seemed difficult to navigate and was not clearly marked.  But standing in the Registry Hall, we all shared a moment.

I asked Sebastian if he could imagine the people that made a decision like those immigrants did; a decision to come to a foreign land with nothing but what they could carry in a trunk, speaking only a foreign language and having very little money.  Never knowing if they would ever see their families again, if they would die on the journey.  He said they must have been brave.  I recalled the words of the Star Bangled Banner:"...home of the brave..." and thought, yep, they must have been.

This was a unique opportunity to teach my English/American children about the history of the United States of America.  Let's face it, they don't learn much of it in the English educational system, not that I'm complaining.  There's a lot of history to learn and America teaches very little English history.

Once we got our feet back on Manhattan we headed for some lunch and picked Adrienne's Pizzabar on the pedestrianised Stone Street.  You gotta try this place, if you haven't before.  Wow, Amazing pizza!

We then headed to Wall Street.  I was thrown for a loop when Sebastian asked me to explain what purpose of the stock exchange.  I mumbled something about gambling and carried on walking.  It was a wholly inadequate answer but I'm not sure I have a better one.

Next, we headed to the 9/11 Memorial.  I knew this was going to be tough.......

The Last Kestrel by Jill McGivering

I remember watching the liberation of Kuwait during the first Gulf War on television when I was finishing university.  I was mesmerised by the footage of Christine Amanpour as she reported front the ever-changing frontline of the battlefields of Bosnia.  I have recently been shocked by the courage of the reporters from the uprisings across the Middle East over the last year.  I have seen footage of the reporters embedded with troops in the Vietnam conflict.  Reporters give us what we hope are the facts as the destruction of bombs and bullets unfolds before our eyes.

 

The notion of reporters embedded with troops isn’t a new idea.  Newspapers have sent reporters to cover wars since the time of the Crimea.  But what the reporters sent back wasn’t always aligned with the reality of the devastation.  They went where the military wanted them to go and they reported the message that the government wanted them to report.  Often the copy written represented very little of the actual blood and guts that is real armed conflict.  Civilian casualties were all too often erased from the words.

All too often, we take these reports for granted.  This book makes you live the war.

Jill McGivering, a respected, veteran BBC correspondent has covered more than her fair share of wars.  She is the currently the Asian correspondent and spend most of her time in dangerous places which aren’t really topping the top 10 places to go on holiday.  That’s because these aren’t the types of places you go for a nice, relaxing, hang out by the pool kind of holiday.

No, there is no hanging about when life is a fragile set of circumstances.  McGivering has taken these experiences, but more importantly, the people she has met, and written her first novel, The Last Kestrel.  Published in 2010, this book has only just made it to the top of my To Read pile.  I wish I had read it sooner.

The Last Kestrel tells the story of a journalist, Ellen Thomas, trying to unravel the puzzling events of her translator’s death, whilst assuring her publisher in the UK that a story will soon be submitted.  Ellen isn’t entirely certain what the actual story is.  Readers are invited to bear tragic witness to the story of Hasina, a native peasant woman, trying to save the life of her only son, who may or may not be responsible for a suicide bombing and the brutal realities of the unpleasant choices faced by the military caught up in the nightmare of today’s Afghanistan.

Undoubtedly, McGivering’s journalistic experiences have coloured the people and events and the book sometimes read like a newspaper report:  very factual, very straightforward, sometimes harsh, a little bit simple.  But then a surprisingly intimate and compassionate insight into the pain of Hasina, the mother of a martyr, will suddenly break your heart and remind you that you are a mother and everyone was once a foolish, impressionable teenager with ideals and convictions of right and wrong.

McGivering is also an obvious expert on the subject matter.  I was mesmerised by her descriptions of the social rituals and customs of eating food and being offered drinks in a home of a “local” Afghan.

This is a gritty book; it is not easy to read but it is not easy to put down either.  I suspect readers who loved The Kite Runner will love this.

McGivering has written a second novel, this one set in Pakistan.  The journalist, Ellen Thomas is featured again so I am betting a series is in the making.  I am happy to read them all if they are as good as The Last Kestrel.

End of Summer

I love autumn.  I love the colours of the leaves.  I love their crunch under my feet when I walk.  I love the crispness of the morning.  I love the way the air fills with smell of the earth.  I love the harvest celebrations.  Oh, I just love autumn.

Except for one niggly little thing:  for autumn to begin, summer must end and I hate the end of summer.

This summer has flown by.  It seems like just yesterday that I was sitting at my window watching the rain fall all through the months of May and June (literally).  I kept consoling myself with promises that the sun would come out tomorrow.  It never did.

And then July rushed in and before I knew what hit me, the children were out of school and I was racing around like a headless chicken packing suitcases and catching taxis to airports.

When I originally planned this summer's holidays, I thought 3 weeks in America would be plenty.  I thought my sister would be kicking us to the curb happy to see our backs out the door careful not to let it hit our backsides. 

Instead, just like every other time, there wasn't enough time to do all the things we wanted to do or see all the things or people we wanted to see.  Our summer holiday was packed with more adventures than you can shake a stick at.  We made memories that will last a lifetime.  We caught up with old friends and made some new ones.  I cried like a baby when we drove away from my sister's house and headed back to the UK.

The summer Olympics have come and gone for another 4 years.  I've eaten my last ice cream cone by the seaside.  I've walked by last beach in my bare feet.  I've seen only one live baseball game.  The nights have turned cold and we are contemplating turning the hearting on in the house.  I've unpacked my winter jumpers and put away my shorts, summer dresses, and sandals.  I've thrown that old swimming costume in the rubbish bin.  I'm thinking I might make chili for supper next week.  The nights are getting longer.  The days are getting shorter.  Soon the clocks will fall back and we will get up before the sun, if it ever even bothers to shine at all.  Grey, cold, damp and dreary nights will haunt us.

Before you know it, Christmas will be upon us, snow will be threatening havoc on our roads and the pile of boots, mittens, scarves, and hats will spill all over the kitchen floor.

But no, not just yet.....please mother nature, give me one more day.  Give me one more day of unadulterated sunshine on my face.  Just one more day of summer.......

A New Generation

Large gatherings of families seem to have gone by the wayside, particularly in England where small families tend to be de rigour and in the USA where families are spread out all over the 50 states.  But come hell or high water (literally) my family holds an annual reunion in Oakland, Nebraska.  It is a gathering that celebrates our history and our future.  That picture of my family on the top left corner of my blog was taken in a cornfield next to the family cemetary not far from there the last time we visited.

We have a large colection of books of our family tree that belongs to the oldest in each family and gets handed down with each successive generation.  As the chicken is frying, the rolls are rising, and the pies are baking, the younger generation reminds themselves of where we came from and who is who. 

We are a family of Swedish immigrants who settled in Nebraska and farmed the land.  We lost land in times of depression and grew our families in times of prosperity.  Many families had 13 children (or more).  Rarely did all siblings make it to adulthood.

Nearly a decade ago when my granmother died, a few of us pondered whether this gathering would have the momentum to carry on.  The attendance had been declining.  The younger generation weren't really sure who or how they were related.  We didn't know what to say to each other.  When I took my family there last, my grandmother had only been dead a few years and our hearts ached with the pain of her absence.

The oldest of the generations to still survive is my grandmother's youngest sister, Jeanette (Carson) Johnson.  She was the wee little baby in the grandmother's childhood and is now my only link to a woman who had the most influence on the woman I would one day become. 

I love Jeanette.  She talks like my grandmother.  Her hand gestures mimic those of my grandmother's.  She has that wry smile and a look that will put you in your place in a heartbeat.  She had all a family of the most beautiful girls commonly referred to as the Johnson Girls.  Lynn, Janell, Marla and Kristie were the cutest young women you ever set your eyes on.  They had long, shiny hair back in the 70s and I wanted to be a Johnson Girl when I grew up.  Due to the magic of Facebook, we are still largely in touch with each other and I have grown very fond of their daughters and their children.

Jeanette's home is where we go before the reunion.  Just down the road from the town park where we meet, the home is filled with the smells of home baking.  She still makes the best fried chicken, rolls and sour cream raisin pie in the entire world.  Trust me, this is a true statement.  We have been known to have a few family feuds over who took the last piece of pie. We might even have had an argument or two over who took the last of the chicken.

Everyone brings something:  a rice salad, a broccolli bake, a pasta mix, a spicy corn casserole.  the sides always change but the chicken and the pie remains the same.

And the love.  The love remains the same.

This year we saw record attendance.  The room where we gather has changed to a room with air conditioning.  Thank god for small miracles.  But the family doesn't change.  Every year we get older and new babies are born.  One of my favourite bits is meeting the little persons who I hope will carry on this tradition of meeting in the middle of nowhere in the sweltering heat and talking about the good old days as if they were yesterday.  This year we all wore name badges which also included which branch of our family tree we belonged to.  We talked and hugged non stop.

The most heart warming moment for me at the 2012 reunion was when I saw that my son had sat down with my Great Aunt Jeanette.  He held her hand and stroked her arm.  He told her she was soft.  I'm not sure what else transpired between them.  I hope they were stories and I am sure there was love.  He spent time with her just being next to her I hope absorbing some of her wisdom (and maybe the recipe for her sour cream raisin pie, but somehow I doubt even his charm could get that out of her).

One day in the not so distant future, my Great Aunt Jeanette will no longer be there.  Someone else will need to make the out of this world fried chicken and the rolls.  Someone else will need to master the artistry involved in serving up that magic sour cream raisin pie.  I refuse to think about that right now.  Because, for now, we still have her and the gifts her ancestors gave us.  The greatest of those is Love.

The Big Apple Returns

This used to be my favourite city.

 Marc and I spent a good deal of time here BC (before children) and loved every minute of it. We were travelling for business, on expense accounts with buckets of disposable income. We were young(er) with no real responsibilities or cares. We played in the city until the wee hours of the morning and suffered few regrets. And then children, marriage, mortgages, school fees, and all the associated pressures seemed to shift into the top priority slots. Frivolous holidays in New York? Who can afford that? Besides, what could the children possibly find entertaining in a city full of the most expensive hotels and restaurants ot to mention the top notch bars and nightclubs?

Ok, so I wasn't fully committed to finding the answers to those questions. Until now. And let me tell you, I have now found answeres galore.

So, where did I start with the planning for this holiday? Simple: I started with them. A simple question such as "What would you like to see, eat, do, and learn when we go to NYC?" was more than adequate to get this party started.

Abigail's answer was simple: The Statue of Liberty. She then elaborated by informing us that she thought someone would discover her on the streets of NYC and ask her to do modelling. I smiled. Funny, I used to think that myself......still do in my dreams. Sebastian's answer was a little more complex (of course, it is). Seb wanted to know why NYC was significant in the history of the USA and why it remains the most vibrant city in the world. Oh God, this was going to require some research.

Or maybe not...... I decided to let the city speak for itself.

We arrived Sunday night and the first thing Sebastian said after the taxi dropped us off in mind numbing heat and humidity was that he thought the city stank. Yep, there is a stench about it this time of year. Or most times of the year.

After a refreshing shower we headed out the front door of our hotel, crossed Central Park South into, you guessed it, Central Park and walked towards Columbus Circle. We saw some super fit black men doing a break dance/acrobatic performance. It was set to get dance tunes and the children loved watching it although Abigail did seem to find more than a little amused by the comment that seeing a black man running in Manhattan without a police officer chasing him was very unusual. Abigail caught a Chinese woman apparently hypnotising a Chinese man whilst sitting on a park bench. We caught a cab and directed him uptown. Way uptown. To Harlem.

Many of you might be thinking at this point, I done gone and lost my mind. Nope, I was hungry and there ain't no place better to fix an aching, empty belly than Harlem. Me was going to get me some soooooouuuuuul food.

The yellow cab drove us all the way up to 110th and barely stopped to collect his fare and kick us to the curb. We walked into the restaurant and was told to sit ourselves down just anywhere we liked, as long as someone else wasn't sitting there. Well, that's simple enough.

Their homemade lemonade was declareded by the children to be the best lemonade in the entire world and children have drank a lot of lemonade. We ordered ribs, fried chicken, cornbread,cornbread stuffing, macaroni and cheese, and green beans. Abigail went for the catfish fish fingers. And chips. We can bring a girl all the way to NYC from England and she orders fish and chips. What can I say?

We ate until we thought we would explode. Or the jet lag would leave us a lumps of lard huddled in the chairs. When it came time to ask for the bill, 2 slices of cake (1 chocolate, 1 red velvet) were delivered all packaged up for us to take home with us. Gratis. Free. Complimentary. No charge. They had such a great time listening to us and were so charmed by the children's English accents and manners they gave them cake. Get them! The children were so pleased with themselves, they wouldn't go to sleep. Abigail thought this might be better than being discovered as a star in the making.

We finally collapsed into our beds, shattered from a long day our travel and the early excitement of a city just waiting to show us what it had to offer our new demographic despite the humidity. Maybe, NYC is still my favourite city.

EDITOR'S NOTE:  My iPad is to blame for the lousy state of this article when I first posted it.  It wouldn't let me do any formatting.  Sorry, if you had to read it like that.  I will do my best to do my duty to ensure future technology challenges are beaten down.  Into the ground!

Neighbours

Back in July 2004, we moved into our new house.  Abigail was only 6 months old and we had gone from living in the centre of Windsor, a bustling town, to a rural spot in Old Windsor, a sprawling village.  We had bought a house that was 1 in a row of 4 cottages and a week later new people moved into the cottage right next to ours.

They were a young unmarried couple.  He worked for the same company as I and she was a veterinarian.  In those early days we rarely saw them.  They sailed on the weekends and we were busy raising our family.  Once, before they had their own children, he picked up Sebastian and hung him upside down.  Then promptly let him slip from his hands.  Seb dropped to the pavement and landed on his shoulders.  His wife was horrified (so was I) but once we determined that Sebastian was absolutely fine, we found the humour in it and still laugh about it today.  But soon they were married and then the babies began to arrive, all three little girls.

We grew closer to them as they faced the challenges of raising a family and were home on the weekends juggling taking care of children and a garden and a house with all the loads of laundry and meals to prepare and schools to evaluate.  He was babysitting one night for a few hours and upon his arrival, Sebastian announced that having just done a massive poo "I want you to wipe this" pointing at his bum.  The look on his face was hilarious.  Marc and I bee lined it out the door and let him get on with it.  His daughter's have since had their revenge on me.

As the girls got older and Sebastian went off to boarding school, Abigail started spending more and more time around their home.  Those little girls became like sisters.  She was the big sister and they adored her.  She would quite happily lead them in make believe tea parties or play with doll houses.  She read them books and kept them out of their mother's hair.

They taught her how to ride a bike and fed her endless fresh fruit platters.

We have handed down all of Abigail's clothes (even those that were handed down to us).  There is something very satisfying about seeing hand me downs on the girls.  Makes me feel like we are wasting the planet less.  The girls love to think they are wearing Abigail's clothes.  It is like they used to belong to a princess.

She loves these little girls and a deep loving friendship has grown between them.  I hope it will serve as a model of true friendship the rest of their lives.

Today those neighbours are moving.  Their family of 5 has outgrown their tiny 3 bedroom cottage and they've bought a house up the hill.  It isn't far but it is too far to walk, too far to borrow a pint of milk or an egg or a cup of sugar or a bottle of ketchup.  It's too far to pop round for a cup of tea and a slice of cake on a rainy Sunday afternoon.  It's too far to ask for emergency babysitting.

I am so very sad to see them go.  I'm not sure how Abigail  will cope with losing her little sisters.  Last night she told me she was sad but hoped we could go round to visit.  I know it won't be the same.  Deep down, she knows it won't be either.

We are lucky to have had them as neighbours and we wish them lots of love and happy memories in their new home.  We also hope they miss us lots and invite us round for tea and cake on rainy Sunday afternoons.

Course of Human Events

What follows is what I consider to be one of the greatest complaint letters ever written. Authored primarily by Thomas Jefferson, and reviewed/edited by John Adams, and Ben Franklin, the Declaration was a letter to King George to express why the united states of America had been at war with Britain for over a year. It clearly itemises their complaints and on what grounds they felt they had the right to complain. They were passionate.  They were reasonable.  They were courageous.  Read to the end.....you wouldn't want to miss that last sentence!

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.

Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences

For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish [[sic]] brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Happy Independence Day. BBQ safely!

Fifty Shades of BBC Radio Berkshire

Last week I'm sitting in my office happily minding my own business writing various blog posts, short stories, tweets, and occasionally glancing at my novel.  You know, the usual stuff.  I had been dealing with some difficult phone calls all morning long and I was feeling a bit low.

The phone rings mid afternoon and the man on the other ends announces that he is with BBC Radio Berkshire and my friend, the indomitable Melanie Gow, is doing her usual stint on The Culture Show.  The show had run into a slight glitch in that they were discussing the publishing sensation that has become the Fifty Shades Trilogy and non one in the studio had actually read the books.  they wondered if I would be willing to weigh in.  And, Mel knowing me the way she knows me, knew that I would have read all the books.

She was right.

For those of you living in a cave or under a rock, Fifty Shades is a series of 3 books, Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker, and Fifty Shades Freed.  A young virgin (22) just graduating from university (already unlikely) meets a very, very, very rich older man (27).  Ok, not that much older but don't spoil this for me.  He proposes that she become his submissive to his dominance in a somewhat twisted contract of employment which would clearly never hold up in an employment tribunal.

Ana, aka young virgin, is appalled but cannot resist the smoldering, good looks and charm of Christian, aka twisted sexual deviant.  I won't be giving anything away when I say she looses her virginity to him and a whole lot of other things.

The buzz and hum of the media is marvelling at how this series of books has broken all publishing records.  10 million copies sold in 6 weeks?  The author, E.L. James, has crushed every record set, although critics are saying she can't sustain the sales to break some of the long standing records of the Harry Potter series.  I say, oh, just watch her.

The media has gotten themselves all worked up over the fact that, first off, there's a lot of sex in the book and, secondly, the sex is graphic.  Woop de doop, I say!

Now I won't lie, the sex scenes are titillating.  But they are also fascinating.  I suspect that most readers like myself, don't know all that much about bondage, submissives, dominance, and being tied up.  I suspect very few readers have a sex life that resembles anything like the sex described in the book.

So the media just needs to calm themselves down.  This is a bit of escapism.  That's it.  We all read the Twilight series and none of us wanted to become vampires.

These books are not under any circumstances high literature.  They are poorly written and repetitive.  In fact they are so repetitive, I found I could scan entire pages and not lose the plot.  I could just jump to the juicy bits.

E.L. James started this series as a fan website for the Twilight series of books which was a very chaste series written as it was by Stephanie Myers, a devout Mormon who believed girls should not have sex until marriage.  Bella certainly didn't have sex with Edward, the vampire, until they were married.  There was a lot of kissing going on but little else.  I reckon those books would have been a lot better if Bella knew what sex with a vampire was like before she promised to love, honour, and cherish forever.  And with a vampire, forever is a long time.  The Twilight series wasn't a well written series either.  But no one got themselves into a twist.  And he was a very much older man!

Besides, the Fifty Shades trilogy is, after all, just a romance series.  I getting ready to spoil the whole series here so if you haven't read the last book and don't want (or can't guess) how it ends, stop reading this paragraph.  Ana successfully breaks through Christian's sexual deviance and together they resolve the incredible damage done to his character by the sexual abuse of an older woman at a young age.  He learns to love in a gentle and respectful manner.  Ana also learns to have a bit of fun and engage in fantasies.  They meet in the middle as two adults with a very fulfilling sex life.  Which I reckon is really all most readers would like.


In the fast-paced, mundane world of school runs, ballet shows, full time employment outside the home, grocery shopping, sports days and Friday nights sat in front of a television until you fall asleep because you're too knackered to even consider a marathon night of mind blowing sex every night of the week, these books are fun to read.  And might even lead to 10 minutes of "well, that wasn't so bad" sex with the one you love.


So, jump down from that towering pedestal of judgement on which you are comfortably perched and let me read what I want to read, for whatever reason I want to read.  

My only criticism is not aimed at E.L. James or the books.  I do have a problem with where and how these books are being sold.  I don't want my 8 year old daughter picking them up off a table at the front of the store and flicking through it.  I'm not going to dictate when children should be allowed to read these books.  That is up to the parents.  Could the publisher please put a paper ring around the books which would prevent them from being flipped through in the book store?  That way my daughter will only find the books on my iPad and read it at home.

I didn't get a chance to say all this on the radio.  But if you missed it or was wondering what I was on about, if you did hear it, now you know!

Gardening - Love it or Hate it?

I used to think I was bad at gardening.  Just like I was bad a drawing.  But now I have realised that I'm not bad at gardening.  I just don't like it all that much.  Oh sure, I like the end result of a well tended, much loved garden that blooms at different times of the year and offers a multi-sensory experience treating the noise, the eyes the fingers.  I yearn for a perfect little English country cottage garden that I can meander through and ponder the state of the universe.  I long for perfect raised vegetable beds that will fill  our table and pantry the whole year round.

Instead I get weeds.  Relentless, immortal, soul destroying weeds.

Every spring I approach our garden with the optimism of a 5 year old on Christmas morning.  I draw plans with careful consideration for crop rotation.  I covet the photographs of dream gardens.  I buy seed packets and spend a packet at the local gardening centres on small, struggling stems.

But the optimism soon gives way to life.  A hot April is followed by a freezing May and anything I did then is frozen.

I start again with a heavier heart, holes in my gardening gloves and creaks in my knees. Once the freezing temperatures of spring have gone, May brings showers.  Not the kind of showers we should have had in April but monsoon showers that you should only have in a rainforest.  It rains for days.  The grass looks like a mud bath.

By the middle of June, despair sets in, I still haven't planted half my seed packets and most of my gardening tools have broken.  My potted herb garden has downed although the weeds don't seem to have minded and have taken over.  Half of one of my beautiful trees had died and I don't know if I should just let the dead part hang there because the other half looks really pretty.  The avids and other rapid insects are eating away at my pansies and my roses.

Gardening is not for the impatient.  I planted poppy seeds with visions of beautiful red poppies taking over the bed next to our driveway.  What I failed to appreciate was that poppies planted from seeds may take a few years to bloom.  I very nearly dug out the poppy plants that are growing thinking they were weeds.  Honestly, what is the point of plants that don't flower?

Gardening is not for those with control issues either.  Mother nature has a way of laughing at those of us with delusions of control.  It is this high pitched, migraine inducing laughter of wind, flood, drought all in the space of 2 weeks.

I try to appease her.  I've planted that endless cycle of annuals.  I religiously plant my hanging baskets and terracotta patio pots with pansies in the spring.  They are inevitably limp and bedraggled by August. Or the slugs have gotten to them and all that is left are the stems poking up out of the ground looking like Armageddon.

I've planted perennials that have never flowered and eventually been pulled up by errant gardeners who thought they were weeds.

My lawn is tortured by too much rain or too little rain.  Some weeks it doesn't grow at all and some weeks it grows enough for the entire summer.  My dog shits all over it and despite our daily poo patrol there is always one little turd that escapes my evil eye only to be found by my foot as I'm hanging up the laundry.

Oh, how I wish I liked gardening. I want to have a serene outdoor space where I can lie in my hammock smelling its abundance.  I will continue the struggle though because gardening to me is a bit like my golf game.

Everytime I play golf, I swear I am never going to play golf again.  Until, I make a perfect chip shot in for birdie.  I then approach the game with renewed commitment.

This year my garden has given me a birdie.  Our front rose bush is heavy with roses where it has always been insect ridden.  Our back rose (planted 5 years ago) has flowered for the first time ever (see photo above).  Our cherry tree produced its first cherry.  Our jasmine is finally blossoming.  Some days my hanging basket look stunning and some days they look like they are weeping but that is gonna be good enough for me.

Maybe I don't have to love gardening.  Maybe we can come to a compromise.  It will give me a few birdies and I will give it water when mother nature doesn't.

Boycott Launch of London Olympics 2012

I remember being so excited when London was awarded the opportunity to host the Summer Olympics in 2012.  That was in 2004 and 2012 seemed like ages away.  I was soooooo excited.  I mean, How many times in a person's life do they get to see the Olympics staged in their hometown?  I remember calculating how old my children would be, how old I would be and it seemed like forever away.  I swore that we would attend every event and that all of my family would come to visit.  I planned on pitching tents in both the front and back gardens just to make sure we had enough room.

The Olympics are expensive to put on and not a single capital city that has hosted the summer or winter Olympics has EVER recouped their costs of building the infrastructure to support the games.  But in this age of obesity and sloth, I bought into the promise that the Olympics would be accessible to all providing an activity rich environment where all would be encouraged to take part.

Well, here it is 2012 and we are roughly 6 weeks away from the Opening Ceremony, although I don't actually know when the Opening Ceremony is.  I know very little about what is going on with the Olympics.  I read no news about it any longer.  In fact, we have planned to be far, far, far away from London when the Olympics are held in this great capital city.

You are probably asking yourself so how did I get from being the most excited person in the country to being the most disengaged person?  The answer is simple:  GREED!

The first encounter was a year ago when I went to book tickets for a couple events.  The process was laborious.  First off, you had to have a VISA card.  Not Mastercard, VISA.  If your bank had not issued you with a VISA card as part of their standard banking practises you had to apply for a VISA and use it to pay for your tickets.  VISA being an Olympic sponsored had banned all other forms of payment.  What?  Are you kidding me?  We are in a credit crunch and you want me to go apply for a new credit card?  I shouldn't be complaining because I was one of the lucky whose bank does provide VISA.  But I knew instantly access to a VISA credit card was going to provide the first of many insurmountable hurdles for many in our society.

Once I got to grips with the difficult to navigate website, I encountered the vast array of events to attend.  The rowing is taking place in a lake not more than 5 miles from our house so I went to the rowing events.  I nearly fell out of my chair at the prices.  For a family of 4 to attend for a few hours in a non-medal event was going to cost my family over £200.  A medal event, ie a final, was going to cost us in excess of £400.  Worse, even if I decided that I was willing to hand over that cash there was no guarantee I would get the tickets.  You see, I was entering a lottery for the tickets, not actually purchasing the tickets.  The lottery for the tickets would be held a few months later.  So if you wanted to see an Olympic event you needed to select a few different events on different days.  So I went to the sailing and picked an event there.  Even though the cost was in excess of £300 I figured one or the other would be fine and hey, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity that my children would never forget so don't be such a grump. 

Tickets for the Opening Ceremony started at £1000/seat.  Are you kidding me?  Who bought those tickets?  It sure as hell ain't those millions of people that the games were supposed to be being staged for.  The more popular events, such as beach volleyball (seriously?), I decided to ignore all together since I figured everyone and their brother (because it is going to be an all male audience, right?) is going to apply for those tickets.

I started to get a little carried away, fearful I wouldn't get any tickets to any event in the lottery.  By the time I was finished making my selections (including gymnastics both male and female of course)and navigated to the checkout, I was informed that if I was successful in the ticket lottery the Olympic Committee would kindly remove roughly £7,000 from my bank account.  Well, they wouldn't remove that amount from my bank account because there was no way in hell I would have that much money in my bank account for them to remove.

I tried to calculate the odds of actually getting all the tickets that I had applied for.  I realised that this was a fruitless exercise as I didn't know how many tickets were available and I had no idea how many people were applying for the same tickets I was applying for.  A logical approach was not going to work here.

So I became completely illogical.  I removed everything except those events which I felt we would all as a family really enjoy.  I ended up with £2500 worth of tickets.  Then I added the cost of transportation, parking, food, drinks and actual time spent at the event.  A one day event of roughly in East London at the Olympic Park was going to take us 6 hours to get to an event that was going to last maximum 3 hours assuming that nothing in the transportation link went wrong, which if you have ever commuted in London you will know that this is the most foolish assumption one can ever make.

And it was going to cost us nearly £500 in incidentals.  And that was just for one event.  Fortunately, we are not one of the unfortunates who have to pay for accommodation.  We would have to consider a second mortgage if we were to do that.

VISA has struck a deal that states that all cash points within a radius of the Olympic Park must be removed if they are not VISA.  They will be replaced with 1/3 of the number and only VISA cards will be taken at all Olympic venues.

When I had considered all of this and was ready to click the pay button, I was further informed that the if I was one of the fortunate few to win the ticket lottery, the money would be removed from my account 1 year before the event.  That's right!  They were going to earn the interest on my money for a full year before the event.

At this point, I left the website without buying a single ticket to a single event.  I thought ok we will just watch this one from the television and soak up the ambient atmosphere.

Anyone who was just about anywhere in the British Isles during the Diamond Jubilee celebration will tell you that it was hard not to get wrapped up in all the hope and glory of the 60 year reign of Her Majesty the Queen.  Bunting sprung up in the most unlikely of places.  Union Jacks quivered in the winds.  the National Anthem, God Save our Queen, rattled the stained glass in churches all over the country.  For 4 days everyone enjoyed street parties, flotillas, pop concerts, beacon lightings, jubilee church services and carriage rides.  All too catch a glimpse of an 86 year old woman undoubtedly wearing a brightly coloured hat perfectly coordinated with her outfit and white gloves. And if you were lucky enough to see her smile you giggled like a child and told everyone about it.

AND IT WAS ALL FREE!!!!!!!! Now before y'all go attacking me by saying but we paid for it with our taxes, I know we did but we didn't pay anymore than normal taxes, ok?

That's right, none of this cost us a pound, pence or shilling.  OK, we paid £8 for parking in London on the Monday but I think just about anyone could handle that.

The events of the Diamond Jubilee were available to one and all.  It lifted the spirits of a nation and made everyone proud to be British (even if you aren't you were wishing you were).

Unlike the Olympics.  The privileged and moneyed will be able to attend and watch it live after they have fought the nightmare of the transportation chaos and road closures (for VIPs only, eg company directors of VISA).  The rest of us will watch it from our sofas on the television watching whatever the BBC deems is the most popular event at that time (Let's hope they do that better than they did the Jubilee Flotilla!).

Then I realised, hey, I can watch the Olympics on television anywhere in the world.  And we won't have to deal with the traffic. 

So, adios, auf weidersein, au revoir, ciao, see you later alligators, we are outta here.  You won't catch me supporting this capitalistic, money grabbing, greedy extravaganza that has done absolutely nothing to bring sports to the masses.

Now, let;s just hope it doesn't bankrupt our great city.

Athletes and Artists

The morning dawned bright and beautiful.  That's right, people.  The sun was shining.  The sky was blue.  The birds were singing.  The cows were mooing.  OK, you get the idea....

A whole morning in front of us.  Oh, what to do, what to do.....
In our optimistic haze we decided we could obviously hike the length of the Devon coast, or at least from Hallsands to Start Point to see the lighthouse.  First thing in the morning 5 miles round trip sounds like a great idea. 
Which it probably is for someone who isn't several stone overweight and seriously out of shape with 4 children and 3 dogs in the hiking party.  And, who designed these walks?  Must the entire way there be uphill?  I mean 2.5 miles uphill.  Seriously?

If I had thought about it a bit more clearly (which would have required several more cups of coffee than I managed), I would have been able to deduce that a lighthouse is going to be on high ground and therefore, this walk would require substantial vertical effort.

The men and youngens set off like this hike was a race for life.  I was happy to let them surge ahead.  In the first 10 minutes I thought I was going to burst a lung.  And why exactly was I carrying my cold weather coat which weighs a not insubstantial amount but wasn't waterproof enough yesterday to keep me dry and yet was heavy enough today to slow me down?  There was that temptation to abandon everything I was carrying.  Instead I was grateful I opted to let Marc carry the camera.

My friend, M, used to be a competitive runner.  In fact, one of the parts of yesterday's story that I just couldn't bear to include was that she ran all the way to Beesands yesterday and back in the rain with the three dogs, just to do some reconnaissance work for us. She did this before I managed to get dressed.  But today she slowed it down and we had a girlie bonding chat while she encouraged me to keep on putting one step in front of the other in her ever so gentle way.  She never once complained when I stopped to catch my breath, even if I had just done that 3 minutes ago.

A profound sense of achievement overwhelmed me in a very private way when we arrived at the lighthouse and I was reunited with the other part of our travelling gang.  Of course by that time, they had taken off up the side of the mountain to check out even higher ground (because of course, there is always higher ground).

I told them I would meet them on the way back.  I looked out over the sea.  I could hear the children yell and giggle over my shoulder.  I soaked up the sun, congratulated myself on meeting today's objective and did I what I do best:  watched the tide go out knowing that later tonight it would come in.

See, I've learnt that recently.  No matter what happens, the tide is sure to come in and then it will go out.  Tomorrow it will do the same even if I don't watch.  The sun will rise and the sun will set even if it is raining.  The stars will shine even when it is cloudy.  Joy and happiness is inside of me and all around me even if I can't feel or find it right now.  There is absolutely no use looking anywhere else for it.  Right now, I am seeing it and feeling it all in Devon.

After our athletic endeavours, we stuffed our faces and headed to Slapton Beach for a bit of stone skipping, kite flying, castle building, and fishing.  None of them were widely successful.  In fact, none of them were successful at all.  Nobody seemed to mind.

Once back at the cottage and properly fortified with hot cross buns with lashings of butter and sugary hot tea, the girls decided to try their hand at a bit of artistry; they painted a couple beautiful landscapes with our watercolours and then Abigail wrote a song begging for the sun to keep shining all week.  The words are done and as I write the boys are working on writing the tune on the piano.  I have to admit to being impressed by the effortless joy and happiness emanating from every pore of these children.  It lightens my load and smooths more than a few wrinkles.

I anticipate tomorrow morning will bring more than a few aches and pains as I pay for my ambitious trek today.  Stay tuned to learn if I am able to walk........


PS The end of yesterday's story (http://clare-panton.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/stopped-wind.html) was inadvertently omitted.  OK, not entirely true.  In my rush to share the magic with you I forgot to finish the fishmonger story.  Just in case it was keeping you awake, I thought I should let you know that the fish was indeed freshly caught that morning.  I know this because when we went back to pick up our shopping all of the fish was sold out and when I asked he told me I would have to wait for tomorrow's catch.  When I asked what he would have, he looked at me like I was some crazy, city girl and told me every morning was a surprise.

Stopped the Wind

We are on holiday in Devon (southwest coast of England) with another chorister family of four and their 2 dogs.  We've been planning this trip since June last year and had hoped for that lovely springtime weather promised by the south of England during the Easter school holidays.

We plan.  God laughs!
We had a late arrival night followed by a late dinner followed by late night bottles of wine which meant ultimately it was a late start to the morning.  The heavens opened up in the morning and the gale force winds made it a wee bit difficult to stand up.  But we had set our minds on a walk along the coast and we were going on a walk, dammit!

OK, I surrendered the moment I stepped out the door.  Abigail supported my surrender and joined me in the comfort of our car as the others set of for a bracing walk to Beesands about 2 miles away.  We would meet them there.

The roads are single track surrounded by 10 foot high hedges are both sides and grass growing down the middle of the road.  Abigail announced she felt like Alice in Wonderland.  She was Alice.  I was the White Rabbit what with my obsession for punctuality and all.

Thanks to the wonders of sat nav we made it without a single wrong turn and whilst enjoying the scenery.  What did we do before this wonderful invention?  Oh, I remember:  bury our heads in maps and be lost for hours until asking for directions.  Even then a local accent would lead to a nod and a smile but no closer to finding our way.

The initial drive by survey of the tiny seaside village took all of about 30 seconds.  We got parked up  across from the designated pub and I wondered what Abigail and I were going to do for the next hour whilst we waited for the others to survive the walk.  There wasn't even a newsagent.
We spotted the car from the other family.  M had decided that one car wouldn't be enough for all of us to return home after lunch so she would hang with us.  With reasonably low expectations, we headed to the local fish shop.  And then the magic started.....

The fishmonger greeted us with a hearty hello.  It was a small shop but there was ample fish which we were assured had been caught that day.  Yeah, yeah I thought "they always say that".  We found the tea bags and instant coffee we were after and then found some homemade hot cross buns, which clearly we were not going to pass on.  We headed to the counter only to be further tempted by the pronouncement that the fishmonger had just whipped up a large pot of crab chowder which would be ready in about 2 hours.  As it was only 11 o'clock we decided, to postpone our purchases and return after lunch.

Back out in the wet weather,we headed.  A sign outside a small church enticed us inside with the promise of hot tea and cakes, the price being only a donation to the church maintenance fund.  We were greeted by 3 very enthusiastic women including the village vicar.  They prepared 2 of the best cups of tea I've ever had and a delish hot chocolate for Abigail.  We bought some cakes for after the walk back at our cottage and then sat down for a right proper natter. 

M went to book the pub for lunch and returned with some bad news:  the pub was fully booked until 2:30.  Plan B went into action.  We would wait for the walkers, eat cake for lunch, then go for our pub lunch.  The church was happy for us to wait.

The walkers arrived soaking wet and chilled to the bone.  We got them warmed up with hot drinks and gorgeous homemade lemon drizzle cake.  As if by magic the boys gained a second wind and a piano was magically produced from a tiny little corner.

W sat down and started to play for the walkers in the church.  Then Seb played.  Then W played.  the girls sat decorating cupcakes and colouring.  Each and every person who walked into that church for a refuge from the wind and storm found a place filled with warmth and love.

The church emptied and the men headed for the pub when our little choristers decided to deliver a most beautiful gift.  Despite it being Easter Monday, they began to sing Once in Royal David's City.  Even though it is traditionally a Christmas carol, it seemed right and appropriate.  Their voices blended beautifully.  They were pitch perfect.  They sang without accompaniment and hit every high note.

When they finished, everything was silent.  You couldn't even hear the wind howling.  They had stopped the wind.  It was as if everything had stopped to listen to them.  And then the little boys' sister broke into applause and I wiped away the tear from the corner of my eye.  The rain on the windows invaded our space and the boys smiled shyly like 10 year olds do.

We thanked the church ladies of St Andrew's Church of England in Beesands, Devon for their gracious welcome. We made a generous donation to ensure that this haven of warmth and kindness is here for future generations to seek comfort.

The afternoon had not gone according to plan but the day had far exceeded our expectations.  Who would have thought we could stop the wind?

A Journey

My life has consisted of countless journeys.  I’ve travelled to India, South Korea, Maldives, Australia, Italy, Spain, Slovakia, France, Mexico, Brazil, Sweden, Scotland, Switzerland, all over the USA and way too many others to bore you with here.

Each journey has had its surprises of lost luggage, flight cancellations, bad weather, dolphins, sharks, missed taxis, food poisoning, parasitic infections, muggings, and hospitalization.

The journeys have been both spontaneous and planned with military precision.  I’ve packed everything but the kitchen sink and paid extra luggage penalties.  I’ve also gone with just the contents of my hand bag.

I’ve travelled on ferrys, planes (both big and small), trains (1^st and cattle class, day trip and overnight), sailed a yacht across the English Channel from Portsmouth to Cherbourg and a catamaran in the Indian Ocean.  I’ve driven overnight from Germany to Italy speeding down the autobahn and getting ripped off by an Italian toll booth operator. 

I’ve missed flights by seconds. I’ve missed flights by days.  I’ve been upgraded to first class for free.  I’ve stood on a packed train for 9 hours from Paris to Amsterdam more than once.

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting one of my very best friends on a flight to Australia.  She had the misfortune of being seated next to me 14 years ago and our conversation, started that day, has never ended.

I’ve cried through an entire journey returning to the land of my birth to attend my grandmother’s funeral.  It seemed the journey would never end and my tears would never stop.

I’ve sat in front of people who kicked my seat and drove me to distraction.  I’ve eaten the strongest cheese and freshest baguette with my mother and daughter returning from a dream trip to Paris.

I’ve smiled and giggled and had my expectations wildly exceeded on the journey of my honeymoon.  My heart was swollen with love and the promise of the brightest future.  I can’t remember ever being so happy in my entire life.

I’ve met so many interesting and some irritating people.

I’ve taken many journeys.  The greatest journey is the one I am still on:  the most unpredictable of all journeys.  My life.

There is no map.

I often get lost.

Not everyone is helpful when asking for directions.

I don’t always like where I am.

I don’t always know where I am going.

I take wrong turns.

I keep walking.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to get there and the transportation is sometimes unreliable.

I’m travelling with an amazing group of people.

I am often surprised by what I find along the way.

The scenery is pretty good.

There is no tourist guidebook.

Some sites are massively over rated.

Tomorrow will surely bring a new adventure.

New Coat

My first full winter in the UK I needed a proper coat suitable for the English weather.  Not entirely sure I know what this is now and I certainly didn't know what that was then given the broad spectrum of weather you are likely to encounter in the country during the months of October - March. 

In Colorado this is an easy questions to answer.  You either need a triple down for the blizzard like conditions or no coat at all.  I've worn shorts in February in that state but of course that was back when my blood was thicker and I was foolish.

In Germany you just needed a raincoat.  All year round.  End of.  You might add a scarf in January but you would definitely need to hang it up to dry every night.

In the winter of 1997-98 I was working in London on Old Bond Street above the brand new flag ship Calvin Klein store.  And I had money to burn.  During my lunch hour I popped in and invested in a gorgeous dark charcoal grey wool coat.  I paid nearly the same as my rent for this garment but I figured it was an investment for life.  It had deep pockets and was double breasted to keep the wind out (when I could get it buttoned).  It went with everything.  It could be fancy or casual.  It has served me well.

I very shortly lost the unsecured belt.  I knew that was going to be a problem when I bought the coat but choose to ignore this miniscule flaw in my investment.  I have stitched and restitched the lining of the coat more than a half a dozen times.  I lost nearly all the buttons and the replacements don't match exactly.  The arms are pilled and given I've gained considerable weight since then the coat hasn't actually buttoned up for some time.  Although I blame this on the ill fitting buttons we all know that isn't really the underlying cause.  The hem had to be repaired last winter just before the coats last outing and I knew then that after 14 years of dedciated service it was time to retire the old girl.

Which of course meant that I had to buy a new coat.  I hear squeals of delight out there from my shopaholic faction.  Regrettably, I am not a member.  Shopping is a competitive sport worthy of an Olympic gold medal best left to well trained experts.  I am not one of those.  I find no joy in shopping.  In fact it is high on my stress trigger list and if I didn't ever have to do it, I wouldn't.

This, however, was inevitable and necessary.  I entered the shop with my shields up and defenses on stun.  I was on a mission.

A long army green puffer coat was too small and made me look like a mouldy marshmallow and I swear those ladies I was sharing a mirror with were laughing at me.  The black shawl coat with the faux fur collar was about 4 sizes too big so it looked like a superhero cape and it wasn't lined so was going to be about as useful as a chocolate teapot in the dead damp cold of January. 

Nearing the point of throwing in the towel I found a long taupe down coat which fit perfectly and didn't actually look all that badly.  I knew if I hesitated I would freeze this winter so I headed for the till.  On my way there I also found a lovely winter satchel which I just couldn't live with out for the bargain basement price of £29.  SOLD!  It would match my new coat I practiced saying for my husband's benefit.

I put the coat on outside after removing the tags and stuffed the old coat into my shopping bag.  So much for respecting the old.  It looked great.  It felt great.

Soon I was sweating like a pig on a spit.  I found myself wishing I'd covered my entire body in anti-perspiration.  I removed the coat and carried it around.  It was a bit like carrying a king sized duvet.  This morning I took the dog for a walk.  I put on the coat and 5 minutes into the walk I had to remove it due to a reoccurence of the perspiration. 

I had executed my plan for a new coat and ended up buying a double sleeping bag.  The weather better turn to sub zero very soon or I will be needing to buy another less effective coat this weekend.  But the satchel is great!

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

CHAPTER I
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost... I am hopeless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.
 
CHAPTER II
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in this same place.
But it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.
 
CHAPTER III
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it there.
I still fall in... it's a habit... but, my eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.
 
CHAPTER IV
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
 
CHAPTER V
I walk down another street.
 

--Portia Nelson

Aunt Helen

On October 12, 2011, at 1:30 am my Aunt Helen lost her battle with brain cancer having fought valiant battle.

Aunt Helen represents a time in my life when everything was good and nothing could ever go wrong.  Adults were perfect up on their pedestals and children had no other purpose than to create mischief and keep their parents on their toes.  My mother and father were still married.  My aunts were are still married to my uncles.  Family dinners at my Grandmothers house were raucous chaotic events filled with love and laughter and usually a fair bit too much to drink (for the adults).  The tribe of 10 cousins encouraged each other to climb higher into the trees and set various things on fire.  Christmas Eve was magical and I wish so hard to be able to freeze that time and for none of it to ever change.

But the world kept spinning and it all spun out of control and nothing was ever the same again.  By the time I was 12 my parents had divorced.  Shortly, thereafter, Aunt Helen and Uncle Ed divorced. Uncle Bob and Aunt Sandy remained married but moved miles away.

Family gatherings became fraught with the tension of custody battle and alimony payments and we were never ever all together again.  The tribe of cousins flew out into the chaos of the world and went on to create some of our own chaos in other places.  We've struggled with addictions, broken marriages, custody battles and demons.  Every one of us has our own children.  But that time of childish abandoned joy ceased a long time ago.

I haven't spoken to Aunt Helen for years and years.  We had a bit of a falling out when I was in university which makes my grief somehow hollow and shameful.  I've seen her across rooms at matches (weddings), hatches (christenings) and dispatches (funerals) but more than a mere nod and smile little passed between us.  I wish I could have told her that she represented all that was good in my childhood and that she made the best chile con carne in the world!  Her laughter will be missed.

Stumbling

Joyce Elaine (Carson) Smith
 October 3 1921-February 7 2005

Today would have been her 90th birthday.  I have been without her compassionate wisdom and gentle guiding light for 6 years.  I miss her everyday and every year I stumble today.