Le Pere Jordan

It's been a "Journey" since I've felt I had the freedom of time, or the mental bandwidth to write anything. The fact that two years have passed since our last trip to France, that ended in a Medical Evacuation back to the US, is hard to fathom.

I now feel slightly guilty saying that there are some positive aspects to our life, in view of everyone else's  struggles.

My husband will always be "The Artistic One".

When friends ask him what he's up to, he  speaks about painting and possible upcoming art shows. His easel, paints and a fresh canvas are still where they were in our family room/Art Studio, although I have moved things over a bit to facilitate the passage of TAO with his walker frame.

He no longer paints or reads. He sleeps a lot and then sits and watches TV from the kitchen table. When it's not too hot we sit on the covered patio and watch the wind move the tree tops and the dogs run the fence to bark at delivery drivers and people walking by.

As I sit with him, I share videos, from my Facebook feed, of silly cats, redneck creative transportation solutions and familiar regions of France.

The image above is a stained glass window he designed and had made for our French house. The character "Old Mr Jordan" gave TAO hell seventy-plus years ago when he let the cows wander into the wrong field. He also sat in the barn with him in winter and carved wooden clogs, while telling stories about the village. I've heard more stories about him than of TAO's father.

TAO had sketched this image, which we still have,in pencil, long ago. You can see the rolling hills in the distance. The fence line takes your eye where the Artist intended.

When discussing subject matter for this tall bathroom window, I thought this image would honor a World that meant so much to TAO and be relevant to the surroundings.

The house is under offer. It's unlikely we'll ever go there again.

TAO's eldest daughter has been fantastic, shouldering the responsibilities of finding and making arrangements with an Agent, a Notaire and even going to the Department of Construction Permits to have them give the final signature on a project that was completed a decade ago.

She's had all of our paintings moved safely into storage for us. I told her to let her siblings choose any that they might like for themselves and to give away any furniture and household stuff that the potential new owners didn't want.

The one thing I wanted to remove and keep was this window. Unfortunately, the craftsman that came to try to extract it found it was installed in a way that can't be undone.

We now have a small chip of blue glass as a souvenir and these beautiful photos, taken by she who would be my Step-Daughter, if she were younger and I were older.

 

Homework

It's hard to believe we're several days into October. Although the days have shortened, whilst the sun is up we've been wilting through an ongoing heat wave. It's 99 degrees Fahrenheit at four in the afternoon, in my shady covered patio that serves as home office, entertaining space and general happy place.

This is how it looked before we move in, in July. We liked the house and its potential but wondered at the absence of birds and squirrels, that we're so used to having around.

A couple of months later and our jungle is softening the hard edges already. The cat and I just got a very rude talking to from a squirrel who was headed in to feast on the grains that fall from the bird feeder. Slinkie left her lounging post on the table, where she makes the most of the breeze, and took a step or two towards Mr. Squirrel. He found himself taking refuge in a tree that can't have been to his liking and was very clear about sharing his opinion.

I wish I could share the perfume of the Hawaiian Ginger with you. The flowers unfurl discreetly. I always discover a new blossoming by head-turning scent at first. They sometimes continue flowering into January, if we don't get a cold snap. The trellis behind the Ginger supports a Persian Jasmine, which has doubled in size since we've been here.

Although only a dozen, or so miles away from our last home, we've left the proximity to the coastal range, where Nature's air conditioner, Fog, rolls inland in the evenings and where clouds catch and break open in normal rainy seasons.

The heat is much more challenging when there's no respite as dark falls. Fans are our new found friends. If the air is moving, you can fool yourself into pretending it's cool.

We've christened our space with a get together of twenty two friends and family members. That maxed out the space. We'll have to set the tables on the lawn, if we increase our guest numbers next time.

I took TAO's daughter, who was visiting from France, on a trail ride in the tree shaded hills around the barn where I usually ride in the arena. She'd never met a Palomino horse before. It's a very Western Movie kind of thing. On the way back, galloping up to the top of the big pasture, there was a Bald Eagle flying low enough for us to clearly see his white head and enormous dark wingspan. I'm still in awe.

I'm putting my drafting skills to work to capture a design for a fireplace, for a designer/friend I met with yesterday. She's purchased a coastal getaway home in Cambria. I drove three and a half hours each way yesterday. We had planned to spend the weekend relaxing and sight seeing but TAO had eaten something that didn't agree with him and didn't feel he was safe to leave the house. "The Trots" was a term my Father used to use, and has nothing to do with equitation. Poor TAO!

I swooped along in freewheeling solitary pleasure. Much appreciated after all the carpooling we've been doing since we moved. Radio and air-conditioning set to my preferences and beautiful effects of sideways sun-shortening shadows, making the creases and canyons disappear from the landscape, as the day got up. It was a reverse-commute direction, both going and coming. (Thanks be to Heaven!). The one small slowdown was due to trucks having to navigate around an S model Tesla, limping along with it's hazard warning lights on. Someone must have miscalculated their battery life or forgot to charge up before heading out into the boonies. Maybe they thought there were charging stations scattered between here and Los Angeles. Same planet, different worlds. There were only old Spanish Missions, National Guard gun ranges and the slow nod of the wellheads, competing to suck the earth dry of crude oil.

South of Paso Robles, the road out to the Pacific winds past a multitude of wineries, each named and designed for a different fantasy. It was still early and the only vehicle in sight was an old pick-up truck, in my rear view mirror. Suddenly, the pastoral view gave way to a sweeping Ocean-scape and twenty minutes later I was at my appointment. It was fun to catch up with their goings on. We haven't seen one another for a while. We fit easily into our professional groove and it wasn't hard to pin down what they wanted and see how to make it happen. 

My clients took me to lunch at Indego Moon in Cambria. I had a leek and crusted goat cheese tart with a salad and a glass of white wine. Leeks are the secret weapon of flavoring. It was just right, crunchy over soft and tasty as can be. I then went off to show my face (and ID and credit card) at the little motel where we had reservations. It was too last minute to cancel our reservation and I'd called a friend who needed a break, knowing it was her favorite destination. She and her husband said "Yes" immediately and would be there to make use of the room, which I had to pay for anyway. I'd much rather see someone get some pleasure out of it than have it go to waste.

Back home by dinner time, I cooked rice and hard boiled eggs to get TAO back on track. I'd cancelled my riding for the weekend, thinking we'd be gone, and so have had some time on my hands today. I started the morning topping up the seeds for the finches and renewing the sugar water mix for the Humming birds. I've not had a Humming bird feeder before. I chose a deep red antique glass bottle design as I know they like red flowers. I measured out the powdered sucrose mix and used warm water this time to melt it together more easily. As soon as I hung it back up, there was the buzzing of wings and the flash of green-glinting neck plumage. A short aerial battle ensued as Hummers are quite territorial. One gained priority but the other wasn't far away and hovered until he had supped his share.

Ready, set...reschedule!

We have been trying to get to France all year. In the spring, we rescheduled due to TAO's pulmonary embolism. The new tickets were to be used last week, with TAO leaving a few days ahead of me and us reuniting when he was done with driving up, down and cross-wise all over France.
I was going to spend a day or two near Toulouse, reacquainting with an English woman, whose father worked together with mine long ago. Our parents became friends and we used to see each other from time to time, as kids, even after we moved away. When my Mum died, I took on her address book and continued the tradition of exchanging Christmas cards, with people all over the world.
Little by little, there are few remaining. Now my Dad's old friend's wife has "gone ahead" and he has Alzheimer's. Sadly, that's one more thing our families have in common. I still send him cards and have struck up correspondence with his daughter. 
Julie didn't live in France when I was there, so we haven't seen one another since we established our "grown-up" lives. We were looking forward to spending some time chatting and reminiscing together. Unfortunately, our new travel dates coincide with the moving company that is to pack up her belongings and move them back to England, where her husband is working at a new job. I'll have a new plan in place to connect with her in the U.K. next year.
Last week, we had a send-off lunch for TAO's granddaughter who has spent the summer with an American family nearby. We invited other family members, friends and the couple who hosted Liza. I chose to have our party on a Sunday, at lunchtime, planning that the youngest family members would leave us the heck alone, enjoy playing in the pool. I forgot that this meant I wouldn't be able to ride at my usual Sunday time. I still can't believe I did that!
The next morning I had reserved two horses for Liza and my Lovelydaughter to take a trail ride in the hills. LD called to say her car was blocked in by her roommate's vehicle, that wouldn't start, so I donned my boots for a Western style ride. The view of San Francisco Bay from the back of a beautiful, long-maned Mustang named Sally; strolling along the oak-studded ridge, is a perspective few tourists get to experience. It wasn't my original plan for the morning but I'm glad I did it. Back at the barn, which also doubles as a vineyard, I bought Liza a souvenir T-shirt, which carries the image of the farm's livestock brand, very rustic and tastefully done. I returned Liza to her host family and finished the monster clean-up that always follows a party.
TAO had the tail end of a cold. By Tuesday, he was still coughing a bit and wheezing at night. He finished up the dregs of a prescription cough medicine that he'd had since 2009. When I emailed his doctor to renew his prescription she said she'd have to see him in person. Age, lungs, wheezing being serious factors. I had sort of expected that answer. Better safe than sorry, especially before a long journey.
The architects who design Hospitals, Airports and other large public buildings think that a disabled drop-off area and an access ramp for wheelchairs is sufficient. It actually does work for those in wheel-chairs. However, so many people are in the category of walking-wounded; in pain, or just not able to walk with ease, that 100 yards/meters looks like 100 miles to them and then, when they struggle to wherever they're going, they have to STAND in line to register.
TAO signed in then had to walk down long corridors to the furthest  station, which was his doctor's. She is great. She listens, asks questions, knows past history. I always go with to translate. The doctor heard some reduced lung function on one side and sent us off to X-Ray. More walking, back the way we came and then over to the main hospital building. Hurrying a bit in the hope of getting back to hear the results before the doctor's lunch break.
We didn't even have to wait five minutes until being ushered in by a technician. Friendly, professional, considerate...we don't take this for granted. We are always praising Kaiser, our HMO. Back to our MD. By the time we walked back to her office, a radiologist had read the images, shared them onto her computer screen and discussed a treatment plan, taking into consideration the what-ifs of a trip to France the next day.
TAO came away with a cortisone vaporizer/inhaler to use twice daily, as a month long treatment to heal his lungs. He has an emergency inhaler, just in case of sudden shortness of breath. There's a course of antibiotics that he can start taking if he gets a fever or other symptoms and a repeat of the cough syrup, in case the cough returns. We sat at home and put each item in a sealed plastic bag with a note to remind TAO what each was for. He started the lung treatment and was good to go the next day.
I heard a saying "People plan and God laughs". That's a very true thought. By the end of the following morning, TAO had serious pain in his back and side and was calling off his trip; Laying in bed rather than driving to the airport for his flight out. We spoke to an advice nurse on the phone and she asked all the questions to establish we didn't have a life threatening emergency, but something that needed to be checked out. We decided to wait until the next day, to see our usual physician. This time I pulled up in front of the hospital and commandeered a wheelchair. After parking a ways away, and hurrying back over, naturally TAO was not where I'd left him. He'd wheeled himself inside the wrong building, so a short search ensued.
Once corralled and trundled over to the right office, the Doc. checked him out...AGAIN! Recurrence of osteoarthritis pain in spine, probably provoked by the prior visit's hiking all over the place. It's been a year and a half since the epidural that made such an improvement in TAO's life. He's been diligent about the exercises he was given to strengthen his core muscles. He does them every day, but he's just simply overdone the walking and the unevenness of his gait has caused a reaction.
We're always pleased when a diagnosis is not something from which one might die, as we've had a sprinkling of those over time. Unfortunately, TAO can no longer take any anti-inflammatory meds, which would be the normal solution. Bed-rest and alternating applications of hot and cold, is old-fashioned and tedious, but at least a possible path to recovery. The plan was to wait and see, for at least four or five days and progress to a course of Prednisone, as the next step, if needed. We discussed planning for another epidural, just to know all our options, and our doctor put in a request for that specialist to give us a call. Everything is so much more complicated now that TAO is on blood-thinners for life. It turns out we'd have to switch him from his Coumadin pills, back to the twice daily shots of Lovanox, which I learned to inject into his stomach, but neither of us were very happy about. Then we'd stop the Lovanox to create a brief window of opportunity in between the risk of excessive bleeding and the alternative of blood clots, either of which could kill him and increase the risk of paralysis.
Thankfully, there's been slow but steady improvement. TAO is newly full of vim and vigor after snoozing through the better part of a week, and he's seen the wisdom of taking things slowly and carefully.

Our tickets are re-booked for later this month. TAO is no longer traveling solo. I am committed to making all future plans inclusive of both of us. I need to wrangle this one in person from now on. I plan on requesting assistance at the airport, which worked well when we flew to St Martins at Christmastime.
Our extra time permitted me to take on a temporary rescue of a 10 year old dog whose owner had to go into a nursing home. Kato also has arthritis and had a visit to the vet. He's overweight and had very long nails. His owner loved him but couldn't go out for walks and fed Kato people-food. At 72 lbs, (about 15 lbs more than he should be for his frame) I had a hard time lifting him into my car and even getting him out was a struggle for both of us. I asked for help whenever I could and was as careful as possible not to mess up my shoulder again. Thank goodness my car is quite low to the ground.
Kato was picked up yesterday by my Collie Rescue Area Coordinator who had been out of town when the call came in that Kato was being relinquished. Lauren's SUV was dauntingly high, but luckily the guys who work for me have grown to love the dogs I bring to the office. Strong arms scooped Kato up and hoisted him onto the back seat. He's a happy passenger, lying quietly on long trips, popping up to look out the window if we slow down. I've caught people smiling and waving at him in morning traffic. Kato is old and creaky but he has charisma, not unlike some humans I could mention:)

Yes. Thanks for asking:)

I rarely covet jewelry. This necklace, in silver and gold, spoke to me from the window of a little shop called "Pebbles". The casual mixture of gold and silver; some shiny smooth; some hammered to the  pewter-glinting texture of a winter sea, drew me in off the street. I even tried it on.

Hydrangea Horde look as though they're making a run for it, don't they?

Five-thirty a.m. after a reasonably restful night in my sleeper cabin; waking to a tray of tea and a croissant, served as I sat in my bunk. Time to get going to catch my flight back to the U.S. after a lightening trip to the U.K. for my Aunt Norma's funeral. 

I ventured out onto the still-quiet Paddington Station platform, guarded by a bronze bear in a big floppy hat.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Would you happen to know the whereabouts of the Heathrow Express?" 

"Why, yes. Thanks for asking" was the sunny reply, from a naughty middle-aged station guard, with a big cheeky smile on his face.

I love England!

We packed our suitcases and left our baggage behind

White Christmas trees line the beach.

We woke to quiet on New Year's morning. Home, after ten days of noisy toads outside our window at night and bustling, chirping, sugar finches all day. Friends, from The Artistic One's past, had been inviting us to visit on St Martin's Island, since they moved there in 2004.

This is the view from their property, at the top of the hill.

Half French, half Dutch, the island is a cruise ship port of call and has the main international airport you'd fly through on your way to St Barthes or Anguilla. It really does have white sandy beaches and warm turquoise waters with coconut palms swaying in the sea breezes.

We were not sure that we would get there and even less sure we'd get home to California. When I went to check in online, the morning of our departure, TAO handed me his French passport. In his mind, he was off to France and that was all he needed, with no thought to the return journey and getting through customs and immigration in the US.

 Insouciant Mer-Man

What should have been a simple step of pulling his blue passport out of his passport file, turned into a major search, which was unproductive. Coat pockets turned inside out, unzipping every compartment in all the suitcases in the garage and, finally, heading out hours earlier than planned to see if the missing passport was at the office for some reason. Niet, Nada, Nichs!
I keep photocopies of TAO's documents, for obvious reasons. I was able to use his passport number to check in and print boarding passes. SFO has a self-serve scanner at check-in and the young woman who looked at our passports was comparing photos to passengers, not passport numbers to boarding passes, so we slipped through O.K.
Landing In St Maartens with an EU passport was not a problem and we were met by warm air and smiling old/new friends. After a shower and change we went to the supermarket together, as it was Christmas Eve and provisions must be gathered. There was no doubt that we were in a French community, except the fresh produce was virtually non-existent. Not a salad to be had.

The veggies come in from France but won't land at the international airport, as it's on the Dutch side of the island and there must be some taxes or some other deterent. The goods are flown to French Guyana and transferred to a smaller plane that flies in weekly to the local landing strip.  The cauliflowers on display had brown spots and were definitely worse for wear.
After the first few days we discovered that the Dutch markets had lovely fresh produce and we kept making forays to supplement our local diet of Foie-Gras and sugary rum drinks, to keep scurvy at bay. Our hosts told us that they once went to the Dutch produce store but no one spoke French so they don't like it.

Yachts being spruced up for incoming owners.

We went from table to beach, to table, to pool, to table. We had some of the best rose wines, no matter where we were.

YoYo, the iguana, made a surprise appearance by the pool.

Not exactly dressage, but a once in a lifetime moment, nonetheless.

Lovely daughter and I had a private guided ride. We cantered along the sandy beach paths and experienced the joy that these horses have in going into the ocean. They really wanted to go deeper and swim. 

When it was time to head back to the US, we were prepared to leave TAO behind, if he wasn't allowed on the plane. We managed a smooth departure but were a bit apprehensive about  what might lie ahead.

Customs and Immigration in Charlotte, NC, as 2012's last few hours trickled down. Surges of humanity, all with somewhere to be, other than at the airport. A customs agent who took our party of three in turn. 

I remember a song from Sesame Street, "One of these things is not like the other ones. One of these things just doesn't belong", that was how our passports looked; two blue and one burgundy. We were in the US resident queue. Eyebrows were raised. "He is a US citizen" I said. "He just doesn't know where his passport is". "We have a photocopy and his original citizenship certificate. Will that do?" The agent checked in his computer and TAO must have been in there without too many red flags. He considered a moment and let us through. I thanked him heartily and let him know I was aware he could have made our passage much more difficult.

Safely back home in California in the small hours of the first morning of 2013, greeted by temperatures close to freezing. We were as disoriented as if we'd been away for months. 

St Martins is our new favorite destination. We'd go back in a heart-beat.

Speedos, or Nothing...

One last post before we go. I can't believe I ordered a bathing suit online, and it fits. I had to cut out the underwire cup supports. Whose idea were they? It's bad enough trying to wriggle into a bright turquoise patterned, ruched sausage skin, without rigid bands of metal defying the very intent of streeeetch fabric and clouding the forecast of oceanside relaxation.
Last night, in between nursing poor Honor, who was quite miserable, recovering from spay surgery, I got out the Nair. In defiance of those nasty ladies with the hot wax, a pretty successful attempt was made to clean up my act. Pedicure at 9am tomorrow, and I will be beach ready.
(Any potential robbers out there, "forget it, we gave already" and we have house/cat-sitters so double darn to you).
St Martins, Isle Saint Martins, St Maartens is home to a friend of The Artistic One, and he's been inviting us for years. I fully expect to spend time listening to war stories of youthful escapades, from two Septuagenarians in Speedos, who haven't met face to face for three decades. Lovely daughter is accompanying us. We'll have a real generational sampling. I hope, for her sake, she'll find some other age-compatible islanders. I suspect they'll be buzzing around like bees in no time. Why wouldn't they?
I've researched the equestrian facilities and I'm taking my riding kit. Although all the photos are of tourists in short shorts, riding their horses in the surf, I have hopes of some real riding too.
We are making this the extent of our family present exchange, although there will, of course, be gifts for our Host and Hostess.
The Artistic One has packed his watercolor paints and brushes. His memories are tangible. I can't wait to see them unfold.

Letters in the Sand...

In the latter portion of my Franco-British tour of friends and relatives; having unpacked my suitcase for the 5th, and penultimate, time in a fortnight; I find the familiar guest bedroom in the open-plan house of Chantal and Olivier, who qualify as both friends and family.
When I first met Chantal three decades ago in Southern France, I was her father's English girlfriend. Now, she introduces me, with a smile, as her step-mother. Last March, her 53rd birthday preceded mine by four days and her subsequent birthdays will continue to do so. The official description of our relationship matters little. We have a mountain of shared interests and memories in common.

The house is set into a gentle rise and the floor to ceiling windows look out over the tops of two thousand olive trees, past the grape vines below and onward to the large purple smudge of the Island of Porquerolle, just beyond a blue slice of Mediterranean.
The sliding glass doors are left open day and night at this time of year, which is why a rope barrier has been looped across the the accessible edges of the big wooden deck, to keep Pegase (Pegasus), the 36 year old bay horse, out of the house.

When we sit to chat or dine at the big teak table on the deck, Pegase keeps us company, his big rustic head nodding to dislodge any annoying flies that his long swishing tail fails to sweep away. The rest of the time Pegase can be found snoozing beneath the shaded overhang down by the olive mill, or persistently bumping the branches of the fig tree until the soft plop of a ripe fruit hitting the ground sends him bee-lining over to snuffle around and claim his prize.
After lunch and story-swapping for a while, I asked if Chantal wanted to go for a walk. She suggested a hike along the coastal path which sounded good to me. There are numerous little bays and coves around this part of the Mediterranean. Small beaches, with patches of sand or round, wave-smoothed pebbles. These inlets provide tranquil moorings for small boats and inviting, warm end of season water for sun-worshippers unfettered by school age children.

Some effort is required as there are uphill portions of the trail and even downhill it's wise to concentrate as there are tree roots and uneven wooden steps and much of the path is single file between shrubby undergrowth and only wide enough for a goat.

A hazy afternoon light isn't the best but it's impossible to resist some blatant photo-ops. As we clambered down to the next little beach, a couple with a serious piece of camera equipment are discussing his next frame. I offer to include both of them in a souvenir shot and they are pleased to accept. He quickly whips out a small point and click digital that I cannot harm and I snap the two of them by the water's edge, with the private island-fortress of Bregancon behind them. Summer retreat of French Presidents, the chateau on the island is visible from shore.
Monsieur Photographer reciprocates with pictures using my camera. His, unlike mine, show deliberate composition.

As we continue up and over one more time my phone rings. "You'll never guess what just happened to me" is a familiar harbinger of trouble from The Artistic One, whom I have left to fend for himself in California. "My car was just stolen out of the driveway. I saw it go by the window while I was having breakfast, a few minutes ago."
7 am California time and I'm at least an hour's walk away from anything. How to find the number of the local Sheriff's Department back home? I try dialing 411, the information line, with the international prefix for the USA but that doesn't work. I tried Lovely Daughter and a couple of friends but it's too early. No one is answering their phones. Finally we call Olivier and he gets a number from his computer. Chantal scratches it onto a rock with a pebble and I dial. The recorder message says business hours don't start for another hour and gives a number to call for immediate help. I give Chantal some digits to memorize and try to retain the rest. When I finally get through to a Deputy to make a report, Chantal wanders away, strips down and takes a swim.  I'm standing by the edge of the path, afraid to move and lose my connection. It feels very inappropriate to be talking on the phone amid such serenity.

I start by explaining the complicating factor that I'm calling from Europe as my husband speaks French. I am able to describe the vehicle year, make and color and give the name of our insurance agent and the home address so that someone can go out and take a statement from the victim.  We don't have the license number, without accessing the files in my office or until I can get hold of my insurer, as soon as his day starts. I promise to call back with that information.
TAO is calling again. He's found a photo of his car that shows his license plate. He rattles off letters and numbers. Whoa there! I have nothing to write with, which he seems not to comprehend in his excitement. This beach is all pebbles. I use my finger to scribe the information but it's barely legible as the little rocks roll down and quickly blur the outlines. Chantal, who is done swimming and has dried in the sun and redressed, comes back over to help and once again, I call the Sheriff's Dept. This time I connect with a female dispatcher who doesn't appreciate that I don't have my full case number at hand and she keeps stopping me to complain about the background noises. I do my best not to lose patience as I repeatedly explain that I'm inches away from the waves, which are not only noisy, but every ripple threatens to erase the information I need to impart.
TAO is on the line once more, asking me to call an employee to collect him and get him to our place of business. I first remind him he's supposed to wait for someone to take his report and then start racking my brain for a source who might help me find the phone number I need. Funnily enough, I don't have any employee files with me here.
I leave a message with one person who's number I have, who has borrowed a helper from us once or twice. I ask him to text me when he gets my call. Finally, I think of a neighboring fork-lift repair business, whose number I know by heart and who start work early. They immediately promise to go over and pass along the message that TAO needs rescuing. I'm glad that I've bought them chocolate cakes a couple of times as I try hard never to exceed the goodwill quota of neighborliness.

Why are you in Glasgow?

Why are you in Glasgow? Was the question from husband, when I called home last evening. I've been talking about this trip, in detail, for weeks. I left him with an itinerary of everything I plan to do on this whilst I'm in Europe. Meeting up with my deceased father's sister, whom I have not seen in 25 years, was a pretty big deal. Somehow he missed that:)
I had suggested that I take my Aunt Nessie out for Sunday afternoon tea. My cousins and their spouses got enthusiastically involved, and caught trains in from all over Scotland, and we ended up with a very nice and noisy family lunch. The 85 year old matriarch would not hear of anyone else handling the bill. She's known as Hell's Granny, I was told.
I'll get some flowers and a thank you note off to her from Cornwall tomorrow.
The photo wants to be sideways. Who knows how it will post?

The Logistics are Killing Me

Now that my, previously simple, plans to spend two weeks in England, hanging out with my sister, have changed, I've been spending hours plotting and planning in my head and trying out different itineraries on a variety of online sites.
I have drawn out a calendar of my dates and I have small post-it notes with individual items written on them so that I can move them around and decide how best to use my time. I've already thinned the herd and tossed out some things that just won't fit.
I still intend to visit Penzance, in Cornwall. That and Falmouth, a mere forty miles away, yet on a different coast, are where I'm from; they're the main anchors to my childhood memories. Both are down at England's tippy-toe, inconvenient as all get-out. It's probably why they've kept their identities and are relatively unspoiled.
I'll arrive in London, jet-lagged but happy that I have a hotel room rather than an onward journey by bus and train that would last another ten hours. The one saving grace of the long trek south west to Penzance is that one can fall asleep without fear of missing one's station. Penzance is as far as it goes. When the train slides into it's berth, the seagulls scream and whirl, and the air is fresh off Mounts Bay. As much as I relate to that symbolic, homecoming, assault on the senses, it is so often accompanied by the gritty, sand beneath the eyelids feeling, that has nothing to do with a party at the beach, that I am doing things differently this time.
I will spend a couple of nights in London, see Warhorse as planned, with or without familiar faces in the two seats next to me and visit the things that interest me for a day or two before stepping onto the train, northbound this time, for Glasgow. I am taking my Aunt Nessie (my Dad's sister) out to Sunday afternoon tea and there are some cousins who are making the effort to join us.
My childhood and youth were full of cringe-responses every time someone stated how much I resembled my Father. Much as I loved him, I was mistaken for a boy enough times that my Mother had my baby hair gathered up like a little whale's spout on top of my head in all my photos. On this trip, if it brings Aunt Nessie pleasure to see her brother's likeness in me, I can live with that.
The next day I'll be airport bound to take a flight down to Bristol and rent a car for the drive down to Cornwall. A, now unaccustomed, stick-shift on the left hand side of the road is much more approachable without a sleep-deprivation factor. It shouldn't take more than three hours to reach Penzance this way. I'll be staying with a friend's Mother. Our families have been interchangeably connected for so long, it's a good solution to my aborted stay with my sister.
I had been really looking forward to riding every day in England. I helped the owner of the barn where my sister rides and boards her horse, at my sister's request, when she came to San Francisco and was desperately disappointed that Alcatraz tickets were sold out. I contacted the concierge of a large Hotel and found a back-door solution for her. and her family. I know that I could call or email her and connect for some horse-time. I can predict the potential fireworks that may result from my sister at this perceived encroachment. I'm still pondering what to do there.
I'll have a few family-like days with Lucie. Even her daughter, my peer, has always called her mother by her given name and Lucie is the only person I've ever met at San Francisco airport who was carrying a home-made Sacher-torte, which we had with champagne immediately upon arriving home. There will be shared memories and gossip for sure.
I just wrestled with the next phase of my plan. I've booked a hotel room in Falmouth, overlooking the beach where I learned to swim. Three of my Mother's sisters are still alive. I'll meet them for lunch and go for long walks around familiar sights. My grandfather's house, atop beacon Hill, where I was born and where, up until now, the light-blue and white color scheme has remained, despite many years under new ownership. The view from outside, much like that from the kitchen window, across the tidal estuary and down to the docks where he worked and was Choirmaster for the traditional male voice choir.
Rain or shine, I'll walk around Castle Drive in the early morning and take the cliff path across to Swan-pool Beach. If the guest house doesn't have great coffee, I know just the place. There's only one tea-room that's open early enough for me. It's been four years since I was there last. It better still be there. I'm not too worried. These are not places that change much.
Back to Bristol and a flight to Paris. I only have two hours on a Sunday evening, to change airports and catch a plane south to Toulon where I'll spend a couple of days with my "step-daughter", who is  few days older than me. Two hours is barely enough and any kind of delay will mean I may end up sleeping in a hotel and getting a flight the next morning.
Chantal's home is set back from the Mediterranean, on a rise surrounded by her olive orchard. Her horse Pegase (Pegasus) is now 34 years old and has the run of the place. He has wandered into the living room a couple of times, as the big sliding doors are rarely closed. He personifies the term "Things that go bump in the night".
I have plane tickets for the French detour but I'll let them fly without me if there's any sign that I can spend time with my sister.

Vision Quest Elephants

Meet Butch, on his way to join us for breakfast.

Butch did bring us our breakfast, as promised, but it was more about feeding him his really.

Fond good-byes to our ten foot tall new best friend.

Last night we slept in tent-cabins in the middle of an elephant sanctuary in Northern California. The elephants have been purchased from circuses and such to allow them a humane and well cared for retirement. Our cabin overlooked their park, which they share with some water buffalo and a zebra who thinks she's an elephant.

Yesterday we took a tour of the rest of the venture, called Wild Things, where some other exotic animals are raised and work one on one with their handlers from the beginning so that they can enjoy country walks on leash every day, around the compound, and also participate in educational events and some movie shoots etc. which finance the elephant sanctuary.

During the dark night, far enough away from the city's light pollution that there were more stars than sky, the canvas walls flapped gently as the breeze came and went from the nearby ocean.  We awoke several times to a lion's roar and once to the unusual house-alarm imitation by Ed, the Hyena. Hyenas are a lot bigger than they look on TV. The hair on their backs grows from back to front, to help improve aerodynamics as they steal from hungry lions and run away backwards, dragging their loot. Hyenas have a crush strength in their jaw second only to the Nile crocodile. They don't just bite your arm, they bite it off. Ed doesn't get to go for walks, despite his/her cuteness. Hyenas come with dual-purpose genital equipment so it is hard to tell without a really close encounter whether they are male or female. No-one has volunteered to take a closer look at Ed, as yet.

I enjoyed every minute of our stay; learning new things about the animals was an unexpected bonus. The close encounter with Butch the Elephant was a deeply moving experience that I shall treasure. 

Not all bad

It is funny how our perspectives change over the years. There are family stories that we grow up with and never question, until we do. I occasionally take a fresh look at something and see a very different version.
My Mother's family was from Cornwall in South West England. I was born there. I have many happy memories of summers with grandparents, Aunts, Uncles and cousins.
Aside from the tourist and fishing industries there is not a lot going on, which of course is the main attraction. I never questioned as strange that my Uncle John was a Londoner or that he had many Cockney friends who had also moved to our town and owned a variety of businesses. The Young Lads of London were characters and added a splash of color and life to an otherwise preponderantly older community.
Uncle John owned the news-agents, candy shop and post office, his buddy owned The Globe, a freehold pub on the quay side. The third Lad hated to be introduced as "Roy from Toy-land" but he was at the helm of the toy store of that name.
John's wife, my Aunt Wendy was stylish, attractive and funny. I last saw her at my Dad's funeral and we went for a drink afterwards which is when John's name came up as she told a funny story.
Part of Uncle John's notoriety and the reason they were divorced was his roving eye for other women. I had no clue about this as it had all transpired when I was a young child. Their separation was a given fact, no questions asked.
Wendy told of an evening with her then husband. They had had a long and enjoyable day together with their two boys. They had brought home two enormous live Dungeness crabs to be cooked and prepared the next day. In the middle of the night Wendy realized that her husband had slipped out of bed and she heard the car door close as he drove away. "Damn him, off to make a house call to his latest Tart" she thought.
Next morning John was asleep beside her and she banged around in the kitchen in a serious snit until he woke up and had the audacity to ask her what was wrong. It turns out the big lummox had been unable to sleep out of guilt for the crabs. He had driven them to the beach in the dead of night and set them free.
I have my (recently aroused) suspicions about why and how a bunch of London Lads with some ready cash descended from the Metropolis to make lives for themselves in our backwater town. I am not sure what notoriety I might find if I decide to Google their names.
I do know that when my Aunt Wendy died a couple of years ago her ex-husband stepped up and took care of all the funeral details and was there for his two grown sons.