Leatherman™ multi-tool pocket-knives currently have a magazine ad running which always makes me feel a little…inadequate. The photo is of a handyman, tool kit in hand, ringing a doorbell while the caption reads something like “Take back your life”. The message being that you aren’t really a man if you need someone else to come and fix things for you and if you simply had a Leatherman™, you’d be able to fend for yourself. I don’t have one although Dear Wife has. (A pink one). However being realistic, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference if I had. When it comes to those little jobs around the home, I’m what might charitably be called “useless”.
It’s not that I haven’t tried. It’s just that through no fault of my own simplest tasks turn into disasters of biblical proportions whenever I try to tackle them. I’m well aware of the adage, “Measure twice, cut once”. But for me it’s more a case of “Measure 16 times, cut it too short anyway, spend the rest of the afternoon trying to find another piece”.
Take the time my sister misguidedly decided that as I was living rent-free at her place, I could build a box enclosing the bathroom pipes prior to her hanging new wallpaper. Her fiancé-to-be outlined that plans and they seemed straightforward enough. Four long pieces of wood running from floor to ceiling, with cross struts every foot or so for support.
Putting the uprights in place took less than a day, although the cross-struts proved to be a little trickier. Three of the first four I cut turned out to be about 1/8 of an inch too short, and I was in danger of running out of wood. When I came to drill screw holes, I found the electric cable of the drill didn’t reach and it took me almost a full day’s walk to obtain another. On day three I dropped the chuck key through a hole in the floorboards, spent the rest of the day finding a replacement and had to put the job on hold while I went to visit friends over the weekend. Fiancé-to-be took advantage of my absence to finish the job in about 90 minutes.
In Arizona we decided the outside of our house could do with a fresh coat of paint. This hadn’t been done since it was built, and the yellowish walls with brown trim must have been ugly even then. The first day I learned that not all paint rollers are created equal. A rough surface, such as the stucco plaster of our walls, requires a much courser roller that the (indoor specific) one I was using. Not only that, but after eighteen years of Phoenix sun, the stucco had the characteristics of a bath sponge. It was sucking the paint off the roller by the gallon, without the color changing in any noticeable fashion. After 8 hours of solid slog, I’d barely covered 2 walls.
The trim was just as bad, with the added bonus of yards of intricate work under the eaves, requiring hours of neck wrenching toil. My week’s vacation came and went with the job barely started. I kept doggedly at it although I suspect most people could probably have completed the task in less than the 2 ½ years it took me. (Although technically I never did get finished as the front door was still an attractive shade of gray undercoat with masking tape when we sold the house some four years later.)
One task which almost went well before fate stepped in once more was when I replaced a bathroom faucet. This is a comparatively straightforward task, even for me, in that all you have to do is loosen a couple of bolts, lift out the old unit, drop the new one into place and tighten the new bolts. The old metal pipes were to be replaced with modern, flexible plastic ones, but even that was simply a case of unscrewing the nuts at either end. It’s true; I did need to make two more trips to Home Depot in the course of discovering that the pipes were of different lengths, and the one I should have returned was, somewhat predictably, the other one. Even so, in less than a morning, we had a shiny new faucet, installed and functioning and all without a suggestion of bloodshed. It was perhaps the ease of this project that led me to get a little giddy.
The package came with a new plug attachment, and looking at the old, stained one, I decided it would be the work of moments to replace this too. Quick explanation for British readers (or Americans who’ve never had occasion to look): Here plugs are usually a chrome disc which fits in the hole. A metal bar runs vertically down from it into the drain and by means of a wee arm, attaches to another metal bar which in turn, runs vertically up through the middle of the tap unit. Lifting or lowering a button on the top allows you to open and close the plug. In order to attach the arm of the new plug to the bar of the new faucet unit, it’s easiest to simply unscrew the top section of the plastic drain, so you can see what you’re doing. No real problem until I came to re-attach it and discovered that rather than unscrewing, our old, decrepit drain had simply snapped off at the thread. Right on a bend, right by the wall. Several panic-stricken conversations with people who know about these things established that the broken joint couldn’t be mended and the only way to replace it was to dig it out of the wall. As the lowest professional estimate we received was $600, we knocked something off the price of the house when we sold it.
We had a handyman in the house this week, as it happens, who for $40, fixed our sliding glass door (without using a Leatherman™) so it opens smoothly once more. We’re thrilled to have it working properly even though it was a short-term fix and he tells us we’ll need to replace the door eventually. Following this, he endeared himself to me for ever when, without even knowing my track record, he advised we have it professionally installed as “old houses like these can often cause unexpected problems”. Yep, I like the way that man thinks.
As further proof that he and I are kindred spirits; he left his crowbar behind when he went. Now, I wonder what needs doing around the house that I could use that for.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Drumming Up The Sun
As you may know, today marks the Winter Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere. The longest night of the year, the solstice has been celebrated by ancient peoples the world over to mark their gratitude for the fact that sun has once more, risen and wheel of the year is complete. The Winter Solstice marked victory of light over darkness or the end of the cycle of death and decay and the beginning of a new cycle of light, growth and life. It has traditionally been a time for people to celebrate the gradual lengthening of the days and the regeneration of the earth.
Solstice comes from the Latin “sol stetit” which means “The sun stood still.” The sun rises and sets progressively further south on the horizon in the Northern Hemisphere as Winter Solstice nears. For approximately 6 days in late December (and again in late June, the Summer Solstice), the sun appears to rise and set in almost the exact same place on the horizon, hence the name.
The ancient Chinese believed that at sunrise on Winter Solstice, the yang, or masculine principle, was born into the world and would begin a 6 month period of ascendancy. The Hindus (who based their calendar on lunar cycles) held festivals on the solstices and equinoxes too. In India, people greeted the Winter Solstice with a ceremonial clanging of bells and gongs to frighten off evil spirits. In Britain, my old stomping ground, the Druids celebrated the overthrow of the old god, Bran, by the new God, Bel, at the time of the December solstice. Today, here in the Front Range of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, a group of Pagans, Wiccans and other earth-lovers gather at the Red Rocks Park, outside Morrison to participate in Drumming Up The Sun.
Red Rocks Park is a phenomenon created by the forces of nature over the course of some sixty million years. Iron red rocks exploded from the bottom of an ancient sea bed before wind, heat and cold, in addition to our friend the sun combined to sculpture the rocks in a thousand different ways. In 1932 the city of Denver began the process of adapting the natural features of the park into a vast open air theater. Other than the construction of arced rows of seats, this was a comparatively simple process as nature had already done most of the heavy lifting. Three hundred foot monoliths, called Ship Rock and Creation Rock flank either side of the amphitheater and combine to provide near perfect acoustics. Along with the panoramic view of Denver and the western plains, the setting is breathtaking.
This year marked my third Drumming Up The Sun ceremony after I learned of it by accident while eavesdropping on a conversation between two hippies in a coffee shop. In 2002 my friend Kris and I arrived in the middle of the night having no clear idea of what time things got started. It gets chilly during the night in Colorado at this time of year and by the time the sun finally raised its head over the horizon, we were as relieved as any ancient must have been. Although the sky was mostly clear, a thin band of cloud lay on the horizon and obscured most of the sun’s arrival but a wafer thin strip remained clear enough for us to watch its initial appearance. Last year a winter storm sent flurries of snow gusting along the amphitheater steps and the clouds prevented us from determining the exact moment when sunrise occurred. However, we were able to tell from the glow behind the clouds that the event had indeed happened and life would continue for another year.
Driving down the hill this morning, I anxiously scanned the night sky which appeared to be clear but once things began to brighten in the east, saw that once more, a strip of cloud was going to block the view. The good news was that the promised winter storm appeared to be holding off for another day and the temperatures were nowhere near as low as previous years. That said; I was still glad to be wearing every item of warm clothing I possess. Apparently everyone else felt the same way as most of the other people there were shapeless masses in the dark. A couple of years ago a young lady was doing a routine with flaming torches dressed in an outfit so scanty it nearly had me stepping on my tongue but sadly, she was nowhere in sight this year. Two people were dancing with flaming torches, but they were dressed for comfort rather than effect.
I’m not sure who was in charge of setting the tempo but even though everyone was playing their own rhythms the beat was unmistakable. The sound swam around the amphitheater and, magnified by the natural acoustics, simply roared out into the night. Bongos, tom-toms, bodhráns, tambourines and plastic buckets, all throbbing and pulsing to a heart quickening beat. And it wasn’t only drums. Maracas, castanets, cowbells, rainmakers and one guy with a didgeridoo were all contributing to the atmosphere.
One thing about clouds is that they make for spectacular sunrises and this one was a doozy. Fiery streaks of red, orange and gold blazed across the sky and for a long time, an airplane contrail glowed like an arrow of molten steel. It gets light long before the sun actually appears of course, but we were here to drum up the sun and the beat went on. We all knew that if we were to stop, then maybe, just maybe, the sun wouldn’t come up this morning so we were carrying a lot of responsibility.
The drumming had been calm and relaxed for well over an hour but as the sunrise approached, the pulse quickened and increased in volume with the sound of over a hundred drums pounding in unison. We whooped, we hollered and we drummed as loud as we knew how. Eventually, just as it has done every solstice through the millennia, the sun made its appearance in an inferno of golden light. The clouds prevented us from seeing the whole orb, but enough was visible for us to know it was definitely there. We’d done it.
We aren’t the first people to use Red Rocks for solstice ceremonies. Colorado’s original residents held their rituals there too, and some of their descendents were in the crowd this morning. The tradition had been maintained and the wheel of the year will continue to turn.
Happy Solstice everyone.
Solstice comes from the Latin “sol stetit” which means “The sun stood still.” The sun rises and sets progressively further south on the horizon in the Northern Hemisphere as Winter Solstice nears. For approximately 6 days in late December (and again in late June, the Summer Solstice), the sun appears to rise and set in almost the exact same place on the horizon, hence the name.
The ancient Chinese believed that at sunrise on Winter Solstice, the yang, or masculine principle, was born into the world and would begin a 6 month period of ascendancy. The Hindus (who based their calendar on lunar cycles) held festivals on the solstices and equinoxes too. In India, people greeted the Winter Solstice with a ceremonial clanging of bells and gongs to frighten off evil spirits. In Britain, my old stomping ground, the Druids celebrated the overthrow of the old god, Bran, by the new God, Bel, at the time of the December solstice. Today, here in the Front Range of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, a group of Pagans, Wiccans and other earth-lovers gather at the Red Rocks Park, outside Morrison to participate in Drumming Up The Sun.
Red Rocks Park is a phenomenon created by the forces of nature over the course of some sixty million years. Iron red rocks exploded from the bottom of an ancient sea bed before wind, heat and cold, in addition to our friend the sun combined to sculpture the rocks in a thousand different ways. In 1932 the city of Denver began the process of adapting the natural features of the park into a vast open air theater. Other than the construction of arced rows of seats, this was a comparatively simple process as nature had already done most of the heavy lifting. Three hundred foot monoliths, called Ship Rock and Creation Rock flank either side of the amphitheater and combine to provide near perfect acoustics. Along with the panoramic view of Denver and the western plains, the setting is breathtaking.
This year marked my third Drumming Up The Sun ceremony after I learned of it by accident while eavesdropping on a conversation between two hippies in a coffee shop. In 2002 my friend Kris and I arrived in the middle of the night having no clear idea of what time things got started. It gets chilly during the night in Colorado at this time of year and by the time the sun finally raised its head over the horizon, we were as relieved as any ancient must have been. Although the sky was mostly clear, a thin band of cloud lay on the horizon and obscured most of the sun’s arrival but a wafer thin strip remained clear enough for us to watch its initial appearance. Last year a winter storm sent flurries of snow gusting along the amphitheater steps and the clouds prevented us from determining the exact moment when sunrise occurred. However, we were able to tell from the glow behind the clouds that the event had indeed happened and life would continue for another year.
Driving down the hill this morning, I anxiously scanned the night sky which appeared to be clear but once things began to brighten in the east, saw that once more, a strip of cloud was going to block the view. The good news was that the promised winter storm appeared to be holding off for another day and the temperatures were nowhere near as low as previous years. That said; I was still glad to be wearing every item of warm clothing I possess. Apparently everyone else felt the same way as most of the other people there were shapeless masses in the dark. A couple of years ago a young lady was doing a routine with flaming torches dressed in an outfit so scanty it nearly had me stepping on my tongue but sadly, she was nowhere in sight this year. Two people were dancing with flaming torches, but they were dressed for comfort rather than effect.
I’m not sure who was in charge of setting the tempo but even though everyone was playing their own rhythms the beat was unmistakable. The sound swam around the amphitheater and, magnified by the natural acoustics, simply roared out into the night. Bongos, tom-toms, bodhráns, tambourines and plastic buckets, all throbbing and pulsing to a heart quickening beat. And it wasn’t only drums. Maracas, castanets, cowbells, rainmakers and one guy with a didgeridoo were all contributing to the atmosphere.
One thing about clouds is that they make for spectacular sunrises and this one was a doozy. Fiery streaks of red, orange and gold blazed across the sky and for a long time, an airplane contrail glowed like an arrow of molten steel. It gets light long before the sun actually appears of course, but we were here to drum up the sun and the beat went on. We all knew that if we were to stop, then maybe, just maybe, the sun wouldn’t come up this morning so we were carrying a lot of responsibility.
The drumming had been calm and relaxed for well over an hour but as the sunrise approached, the pulse quickened and increased in volume with the sound of over a hundred drums pounding in unison. We whooped, we hollered and we drummed as loud as we knew how. Eventually, just as it has done every solstice through the millennia, the sun made its appearance in an inferno of golden light. The clouds prevented us from seeing the whole orb, but enough was visible for us to know it was definitely there. We’d done it.
We aren’t the first people to use Red Rocks for solstice ceremonies. Colorado’s original residents held their rituals there too, and some of their descendents were in the crowd this morning. The tradition had been maintained and the wheel of the year will continue to turn.
Happy Solstice everyone.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire
As you’ve probably heard, Christmas is coming up shortly. This was always a challenging time when we lived in Phoenix because the temperatures were generally hovering around the 80 degree mark and although the locals tended to walk round in sweaters and ski jackets while bleating about the cold, it’s difficult to get in the Christmas spirit when the air-conditioning is grinding away. Christmas is supposed to be cold and ideally, snowy. Everybody knows that. Which is yet another reason why we’re happy to be living in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. There’s a very good chance it will be both.
Where I lived in Britain it didn’t tend to be snowy on Christmas either although there was a very good chance it would be wet. This was always particularly galling to the kids who received bikes come Christmas morn. In fact one of the great traditions of Christmas day was to go out “New Bike Spotting”. It was fairly easy really. From about 8am onwards you’d see dozens of kids wobbling along the street on gleaming bicycles, outfitted with water bottle cages and water bottles (probably with water in them), fingerless cycling gloves and on special sightings, a Tour-De-France style cycling jersey.
In order to find traditional Christmas scenery in Britain, the kind you see on the Christmas cards, you’d have to go back to Dickensian times. At the time he was writing most of his successful stuff, Britain was experiencing a series of particularly harsh winters, the likes of which haven’t been seen since, no matter what Grandma says. The river Thames in London was reportedly frozen for weeks at a time and fairs were held on the ice. Apparently it was thick enough to build bonfires and roast whole oxen, which must have been a sight to see if only to learn how much ketchup you’d need for a whole ox, not to mention the size of the bun.
Curiously, in Australia where Christmas is celebrated in the middle of summer, this image of snowy, frosty scenery still holds good. Darwin, with its tropical climate, doesn’t have winter at all, just a wet season and a dry season but even there, store windows are decorated with fake snow from November onwards. That takes on a very surreal quality when the temperature is 95 degrees and the humidity is approximately the same as a full bath sponge. Apparently they read Dickens in Australia.
So for me to experience a full on, traditional, old fashioned Christmas, I had to wait until I moved to Colorado. Even then, it wasn’t until I joined the Colorado Isle of Mull/St Andrew Pipes and Drums band and went along to our annual performance at the Georgetown Christmas Fair. Victorian streets piled with (real) snow, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, funnel cake, cherubic schoolchildren caterwauling through Christmas carols, sleigh rides and of course, yours truly, banging on a drum. What could be more traditional than that?
The band has performed at the Georgetown Christmas Fair for the last 21 years and some members have made every single one. It’s only my second and I’m still very much a rookie, although a little bit more experienced than last time out when I could only play two tunes. My repertoire is up to five now although I still use the term “play” somewhat loosely. Nonetheless, I’d been practicing hard all week and was determined to put on a good showing.
I packed my spare drumsticks; I took care to ensure my uniform was complete, from bonnet to sock flashes; I left in plenty of time to find a parking spot and I even took along my practice pad so I could do some last minute rehearsing while I waited. The only thing I forgot was my drum carrier, which is the harness that sits on your shoulders and from which the drum hangs while you’re playing. Bonnets can be borrowed. Sock flashes can be borrowed. Even drumsticks can be borrowed. But there’s never a spare drum harness and other than the drum itself, it’s most essential (and irreplaceable) piece of equipment a drummer has. And mine was sitting in the living room at home.
As usual, Megan the Drum Sergeant came to the rescue. After calling me a bunch of what I thought were quite unkind names, she rummaged in her bag and produced two canvas slings. These are simply straps which go over one shoulder and clip onto the drum. They’re used by tenor drummers as not only are their drums considerably lighter, the playing angle is somewhat different from the snare drum I play. I’m told that in the old days, snare drummers used slings as well. I’m also told that in the old days people were a damn sight tougher than me and I’m sure that’s true too. Quite simply, the weight of the drum dug the canvas deep into my shoulders and it hurt like hell. One over each shoulder, clipped to opposite sides of the drum, kept it reasonably in front of me but didn’t help at all once we started marching. The bloody thing was bouncing all over the place and it was all I could do to hit it, much less play the same tune as everyone else.
Fortunately, Georgetown’s main street is only a couple of hundred yards long and we were soon in the Community Center where the real gig was to take place. The only problem here was lack of elbow room as we’re a big band and this was a small Community Center. We also had to allow space for the Highland Dancers who were joining us on stage although (again, fortunately) many of them were extremely tiny. I kind of like playing in these sorts of conditions because when I do screw up, I have a built in excuse. “Hey, it’s not my fault - the people on either side of me keep bumping my arms.”
Even so, it was warm in such a small space and we were all quite happy when the last note was played and we headed out into the fresh air. The powdered sugar makes funnel cake an impractical delicacy when wearing a black dress jacket. I’m not really that fond of roasted chestnuts. And between you and me, I’m no great fan of children singing. But with the Victorian setting, the snow on the ground and the spirit of goodwill to all men in the air, you have to admit that for a traditional, old-fashioned, British Christmas, you can’t beat small town America.
Where I lived in Britain it didn’t tend to be snowy on Christmas either although there was a very good chance it would be wet. This was always particularly galling to the kids who received bikes come Christmas morn. In fact one of the great traditions of Christmas day was to go out “New Bike Spotting”. It was fairly easy really. From about 8am onwards you’d see dozens of kids wobbling along the street on gleaming bicycles, outfitted with water bottle cages and water bottles (probably with water in them), fingerless cycling gloves and on special sightings, a Tour-De-France style cycling jersey.
In order to find traditional Christmas scenery in Britain, the kind you see on the Christmas cards, you’d have to go back to Dickensian times. At the time he was writing most of his successful stuff, Britain was experiencing a series of particularly harsh winters, the likes of which haven’t been seen since, no matter what Grandma says. The river Thames in London was reportedly frozen for weeks at a time and fairs were held on the ice. Apparently it was thick enough to build bonfires and roast whole oxen, which must have been a sight to see if only to learn how much ketchup you’d need for a whole ox, not to mention the size of the bun.
Curiously, in Australia where Christmas is celebrated in the middle of summer, this image of snowy, frosty scenery still holds good. Darwin, with its tropical climate, doesn’t have winter at all, just a wet season and a dry season but even there, store windows are decorated with fake snow from November onwards. That takes on a very surreal quality when the temperature is 95 degrees and the humidity is approximately the same as a full bath sponge. Apparently they read Dickens in Australia.
So for me to experience a full on, traditional, old fashioned Christmas, I had to wait until I moved to Colorado. Even then, it wasn’t until I joined the Colorado Isle of Mull/St Andrew Pipes and Drums band and went along to our annual performance at the Georgetown Christmas Fair. Victorian streets piled with (real) snow, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, funnel cake, cherubic schoolchildren caterwauling through Christmas carols, sleigh rides and of course, yours truly, banging on a drum. What could be more traditional than that?
The band has performed at the Georgetown Christmas Fair for the last 21 years and some members have made every single one. It’s only my second and I’m still very much a rookie, although a little bit more experienced than last time out when I could only play two tunes. My repertoire is up to five now although I still use the term “play” somewhat loosely. Nonetheless, I’d been practicing hard all week and was determined to put on a good showing.
I packed my spare drumsticks; I took care to ensure my uniform was complete, from bonnet to sock flashes; I left in plenty of time to find a parking spot and I even took along my practice pad so I could do some last minute rehearsing while I waited. The only thing I forgot was my drum carrier, which is the harness that sits on your shoulders and from which the drum hangs while you’re playing. Bonnets can be borrowed. Sock flashes can be borrowed. Even drumsticks can be borrowed. But there’s never a spare drum harness and other than the drum itself, it’s most essential (and irreplaceable) piece of equipment a drummer has. And mine was sitting in the living room at home.
As usual, Megan the Drum Sergeant came to the rescue. After calling me a bunch of what I thought were quite unkind names, she rummaged in her bag and produced two canvas slings. These are simply straps which go over one shoulder and clip onto the drum. They’re used by tenor drummers as not only are their drums considerably lighter, the playing angle is somewhat different from the snare drum I play. I’m told that in the old days, snare drummers used slings as well. I’m also told that in the old days people were a damn sight tougher than me and I’m sure that’s true too. Quite simply, the weight of the drum dug the canvas deep into my shoulders and it hurt like hell. One over each shoulder, clipped to opposite sides of the drum, kept it reasonably in front of me but didn’t help at all once we started marching. The bloody thing was bouncing all over the place and it was all I could do to hit it, much less play the same tune as everyone else.
Fortunately, Georgetown’s main street is only a couple of hundred yards long and we were soon in the Community Center where the real gig was to take place. The only problem here was lack of elbow room as we’re a big band and this was a small Community Center. We also had to allow space for the Highland Dancers who were joining us on stage although (again, fortunately) many of them were extremely tiny. I kind of like playing in these sorts of conditions because when I do screw up, I have a built in excuse. “Hey, it’s not my fault - the people on either side of me keep bumping my arms.”
Even so, it was warm in such a small space and we were all quite happy when the last note was played and we headed out into the fresh air. The powdered sugar makes funnel cake an impractical delicacy when wearing a black dress jacket. I’m not really that fond of roasted chestnuts. And between you and me, I’m no great fan of children singing. But with the Victorian setting, the snow on the ground and the spirit of goodwill to all men in the air, you have to admit that for a traditional, old-fashioned, British Christmas, you can’t beat small town America.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Lost in the Bush
Enthusiastic as I am over the concept of social drinking, I balked a little when the aboriginal handed me the can of Scotch and Coke. It was after all, only a little after 7am which is early, even by my standards. However, I rationalized that it wasn’t really all that long since I’d had my last drink and even though the sun was high in the sky, I hadn’t been to bed so technically it was still late at night, not early in the morning. Plus, as we stared down at the truck firmly embedded in the sand, it was obvious we weren’t going anywhere for a while. I popped the top and took a swig. It was warm and tasted vile but what the heck.
The evening had started out promisingly enough. A bunch of us from the backpackers’ hostel had set out to the bar to sink a few cold ones with the locals. The company was excellent and even though it was karaoke night, we were having a blast. Because of Broome’s location in Australia’s North West, it tends to attract a fair number of travelers on their way either to Darwin at the top end or down the west coast. Australia doesn’t have too many roads and generally, you’re either traveling this way, or the other way. As there are only a limited number of places to stop, you tend to make friends with the people going in your direction due to the fact that you’re meeting up with them repeatedly. Although I’d already been in Broome a week, I’d decided to it my base for Christmas, now only a few days away. Several others had made the same choice, each as determined as I, to have a good time and the sense of camaraderie was strong.
The night before had been something of a session and several of us had resolved to take it easy this evening. It never turns out like that of course and when somebody suggested we move on to the local night club, the agreement was unanimous. Back to the hostel to change flip flips for trainers, shorts for jeans, T-shirts for collars. Being backpackers, we didn’t all possess such elegant attire or if we did, being backpackers, it was currently somewhat pungent. So the more fastidious among us found themselves in the positions of being able to trade clean clothes for goods or services. I myself obtained the loan of a very smart white shirt in exchange for the promise of a meat pie, to be delivered at a later date.
Once in the night club, the evening merely picked up speed. Brimming with beer induced self-confidence I was trying to make headway with a drop-dead gorgeous Swedish girl called Kattus, “as in catastrophic”. I never really got anywhere but at this stage in the evening she was hanging on my arm in a manner that suggested all kinds of delights to come. It was probably due to her looks rather than mine that a bunch of Australian lads invited us all to a party on the beach. We had no real idea where the beach was, but not to worry – we piled into the enclosed back of a pick up and off we went, singing and joking as we bounced through the bush. You can’t have a beach party without a fire but rather than follow the time honored tradition of collecting driftwood, our driver simply drove over the wooden safety marker posts at the side of the road and once they’d snapped off their bases, threw them into the back with us.
The fire was soon ablaze and the remainder of the night was spent joking, gossiping, skinny-dipping, drinking and somewhat predictably, losing Kattus to a muscular Australian surfer dude named Shane. By the time the velvety night turned gray with the first suggestion of dawn, most people had crashed, either by the fire or off in the dunes somewhere. I was still awake, but tired, stiff and somewhat cranky. So when Shane announced he was giving someone a lift to the nearby resort, I invited myself along, thinking he could drop me back at the hostel. I’d have a shower, catch a few hours in my nice comfy bunk and be awake and refreshed by the time the others straggled home from the beach.
Congratulating myself on my forward planning, I hopped in the back and in a few minutes was on my way back to bed. Or rather I wasn’t. Shane wasn’t a local and it turned out that he’d assumed I would be able to give him directions. Not only did he not know how to get to town; he had no idea how to get back to the beach where we’d left everyone else. Neither of us was familiar with the area, we had no map and within a few minutes were unable to determine where even the resort was. We weren’t helped by the fact that the highway system around Broome is a network of dirt roads surrounded by scrubby bush without a landmark in sight. Quite simply, we were lost.
I’ve no idea how many miles we covered cruising up and down but we seemed to be driving for hours. Occasionally we would pop out and find ourselves beside the ocean but never anywhere we’d been before. Eventually we came across the family of aborigines who were at the far end of several cases of beer. They were more than happy to take us to our beach, if we would only help them get their truck started. Thirty minutes later we were on our way and the only problem now was that they didn’t know where our beach was either. We’d simply exchanged cruising up and down the dirt roads, for crawling on and off an endless collection of identical beaches. It was only a matter of time before we got stuck and it was then the drinks came out.
I got back to my bed eventually, although not until nearly lunchtime. I got a kiss from the adorable Kattus, but not until three days later when she and Shane were an established couple. And I got grease on the borrowed white shirt so it ultimately cost me more than a meat pie. But I also got the chance to drink Scotch and Coke from a can at seven in the morning, with a party of Australian aborigines, while watching the sun come up over the Indian Ocean.
So all in all, it wasn’t a bad night.
The evening had started out promisingly enough. A bunch of us from the backpackers’ hostel had set out to the bar to sink a few cold ones with the locals. The company was excellent and even though it was karaoke night, we were having a blast. Because of Broome’s location in Australia’s North West, it tends to attract a fair number of travelers on their way either to Darwin at the top end or down the west coast. Australia doesn’t have too many roads and generally, you’re either traveling this way, or the other way. As there are only a limited number of places to stop, you tend to make friends with the people going in your direction due to the fact that you’re meeting up with them repeatedly. Although I’d already been in Broome a week, I’d decided to it my base for Christmas, now only a few days away. Several others had made the same choice, each as determined as I, to have a good time and the sense of camaraderie was strong.
The night before had been something of a session and several of us had resolved to take it easy this evening. It never turns out like that of course and when somebody suggested we move on to the local night club, the agreement was unanimous. Back to the hostel to change flip flips for trainers, shorts for jeans, T-shirts for collars. Being backpackers, we didn’t all possess such elegant attire or if we did, being backpackers, it was currently somewhat pungent. So the more fastidious among us found themselves in the positions of being able to trade clean clothes for goods or services. I myself obtained the loan of a very smart white shirt in exchange for the promise of a meat pie, to be delivered at a later date.
Once in the night club, the evening merely picked up speed. Brimming with beer induced self-confidence I was trying to make headway with a drop-dead gorgeous Swedish girl called Kattus, “as in catastrophic”. I never really got anywhere but at this stage in the evening she was hanging on my arm in a manner that suggested all kinds of delights to come. It was probably due to her looks rather than mine that a bunch of Australian lads invited us all to a party on the beach. We had no real idea where the beach was, but not to worry – we piled into the enclosed back of a pick up and off we went, singing and joking as we bounced through the bush. You can’t have a beach party without a fire but rather than follow the time honored tradition of collecting driftwood, our driver simply drove over the wooden safety marker posts at the side of the road and once they’d snapped off their bases, threw them into the back with us.
The fire was soon ablaze and the remainder of the night was spent joking, gossiping, skinny-dipping, drinking and somewhat predictably, losing Kattus to a muscular Australian surfer dude named Shane. By the time the velvety night turned gray with the first suggestion of dawn, most people had crashed, either by the fire or off in the dunes somewhere. I was still awake, but tired, stiff and somewhat cranky. So when Shane announced he was giving someone a lift to the nearby resort, I invited myself along, thinking he could drop me back at the hostel. I’d have a shower, catch a few hours in my nice comfy bunk and be awake and refreshed by the time the others straggled home from the beach.
Congratulating myself on my forward planning, I hopped in the back and in a few minutes was on my way back to bed. Or rather I wasn’t. Shane wasn’t a local and it turned out that he’d assumed I would be able to give him directions. Not only did he not know how to get to town; he had no idea how to get back to the beach where we’d left everyone else. Neither of us was familiar with the area, we had no map and within a few minutes were unable to determine where even the resort was. We weren’t helped by the fact that the highway system around Broome is a network of dirt roads surrounded by scrubby bush without a landmark in sight. Quite simply, we were lost.
I’ve no idea how many miles we covered cruising up and down but we seemed to be driving for hours. Occasionally we would pop out and find ourselves beside the ocean but never anywhere we’d been before. Eventually we came across the family of aborigines who were at the far end of several cases of beer. They were more than happy to take us to our beach, if we would only help them get their truck started. Thirty minutes later we were on our way and the only problem now was that they didn’t know where our beach was either. We’d simply exchanged cruising up and down the dirt roads, for crawling on and off an endless collection of identical beaches. It was only a matter of time before we got stuck and it was then the drinks came out.
I got back to my bed eventually, although not until nearly lunchtime. I got a kiss from the adorable Kattus, but not until three days later when she and Shane were an established couple. And I got grease on the borrowed white shirt so it ultimately cost me more than a meat pie. But I also got the chance to drink Scotch and Coke from a can at seven in the morning, with a party of Australian aborigines, while watching the sun come up over the Indian Ocean.
So all in all, it wasn’t a bad night.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
An American Thanksgiving
As any American history nerd can tell you, the Pilgrim Fathers landed on what is now known as Massachusetts in 1620. There’s no evidence they actually landed at Plymouth Rock, or carved the date which appears on it today; that was more likely the handiwork of some enterprising member of a later Chamber of Commerce. What is evident however is that the onset of winter is a particularly bad time when it comes to founding a new colony.
Well meaning and enterprising they may have been, but as pioneers they were hopelessly ill-equipped. Lacking even a basic knowledge of agriculture and having neglected to bring a single cow, the effects of the harsh winter were soon to take their toll. By spring, over half the original band of 102 souls were dead. Indeed, as popular lore has it, the remainder would not have survived had they not been befriended by some English speaking natives who taught the pilgrims a few survival tips and earned themselves not only a place in the history books, but a slap up turkey dinner to celebrate the first harvest.
And not only turkey. Venison, pumpkin and corn were believed to be on the menu for the feast which ran for three days. Although it soon became an American tradition, Thanksgiving was not celebrated as an official holiday until 1864 during the Lincoln presidency and it was Franklin D. Roosevelt who moved it to the now customary date of the last week of November. I’m not sure which president arranged for the College Football games to be on television around the clock, so I’ll need to get back to you on that.
While I don’t think I’d be up to three days worth of feasting, Thanksgiving is without a doubt, my favorite holiday. No commercialization, no religious bickering, no decorations to put up (or take down), just lots of food, drink and the company of good friends. And the chance to take a moment and reflect that no matter how tiresome the humdrum aspects of life may be, we’re still one heckuva lot better off than many other people on this pretty blue globe and we’d all do well to remember that.
This year, Dear Wife and I were invited over to the home of our friends, Kris and Mario. The last time we’d been in their house it was in a state which could charitably (but inadequately) be described as “messy”. We’re not the world’s greatest housekeepers but our house is like Martha Stewart’s compared to theirs. So we were wondering how in the world they would have it clear enough to accommodate the anticipated twenty bodies. As it turns out, Kris and another friend had spent four days with a pickax, a shovel and a flame-thrower and between them, had removed the clutter and restored the house to the attractive, light-filled and eclectic home we knew it to be.
Two long tables were placed end to end, although at a slight angle in order to provide more side edges (the better at which to sit people) and chairs had been borrowed from all quarters. There was no room for mingling; you arrived, you sat down, that was it. Nobody was particularly sorry that three people failed to show as even with the reduced numbers, elbow room was at a premium. But fit we did and it was a happy bunch that sat to give thanks this year.
Everybody had been instructed to bring a dish with them. Dear Wife took along her specialty pumpkin pie. She opens a can of pumpkin like nobody, that woman. I had been commanded to provide the mashed potatoes, something well within my culinary repertoire. I cooked them, mashed them and creamed them to perfection. They were faultless. The only problem was they ran out before the bowl had made it half way round the table. Note to self: Seventeen people eat a lot of potatoes.
Even the finest meal is no pleasure if the company is poor but this diverse group of people made the evening an event in itself. The professional chef carved the turkey. The artist and the chiropractor bartered paintings for a session of spinal adjustment. The published author and the aspiring writer exchanged tips. The child and the school teacher swapped stories. And the British guy sat back and marveled at the wonderful concept which is the American Thanksgiving dinner.
When nobody could manage another bite of dessert, the plates were cleared away and the jewelry designer brought out his wares. Long anticipated as the highlight of the gathering, the womenfolk went into paroxysms of joy as each bracelet, necklace and gemstone was held up, tried on and snapped up. Like most of the other men, I was torn between the despair of seeing my hard earned beer money disappear so quickly and the relief of realizing I wouldn’t have to suffer through the hell that is Christmas shopping.
More beer, more wine, more coffee, more pie anyone? With the exception of potatoes; there was still enough food to sink a battleship and I suspect Kris and Mario are even now working their way through the leftovers. Sadly, my work hours and long commute have turned me into an early riser, even though my soul rebels against such a thing. One of the many downsides to this is that even when I have no work the following morning, my aging body starts to shut down around my regular bed time. So, the night was still comparatively young when my eyes started to droop and my head to nod.
We made our goodbyes and gathered up our belongings before heading out into the night. The moon was almost full and its light sparkled on the snow like a billion brilliant-cut diamonds. Tired or not, it was impossible not to enjoy driving in that wonderland. We pulled into the driveway of our little cabin among the trees and stepped out of the car to admire the canopy of stars under an indigo sky. Before entering the house, I took a moment to consider how truly blessed we are on this Thanksgiving Day.
Mind you, I had cause to reflect on that a few minutes later when I was on my hands and knees cleaning up an ocean of dog vomit and diarrhea. No idea what Wiley ate this time, but it obviously didn’t sit as well as my Thanksgiving dinner. It doesn’t do to let too much positive thinking get in the way of real life, but hey, even with a sick dog in the house, things are pretty darn good.
Well meaning and enterprising they may have been, but as pioneers they were hopelessly ill-equipped. Lacking even a basic knowledge of agriculture and having neglected to bring a single cow, the effects of the harsh winter were soon to take their toll. By spring, over half the original band of 102 souls were dead. Indeed, as popular lore has it, the remainder would not have survived had they not been befriended by some English speaking natives who taught the pilgrims a few survival tips and earned themselves not only a place in the history books, but a slap up turkey dinner to celebrate the first harvest.
And not only turkey. Venison, pumpkin and corn were believed to be on the menu for the feast which ran for three days. Although it soon became an American tradition, Thanksgiving was not celebrated as an official holiday until 1864 during the Lincoln presidency and it was Franklin D. Roosevelt who moved it to the now customary date of the last week of November. I’m not sure which president arranged for the College Football games to be on television around the clock, so I’ll need to get back to you on that.
While I don’t think I’d be up to three days worth of feasting, Thanksgiving is without a doubt, my favorite holiday. No commercialization, no religious bickering, no decorations to put up (or take down), just lots of food, drink and the company of good friends. And the chance to take a moment and reflect that no matter how tiresome the humdrum aspects of life may be, we’re still one heckuva lot better off than many other people on this pretty blue globe and we’d all do well to remember that.
This year, Dear Wife and I were invited over to the home of our friends, Kris and Mario. The last time we’d been in their house it was in a state which could charitably (but inadequately) be described as “messy”. We’re not the world’s greatest housekeepers but our house is like Martha Stewart’s compared to theirs. So we were wondering how in the world they would have it clear enough to accommodate the anticipated twenty bodies. As it turns out, Kris and another friend had spent four days with a pickax, a shovel and a flame-thrower and between them, had removed the clutter and restored the house to the attractive, light-filled and eclectic home we knew it to be.
Two long tables were placed end to end, although at a slight angle in order to provide more side edges (the better at which to sit people) and chairs had been borrowed from all quarters. There was no room for mingling; you arrived, you sat down, that was it. Nobody was particularly sorry that three people failed to show as even with the reduced numbers, elbow room was at a premium. But fit we did and it was a happy bunch that sat to give thanks this year.
Everybody had been instructed to bring a dish with them. Dear Wife took along her specialty pumpkin pie. She opens a can of pumpkin like nobody, that woman. I had been commanded to provide the mashed potatoes, something well within my culinary repertoire. I cooked them, mashed them and creamed them to perfection. They were faultless. The only problem was they ran out before the bowl had made it half way round the table. Note to self: Seventeen people eat a lot of potatoes.
Even the finest meal is no pleasure if the company is poor but this diverse group of people made the evening an event in itself. The professional chef carved the turkey. The artist and the chiropractor bartered paintings for a session of spinal adjustment. The published author and the aspiring writer exchanged tips. The child and the school teacher swapped stories. And the British guy sat back and marveled at the wonderful concept which is the American Thanksgiving dinner.
When nobody could manage another bite of dessert, the plates were cleared away and the jewelry designer brought out his wares. Long anticipated as the highlight of the gathering, the womenfolk went into paroxysms of joy as each bracelet, necklace and gemstone was held up, tried on and snapped up. Like most of the other men, I was torn between the despair of seeing my hard earned beer money disappear so quickly and the relief of realizing I wouldn’t have to suffer through the hell that is Christmas shopping.
More beer, more wine, more coffee, more pie anyone? With the exception of potatoes; there was still enough food to sink a battleship and I suspect Kris and Mario are even now working their way through the leftovers. Sadly, my work hours and long commute have turned me into an early riser, even though my soul rebels against such a thing. One of the many downsides to this is that even when I have no work the following morning, my aging body starts to shut down around my regular bed time. So, the night was still comparatively young when my eyes started to droop and my head to nod.
We made our goodbyes and gathered up our belongings before heading out into the night. The moon was almost full and its light sparkled on the snow like a billion brilliant-cut diamonds. Tired or not, it was impossible not to enjoy driving in that wonderland. We pulled into the driveway of our little cabin among the trees and stepped out of the car to admire the canopy of stars under an indigo sky. Before entering the house, I took a moment to consider how truly blessed we are on this Thanksgiving Day.
Mind you, I had cause to reflect on that a few minutes later when I was on my hands and knees cleaning up an ocean of dog vomit and diarrhea. No idea what Wiley ate this time, but it obviously didn’t sit as well as my Thanksgiving dinner. It doesn’t do to let too much positive thinking get in the way of real life, but hey, even with a sick dog in the house, things are pretty darn good.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Spanish Barbecue
To many Americans, the term “Barbecue” conjures up images of Dad in the back yard, grilling hot dogs and burgers. However, to young Brits, enjoying cheap vacations on the Spanish costas during the ‘70s and ‘80s, a barbecue meant a bus trip up into the mountains where for a paltry sum you’d be fed mounds of roast beef, chicken and pork. All washed down with lashings of low quality beer and wine. Traditional Spanish entertainment would be laid on, with singing and dancing into the wee hours, before you were poured back onto the buses for the journey back to your respective resorts.
Having vacationed in Spain several times with my parents, I was something of a veteran of the Spanish barbecue, although this was the first time I’d attended one as a grown up. (I use the term loosely – I was only a little past my 17th birthday). Still, I was able to fill my friends Steve and Graeme in on the routine.
“All the drinks are included in the price.” I told them, “So you can get totally wasted and it costs virtually nothing!” This was our kind of night out and we signed up for the trip with enthusiasm. Now we weren’t without street smarts and realized it wouldn’t be smart to go with no money whatsoever. We each took along a healthy sum, perhaps the equivalent of about $2. You know, for emergencies. We were on the bus and listening to the spiel from the courier before we learned of my misunderstanding. He explained that all the drinks during the meal were free. After that you were on your own. This was a blow.
“Not to worry,” I reasoned, “we’ll simply drink as much as we can get our hands on while they’re serving the food; and that should keep us nicely pickled through the rest of the evening.” This sounded like a plan and as the waitress filled our plates, I did my best to Hoover up any alcohol that came within arms reach. Being around 10 months older than me, both Steve and Graeme displayed a level of maturity I wasn’t to enjoy for another decade or so and while knocking back a fair few themselves, weren’t going over the top at anywhere near the same rate as me.
Even at this tender age, I was an old hand at the art of drinking too much and I felt little concern as glass after glass made its way down my throat. Red wine, white wine, beer, are you going to finish that, course after course, drink after drink, we’re almost onto dessert, port, champagne, sure I’ll have some more, that’s it, fill the glass, good man. Finally the meal came to an end but I was quietly confident I’d imbibed enough during this limited time to keep me comfortable for the remaining four hours ‘till night’s end. If I’d given little thought to the effects such a large volume of mixed drinks would have on my young system, I’d given even less consideration to how it would react when mixed with a healthy dose of beef, chicken and (probably undercooked) pork.
It was maybe twenty minutes before I first received signals that all was not well below decks. “You know,” I announced to the world, “I have a feeling I might need to puke fairly soon.” I decided it would be good tactics to make my way to the bathroom and simply hang out there for a while. That way, if the worst happened I wouldn’t suffer the embarrassment of a Technicolor yawn in public. I found myself a small but serviceable bathroom, took a whiz and observed with a note of smugness that some lightweight was already passed out in the single stall. I washed my hands, took a step back to check my appearance in the mirror, and promptly let loose with a deluge of projectile vomit that would have looked clichéd in a horror movie.
It was the beginning of one of the longest evenings of my life.
Looking back, it was the sheer volume I find most astonishing. We’re not just talking about a couple of heaves here, but wave after wave of semi-digested food and unprocessed alcohol. I knew I’d put away a lot but still can’t comprehend how that translated into the gallons of waste my body was now expelling. In no time the tiny bathroom was awash in chunder and while my body was doing its best to reject the poisons, enough had made their way into my bloodstream that despite my best efforts, standing up was simple impossible. Over and over I would use the sink to drag myself gasping and weeping to my feet, only to slip and fall once more into the mire. Great pools of barf covered the floor, the walls and even to my bemused astonishment, the ceiling, hanging in grotesque stalactites some six inches long. It simply went on for hours.
Finally, after eons of this torment, I was able to pull myself upright. I wiped the crud off the mirror and blearily stared at the circus freak looking back. It was in my hair, all over my face and my clothes were simply coated in the stuff. What a mess. Throughout the whole ordeal my bathroom companion lay in the stall, completely comatose, even though he, like everything else in the room, was bathed in my bulimic symphony. Curiously, nobody else had attempted to enter the bathroom the whole time I’d been in there. Until now. Slowly, the door opened and a middle aged guy took two steps inside before stopping to stare in horror at the nightmare facing him.
“Pretty bad, huh?” I mumbled. He simply stared.
“It wasn’t me!”
Amazingly, his faced cleared in understanding, as if I could be standing here, covered from head to foot in the contents of my own stomach, yet have nothing to do with the gallons of vomit adorning the room. I pushed past him and out into the main hall where Steve and Graeme met me with relief. They’d spent the entire evening trying to find me and had scoured the building without managing to find the one bathroom where I’d been trapped for almost four hours.
Over the years there were many more nights when grain and grape colluded to make a fool of me. Thankfully, I never quite replicated that performance. Yet for me, the word “barbecue” will never invoke an image of Dad with a spatula in his hand. Pity, really.
Having vacationed in Spain several times with my parents, I was something of a veteran of the Spanish barbecue, although this was the first time I’d attended one as a grown up. (I use the term loosely – I was only a little past my 17th birthday). Still, I was able to fill my friends Steve and Graeme in on the routine.
“All the drinks are included in the price.” I told them, “So you can get totally wasted and it costs virtually nothing!” This was our kind of night out and we signed up for the trip with enthusiasm. Now we weren’t without street smarts and realized it wouldn’t be smart to go with no money whatsoever. We each took along a healthy sum, perhaps the equivalent of about $2. You know, for emergencies. We were on the bus and listening to the spiel from the courier before we learned of my misunderstanding. He explained that all the drinks during the meal were free. After that you were on your own. This was a blow.
“Not to worry,” I reasoned, “we’ll simply drink as much as we can get our hands on while they’re serving the food; and that should keep us nicely pickled through the rest of the evening.” This sounded like a plan and as the waitress filled our plates, I did my best to Hoover up any alcohol that came within arms reach. Being around 10 months older than me, both Steve and Graeme displayed a level of maturity I wasn’t to enjoy for another decade or so and while knocking back a fair few themselves, weren’t going over the top at anywhere near the same rate as me.
Even at this tender age, I was an old hand at the art of drinking too much and I felt little concern as glass after glass made its way down my throat. Red wine, white wine, beer, are you going to finish that, course after course, drink after drink, we’re almost onto dessert, port, champagne, sure I’ll have some more, that’s it, fill the glass, good man. Finally the meal came to an end but I was quietly confident I’d imbibed enough during this limited time to keep me comfortable for the remaining four hours ‘till night’s end. If I’d given little thought to the effects such a large volume of mixed drinks would have on my young system, I’d given even less consideration to how it would react when mixed with a healthy dose of beef, chicken and (probably undercooked) pork.
It was maybe twenty minutes before I first received signals that all was not well below decks. “You know,” I announced to the world, “I have a feeling I might need to puke fairly soon.” I decided it would be good tactics to make my way to the bathroom and simply hang out there for a while. That way, if the worst happened I wouldn’t suffer the embarrassment of a Technicolor yawn in public. I found myself a small but serviceable bathroom, took a whiz and observed with a note of smugness that some lightweight was already passed out in the single stall. I washed my hands, took a step back to check my appearance in the mirror, and promptly let loose with a deluge of projectile vomit that would have looked clichéd in a horror movie.
It was the beginning of one of the longest evenings of my life.
Looking back, it was the sheer volume I find most astonishing. We’re not just talking about a couple of heaves here, but wave after wave of semi-digested food and unprocessed alcohol. I knew I’d put away a lot but still can’t comprehend how that translated into the gallons of waste my body was now expelling. In no time the tiny bathroom was awash in chunder and while my body was doing its best to reject the poisons, enough had made their way into my bloodstream that despite my best efforts, standing up was simple impossible. Over and over I would use the sink to drag myself gasping and weeping to my feet, only to slip and fall once more into the mire. Great pools of barf covered the floor, the walls and even to my bemused astonishment, the ceiling, hanging in grotesque stalactites some six inches long. It simply went on for hours.
Finally, after eons of this torment, I was able to pull myself upright. I wiped the crud off the mirror and blearily stared at the circus freak looking back. It was in my hair, all over my face and my clothes were simply coated in the stuff. What a mess. Throughout the whole ordeal my bathroom companion lay in the stall, completely comatose, even though he, like everything else in the room, was bathed in my bulimic symphony. Curiously, nobody else had attempted to enter the bathroom the whole time I’d been in there. Until now. Slowly, the door opened and a middle aged guy took two steps inside before stopping to stare in horror at the nightmare facing him.
“Pretty bad, huh?” I mumbled. He simply stared.
“It wasn’t me!”
Amazingly, his faced cleared in understanding, as if I could be standing here, covered from head to foot in the contents of my own stomach, yet have nothing to do with the gallons of vomit adorning the room. I pushed past him and out into the main hall where Steve and Graeme met me with relief. They’d spent the entire evening trying to find me and had scoured the building without managing to find the one bathroom where I’d been trapped for almost four hours.
Over the years there were many more nights when grain and grape colluded to make a fool of me. Thankfully, I never quite replicated that performance. Yet for me, the word “barbecue” will never invoke an image of Dad with a spatula in his hand. Pity, really.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
What a dive
The dolphins were skimming along beside us, easily keeping up with our small craft as they surfed on our wake. Three of them, four of them, I wasn’t sure as they seemed to be everywhere at once, disappearing below the surface for minutes at a time before reappearing on the other side of the bow, laughing at their game. Sailors have long considered dolphins to be an omen of good luck and sitting on the roof of the cabin, washed by sun and sea spray, I decided they were proof the next three days would be fabulous experience I had always imagined it would be. I was, as usual, hopelessly wrong.
I had arrived in Townsville, Australia a few days before and as I had planned many months before while still in Britain, set about signing up for a scuba diving course. Taking a diving course while on the Great Barrier Reef is just something every world traveler does, like getting ripped off in Bangkok, or sick in Jakarta and I was no exception. There were various outfits all offering variations on the theme, but the essential elements were the same. You’d spent a couple of days learning theory in a classroom setting, then putting it into practice in a swimming pool. Then you would board a luxury cruiser to sail some sixty miles off the coast and complete your training on the Barrier Reef itself. It sounded awesome.
The classroom stuff was something of a chore as the weather was hot and close. However, in the afternoons we headed over to the outdoor public pool where we joined the local retirees, each one a charming shade of tobacco, and learned how to enter and exit the water, use the gear correctly and practice rescue operations. It was easy enough even for Ryan, a Canadian guy who’d signed up for the course, completed the compulsory medical and passed all the other required tests without revealing that he couldn’t swim. We were pumped, we were ready; it was time – bring on the open sea.
Bright and ugly the next morning, we met at the dock where we were not really surprised to learn that our home for the next 3 days was not the luxury cruiser portrayed on the brochures, but a tiny, rusting tub. We had barely left harbor when the sea began to pick up and my classmates who had chosen to retire below decks were already experiencing the joys of mal-de-mer. I, on the other hand, was atop the cabin roof, loving every minute. My happiness lasted right up to the time we strapped on our scuba gear and began our first dive in open water.
When you scuba dive, you’re equipped with a stubby snorkel so you can swim along the surface with your face submerged, viewing the ocean deep via your facemask. You expel the water from the snorkel with a short, sharp blow, which is easy enough in a swimming pool, but with waves slopping into the tube every few seconds, I was inhaling more water than I was expelling. Sea water in the lungs doesn’t assist in aerobic activity and even with flippers, swimming against this current was disturbingly difficult. With each expedition, I was becoming feeling increasingly tired, nauseous and feverish.
Below the surface, things were much pleasanter even though the visibility was only about one quarter what we should have enjoyed. Many of the psychedelic fish and brilliantly colored coral were lost in the murk. Some of us saw a shark, others saw a turtle and we all saw a sea cucumber which is a remarkably dull looking creature, something similar to a gherkin. If we’d spent the whole dive course actually diving, I would have been a lot happier. Sadly, for the first two days, we were still divers in training, which meant the bulk of our time was spent on the surface. Fighting the waves, fighting the current, fighting fatigue and inhaling water. It was horrible.
There were arguments, such as when one diver “borrowed” the prescription glass mask of another without asking; reprimands, such as when two Swiss boys surfaced some two hundred yards off target during a compass navigation section and a near drowning when yours truly was swept away by the current while wrestling with his buoyancy belt buckle which had a lead weight jammed hard against it.
Each dive was more of an ordeal than the last and I’m convinced I lowered the level of the Pacific Ocean a good 2 or 3 inches due to my intake of saltwater. Finally the training was complete and we were free to dive on our own, without an instructor to hold our hands. Only problem was; with the storm showing signs of increasing violence, none of us had any real desire to enter the water.
Eventually our captain announced that qualified divers or no, our voyage was over and we were heading for home. Nobody was particularly sorry about that, but the bad news was, there would be no riding on the roof of the cabin this time. Due to the severity of the weather, we were all sentenced to spend the return journey below decks in our bunks; the last place on earth I wished to be. I’d been assigned a bunk at the sharp end, positively the worst place to be in inclement weather.
If I had thought the nights had been rough, it was nothing compared to the rodeo ride of the return trip. For seven hours we bounced, we bucked, we dipped and we dived as my stomach did summersaults and my throat was rasped raw by the diesel fumes. Distinctly below par before we started, by the time we finally made port I was battered, bruised and never happier to reach terra-firma.
We’d all made plans to meet up in a local bar for a post-course celebration. I’m not sure how many of the team made it; I certainly didn’t. In fact, it was all I could do to totter home from the docks to my hostel and once there, even a simple task like lying on my bed proved to be quite demanding. It was a good week before I felt healthy again and although this took place well over a decade ago, I’ve never felt any real urge to try scuba diving again.
Still, I can at least claim I’ve dived on the Great Barrier Reef and when people exclaim “Wow! I bet that was an experience.” I can smile enigmatically and reply “Yes. Yes it was.”
I had arrived in Townsville, Australia a few days before and as I had planned many months before while still in Britain, set about signing up for a scuba diving course. Taking a diving course while on the Great Barrier Reef is just something every world traveler does, like getting ripped off in Bangkok, or sick in Jakarta and I was no exception. There were various outfits all offering variations on the theme, but the essential elements were the same. You’d spent a couple of days learning theory in a classroom setting, then putting it into practice in a swimming pool. Then you would board a luxury cruiser to sail some sixty miles off the coast and complete your training on the Barrier Reef itself. It sounded awesome.
The classroom stuff was something of a chore as the weather was hot and close. However, in the afternoons we headed over to the outdoor public pool where we joined the local retirees, each one a charming shade of tobacco, and learned how to enter and exit the water, use the gear correctly and practice rescue operations. It was easy enough even for Ryan, a Canadian guy who’d signed up for the course, completed the compulsory medical and passed all the other required tests without revealing that he couldn’t swim. We were pumped, we were ready; it was time – bring on the open sea.
Bright and ugly the next morning, we met at the dock where we were not really surprised to learn that our home for the next 3 days was not the luxury cruiser portrayed on the brochures, but a tiny, rusting tub. We had barely left harbor when the sea began to pick up and my classmates who had chosen to retire below decks were already experiencing the joys of mal-de-mer. I, on the other hand, was atop the cabin roof, loving every minute. My happiness lasted right up to the time we strapped on our scuba gear and began our first dive in open water.
When you scuba dive, you’re equipped with a stubby snorkel so you can swim along the surface with your face submerged, viewing the ocean deep via your facemask. You expel the water from the snorkel with a short, sharp blow, which is easy enough in a swimming pool, but with waves slopping into the tube every few seconds, I was inhaling more water than I was expelling. Sea water in the lungs doesn’t assist in aerobic activity and even with flippers, swimming against this current was disturbingly difficult. With each expedition, I was becoming feeling increasingly tired, nauseous and feverish.
Below the surface, things were much pleasanter even though the visibility was only about one quarter what we should have enjoyed. Many of the psychedelic fish and brilliantly colored coral were lost in the murk. Some of us saw a shark, others saw a turtle and we all saw a sea cucumber which is a remarkably dull looking creature, something similar to a gherkin. If we’d spent the whole dive course actually diving, I would have been a lot happier. Sadly, for the first two days, we were still divers in training, which meant the bulk of our time was spent on the surface. Fighting the waves, fighting the current, fighting fatigue and inhaling water. It was horrible.
There were arguments, such as when one diver “borrowed” the prescription glass mask of another without asking; reprimands, such as when two Swiss boys surfaced some two hundred yards off target during a compass navigation section and a near drowning when yours truly was swept away by the current while wrestling with his buoyancy belt buckle which had a lead weight jammed hard against it.
Each dive was more of an ordeal than the last and I’m convinced I lowered the level of the Pacific Ocean a good 2 or 3 inches due to my intake of saltwater. Finally the training was complete and we were free to dive on our own, without an instructor to hold our hands. Only problem was; with the storm showing signs of increasing violence, none of us had any real desire to enter the water.
Eventually our captain announced that qualified divers or no, our voyage was over and we were heading for home. Nobody was particularly sorry about that, but the bad news was, there would be no riding on the roof of the cabin this time. Due to the severity of the weather, we were all sentenced to spend the return journey below decks in our bunks; the last place on earth I wished to be. I’d been assigned a bunk at the sharp end, positively the worst place to be in inclement weather.
If I had thought the nights had been rough, it was nothing compared to the rodeo ride of the return trip. For seven hours we bounced, we bucked, we dipped and we dived as my stomach did summersaults and my throat was rasped raw by the diesel fumes. Distinctly below par before we started, by the time we finally made port I was battered, bruised and never happier to reach terra-firma.
We’d all made plans to meet up in a local bar for a post-course celebration. I’m not sure how many of the team made it; I certainly didn’t. In fact, it was all I could do to totter home from the docks to my hostel and once there, even a simple task like lying on my bed proved to be quite demanding. It was a good week before I felt healthy again and although this took place well over a decade ago, I’ve never felt any real urge to try scuba diving again.
Still, I can at least claim I’ve dived on the Great Barrier Reef and when people exclaim “Wow! I bet that was an experience.” I can smile enigmatically and reply “Yes. Yes it was.”
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Swan Song
As he did with most fads, my friend Steve jumped on the windsurfing craze pretty early. The sport was largely unknown and the technology very much in its infancy when he dropped a bundle of cash on an enormous polyurethane plank-like boat and an item of apparel known euphemistically as a "dry suit". This was a somewhat kinky looking rubber outfit rendered completely waterproof by seals at the cuffs and neck, allowing the sportsman to stay warm by wearing street clothes underneath. "Come on" he told me, "you've got to try this!" Always on the lookout for something new and different, and assuming (wrongly as it turned out) that this wouldn't take long and we'd soon be snug in a pub somewhere, I cheerfully tagged along. For reasons that escape me now, we decided to make our debut not in some secluded cove, where we could make idiots of ourselves in private, but in Bowness Bay. This is a scenic, but overcrowded stretch of English lakefront which, on this warm summer evening, was swarming with tourists.
In the years to come, Steve became something of an expert in the sport of windsurfing; competing on a national level and even receiving small but welcome gifts of sponsorship. However as I said, this was in the early days and he really didn't have much of a clue. Once the initial requirements of sailboard, clothing and roof rack have been met, windsurfing is a comparatively accessory free sport. However, there is one prerequisite without which it's almost impossible to enjoy the game to it's fullest. That is of course, wind. And it was conspicuously absent on our first night.
Or at least it was by the time my turn came around. Steve had drifted gently out into the center of the lake, before turning ponderously and making his way back. I did OK on the outward journey, but around the time I tried to return to port, the breeze, never exactly gale force to begin with, dropped completely and found myself becalmed some two hundred yards from shore. It was a mild night and clad as I was in the above mentioned dry-suit, I opted to swim for shore, towing the extremely cumbersome sailboard behind me. That was a whole lot harder than it sounds and while I made it back eventually, it ate into our valuable drinking time. Lesson learned there.
Next time out, we planned ahead. "I've bought four lengths of clothesline" Steve told me. "We'll tie it to the front of the board and if one of us gets stuck, the other can simply tow him back in". Capital idea that, so after securely fastening the rope to the bow (see, I've got these nautical expressions down), I confidently sailed off into the wild blue yonder. The plan worked splendidly for oh, a good three or four minutes before my progress was suddenly halted by a violent jerk from behind. Naturally I went straight in the water and on surfacing saw that I hadn't, as I had first thought, been attacked by some kind of lake dwelling shark, but something far worse. A large and very powerful swan was thrashing violently having become entangled in the clothesline. And he looked pretty pissed about it.
There are a number of reasons why one should be wary around swans. To begin with, there's the technicality than in Britain at least; every one of them is the property of Her Majesty the Queen. I doubt she herself knows exactly how many she owns and would be unlikely to miss one, but even so, causing harm to the Queen's property isn't a good way to ascend the social ladder.
A far more important piece of trivia is that a full-grown swan can flap its wings with enough strength to break a human arm. And boy, was this one flapping its wings. I'm guessing it wasn't the brightest swan in the pond because it seemed to be missing the fairly obvious point that the more it fought, the further entangled it became. The clothesline was now wound around the poor beast in a manner that suggested someone had done a poor job of wrapping it before dropping it in the mail. Although the water was shallow enough to allow me to stand, my cautious attempts to approach the bird only caused it to begin thrashing once more, making the position ever worse. The problem was indeed a thorny one.
A fairly large crowd had gathered on the shore by this time; enjoying my discomfiture tremendously, while at the same time, pretending to care about the poor swan I was currently abusing. Many people took the time to remind me of the severe penalties for harming a swan, despite the fact that nobody knows what those actually are. A number of them seemed to think I was in this situation through choice. I could hear one imbecile yelling, "Fetch the police!" but either everyone ignored him, or Bowness' finest wisely declined to get involved because they never appeared. Gradually, inch by inch, I made my way towards the bird and with trembling hands, began the tortuous process of untangling it from the snare.
As gently as I could, I lifted its wings and lifted its feet, slowly uncoiling the rope. It would stand calmly for some time but then, just when I was beginning to see progress, its patience would snap and it would fly into paroxysms of rage, flapping and straining in an attempt to escape. I would cower to one side, hoping its enormous wings would avoid making contact and, when it had exhausted itself, would once more begin my laborious task. Steve, shore bound and helpless began polling the bystanders.
"Does anyone have a pocket knife?" I heard him ask.
"I have a lighter" responded one helpful soul.
"I'm trying to free it, not cook it" I muttered, trying to keep my tone soothing.
Finally the brute remained calm long enough for me to complete the job of rescuing it and I almost cried with relief as I uncoiled the last of the rope. Without so much as a "thank you" the swan splashed around for a few moments, then took off into the sky. The whole process had taken every ounce of courage I possessed but when I turned around, it was to a horror of which I'd been blissfully unaware. Sitting in a semi-circle just a few feet behind me and watching every move I made, were six more swans. They weren't exactly swinging baseball bats or flashing knives, but their intent was the same.
"One false step from you matey and you're swan food!"
We never windsurfed in Bowness Bay again.
In the years to come, Steve became something of an expert in the sport of windsurfing; competing on a national level and even receiving small but welcome gifts of sponsorship. However as I said, this was in the early days and he really didn't have much of a clue. Once the initial requirements of sailboard, clothing and roof rack have been met, windsurfing is a comparatively accessory free sport. However, there is one prerequisite without which it's almost impossible to enjoy the game to it's fullest. That is of course, wind. And it was conspicuously absent on our first night.
Or at least it was by the time my turn came around. Steve had drifted gently out into the center of the lake, before turning ponderously and making his way back. I did OK on the outward journey, but around the time I tried to return to port, the breeze, never exactly gale force to begin with, dropped completely and found myself becalmed some two hundred yards from shore. It was a mild night and clad as I was in the above mentioned dry-suit, I opted to swim for shore, towing the extremely cumbersome sailboard behind me. That was a whole lot harder than it sounds and while I made it back eventually, it ate into our valuable drinking time. Lesson learned there.
Next time out, we planned ahead. "I've bought four lengths of clothesline" Steve told me. "We'll tie it to the front of the board and if one of us gets stuck, the other can simply tow him back in". Capital idea that, so after securely fastening the rope to the bow (see, I've got these nautical expressions down), I confidently sailed off into the wild blue yonder. The plan worked splendidly for oh, a good three or four minutes before my progress was suddenly halted by a violent jerk from behind. Naturally I went straight in the water and on surfacing saw that I hadn't, as I had first thought, been attacked by some kind of lake dwelling shark, but something far worse. A large and very powerful swan was thrashing violently having become entangled in the clothesline. And he looked pretty pissed about it.
There are a number of reasons why one should be wary around swans. To begin with, there's the technicality than in Britain at least; every one of them is the property of Her Majesty the Queen. I doubt she herself knows exactly how many she owns and would be unlikely to miss one, but even so, causing harm to the Queen's property isn't a good way to ascend the social ladder.
A far more important piece of trivia is that a full-grown swan can flap its wings with enough strength to break a human arm. And boy, was this one flapping its wings. I'm guessing it wasn't the brightest swan in the pond because it seemed to be missing the fairly obvious point that the more it fought, the further entangled it became. The clothesline was now wound around the poor beast in a manner that suggested someone had done a poor job of wrapping it before dropping it in the mail. Although the water was shallow enough to allow me to stand, my cautious attempts to approach the bird only caused it to begin thrashing once more, making the position ever worse. The problem was indeed a thorny one.
A fairly large crowd had gathered on the shore by this time; enjoying my discomfiture tremendously, while at the same time, pretending to care about the poor swan I was currently abusing. Many people took the time to remind me of the severe penalties for harming a swan, despite the fact that nobody knows what those actually are. A number of them seemed to think I was in this situation through choice. I could hear one imbecile yelling, "Fetch the police!" but either everyone ignored him, or Bowness' finest wisely declined to get involved because they never appeared. Gradually, inch by inch, I made my way towards the bird and with trembling hands, began the tortuous process of untangling it from the snare.
As gently as I could, I lifted its wings and lifted its feet, slowly uncoiling the rope. It would stand calmly for some time but then, just when I was beginning to see progress, its patience would snap and it would fly into paroxysms of rage, flapping and straining in an attempt to escape. I would cower to one side, hoping its enormous wings would avoid making contact and, when it had exhausted itself, would once more begin my laborious task. Steve, shore bound and helpless began polling the bystanders.
"Does anyone have a pocket knife?" I heard him ask.
"I have a lighter" responded one helpful soul.
"I'm trying to free it, not cook it" I muttered, trying to keep my tone soothing.
Finally the brute remained calm long enough for me to complete the job of rescuing it and I almost cried with relief as I uncoiled the last of the rope. Without so much as a "thank you" the swan splashed around for a few moments, then took off into the sky. The whole process had taken every ounce of courage I possessed but when I turned around, it was to a horror of which I'd been blissfully unaware. Sitting in a semi-circle just a few feet behind me and watching every move I made, were six more swans. They weren't exactly swinging baseball bats or flashing knives, but their intent was the same.
"One false step from you matey and you're swan food!"
We never windsurfed in Bowness Bay again.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
The Beautiful Game - Or Not.
Sunday morning. Early Sunday morning. As in, the pubs aren’t even open early Sunday morning. And oh, what I wouldn’t give to be snug in a cozy bar right about now, with a silky smooth pint or six of ale to soothe my wicked hangover. Instead, I’m standing up to my ankles in mud, wearing shorts which display my white, spindly legs in all their goose fleshed glory, hugging my hands under my arms as protection against the icy wind and wondering, as I do at this time every Sunday morning, just why in the hell I play football.
As a footnote to American readers, I’m talking about real football here. The kind you play with your feet. No pads, no helmets, no taking a break every 8 seconds. Real football – nothing but you and twenty-one other lost souls on a windswept, waterlogged field chasing a ball the weight of a cinder block and ninety more minutes before you can slope off and put on some dry clothes and drink lunch in the comfort of a welcoming nearby hostelry.
The professionals of course have hot baths, and masseurs with warming lotions and Super Model girlfriends waiting for them when they retire from the pitch, but for us hardy few, the amateurs playing in Britain’s Sunday Leagues, football is played the hard way, in city parks and country fields, where the groundskeepers often have four legs, and supply us with milk. Out there, braving the elements week after week, dressed in ridiculously inadequate uniforms and wondering if this will be the week when you finally succumb to hypothermia. Real football.
To begin with, there are only two types of amateur football pitch. The one where you toss up to see who gets to defend the shallow end and type where you need ropes and crampons to get from one side to the other. Few are entirely covered in grass. Most pay more than a passing resemblance to plowed fields. Sometimes the pitch markings are discernible; sometimes the goals have real nets. Very occasionally there’s a referee although the accepted protocol is that in the absence of an official league representative, any disputes will be settled by the spectator. He will be a middle aged man with a black and white dog.
The players on each team may have some tenuous link to one another. Perhaps they all work at the same firm, or are regulars at the same pub. Often they’re simply a group of friends who may or may not see each other away from the football field. Rarely however, does an entire team share the attribute of talent. Oh there’s usually one or two skillful players on each side; the one’s who score the goals, know the rules and spend most of the game racing from one end of the pitch to the other, doing all the work while rudely bemoaning the lack of enthusiasm among their team mates. But for the most part, Sunday League players are more like me. Guys who aren’t exactly sure what they’re doing there and are fervently wishing they weren’t.
Well, that’s not entirely true. It’s fair to say that the majority of the players are actually putting some effort into the game and genuinely care whether or not they’re on the winning side. Me, I recognized quite early on in my career that the selectors for the international squads were never going to come a-knocking on my door and if I could get through each game without my team mates attempting to kill me, I was quite content.
Possibly this was the reason I tended towards the goal keeper’s position (it certainly wasn’t from any aptitude for the role). Rather than spending my morning racing frantically and hopelessly after the ball, I was able to contemplate the higher aspects of life. Just how much did I have to drink last night? How did I manage to spend that much money? Just what was that girl’s name? While my teammates huffed and puffed around the field, trying not to be sick, I contented myself with leaning against a goal post with my arms folded, stirring every once in awhile to flail hopelessly at the ball as it whizzed past my head. Picking it out of the net every few minutes was plenty exercise for me, thank you very much.
Some days, I didn’t even have to do that very often. If we happened to be playing a team even more inept than us, there were games when I’d hardly let in a single goal. Of course, having made my goalkeeping debut in a game where we lost 26-0, pretty much any occasion where I kept the score against to single figures, was something of a moral victory on my part.
There were times, on particularly frigid days; when bending to pick the ball out of the net wasn’t really enough to keep the blood circulating and a little more action would have been welcome. Looking back, it’s a wonder I never thought to take a hip flask onto the field with me, but as this was during my time as a nicotine user, I did occasionally sneak a quiet smoke while my teammates did battle at the far end. It was this flaunting of the rules which caused me to be ejected for the one and only time in my career. I’d just lit up when against the run of play; the opposition launched an attack on my goal. They hadn’t troubled me all day and, not expecting them to make it all the way to my end, I continued my leisurely appreciation of the fine weed until they were dangerously close. Before I knew it, the goalmouth was crowded with action and it was only my lightning reflexes which allowed my to fling my still lit cigarette off to one side before someone got hurt. Sadly, this referee was less myopic than usual and saw me do it. Off I went, my replacement failed to prevent the subsequent (and completely unjustified) penalty kick and we lost by the only goal of the match.
I suppose we must have won some of the games in which I played, but I can’t say I recall any. There must have been some good memories too, but none immediately spring to mind. Just a lot of cold, wet mornings battling the elements while more intelligent folk were snug in bed nursing their hangovers
But that’s Sunday football and is why I loved it.
As a footnote to American readers, I’m talking about real football here. The kind you play with your feet. No pads, no helmets, no taking a break every 8 seconds. Real football – nothing but you and twenty-one other lost souls on a windswept, waterlogged field chasing a ball the weight of a cinder block and ninety more minutes before you can slope off and put on some dry clothes and drink lunch in the comfort of a welcoming nearby hostelry.
The professionals of course have hot baths, and masseurs with warming lotions and Super Model girlfriends waiting for them when they retire from the pitch, but for us hardy few, the amateurs playing in Britain’s Sunday Leagues, football is played the hard way, in city parks and country fields, where the groundskeepers often have four legs, and supply us with milk. Out there, braving the elements week after week, dressed in ridiculously inadequate uniforms and wondering if this will be the week when you finally succumb to hypothermia. Real football.
To begin with, there are only two types of amateur football pitch. The one where you toss up to see who gets to defend the shallow end and type where you need ropes and crampons to get from one side to the other. Few are entirely covered in grass. Most pay more than a passing resemblance to plowed fields. Sometimes the pitch markings are discernible; sometimes the goals have real nets. Very occasionally there’s a referee although the accepted protocol is that in the absence of an official league representative, any disputes will be settled by the spectator. He will be a middle aged man with a black and white dog.
The players on each team may have some tenuous link to one another. Perhaps they all work at the same firm, or are regulars at the same pub. Often they’re simply a group of friends who may or may not see each other away from the football field. Rarely however, does an entire team share the attribute of talent. Oh there’s usually one or two skillful players on each side; the one’s who score the goals, know the rules and spend most of the game racing from one end of the pitch to the other, doing all the work while rudely bemoaning the lack of enthusiasm among their team mates. But for the most part, Sunday League players are more like me. Guys who aren’t exactly sure what they’re doing there and are fervently wishing they weren’t.
Well, that’s not entirely true. It’s fair to say that the majority of the players are actually putting some effort into the game and genuinely care whether or not they’re on the winning side. Me, I recognized quite early on in my career that the selectors for the international squads were never going to come a-knocking on my door and if I could get through each game without my team mates attempting to kill me, I was quite content.
Possibly this was the reason I tended towards the goal keeper’s position (it certainly wasn’t from any aptitude for the role). Rather than spending my morning racing frantically and hopelessly after the ball, I was able to contemplate the higher aspects of life. Just how much did I have to drink last night? How did I manage to spend that much money? Just what was that girl’s name? While my teammates huffed and puffed around the field, trying not to be sick, I contented myself with leaning against a goal post with my arms folded, stirring every once in awhile to flail hopelessly at the ball as it whizzed past my head. Picking it out of the net every few minutes was plenty exercise for me, thank you very much.
Some days, I didn’t even have to do that very often. If we happened to be playing a team even more inept than us, there were games when I’d hardly let in a single goal. Of course, having made my goalkeeping debut in a game where we lost 26-0, pretty much any occasion where I kept the score against to single figures, was something of a moral victory on my part.
There were times, on particularly frigid days; when bending to pick the ball out of the net wasn’t really enough to keep the blood circulating and a little more action would have been welcome. Looking back, it’s a wonder I never thought to take a hip flask onto the field with me, but as this was during my time as a nicotine user, I did occasionally sneak a quiet smoke while my teammates did battle at the far end. It was this flaunting of the rules which caused me to be ejected for the one and only time in my career. I’d just lit up when against the run of play; the opposition launched an attack on my goal. They hadn’t troubled me all day and, not expecting them to make it all the way to my end, I continued my leisurely appreciation of the fine weed until they were dangerously close. Before I knew it, the goalmouth was crowded with action and it was only my lightning reflexes which allowed my to fling my still lit cigarette off to one side before someone got hurt. Sadly, this referee was less myopic than usual and saw me do it. Off I went, my replacement failed to prevent the subsequent (and completely unjustified) penalty kick and we lost by the only goal of the match.
I suppose we must have won some of the games in which I played, but I can’t say I recall any. There must have been some good memories too, but none immediately spring to mind. Just a lot of cold, wet mornings battling the elements while more intelligent folk were snug in bed nursing their hangovers
But that’s Sunday football and is why I loved it.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
A dog named Cleo
The breeders named her Sarah. Not only is that a ridiculous name for any dog, it was totally inappropriate for her. When Dear Wife brought her home, she spent a few moments sniffing the corners before hopping up on the bed, settling on the pillows and looking around as if to say “This is where I belong”. Dear Wife re-named her Cleo, short for Cleopatra because she quite obviously saw herself as a queen.
Her original role in life was to be a show dog and her bloodlines reflected her pedigree. However, being skittish and somewhat nervous around strangers, at the age of three months it was deemed that she did not have a suitable temperament for such a world. Instead she was sold into the much happier and healthier life as a spoiled rotten house pet. Dear Wife already had one Australian Shepherd, named Madison who was bred from herding stock – a very different animal. Yet although their personalities couldn’t have been more dissimilar, the pair bonded instantly and became inseparable friends until Madison’s death in 2002. While Madison was stiff, serious and hard-working, Cleo was lithe, puppyish and agile, a natural athlete.
She had a turn of speed that had to be seen to be believed. She never actually caught any of the jackrabbits she chased in the deserts of Arizona, but she certainly gave a few of them a good scare. One evening we were taking a short cut across a patch of undeveloped land, not too far from our house when she took off after a cottontail. I would love to have put a radar gun on her because I doubt my car could have matched the speed at which she tore across the ground. Not from a standing start it couldn’t. She and the cottontail disappeared into the night, with only a light cloud of dust to indicate where she might be. I’m not sure how far the rabbit took her but it was a good five minutes before she came trotting back, smiling happily and fortunately, with no evidence she’d won the race. But it wasn’t just her speed – the flexibility of her spine would have been the envy of a yogi and she could leap a good four feet straight up from a standing start. By the time dog agility contests were becoming fashionable she was already past her prime which was a pity as she had all the makings of a champion.
Her coat was astonishingly soft, retaining a puppy-like quality well into her advanced age. Over time we got used to the clouds of hair which entered every aspect of our lives, Clothing to furniture to food, there was nowhere you wouldn’t find Cleo hair. We often thought if we could simply find a way to harvest it and turn it into clothing, we could clothe the entire nation. Actually, we did hear of a lady who for a fee, would take bags of dog hair and turn them into sweaters. Sounds good until you wonder what it would smell like the first time you went out in the rain. Wet dog, mmm hmmm!
For all her distrust of strangers, she was a dog who thrived on human contact and was visibly distraught when separated from Dear Wife and me for any length of time. There were occasions when we had to wonder if she actually realized she was a dog at all as it was common for her to react with horror if we inconsiderately treated her as one. She would often stare at us through the glass doors, quite obviously saying “There’s been a terrible mistake – you’ve locked me outside along with the dogs!”
Despite being plagued with arthritis for most of her life, Madison almost saw her sixteenth birthday; easily outlasting the average life span for the breed. Because she’d always been so healthy, as well as looking and acting much younger than her age, we simply assumed Cleo would live even longer. Sadly it was not to be. When her old friend passed on it was as if Cleo simply gave up and in a matter of months she aged by several years. In no time we had another old dog on our hands and while she never really suffered any illness as such, she was beset with most of the ailments by which old dogs are afflicted. Her eyesight, hearing and eventually, sense of smell left her and she became a confused and senile old lady. Where Madison appeared to be blissfully happy in her dotage, Cleo seemed distressed and frightened; as if she knew something was wrong but didn’t understand what it was.
It’s never an easy decision to let go of a beloved friend, particularly one who’s been such an integral part of your life for a decade and a half. But there comes a time when every dog owner has to recognize that their pet’s quality of life has deteriorated to the point when they’re simply no longer happy. After a lot of long talks, hugs and tears, we finally reached that point this weekend. We’re blessed in that Kris, our dogs’ primary veterinarian, is also a close friend and she kindly agreed to come to the house. The plan was to make the whole process as comfortable and straightforward as possible. Sasha, our nutso dog was locked upstairs but Wiley, an older dog herself these days, was allowed to stay and give moral support. She lay with her head close to Cleo’s the whole time.
But, bless her heart, Cleo had to play with us one more time. After giving a shot to relax her, Kris prepared to administer the lethal dose. As it’s often hard to find a vein on an older dog, this was going to be directly into the heart. Except even with a stethoscope, Kris couldn’t find it, which suggested it was either beating very faintly or had stopped altogether. Not a problem, injecting into the lungs, while not being instantaneous, is as near as. Or rather it wasn’t. Twenty minutes on, dear Cleo was now breathing stronger than we’d seen in months. Curiously, this made the process less painful, particularly as though her body might still be functioning; we were each convinced we’d “felt” her leave a little while ago. That was the point when Wiley placed her nose half an inch from Cleo’s, then settled back down with her head on her paws. Just like she was escorting the spirit on its way. A second dose was administered and finally, after gladdening our hearts for almost fifteen years, our baby slipped away from us.
Happy trails Cleo my friend. We’ll never forget you.
Her original role in life was to be a show dog and her bloodlines reflected her pedigree. However, being skittish and somewhat nervous around strangers, at the age of three months it was deemed that she did not have a suitable temperament for such a world. Instead she was sold into the much happier and healthier life as a spoiled rotten house pet. Dear Wife already had one Australian Shepherd, named Madison who was bred from herding stock – a very different animal. Yet although their personalities couldn’t have been more dissimilar, the pair bonded instantly and became inseparable friends until Madison’s death in 2002. While Madison was stiff, serious and hard-working, Cleo was lithe, puppyish and agile, a natural athlete.
She had a turn of speed that had to be seen to be believed. She never actually caught any of the jackrabbits she chased in the deserts of Arizona, but she certainly gave a few of them a good scare. One evening we were taking a short cut across a patch of undeveloped land, not too far from our house when she took off after a cottontail. I would love to have put a radar gun on her because I doubt my car could have matched the speed at which she tore across the ground. Not from a standing start it couldn’t. She and the cottontail disappeared into the night, with only a light cloud of dust to indicate where she might be. I’m not sure how far the rabbit took her but it was a good five minutes before she came trotting back, smiling happily and fortunately, with no evidence she’d won the race. But it wasn’t just her speed – the flexibility of her spine would have been the envy of a yogi and she could leap a good four feet straight up from a standing start. By the time dog agility contests were becoming fashionable she was already past her prime which was a pity as she had all the makings of a champion.
Her coat was astonishingly soft, retaining a puppy-like quality well into her advanced age. Over time we got used to the clouds of hair which entered every aspect of our lives, Clothing to furniture to food, there was nowhere you wouldn’t find Cleo hair. We often thought if we could simply find a way to harvest it and turn it into clothing, we could clothe the entire nation. Actually, we did hear of a lady who for a fee, would take bags of dog hair and turn them into sweaters. Sounds good until you wonder what it would smell like the first time you went out in the rain. Wet dog, mmm hmmm!
For all her distrust of strangers, she was a dog who thrived on human contact and was visibly distraught when separated from Dear Wife and me for any length of time. There were occasions when we had to wonder if she actually realized she was a dog at all as it was common for her to react with horror if we inconsiderately treated her as one. She would often stare at us through the glass doors, quite obviously saying “There’s been a terrible mistake – you’ve locked me outside along with the dogs!”
Despite being plagued with arthritis for most of her life, Madison almost saw her sixteenth birthday; easily outlasting the average life span for the breed. Because she’d always been so healthy, as well as looking and acting much younger than her age, we simply assumed Cleo would live even longer. Sadly it was not to be. When her old friend passed on it was as if Cleo simply gave up and in a matter of months she aged by several years. In no time we had another old dog on our hands and while she never really suffered any illness as such, she was beset with most of the ailments by which old dogs are afflicted. Her eyesight, hearing and eventually, sense of smell left her and she became a confused and senile old lady. Where Madison appeared to be blissfully happy in her dotage, Cleo seemed distressed and frightened; as if she knew something was wrong but didn’t understand what it was.
It’s never an easy decision to let go of a beloved friend, particularly one who’s been such an integral part of your life for a decade and a half. But there comes a time when every dog owner has to recognize that their pet’s quality of life has deteriorated to the point when they’re simply no longer happy. After a lot of long talks, hugs and tears, we finally reached that point this weekend. We’re blessed in that Kris, our dogs’ primary veterinarian, is also a close friend and she kindly agreed to come to the house. The plan was to make the whole process as comfortable and straightforward as possible. Sasha, our nutso dog was locked upstairs but Wiley, an older dog herself these days, was allowed to stay and give moral support. She lay with her head close to Cleo’s the whole time.
But, bless her heart, Cleo had to play with us one more time. After giving a shot to relax her, Kris prepared to administer the lethal dose. As it’s often hard to find a vein on an older dog, this was going to be directly into the heart. Except even with a stethoscope, Kris couldn’t find it, which suggested it was either beating very faintly or had stopped altogether. Not a problem, injecting into the lungs, while not being instantaneous, is as near as. Or rather it wasn’t. Twenty minutes on, dear Cleo was now breathing stronger than we’d seen in months. Curiously, this made the process less painful, particularly as though her body might still be functioning; we were each convinced we’d “felt” her leave a little while ago. That was the point when Wiley placed her nose half an inch from Cleo’s, then settled back down with her head on her paws. Just like she was escorting the spirit on its way. A second dose was administered and finally, after gladdening our hearts for almost fifteen years, our baby slipped away from us.
Happy trails Cleo my friend. We’ll never forget you.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Oh rats!
Regular readers of The Gunsmoke Files will know me as an animal lover. I work hard to keep three dogs in the lap of luxury, lose sleep over how to deal with the mice that are determined to live under my bathroom sink and choose to believe the Pest Control guy’s explanation of what happened to the squirrels he removed from my roof. (Yes there is a Squirrel Ranch in Northern Colorado, go look it up!). However, there are two species of animals for which I have no love whatsoever - mosquitoes and rats. I’ll save my rant about mosquitoes for another day. I can after all, only handle so many traumas at once. Instead I’m going to tell you my rat story.
Spending as I did, several months as a hippy in Indonesia one becomes used to the sight of rats. Deep, wide gutters line most roads with open sewage and polluted water running freely. Not surprisingly, rats love this arrangement and can be seen pretty much everywhere. In the early weeks of my stay I wasn’t fazed in the slightest by their presence. Even a visit to a museum in Bogor, south of Jakarta, which had on display a recently caught but thankfully deceased and stuffed rat measuring (no kidding) 24-inches from nose to tail, didn’t cause me any undue distress.
No, it was during a long and terrifying night in Berastagi on the Island of Java, that I developed the phobia which has stayed with me to this day.
I’d met up with a fellow Brit named Michael who, for a few days at least, was following the same route as me, so as was common among the backpacker crowd, we shared rooms as we went. This had the advantage of affording more privacy than the communal dormitories, without the expense of a single room. These rooms varied tremendously in quality from idyllic beach bungalows with the South China Sea lapping gently a few feet away, to squalid hovels barely fit for habitation even by such impoverished social lepers as us.
At first glance, the lodgings looked better than most. The family run Bed and Breakfast, familiarly known as a “Homestay” was clean, the food was good and the owners were friendly. Our landlady showed as a room which, while rather on the pricy side considering its lack of size, looked plenty big enough for us. We weren’t bothered by the fact that the two single beds were pushed together under the same tent-like linen sheet which served as a mosquito net. After all, we’d both been roughing it for months now and of course, were perfectly secure in our heterosexuality. Possibly because we were focused on this, neither of us noticed that as we were below street level, the outside wall was in fact the lining of the open sewer.
All was well until around 1am when, I turned over and momentarily found myself gazing sleepily towards the gray-white wall of our linen sheet cocoon. It moved. In my sluggish state, my brain refused to acknowledge what I was actually witnessing and because of this, I was allowed to remain in blissful ignorance for a few moments longer. However, my innocence was short-lived because almost immediately, I felt Michael stiffen, then leap bolt upright with a scream. Simultaneously, we both let loose with loud, long and expletive laced discourse, the gist of which was “Oh my word, we appear to be sharing our sleeping space with a number of undomesticated rodents. I’m not sure I’m altogether happy about that.”
For it was true. As our brains rapidly shifted from “Park” to “Overdrive” we realized that we weren’t simply talking about one or two rats here, but an entire herd of them roaming freely around the room. Encased as we were, in linen, we couldn’t actually see them, but the numerous bulges moving along the tent walls were all too obvious clues as to the activity just a few inches away. Not only that, but we could hear many more of the little monsters scurrying around on the floor. I’m not the world’s biggest guy and Michael’s no heavyweight either but it was astonishing just what a small area of space the two of us were currently occupying in the center of that bed. As the rats continued their nocturnal exploration of our bed, our room and our souls, we clung to one another, all the while gibbering in foul-mouthed terror.
“What the hell are we going to do?” yelled Michael at the top of his lungs. “How about we put the light on?” I screamed back, “Maybe they’ll run away.” After a few moments reflection we determined that while this was a stellar idea, it presented the thorny problem of how to reach the switch, located impossibly far away across a rat strewn floor. Grisly though it was, I had no intention of leaving the sanctuary of our cocoon and neither apparently had Michael. We discussed strategy for a while, (“you f*****g do it!” “no, YOU f*****g do it!”), before I scored the winning goal by pointing out that Michael was nearest the light switch.
I reasoned that if I held his left arm, he could lean out of the bed and albeit at full stretch, reach the elusive switch. It was hard to argue with the logic, particularly as we couldn’t think of a better idea so after encouraging me to take my responsibilities seriously, namely by promising retribution involving rudimentary surgery on my private parts, Michael screwed his eyes tight shut, clasped my hand in his, stretched out his other arm, and flicked the switch.
The hideous noise generated by an army of rats scurrying for cover was almost enough to make me drop him onto the floor but I manfully kept my side of the bargain and in moments he was back under the linen sheet, shivering in horror and cursing up a storm. It was a long time before the sun gradually illuminated our sanctuary, but the light stayed on, our eyes stayed open and we stayed upright. I’m not entirely sure, but I think it was around that time my hair first started going gray.
Michael moved on the following day and I didn’t see him again until a chance meeting several weeks later. I had business in Berastagi however, and needed to stay one more night. I moved out of that awful room of course and into the clean, modern and rat free dormitory where I slept like a baby. Until about 1am, when I was awoken from my slumber by a distant and muffled scream. “OH….MY….GOOOOOODDDDD!”.
Smiling smugly, I turned over and drifting back to sleep, thought,
“I bet I know which room he’s in.”
Spending as I did, several months as a hippy in Indonesia one becomes used to the sight of rats. Deep, wide gutters line most roads with open sewage and polluted water running freely. Not surprisingly, rats love this arrangement and can be seen pretty much everywhere. In the early weeks of my stay I wasn’t fazed in the slightest by their presence. Even a visit to a museum in Bogor, south of Jakarta, which had on display a recently caught but thankfully deceased and stuffed rat measuring (no kidding) 24-inches from nose to tail, didn’t cause me any undue distress.
No, it was during a long and terrifying night in Berastagi on the Island of Java, that I developed the phobia which has stayed with me to this day.
I’d met up with a fellow Brit named Michael who, for a few days at least, was following the same route as me, so as was common among the backpacker crowd, we shared rooms as we went. This had the advantage of affording more privacy than the communal dormitories, without the expense of a single room. These rooms varied tremendously in quality from idyllic beach bungalows with the South China Sea lapping gently a few feet away, to squalid hovels barely fit for habitation even by such impoverished social lepers as us.
At first glance, the lodgings looked better than most. The family run Bed and Breakfast, familiarly known as a “Homestay” was clean, the food was good and the owners were friendly. Our landlady showed as a room which, while rather on the pricy side considering its lack of size, looked plenty big enough for us. We weren’t bothered by the fact that the two single beds were pushed together under the same tent-like linen sheet which served as a mosquito net. After all, we’d both been roughing it for months now and of course, were perfectly secure in our heterosexuality. Possibly because we were focused on this, neither of us noticed that as we were below street level, the outside wall was in fact the lining of the open sewer.
All was well until around 1am when, I turned over and momentarily found myself gazing sleepily towards the gray-white wall of our linen sheet cocoon. It moved. In my sluggish state, my brain refused to acknowledge what I was actually witnessing and because of this, I was allowed to remain in blissful ignorance for a few moments longer. However, my innocence was short-lived because almost immediately, I felt Michael stiffen, then leap bolt upright with a scream. Simultaneously, we both let loose with loud, long and expletive laced discourse, the gist of which was “Oh my word, we appear to be sharing our sleeping space with a number of undomesticated rodents. I’m not sure I’m altogether happy about that.”
For it was true. As our brains rapidly shifted from “Park” to “Overdrive” we realized that we weren’t simply talking about one or two rats here, but an entire herd of them roaming freely around the room. Encased as we were, in linen, we couldn’t actually see them, but the numerous bulges moving along the tent walls were all too obvious clues as to the activity just a few inches away. Not only that, but we could hear many more of the little monsters scurrying around on the floor. I’m not the world’s biggest guy and Michael’s no heavyweight either but it was astonishing just what a small area of space the two of us were currently occupying in the center of that bed. As the rats continued their nocturnal exploration of our bed, our room and our souls, we clung to one another, all the while gibbering in foul-mouthed terror.
“What the hell are we going to do?” yelled Michael at the top of his lungs. “How about we put the light on?” I screamed back, “Maybe they’ll run away.” After a few moments reflection we determined that while this was a stellar idea, it presented the thorny problem of how to reach the switch, located impossibly far away across a rat strewn floor. Grisly though it was, I had no intention of leaving the sanctuary of our cocoon and neither apparently had Michael. We discussed strategy for a while, (“you f*****g do it!” “no, YOU f*****g do it!”), before I scored the winning goal by pointing out that Michael was nearest the light switch.
I reasoned that if I held his left arm, he could lean out of the bed and albeit at full stretch, reach the elusive switch. It was hard to argue with the logic, particularly as we couldn’t think of a better idea so after encouraging me to take my responsibilities seriously, namely by promising retribution involving rudimentary surgery on my private parts, Michael screwed his eyes tight shut, clasped my hand in his, stretched out his other arm, and flicked the switch.
The hideous noise generated by an army of rats scurrying for cover was almost enough to make me drop him onto the floor but I manfully kept my side of the bargain and in moments he was back under the linen sheet, shivering in horror and cursing up a storm. It was a long time before the sun gradually illuminated our sanctuary, but the light stayed on, our eyes stayed open and we stayed upright. I’m not entirely sure, but I think it was around that time my hair first started going gray.
Michael moved on the following day and I didn’t see him again until a chance meeting several weeks later. I had business in Berastagi however, and needed to stay one more night. I moved out of that awful room of course and into the clean, modern and rat free dormitory where I slept like a baby. Until about 1am, when I was awoken from my slumber by a distant and muffled scream. “OH….MY….GOOOOOODDDDD!”.
Smiling smugly, I turned over and drifting back to sleep, thought,
“I bet I know which room he’s in.”
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
There's no place like home - or is there?
So I went home this weekend. Not the home I’ve been talking about all year, the odd little wooden cabin on Gunsmoke Drive near Bailey. My original home, across the water, land of my ancestors, Great Britain. See me and Braveheart? We go way back. This is the fourth time I’ve been back to Britain since migrating to the Yooessuvay but for the first time, something strange happened. It didn’t feel like home.
On every other visit there’s been the reassuring feeling of returning to the place I knew best, the familiar, the comfortable. This time it felt…foreign. Each previous trip has been made as a Phoenix resident, a place in which as I’ve stated before, I was never really happy living. Now for the first time, I was returning to Britain as a Coloradan, a state in which I am hopelessly, helplessly and totally, in love. Although it might sound like I’m stating the obvious, it came as something of a surprise to me. After 13 years, Britain is no longer home, Bailey is.
The phenomenon first evidenced itself when my folks picked us up at the airport and helped us carry our bags out to the parking lot. Have British cars always been that small? There’s nothing wrong with small cars of course, I happen to think those of us in America are going to have to adapt to more fuel economical vehicles sooner or later, but it did feel decidedly odd. Then, once we were all aboard, my Dad did a very strange thing. He set of driving on the left side of the road. Now I was in my late twenties when I left Britain, learned to drive there and everything and have piloted a rental car there as a visitor without a problem so it was strange that I should find this so disconcerting. However, as we approached our first roundabout (which US readers may know as a “traffic circle”) it was all I could do to avoid visibly flinching as dozens of little cars came hurtling at us from all directions.
It’s pretty obvious that the architecture would look different from that in the US of course. Here we tend to tear down old buildings to make way for new ones and anything more than fifty years old is positively historic. I grew up in a house built before the second world war and that was by no means old. Also, architectural styles tend to vary from one region to another, even within countries (although it seems every designer of modern houses works from the exact same textbook, but let’s save that rant for another day) so naturally, the buildings wouldn’t look the same as those in Bailey, Colorado. What was mystifying to me however, was just how odd they appeared to me. I grew up with this after all. My folks live on the west coast of Scotland where the older houses are built from red sandstone, the newer in brick covered in a weatherproof surface called pebbledash. This is where the builders coat the walls with mortar and throw tiny pieces of gravel against it. Dear Wife hates the look and has stated that should we ever move to Britain, we’ll need to chip it all off and coat the house with something else. Not too sure what she has in mind, the wood siding we have on our Bailey home wouldn’t last through a British summer, much less a winter.
And then of course, there’s the funny money. I’ve yet to read an American journalist’s account of a visit to Britain that doesn’t contain some mention of the funny money. Britain’s money is of course, no funnier than that of any other country. It’s just that unlike America, where every bill looks exactly the same and you have to examine each in turn to see how much it’s worth, in other countries, each denomination is a different size and a different color. Straightforward enough, so why did it all seem so complicated to me? Well, in my defense I have to point out that also unlike America, Britain tends to change the appearance of its currency every few years; partly to keep the counterfeiters on their toes, partly to provide work for currency designers and partly to give people something else to grumble about.
So on this trip I was having to adapt to a range of notes and coins completely unfamiliar to me. A big problem here of course, is that other than a slight American twang, which I’m told has crept into my speech over the years, when I’m in Britain, I don’t sound like a foreigner. So rather than a tourist fumbling with the unfamiliar currency, a creature to whom all but the most coldhearted will allow some leeway, here we had a middle aged guy, looking and sounding like a local, but totally befuddled by the concept of money. I’m sure some of them thought I was simply being allowed a special day out. “It’s marvelous how they teach them to fend for themselves these days, isn’t it?” There’s no place like The Home, right enough.
The food was different, the television was different, and the accents, boy did they sound strange to my ears. Why was this suddenly so noticeable this time, when it’s only three years since my last visit? I really don’t know. It’s apparent I’m finally assimilating into the life of an American but have things really changed that much during my absence? Maybe during all those unhappy years in Phoenix, there was always some part of me that felt this was only temporary and one day I would return to Britain. Now I’m a Coloradan, I’ve been able to let that part of me go.
Earlier in the year I wrote about a visit we paid to some friends who live in a loft in downtown Denver. I talked in glowing terms about the beauty of their home and the conveniences right on their doorstep. I went on to say how we crawled our way through a blizzard to make it back to our little house up in the mountains, and how despite the shabby furnishings, gloomy lighting and ever present aroma of dog pee, this was without a doubt our home. As we walked in the door, after almost 24 hours of traveling, tired, cranky and not a little spacey, there was no doubt in my mind.
I’ll be a Scot until the day I die, but Gunsmoke Drive, Bailey, Colorado; that’s now where I call home.
On every other visit there’s been the reassuring feeling of returning to the place I knew best, the familiar, the comfortable. This time it felt…foreign. Each previous trip has been made as a Phoenix resident, a place in which as I’ve stated before, I was never really happy living. Now for the first time, I was returning to Britain as a Coloradan, a state in which I am hopelessly, helplessly and totally, in love. Although it might sound like I’m stating the obvious, it came as something of a surprise to me. After 13 years, Britain is no longer home, Bailey is.
The phenomenon first evidenced itself when my folks picked us up at the airport and helped us carry our bags out to the parking lot. Have British cars always been that small? There’s nothing wrong with small cars of course, I happen to think those of us in America are going to have to adapt to more fuel economical vehicles sooner or later, but it did feel decidedly odd. Then, once we were all aboard, my Dad did a very strange thing. He set of driving on the left side of the road. Now I was in my late twenties when I left Britain, learned to drive there and everything and have piloted a rental car there as a visitor without a problem so it was strange that I should find this so disconcerting. However, as we approached our first roundabout (which US readers may know as a “traffic circle”) it was all I could do to avoid visibly flinching as dozens of little cars came hurtling at us from all directions.
It’s pretty obvious that the architecture would look different from that in the US of course. Here we tend to tear down old buildings to make way for new ones and anything more than fifty years old is positively historic. I grew up in a house built before the second world war and that was by no means old. Also, architectural styles tend to vary from one region to another, even within countries (although it seems every designer of modern houses works from the exact same textbook, but let’s save that rant for another day) so naturally, the buildings wouldn’t look the same as those in Bailey, Colorado. What was mystifying to me however, was just how odd they appeared to me. I grew up with this after all. My folks live on the west coast of Scotland where the older houses are built from red sandstone, the newer in brick covered in a weatherproof surface called pebbledash. This is where the builders coat the walls with mortar and throw tiny pieces of gravel against it. Dear Wife hates the look and has stated that should we ever move to Britain, we’ll need to chip it all off and coat the house with something else. Not too sure what she has in mind, the wood siding we have on our Bailey home wouldn’t last through a British summer, much less a winter.
And then of course, there’s the funny money. I’ve yet to read an American journalist’s account of a visit to Britain that doesn’t contain some mention of the funny money. Britain’s money is of course, no funnier than that of any other country. It’s just that unlike America, where every bill looks exactly the same and you have to examine each in turn to see how much it’s worth, in other countries, each denomination is a different size and a different color. Straightforward enough, so why did it all seem so complicated to me? Well, in my defense I have to point out that also unlike America, Britain tends to change the appearance of its currency every few years; partly to keep the counterfeiters on their toes, partly to provide work for currency designers and partly to give people something else to grumble about.
So on this trip I was having to adapt to a range of notes and coins completely unfamiliar to me. A big problem here of course, is that other than a slight American twang, which I’m told has crept into my speech over the years, when I’m in Britain, I don’t sound like a foreigner. So rather than a tourist fumbling with the unfamiliar currency, a creature to whom all but the most coldhearted will allow some leeway, here we had a middle aged guy, looking and sounding like a local, but totally befuddled by the concept of money. I’m sure some of them thought I was simply being allowed a special day out. “It’s marvelous how they teach them to fend for themselves these days, isn’t it?” There’s no place like The Home, right enough.
The food was different, the television was different, and the accents, boy did they sound strange to my ears. Why was this suddenly so noticeable this time, when it’s only three years since my last visit? I really don’t know. It’s apparent I’m finally assimilating into the life of an American but have things really changed that much during my absence? Maybe during all those unhappy years in Phoenix, there was always some part of me that felt this was only temporary and one day I would return to Britain. Now I’m a Coloradan, I’ve been able to let that part of me go.
Earlier in the year I wrote about a visit we paid to some friends who live in a loft in downtown Denver. I talked in glowing terms about the beauty of their home and the conveniences right on their doorstep. I went on to say how we crawled our way through a blizzard to make it back to our little house up in the mountains, and how despite the shabby furnishings, gloomy lighting and ever present aroma of dog pee, this was without a doubt our home. As we walked in the door, after almost 24 hours of traveling, tired, cranky and not a little spacey, there was no doubt in my mind.
I’ll be a Scot until the day I die, but Gunsmoke Drive, Bailey, Colorado; that’s now where I call home.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Garden of the Gods
I just spent a couple of days working down near Colorado Springs. I wasn’t really working, I was attending a conference but I did speak for 90 minutes on one of the days and I got paid for the whole thing, so it counts as working. Kick off was 7:45am on the first day, which meant I’d to rise at an even more ungodly hour than normal ready for the two-hour drive down there. The good news was that the journey itself, down Highway 126 through Pine is one of the prettiest around and there are worse ways to spend an early summer morning. Colorado Springs is one of the few places in this state which holds little appeal for me. Fortunately, conference wasn’t in the town itself, but in a nearby park called The Garden of the Gods.
The park is a magical place of towering spires and balanced boulders, with sheer cliff walls soaring upwards towards the Colorado sky. These massive rocks of white and red are remnants of sandstone sediment laid down in ages past and long covered by an inland sea. Mountain uplifts within the past 75 million years not only drained the water by also twisted, turned and tilted the rock layers into upright positions. The process of erosion then stripped away the soft sedimentary layers, sculpting each rock into its distinctive form.
The mild climate, enchanting wildflowers, abundant game and heavenly scenery led early Indians to revere the place as home to the Good Spirit, however the area was generally overlooked by the explorers and mountain men who first passed through the Pikes Peak region. In fact, Pike’s Peak is named after one Zebulon Pike, who missed the area altogether. The major attractions of the early 1800s were the “highest peak” and the “boiling fountains” where the town of Manitou sits today. Despite this early indifference, the red rocks continued to beckon, the soaring fingers being visible to travelers more than thirty miles away. The adventurer Rufus B. Sage wrote a best selling book entitled “Rocky Mountain Life” which extolled the virtues of the area and in time, the wonders of the Pikes Peak region became known nationwide.
Another Rufus played an important part in the Park’s history, one Rufus Cable who with his friend, Melancthon Beach, rode down from Denver City in 1859 to lay out a new town at the foot of Pikes Peak. They named their new town Colorado City after the nearby red rocks (Colorado stems from “rojo”, the Spanish for red). The pair visited the rocks soon after their arrival and Beach immediately suggested that the place would one day serve as a great spot for a beer garden. “Why, it is a fit place for the Gods to assemble”, replied Cable, “and we will call it the Garden of the Gods”. It didn’t seem to appear to either of them that the Gods may have enjoyed the occasional cold one because the beer garden never transpired but the place has indeed been known as the Garden of the Gods ever since.
In the late 1870s there was however, a large beer saloon located under the rock formation fondly known as the Kissing Camels, one of a number of money making enterprises hoping to exploit the natural beauty of the site. These included a stairway climbing to the top of one of the spires, Gateway Rock built by a speculator named Billy Bryan who owned a nearby resort where he celebrated the 4th of July with fireworks and moonlight dances. In 1895 a group of entrepreneurs announced their plans to build a streetcar line from Colorado City to the Garden. At the terminus they planned a casino, a restaurant and a magnificent glass structure called the glass palace which they intended to house plant specimens from around the world. Perhaps not surprisingly in lieu of the $600,000 estimated construction costs, the project never got off the ground. One scheme which sadly, did take place was the establishment of a gypsum quarry mine in the park. The resulting trench like scar is still visible today.
Cable and Beach were the first to lay claim to the land surrounding the Garden of the Gods although numerous land claims were established over the next few years. In 1879, at the advice of his friend General William Palmer, the founder of Colorado Springs, the park was acquired by one Charles Perkins, who intended to build a summer home there. His occupation as president of the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad for the most part, kept him away from Colorado and management of the park was left to a gentleman named Henry Wills, who for twenty-five years paid the taxes, oversaw the removal of trash and debris, and kept the giant rocks open and free to all visitors.
Perkins died in 1907 but shortly before is reported to have scribbled a note on an old envelope, outlining his desire to have the Garden of the Gods given over to the city of Colorado Springs. His family honored this wish and in 1909, the city voted to accept the gift. The reason this required a vote is that Perkins established certain restrictions. Namely that the property be forever known as the Garden of the Gods; that no buildings be erected there, except those necessary to properly maintain the area as a public park,; that no intoxicating liquors be sold (there goes the last hopes for a beer garden!) and that it be forever free to the public. Violation of these restrictions would result in the property being returned to Charles Perkin’s heirs and as of today, they are still being honored.
My conference was being held at the Garden of the Gods club, a private resort overlooking the park. My room opened out onto lush green lawns populated by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of rabbits, that didn’t seem to be the slightest bit perturbed by my presence, even when I crept up close with my camera. The room was the kind which was too luxurious to want to waste time asleep and as it happens, I didn’t do too much of that. We were home late from dinner and I was up early the next day with my camera to take advantage of the early morning light playing over the rocks.
You can certainly see why the Gods would want this place as a garden, beer or no. In this setting, one couldn’t help but feel close to them.
The park is a magical place of towering spires and balanced boulders, with sheer cliff walls soaring upwards towards the Colorado sky. These massive rocks of white and red are remnants of sandstone sediment laid down in ages past and long covered by an inland sea. Mountain uplifts within the past 75 million years not only drained the water by also twisted, turned and tilted the rock layers into upright positions. The process of erosion then stripped away the soft sedimentary layers, sculpting each rock into its distinctive form.
The mild climate, enchanting wildflowers, abundant game and heavenly scenery led early Indians to revere the place as home to the Good Spirit, however the area was generally overlooked by the explorers and mountain men who first passed through the Pikes Peak region. In fact, Pike’s Peak is named after one Zebulon Pike, who missed the area altogether. The major attractions of the early 1800s were the “highest peak” and the “boiling fountains” where the town of Manitou sits today. Despite this early indifference, the red rocks continued to beckon, the soaring fingers being visible to travelers more than thirty miles away. The adventurer Rufus B. Sage wrote a best selling book entitled “Rocky Mountain Life” which extolled the virtues of the area and in time, the wonders of the Pikes Peak region became known nationwide.
Another Rufus played an important part in the Park’s history, one Rufus Cable who with his friend, Melancthon Beach, rode down from Denver City in 1859 to lay out a new town at the foot of Pikes Peak. They named their new town Colorado City after the nearby red rocks (Colorado stems from “rojo”, the Spanish for red). The pair visited the rocks soon after their arrival and Beach immediately suggested that the place would one day serve as a great spot for a beer garden. “Why, it is a fit place for the Gods to assemble”, replied Cable, “and we will call it the Garden of the Gods”. It didn’t seem to appear to either of them that the Gods may have enjoyed the occasional cold one because the beer garden never transpired but the place has indeed been known as the Garden of the Gods ever since.
In the late 1870s there was however, a large beer saloon located under the rock formation fondly known as the Kissing Camels, one of a number of money making enterprises hoping to exploit the natural beauty of the site. These included a stairway climbing to the top of one of the spires, Gateway Rock built by a speculator named Billy Bryan who owned a nearby resort where he celebrated the 4th of July with fireworks and moonlight dances. In 1895 a group of entrepreneurs announced their plans to build a streetcar line from Colorado City to the Garden. At the terminus they planned a casino, a restaurant and a magnificent glass structure called the glass palace which they intended to house plant specimens from around the world. Perhaps not surprisingly in lieu of the $600,000 estimated construction costs, the project never got off the ground. One scheme which sadly, did take place was the establishment of a gypsum quarry mine in the park. The resulting trench like scar is still visible today.
Cable and Beach were the first to lay claim to the land surrounding the Garden of the Gods although numerous land claims were established over the next few years. In 1879, at the advice of his friend General William Palmer, the founder of Colorado Springs, the park was acquired by one Charles Perkins, who intended to build a summer home there. His occupation as president of the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad for the most part, kept him away from Colorado and management of the park was left to a gentleman named Henry Wills, who for twenty-five years paid the taxes, oversaw the removal of trash and debris, and kept the giant rocks open and free to all visitors.
Perkins died in 1907 but shortly before is reported to have scribbled a note on an old envelope, outlining his desire to have the Garden of the Gods given over to the city of Colorado Springs. His family honored this wish and in 1909, the city voted to accept the gift. The reason this required a vote is that Perkins established certain restrictions. Namely that the property be forever known as the Garden of the Gods; that no buildings be erected there, except those necessary to properly maintain the area as a public park,; that no intoxicating liquors be sold (there goes the last hopes for a beer garden!) and that it be forever free to the public. Violation of these restrictions would result in the property being returned to Charles Perkin’s heirs and as of today, they are still being honored.
My conference was being held at the Garden of the Gods club, a private resort overlooking the park. My room opened out onto lush green lawns populated by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of rabbits, that didn’t seem to be the slightest bit perturbed by my presence, even when I crept up close with my camera. The room was the kind which was too luxurious to want to waste time asleep and as it happens, I didn’t do too much of that. We were home late from dinner and I was up early the next day with my camera to take advantage of the early morning light playing over the rocks.
You can certainly see why the Gods would want this place as a garden, beer or no. In this setting, one couldn’t help but feel close to them.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Whitewater
We had another band performance this weekend. This time we were down in Salida, about 100 miles south down 285. The town of Salida is a beautiful little artists’ community. With the Rockies as a backdrop, mineral hot springs in abundance and the Arkansas River providing a natural playground, it’s been a popular resort destination for many decades. The event was the 51st annual FIBArk Whitewater festival, and we were to be part of the big parade.
The Arkansas River Valley is yet another part of this beautiful state I have still to visit. I’d heard how attractive it was and Dear Wife has been down a couple of times visiting friends, but this was to be my first trip. I wasn’t entirely sure how long to allow for the journey as I’d heard the cops down that way were even more aggressive towards speeders than our own beloved tax collectors in Park County. Not only that, the drive up from town the previous night had been quite an adventure due to the fog which made driving something of an exercise in memory and telepathy. The rain, which had been more or less constant in the latter part of the week, was forecast to continue all weekend and sure enough, the storm clouds were hovering ominously as we set off.
As it happened, we needn’t have worried. The clouds were soon left behind and other than a handful of artificial looking cotton wool jobs, didn’t make an appearance until much later in the day. In fact, we drove with the windows down the entire way and reveled in the cool air blowing away the cobwebs. And what a spectacular drive it was too. From the ruler straight plains of South Park (yes, it’s the famous South Park, but for the record, the obscenity ridden TV Show was apparently based on the town of Conifer, much closer to Denver) to the meandering trail through acres of rolling farmland, each vista was spectacular.
Before settling on Denver, we spent several years exploring the American West, looking for a place to call home. We didn’t have a clear idea what we were looking for other than that we were tired of the desert with its palate of pale brown and washed out green. Visiting Colorado in midsummer, we were struck by the greenness of it all and this was one of the many factors which caused us to fall in love with the place. Even though I’ve been living here for over two years now, this drive reminded me once again what beauty there is in rural farmland, green pastures and groves of lush looking trees. Working as I do, in downtown Denver it’s not really practical for me to live any further out than I do. That said there were half a dozen places I would have been happy to rest my weary bones before we’d even covered half the distance.
The FIBArk Festival, as I’m sure you’re itching to know, stands for “First In Boating on the Arkansas”. (No, I would never have figured it out either). It’s a series of boat races down a 56 mile stretch of the river from Salida to Canon City through the famous Royal Gorge. The event began with a canoe race in 1949; a bet between two friends. Word of the challenge spread from mouth to mouth, generating such interest that a parade and a festival were organized. 23 entrants in all chose to take part in the contest including two Swiss boys who had heard of the race while visiting the country. Their boats were small folding affairs yet that first year; they were the only ones to reach the finish line. Nowadays, boaters come from all over the world to run the Arkansas during FIBArk and this year saw entries from France, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, Scotland and Israel among others.
Fortunately, we weren’t being asked to take part in anything quite so adventurous. All we had to do was march down Main Street while playing a handful of tunes even I know comparatively well. That said, with fifteen minutes to show time, my heart was beating as fast as any of the river runners because at that time, I was the only drummer in attendance. I have quite a bit more experience than the last time I was in this situation, when I marked my third ever public appearance with a solo performance in one of the local bars except this time, I would be expected not only to set the tempo for the entire band, but to remember how to play the tunes while marching at the same time. I’m told a green complexion doesn’t suit me.
To my immense relief, one of the tenors and two other snare drummers appeared with minutes to spare. Pam, the tenor drummer has experience with the bass, and as that was decreed to be more important for a parade, soon found herself on the receiving end of a field promotion and underneath a very large, very heavy drum. It was a warm day for her to be lugging that thing around but that wasn’t my problem. The pressure was off and I could begin to enjoy myself.
Most people seem to enjoy pipe bands and the crowd here was most appreciative, bursting into rapturous applause each time we halted. This was exceptionally good for the ego, even though I was aware they simply didn’t realize how badly I was playing. As it happened, we learned later that the friends, whom Dear Wife has visited, were following us down the street, stopping when we did and encouraging the other spectators by clapping and cheering as loud as they could.
The whole thing was such fun I was quite disappointed when we reached the end of the route only about twenty minutes after we’d started. We’d been advised the parade would take between one to one and a half hours to complete but I suspect this referred to the time between the first and the last entrants as I doubt we marched more than about half a mile. In fact, the whole thing was over so early, the bars weren’t even open by the time we were done.
It was a long way to go for such a short performance but even so, I’ve no complaints. After a week cooped up in the office, I can think of worse ways to pass a Saturday morning that strolling down Salida Main Street while banging a drum.
The Arkansas River Valley is yet another part of this beautiful state I have still to visit. I’d heard how attractive it was and Dear Wife has been down a couple of times visiting friends, but this was to be my first trip. I wasn’t entirely sure how long to allow for the journey as I’d heard the cops down that way were even more aggressive towards speeders than our own beloved tax collectors in Park County. Not only that, the drive up from town the previous night had been quite an adventure due to the fog which made driving something of an exercise in memory and telepathy. The rain, which had been more or less constant in the latter part of the week, was forecast to continue all weekend and sure enough, the storm clouds were hovering ominously as we set off.
As it happened, we needn’t have worried. The clouds were soon left behind and other than a handful of artificial looking cotton wool jobs, didn’t make an appearance until much later in the day. In fact, we drove with the windows down the entire way and reveled in the cool air blowing away the cobwebs. And what a spectacular drive it was too. From the ruler straight plains of South Park (yes, it’s the famous South Park, but for the record, the obscenity ridden TV Show was apparently based on the town of Conifer, much closer to Denver) to the meandering trail through acres of rolling farmland, each vista was spectacular.
Before settling on Denver, we spent several years exploring the American West, looking for a place to call home. We didn’t have a clear idea what we were looking for other than that we were tired of the desert with its palate of pale brown and washed out green. Visiting Colorado in midsummer, we were struck by the greenness of it all and this was one of the many factors which caused us to fall in love with the place. Even though I’ve been living here for over two years now, this drive reminded me once again what beauty there is in rural farmland, green pastures and groves of lush looking trees. Working as I do, in downtown Denver it’s not really practical for me to live any further out than I do. That said there were half a dozen places I would have been happy to rest my weary bones before we’d even covered half the distance.
The FIBArk Festival, as I’m sure you’re itching to know, stands for “First In Boating on the Arkansas”. (No, I would never have figured it out either). It’s a series of boat races down a 56 mile stretch of the river from Salida to Canon City through the famous Royal Gorge. The event began with a canoe race in 1949; a bet between two friends. Word of the challenge spread from mouth to mouth, generating such interest that a parade and a festival were organized. 23 entrants in all chose to take part in the contest including two Swiss boys who had heard of the race while visiting the country. Their boats were small folding affairs yet that first year; they were the only ones to reach the finish line. Nowadays, boaters come from all over the world to run the Arkansas during FIBArk and this year saw entries from France, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Belgium, Scotland and Israel among others.
Fortunately, we weren’t being asked to take part in anything quite so adventurous. All we had to do was march down Main Street while playing a handful of tunes even I know comparatively well. That said, with fifteen minutes to show time, my heart was beating as fast as any of the river runners because at that time, I was the only drummer in attendance. I have quite a bit more experience than the last time I was in this situation, when I marked my third ever public appearance with a solo performance in one of the local bars except this time, I would be expected not only to set the tempo for the entire band, but to remember how to play the tunes while marching at the same time. I’m told a green complexion doesn’t suit me.
To my immense relief, one of the tenors and two other snare drummers appeared with minutes to spare. Pam, the tenor drummer has experience with the bass, and as that was decreed to be more important for a parade, soon found herself on the receiving end of a field promotion and underneath a very large, very heavy drum. It was a warm day for her to be lugging that thing around but that wasn’t my problem. The pressure was off and I could begin to enjoy myself.
Most people seem to enjoy pipe bands and the crowd here was most appreciative, bursting into rapturous applause each time we halted. This was exceptionally good for the ego, even though I was aware they simply didn’t realize how badly I was playing. As it happened, we learned later that the friends, whom Dear Wife has visited, were following us down the street, stopping when we did and encouraging the other spectators by clapping and cheering as loud as they could.
The whole thing was such fun I was quite disappointed when we reached the end of the route only about twenty minutes after we’d started. We’d been advised the parade would take between one to one and a half hours to complete but I suspect this referred to the time between the first and the last entrants as I doubt we marched more than about half a mile. In fact, the whole thing was over so early, the bars weren’t even open by the time we were done.
It was a long way to go for such a short performance but even so, I’ve no complaints. After a week cooped up in the office, I can think of worse ways to pass a Saturday morning that strolling down Salida Main Street while banging a drum.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Rhubarb rhubarb
So we spent last Saturday morning in the rhubarb capital of the world. “Where the heck is that?” I hear you ask. Well, it’s in Pine, Colorado of course; or at least that’s what the townspeople claim. For one weekend a year at least, when this tiny hamlet on the banks of the Platte River gives itself over to a celebration of all things rhubarb.
Although I’ve been intrigued by the concept since I first saw an advert for it whilst house hunting, this is the first year we’ve made it to the Festival Like many other events, it was cancelled during our first year due to the fire danger and last year we had a prior commitment so had to give it a miss. Not this year though; we were up bright and early and down to Pine before the crowds.
This is in fact, the 17th annual Pine Rhubarb Festival, put on by the Pine-Elk Creek Improvement Association (PECIA), an organization that was apparently founded in the 20's and still active in the community. Proceeds from the event go towards community services, including road grading, dumpsters, maintenance of an historic community building, and the local volunteer fire department. It’s world famous – at least in these parts. With rhubarb pie bakeoffs, a duck race and of course a parade, which some years takes several minutes to complete, the festival is as pleasant a way as any of passing a summer’s morning. The highlight for us though, was the all you can eat breakfast provided by the fire department volunteers.
$7 got you a heaping plateful of pancakes, sausages, and potatoes all topped with a generous helping of rhubarb sauce. Dear Wife experienced a bit of a culture shock with that last bit; raised as she was on pancakes with maple syrup. Fortunately, that was available too. And all this was before you got to the desserts, fruit juices and coffee. There was no problem with you going back for seconds, in fact that was positively encouraged but truth be told, I was plenty full after the first round. We met a friend and his family while standing in line so we sat and ate with them, while catching up with the gossip.
Time to explore the vendors next and as Dear Wife was in tow, I firmly expected the bank balance to take a hit. To be fair, she restrained herself quite nicely and other than a rather overpriced T-shirt, didn’t really spend too much. Not that she was short of choice mark you; there were all manner of goodies on sale. From incense, to perfumes, wood carvings and antiques, to the inevitable jewelry, it was all here.
Dear Wife is something of a jewelryholic and despite owning more baubles than Liz Taylor is always on the lookout for more. So it was with some dismay I looked along the rows of jewelers hawking their wares. However, she appears to be devoting her energies into collecting ideas for her own fledgling jewelry making practice and seems to be quite content just looking at the pieces. Having dodged that bullet, I was more than happy to simply follow her around, stare vacantly at the things she showed me and grunt at what I hoped would be the appropriate moments.
Once we’d made our way along the rows of vendors, and back along the other side, we realized what should have been obvious all along. Despite its intriguing concept, the Pine Rhubarb Festival is rather, well, small. We’d eaten the breakfast, we’d checked out each vendor in way more detail than I’m usually prepared to devote to these things and it wasn’t yet 10am. The pie bakeoff wasn’t until 11:30 and the parade wouldn’t be held until after that. I still don’t know when the duck race happened; suffice to say it didn’t happen while we were there.
A friend who lives in nearby Buffalo Creek explained to me later, that the rhubarb festival is one of those things where the idea is better than the actual event itself. Mind you, this is the same friend who’s threatened to put her hair in a beehive, dress herself in rhubarb leaves and go as Rhubarbarella, so take from that what you will. She also told me of the Buffalo Creek tradition whereby it’s considered to be bad form to bake the rhubarb pie using ingredients from your own garden. There’s an unwritten rule, which dictates the rhubarb must be swiped from somebody else’s crop. Buffalo Creek’s even smaller than Pine and it’s reasonable to assume that should your rhubarb stock decline unexpectedly, you’ll know the bandit personally.
Now this was captivating enough in its own way, but it didn’t help us fill the morning. There was an endearingly cheesy jazz band, made up of high school aged kids, setting up on a flat bed trailer so we watched them for a while as they bashed around a number of classic standards, some of which were even recognizable. Eventually they were replaced with a couple singing folk rock type numbers who were actually pretty good. The day was beginning to warm up considerably and as I’d met a couple of friends by this time, including the one of Rhubarbarella fame who disappointingly, was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Dear Wife took a seat to watch them while I wandered off and socialized.
Something else I learned during this conversation is that just prior to the commencement of the parade; the festival organizers appoint a Rhubarb King and Queen. Nothing out of the ordinary in that you might think, until I explain that gender has little to do with the title. The Rhubarb Queen has, on more than one occasion, been male. And you thought Pine was just a sleepy little backwater.
Anyway, having browsed along the vendors’ stalls once more and after checking out the vintage cars lined up for the parade, there was no escaping the fact that we’d done about all there was to do. We learned our lesson and while we’ll definitely be back next year, perhaps we won’t arrive quite so early. It was still a pleasant day out though and as we headed back up the hill we couldn’t help reflecting what a pretty place Pine would be in which to live.
We nearly did buy a house there, but decided it was just a little too close to the road for comfort. It’s worth remembering that if we had, I would have to come up with a different name for my Blog. “The State Route 126 Files” doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Although I’ve been intrigued by the concept since I first saw an advert for it whilst house hunting, this is the first year we’ve made it to the Festival Like many other events, it was cancelled during our first year due to the fire danger and last year we had a prior commitment so had to give it a miss. Not this year though; we were up bright and early and down to Pine before the crowds.
This is in fact, the 17th annual Pine Rhubarb Festival, put on by the Pine-Elk Creek Improvement Association (PECIA), an organization that was apparently founded in the 20's and still active in the community. Proceeds from the event go towards community services, including road grading, dumpsters, maintenance of an historic community building, and the local volunteer fire department. It’s world famous – at least in these parts. With rhubarb pie bakeoffs, a duck race and of course a parade, which some years takes several minutes to complete, the festival is as pleasant a way as any of passing a summer’s morning. The highlight for us though, was the all you can eat breakfast provided by the fire department volunteers.
$7 got you a heaping plateful of pancakes, sausages, and potatoes all topped with a generous helping of rhubarb sauce. Dear Wife experienced a bit of a culture shock with that last bit; raised as she was on pancakes with maple syrup. Fortunately, that was available too. And all this was before you got to the desserts, fruit juices and coffee. There was no problem with you going back for seconds, in fact that was positively encouraged but truth be told, I was plenty full after the first round. We met a friend and his family while standing in line so we sat and ate with them, while catching up with the gossip.
Time to explore the vendors next and as Dear Wife was in tow, I firmly expected the bank balance to take a hit. To be fair, she restrained herself quite nicely and other than a rather overpriced T-shirt, didn’t really spend too much. Not that she was short of choice mark you; there were all manner of goodies on sale. From incense, to perfumes, wood carvings and antiques, to the inevitable jewelry, it was all here.
Dear Wife is something of a jewelryholic and despite owning more baubles than Liz Taylor is always on the lookout for more. So it was with some dismay I looked along the rows of jewelers hawking their wares. However, she appears to be devoting her energies into collecting ideas for her own fledgling jewelry making practice and seems to be quite content just looking at the pieces. Having dodged that bullet, I was more than happy to simply follow her around, stare vacantly at the things she showed me and grunt at what I hoped would be the appropriate moments.
Once we’d made our way along the rows of vendors, and back along the other side, we realized what should have been obvious all along. Despite its intriguing concept, the Pine Rhubarb Festival is rather, well, small. We’d eaten the breakfast, we’d checked out each vendor in way more detail than I’m usually prepared to devote to these things and it wasn’t yet 10am. The pie bakeoff wasn’t until 11:30 and the parade wouldn’t be held until after that. I still don’t know when the duck race happened; suffice to say it didn’t happen while we were there.
A friend who lives in nearby Buffalo Creek explained to me later, that the rhubarb festival is one of those things where the idea is better than the actual event itself. Mind you, this is the same friend who’s threatened to put her hair in a beehive, dress herself in rhubarb leaves and go as Rhubarbarella, so take from that what you will. She also told me of the Buffalo Creek tradition whereby it’s considered to be bad form to bake the rhubarb pie using ingredients from your own garden. There’s an unwritten rule, which dictates the rhubarb must be swiped from somebody else’s crop. Buffalo Creek’s even smaller than Pine and it’s reasonable to assume that should your rhubarb stock decline unexpectedly, you’ll know the bandit personally.
Now this was captivating enough in its own way, but it didn’t help us fill the morning. There was an endearingly cheesy jazz band, made up of high school aged kids, setting up on a flat bed trailer so we watched them for a while as they bashed around a number of classic standards, some of which were even recognizable. Eventually they were replaced with a couple singing folk rock type numbers who were actually pretty good. The day was beginning to warm up considerably and as I’d met a couple of friends by this time, including the one of Rhubarbarella fame who disappointingly, was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Dear Wife took a seat to watch them while I wandered off and socialized.
Something else I learned during this conversation is that just prior to the commencement of the parade; the festival organizers appoint a Rhubarb King and Queen. Nothing out of the ordinary in that you might think, until I explain that gender has little to do with the title. The Rhubarb Queen has, on more than one occasion, been male. And you thought Pine was just a sleepy little backwater.
Anyway, having browsed along the vendors’ stalls once more and after checking out the vintage cars lined up for the parade, there was no escaping the fact that we’d done about all there was to do. We learned our lesson and while we’ll definitely be back next year, perhaps we won’t arrive quite so early. It was still a pleasant day out though and as we headed back up the hill we couldn’t help reflecting what a pretty place Pine would be in which to live.
We nearly did buy a house there, but decided it was just a little too close to the road for comfort. It’s worth remembering that if we had, I would have to come up with a different name for my Blog. “The State Route 126 Files” doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Pow Wow
When we first moved up to Bailey, Colorado after 9 years in the living death that is Phoenix, Arizona; I made the decision that I would throw myself wholeheartedly into small town life. I was going to follow the high school sports teams, attend local theater, help with volunteer organizations, you name it. However, after two years as a resident, I'm ashamed to admit that my contribution to the local social scene has been virtually non-existent. Oh, I've sunk a few beers in the local hostelries, don't get me wrong, but I've attended very few of the local events.
To be fair, this isn't entirely my fault. The fire danger was so extreme during our first summer that many events were cancelled and by the second year, I was so immersed in my work that there was very little time or energy remaining for fun stuff. But this summer's going to be different, you hear? There's a lot going on even in a small community such as this and I intend to do my bit to support it. To that end, this afternoon I went to my very first Pow Wow.
There are several versions of the story as to how "pow wows" began what the term actually means. Some say it refers to a healer or a priest although over time it came to mean a ceremony or event for religious or healing ceremonies. With the help of Hollywood, the name "pow wow" has come to mean a council or a meeting. There is evidence pow wows were held in the spring as a celebration of the new stage in the cycle of life. Not only were they opportunities for people to get together, sing, dance, make new friends and meet old ones; they were also used for naming, honoring and memorial ceremonies; events of deep significance to many Native Americans.
This particular pow wow was being hosted by one of our local churches; Deer Creek United Methodist Church in Pine and I'm ashamed to admit, this almost put me off going. My own religious beliefs tend towards the pagan and while I grew up in a semi-Christian environment, I'm afraid the behavior of many so-called Christians has somewhat soured me on that particular faith. I wasn't sure why a Methodist church would be holding a pow wow and I rather expected to find a bunch of white people trying to imitate the native traditions. Sort of like a boy scout camp for grown-ups. However like I said, I want to support the local events, so along I went.
And I was most pleasantly surprised. This was indeed a legit pow wow; part of a circuit which sees dancers and drummers traveling around the country for most of the summer entertaining crowds and competing for small cash prizes. There were two or three dozen dancers ranging from toddlers, barely old enough to stand on their own, to gap toothed old men, also barely able to stand on their own. I saw people from the Apache, Lakota, Chippewa, Pawnee, Sioux and Dakota Nations although I'm sure there were more.
Each was wearing traditional regalia, not "costumes" as we were advised by the emcee. Some, like the Apache were dressed in comparatively simple outfits, white jackets and pants with only a few decorations; others were wearing more elaborate regalia with fine beadwork and detailing, which must have taken many hours to produce. Apparently a full set of regalia can take years to complete. The Chippewa dancers were dressed in wildly extravagant concoctions of ribbons, bells and feathers. As the two of them were extremely enthusiastic dancers the whole effect was one of swirling color and light. Many dancers wore feathers and leather which was obviously very old and no doubt fragile so not surprisingly, it’s an extreme breach of etiquette to touch anyone's dance regalia without permission.
On the subject of etiquette, as the afternoon wore on I learned I committed a couple of faux pas myself. To begin with, you're supposed to bring along your own seating; lawn chairs and whatnot but as usual I hadn’t though of it. So once the dancing started, I simply followed the lead of several others and plopped myself down on one of the straw bales conveniently located around the circle. It was only later I learned these were actually part of the circle itself and weren't supposed to be used as butt rests by lazy people like me.
Secondly, entranced as I was by colors sparkling in the summer sun, I spent a large part of the afternoon with my camera pressed to my face, trying to capture the theater in front of me. Part way through, the emcee took a moment to remind us that many native people are uncomfortable having their photographs taken and it's simple common courtesy to ask first. Of course, as they were several dozen people in the circle, I'm not sure how practical that would be, unless I was looking for individual portraits. The camera went back to the car.
Pow wows follow a structured program, beginning with a Ground Blessing, to consecrate the arena, then Gourd Dancing throughout the morning. The Grand Entry, the official start to the pow wow, was in the early afternoon and fortunately, I arrived in time to see this. We spectators were asked to rise as the Eagle staffs and flags representing the visiting tribes were brought in. The drums began a grand entry song, while the dancers entered the arena, led by a color guard of veterans. As the emcee reminded us, Memorial Day was last weekend and one of the dancers had just this week returned from Iraq, an honored warrior. The men, women, teenage boys, then girls and finally the tiny tots, children aged six and under until the arena was filled with dancers, each performing in their own unique style.
At one point, someone was heard to complain that the arena was too dusty and as if in answer, the black clouds rolled in and Colorado received a much needed soaking. It didn't stop the dancers although the vendors all had to scurry to protect their wares. Although the showers continued all afternoon, they never lasted more than a few minutes at a time and the sun was always along shortly after, to dry everyone out and make the colors sparkle.
So, not only my first local event, my first pow wow. But it won't be my last.
"Mitakuey Oyasin" - "We are all related"
To be fair, this isn't entirely my fault. The fire danger was so extreme during our first summer that many events were cancelled and by the second year, I was so immersed in my work that there was very little time or energy remaining for fun stuff. But this summer's going to be different, you hear? There's a lot going on even in a small community such as this and I intend to do my bit to support it. To that end, this afternoon I went to my very first Pow Wow.
There are several versions of the story as to how "pow wows" began what the term actually means. Some say it refers to a healer or a priest although over time it came to mean a ceremony or event for religious or healing ceremonies. With the help of Hollywood, the name "pow wow" has come to mean a council or a meeting. There is evidence pow wows were held in the spring as a celebration of the new stage in the cycle of life. Not only were they opportunities for people to get together, sing, dance, make new friends and meet old ones; they were also used for naming, honoring and memorial ceremonies; events of deep significance to many Native Americans.
This particular pow wow was being hosted by one of our local churches; Deer Creek United Methodist Church in Pine and I'm ashamed to admit, this almost put me off going. My own religious beliefs tend towards the pagan and while I grew up in a semi-Christian environment, I'm afraid the behavior of many so-called Christians has somewhat soured me on that particular faith. I wasn't sure why a Methodist church would be holding a pow wow and I rather expected to find a bunch of white people trying to imitate the native traditions. Sort of like a boy scout camp for grown-ups. However like I said, I want to support the local events, so along I went.
And I was most pleasantly surprised. This was indeed a legit pow wow; part of a circuit which sees dancers and drummers traveling around the country for most of the summer entertaining crowds and competing for small cash prizes. There were two or three dozen dancers ranging from toddlers, barely old enough to stand on their own, to gap toothed old men, also barely able to stand on their own. I saw people from the Apache, Lakota, Chippewa, Pawnee, Sioux and Dakota Nations although I'm sure there were more.
Each was wearing traditional regalia, not "costumes" as we were advised by the emcee. Some, like the Apache were dressed in comparatively simple outfits, white jackets and pants with only a few decorations; others were wearing more elaborate regalia with fine beadwork and detailing, which must have taken many hours to produce. Apparently a full set of regalia can take years to complete. The Chippewa dancers were dressed in wildly extravagant concoctions of ribbons, bells and feathers. As the two of them were extremely enthusiastic dancers the whole effect was one of swirling color and light. Many dancers wore feathers and leather which was obviously very old and no doubt fragile so not surprisingly, it’s an extreme breach of etiquette to touch anyone's dance regalia without permission.
On the subject of etiquette, as the afternoon wore on I learned I committed a couple of faux pas myself. To begin with, you're supposed to bring along your own seating; lawn chairs and whatnot but as usual I hadn’t though of it. So once the dancing started, I simply followed the lead of several others and plopped myself down on one of the straw bales conveniently located around the circle. It was only later I learned these were actually part of the circle itself and weren't supposed to be used as butt rests by lazy people like me.
Secondly, entranced as I was by colors sparkling in the summer sun, I spent a large part of the afternoon with my camera pressed to my face, trying to capture the theater in front of me. Part way through, the emcee took a moment to remind us that many native people are uncomfortable having their photographs taken and it's simple common courtesy to ask first. Of course, as they were several dozen people in the circle, I'm not sure how practical that would be, unless I was looking for individual portraits. The camera went back to the car.
Pow wows follow a structured program, beginning with a Ground Blessing, to consecrate the arena, then Gourd Dancing throughout the morning. The Grand Entry, the official start to the pow wow, was in the early afternoon and fortunately, I arrived in time to see this. We spectators were asked to rise as the Eagle staffs and flags representing the visiting tribes were brought in. The drums began a grand entry song, while the dancers entered the arena, led by a color guard of veterans. As the emcee reminded us, Memorial Day was last weekend and one of the dancers had just this week returned from Iraq, an honored warrior. The men, women, teenage boys, then girls and finally the tiny tots, children aged six and under until the arena was filled with dancers, each performing in their own unique style.
At one point, someone was heard to complain that the arena was too dusty and as if in answer, the black clouds rolled in and Colorado received a much needed soaking. It didn't stop the dancers although the vendors all had to scurry to protect their wares. Although the showers continued all afternoon, they never lasted more than a few minutes at a time and the sun was always along shortly after, to dry everyone out and make the colors sparkle.
So, not only my first local event, my first pow wow. But it won't be my last.
"Mitakuey Oyasin" - "We are all related"
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
The Long Arm of the Law
We just enjoyed a holiday weekend, which of course meant the roads were packed with cars, trucks and vans, trailers, RVs and boats all headed up to the mountains to enjoy three whole days of play. And of course, they were joined with the inevitable array of law enforcement officers, gleefully seizing the opportunity to write a few hundred tickets – oh I’m sorry, I mean to keep the roads safe.
There are two definite schools of thoughts when it comes to the police presence on our highways. Those who believe they perform an invaluable service by discouraging speeders, drunks and dangerous drivers and others who think this is nothing more than an exercise in tax collection. I’m with the latter.
My dislike of traffic cops began at an early age when, as a comparatively law-abiding citizen, I was harassed to the point of comedy by the local fuzz. I initially got on their bad side by having a problematic tail light, which went out repeatedly despite the best efforts of me, my Dad and several repair shops. We eventually resolved the matter but not before I’d been pulled over a dozen or so times by enthusiastic cops looking to make a name for themselves by busting a high profile case like this.
Even once the tail light was functioning reliably, the pullovers didn’t stop. My car was now in the database and every time I drove, particularly after dark, I could pretty well guarantee to be stopped by every cop that saw me. In the two years or so I drove that car, I was probably pulled over 40 or 50 times and I’m happy to say I never once received a ticket. But they tried, oh boy did they try. I never drank so much as a single beer if I was driving and the car struggled to break the speed limit anyway, but I had cops checking the tread on my tires, pushing the car backwards to check the parking brake, and one even crawled underneath to check the rust level of the chassis. It must have been very disappointing for them.
I’ve lived in the US for eleven years now and while the level of police interest is nowhere near as high as in my younger days, I’ve still had more than my share of roadside chats. These have been over such major offences as driving 60mph on a 55mph freeway, having a cracked taillight (which I had to get down on my hands and knees to see) and having license tags expired by 2 days. I will admit I’ve received tickets which were justified, almost all for speeding but for the most part, I’ve been pulled over by bored, under worked cops simply justifying their existence by taking some of the pleasure out of mine. So when I see a highway laden with cops, such as 285 was this weekend. I retain a somewhat healthy cynicism over the idea that they’re doing this out of some kind of altruism.
The police departments here, like everywhere else on the planet are constantly crying poverty when it comes to explaining why crime detection rates are so poor. The manpower isn’t there when it comes to tracking robbers, rapists and burglars. Yet show them a motorist driving a few miles an hour over the speed limit and miraculously, there are three squad cars available to handle it. Now as I’ve been told, highway patrol and crime detection are two different branches of the department, I’ll accept that. Yet there’s something inherently wrong when the police officers responsible for chasing real criminals don’t have the money to do so, while traffic cops have a seemingly endless supply of funding.
It’s not simply squad cars that they need. On SR285, the road with which I’m most familiar, it’s common to see hapless motorists sitting glumly on the shoulder while being written a ticket by some hot shot sitting in an unmarked police vehicle. To my knowledge, there are at least three pick ups, one SUV and multiple sedan cars doing duty as undercover ticket generators. Now you don’t exactly have to be Sherlock Holmes to catch speeding motorists in the first place, so why is it necessary to use a disguise? After all, if, as we’re told, the purpose of a heavy presence is to encourage safer driving, wouldn’t it make more sense for the police to advertise their presence rather than hide it?
Which also leads to the question; if the purpose of the traffic cops is to inspire safe driving, why do they only seem to be concerned with speeders? Yes, we all know excessive speed is a factor in most accidents. However statistically, other dangerous practices such as tailgating, aggressive driving and simple inattention cause more. Yet when was the last time you heard of someone receiving a ticket for tailgating? I never have. Could it just be that speeders are easier to catch, or is it that this carries a higher fine?
The fines may indeed be the key. Although Park County is one of the largest in the nation (considerably bigger than the state of Rhode Island for example) it has a comparatively small population and with no businesses of any size, the tax base is extremely low. Which means the Park Country Sheriff’s Department relies largely on revenue from traffic tickets for their income. Compound that by the fact that the majority of Park County residents inhabit the area on the extreme eastern edge and you find that a short stretch of highway receives a greater police presence than any high crime district in the metro area.
On Friday I counted 5 police vehicles in less than 5 miles of SR285. There may have been unmarked cars there too, I don’t know. Were they keeping the highway safe? Arguably, although given the number of accidents reported, that claim is somewhat dubious. Given that this is the busiest traffic weekend of the year and understanding the opportunity for revenue enhancement, I’m inclined to think they were there for other reasons.
It would have been an interesting experiment to have called the cops on Friday to report a burglary or a bicycle theft, just to see what level of attention this would have received. I’m willing to bet the phrase “nothing much we can do” would pop into the conversation at some point. Not enough manpower, see?
And if any law enforcement officers happen to be reading this; let me just say here and now, “I don’t drive a car. Nope never. Not me. Sorry, I walk everywhere. Keep up the good work!”
There are two definite schools of thoughts when it comes to the police presence on our highways. Those who believe they perform an invaluable service by discouraging speeders, drunks and dangerous drivers and others who think this is nothing more than an exercise in tax collection. I’m with the latter.
My dislike of traffic cops began at an early age when, as a comparatively law-abiding citizen, I was harassed to the point of comedy by the local fuzz. I initially got on their bad side by having a problematic tail light, which went out repeatedly despite the best efforts of me, my Dad and several repair shops. We eventually resolved the matter but not before I’d been pulled over a dozen or so times by enthusiastic cops looking to make a name for themselves by busting a high profile case like this.
Even once the tail light was functioning reliably, the pullovers didn’t stop. My car was now in the database and every time I drove, particularly after dark, I could pretty well guarantee to be stopped by every cop that saw me. In the two years or so I drove that car, I was probably pulled over 40 or 50 times and I’m happy to say I never once received a ticket. But they tried, oh boy did they try. I never drank so much as a single beer if I was driving and the car struggled to break the speed limit anyway, but I had cops checking the tread on my tires, pushing the car backwards to check the parking brake, and one even crawled underneath to check the rust level of the chassis. It must have been very disappointing for them.
I’ve lived in the US for eleven years now and while the level of police interest is nowhere near as high as in my younger days, I’ve still had more than my share of roadside chats. These have been over such major offences as driving 60mph on a 55mph freeway, having a cracked taillight (which I had to get down on my hands and knees to see) and having license tags expired by 2 days. I will admit I’ve received tickets which were justified, almost all for speeding but for the most part, I’ve been pulled over by bored, under worked cops simply justifying their existence by taking some of the pleasure out of mine. So when I see a highway laden with cops, such as 285 was this weekend. I retain a somewhat healthy cynicism over the idea that they’re doing this out of some kind of altruism.
The police departments here, like everywhere else on the planet are constantly crying poverty when it comes to explaining why crime detection rates are so poor. The manpower isn’t there when it comes to tracking robbers, rapists and burglars. Yet show them a motorist driving a few miles an hour over the speed limit and miraculously, there are three squad cars available to handle it. Now as I’ve been told, highway patrol and crime detection are two different branches of the department, I’ll accept that. Yet there’s something inherently wrong when the police officers responsible for chasing real criminals don’t have the money to do so, while traffic cops have a seemingly endless supply of funding.
It’s not simply squad cars that they need. On SR285, the road with which I’m most familiar, it’s common to see hapless motorists sitting glumly on the shoulder while being written a ticket by some hot shot sitting in an unmarked police vehicle. To my knowledge, there are at least three pick ups, one SUV and multiple sedan cars doing duty as undercover ticket generators. Now you don’t exactly have to be Sherlock Holmes to catch speeding motorists in the first place, so why is it necessary to use a disguise? After all, if, as we’re told, the purpose of a heavy presence is to encourage safer driving, wouldn’t it make more sense for the police to advertise their presence rather than hide it?
Which also leads to the question; if the purpose of the traffic cops is to inspire safe driving, why do they only seem to be concerned with speeders? Yes, we all know excessive speed is a factor in most accidents. However statistically, other dangerous practices such as tailgating, aggressive driving and simple inattention cause more. Yet when was the last time you heard of someone receiving a ticket for tailgating? I never have. Could it just be that speeders are easier to catch, or is it that this carries a higher fine?
The fines may indeed be the key. Although Park County is one of the largest in the nation (considerably bigger than the state of Rhode Island for example) it has a comparatively small population and with no businesses of any size, the tax base is extremely low. Which means the Park Country Sheriff’s Department relies largely on revenue from traffic tickets for their income. Compound that by the fact that the majority of Park County residents inhabit the area on the extreme eastern edge and you find that a short stretch of highway receives a greater police presence than any high crime district in the metro area.
On Friday I counted 5 police vehicles in less than 5 miles of SR285. There may have been unmarked cars there too, I don’t know. Were they keeping the highway safe? Arguably, although given the number of accidents reported, that claim is somewhat dubious. Given that this is the busiest traffic weekend of the year and understanding the opportunity for revenue enhancement, I’m inclined to think they were there for other reasons.
It would have been an interesting experiment to have called the cops on Friday to report a burglary or a bicycle theft, just to see what level of attention this would have received. I’m willing to bet the phrase “nothing much we can do” would pop into the conversation at some point. Not enough manpower, see?
And if any law enforcement officers happen to be reading this; let me just say here and now, “I don’t drive a car. Nope never. Not me. Sorry, I walk everywhere. Keep up the good work!”
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