Like many kids, I had a train set when I was growing up. And like many kids, I didn’t appreciate just how lucky I was. The layout was permanently attached to a huge board and therefore had to live out in the garage. Every few months I would badger my long suffering Dad until he dragged it into the house and set it up for me. Once he’d devoted most of his weekend to getting it working, I would kneel in the center of the board and play with my toy cars, completely oblivious to the model train running around me. Truth be told, for all that I loved my train set, I was really more of an automobile man in those days. In time, my train set became just one more outgrown toy, forgotten and neglected, never to see the light of day.
It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I began to feel the lure of steam, the smell of grease and hot coals, and the haunting cry of the whistle late at night. Now that I was a grown up, I desperately wanted a train set.
The biggest problem was one of storage space. While my Dad had the right idea in mounting my childhood set on a board, storing it outdoors in a damp garage was no way to keep the tracks in smooth running order. They rusted horribly, which caused a marked decrease in the train’s performance even though he painstakingly sanded them clean as part of the set up. (I learned later, that this increased the tendency for the tracks to rust – there are better tools than sandpaper). I needed room not only for when the set was in use, but for storage when it was not. In my bachelor days, this was out of the question as I lived in a small apartment. After marriage, the size of the home increased slightly but being the male in the partnership, my share of the storage space dropped significantly. I was lucky to have enough closet room for my socks, much less a train set.
Our current house, while tiny by today’s standards, is (arguably) large enough for a modest set up, perhaps in one of the smaller scales. However, the next challenge is that Santa Claus has long since given up checking to see whether I’ve been naughty or nice and is simply assuming the former. At least I think that’s why he no longer responds to my repeated demands for consumer goods. Either way, my family, friends and workmates are long accustomed to my annual bleating that once again; I found no train set under the tree come Christmas morn.
Recently, a friend told me (probably in an attempt to shut me up) that a local model railroad club meets each Friday evening, in the basement of Denver’s Union Station to swap model train information and gawp at an elaborate layout permanently on display. While I’m well aware this might take me dangerously into ‘Star Trek’ style geek territory, it does sound like a good way to get my model train fix. Even better, Union Station is close to my office so the meeting would be simple enough to attend before going home from work. However, this is still a short-term solution – not the same as having a train set of one’s own.
The hard truth remains, that if I want a train set, I’m going to have to buy it myself. Or so I thought.
Last weekend I joined a bunch of friends for a social gathering at a local hostelry where to my surprise, I was ceremoniously presented with a large polystyrene box containing a second hand, but obviously well loved, toy train. 4 carriages, a station and a plastic bag full of track, realistic choo-choo noises and a light on the front. I was in heaven.
The only challenge was; I couldn’t get it to work.
The batteries live inside the coal tender; the lid of which completes the contacts. Sadly this had two broken snaps but the good news was; the manufacturers had thoughtfully backed them up with two tiny screws, thus assuring a tight fit. But one of those was missing. Replacing it proved, as visits to the hardware store always do, to be harder than I expected although with the help of an enthusiastic employee, I eventually found one that looked as though it would work. I nipped off the extra 1/8 inch with a hacksaw and I was in business. Or rather, I wasn’t. Even with both screws cinched down tight, the locomotive refused to do locomotive things.
Until later that evening, as I was forlornly fiddling with the lid of the coal tender and nearly had a heart attack when the locomotive suddenly came to life in my hands. With bell ringing and lights flashing, the wheels began to spin and I nearly lost the whole thing for good by dropping it on the kitchen floor. I’m no spring chicken and frights like that aren’t good for me. Turned out, one of the screws wasn't seated correctly and the contacts weren’t being made. It was the work of moments to correct that and in no time I had a working train set for the first time in 30 odd years. With the plastic track laid out on the living room floor I can scare the heck out of the dogs to my heart’s content.
Except now I’ve really got the bug and more than ever I want a proper train set. With electric power and a metal track, and hills and tunnels and a signal box and and and…
We were in town on Saturday afternoon so I persuaded Dear Wife to take me to a place called Caboose Hobbies which is basically a model train store on steroids. Apparently it’s the largest of its kind in the world and I spent a happy couple of hours wandering the aisles and lusting after all the model train related do-dads I’ll never be able to afford in a million years. Despite my whining, the big meanie refused to let me buy the set of my dreams, but she did allow that I could save a bit of cash from each month’s housekeeping until I have enough to pay for it outright. So, it will take a while but by next Christmas at least, I should be the proud owner of a working train set. Woo hoo!
I wonder if my Dad will come and set it up for me.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Monday, January 17, 2005
The Wilson Prom
The other day I was rummaging round in our shed looking for something which may or may not have been there, when I noticed my camping gear, neatly stowed in its plastic storage box. This caused me a slight pang of guilt because for some time, I’ve been planning on digging this out, sorting through it and setting off on a trip, just like the old days. Despite having a front yard which is as pretty as any campsite, the wanderlust has been tugging at my heart for a while and I’m determined that soon I shall dust off my backpack, dig out the hike tent, my stove and my trusty old boots, and go spend some quality time in the wild.
It wasn’t going to be this weekend however, as through the shed window I could see the pine trees bending before the bitterly cold January wind. I might be enthusiastic about roughing it, but I’m not that enthusiastic.
Although….it isn’t like I haven’t camped in worse.
Australians are rightfully proud of the Wilson Promontory; a scenic peninsula off the Victoria coast, south-east of Melbourne. The southernmost point on the Australian mainland, it comprises 130km of scenic coastline framed by granite headlands, mountains, forests and fern gullies. While I was meandering my way through the region in the early summer of 1992, almost everyone I met encouraged me to go visit.
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” they enthused, “you must see it”.
I was happy enough to follow their recommendation and the only potential challenge as I saw it, was that the park wasn’t served by public transportation. However, hitchhiking in Australia is safe and easy, and I’d been making steady progress around the country so far. I was confident I’d have no trouble and sure enough, I covered the 125 miles from my previous halt in four lifts without waiting more than twenty minutes at a time.
I’d been warned that the sprawling campsite near the park’s entrance was not a good advertisement for the delights to come. Basic, functional and full of oversized motor-homes and mansion-like tents, it was nobody’s idea of a wilderness retreat. But, it was late in the day when I arrived and there was little point in setting out into the bush, so instead I pitched my little hike tent, and snuggled in for the night. Just as I was switching off my flashlight and closing my book, I overheard a neighbor remark in the smug manner of the know-it-all. “There’s going to be a big storm coming in tonight.”
“Yeah, right” I thought, burrowing deeper into my sleeping bag, “there’s hardly a cloud in the sky!” I think it was about 2am when it hit.
Have you ever been in the path of a steam train as it bears down on you, screaming like a thousand prehistoric monsters? No, me neither but I suspect it sounds a lot like the noise the wind made as it thundered through the trees on its way to our campsite. Wave after wave, carrying raindrops, which lashed my tent like thousands of tiny javelins. Standard camping procedure for high wind nights requires that the tent be pitched end on to the gale. Except I hadn’t expected a storm (clear sky, remember?) so had pitched mine at an angle which now turned out to be directly sideways to the storm.
Hour after hour, I lay there listening to the next round careering its way up the valley. Each time a blast hit, my little tent would rock sideways, sometimes to the point where the wall would cover my face. It stood up pretty well but around 4am, a certain flexibility in the floor revealed that the pegs were beginning to work their way loose. Out I went and in nothing but my boxers, scuttled from pin to pin, securing them as best I could. Even the people in the big rigs were having trouble and several of my neighbors were also out (although more suitably attired than I) attempting to re-set guy ropes on awnings and canopies.
Once I was confident my own tent was as fastened as reliably as could be, I grabbed some warmer clothes and set about helping my compatriots. Why this act of altruism? I hear you ask. Well, because I knew that this storm had no intention of letting up in time for me to begin my planned bush-hike in the morning and would no doubt keep me ensnared on this desolate campsite for at least one more day. And in the afternoon, most of the country would be watching the Australian Rules Football Grand Final. And most of these motor homes had televisions. And fridges full of beer. See where I’m going with this? It was a time for making friends.
I needn’t have bothered. By 6am the air was rent with the sound of diesel engines firing into life as the pansies in their motor-homes, luxury trailers and comfort-laden cruisers packed up and ran for home. By the time I poked my red-rimmed eyes through the tent flaps, the site was almost deserted. Branches and other debris lay all around; great pools of water were attempting to link into one vast lake and the sky was dark and brooding. Every one of my newly made friends had abandoned me. However, the wind had eased somewhat so the rain was only at angle of 45 degrees now. Even so, I’d been right in my prediction that I wasn’t doing any hiking today.
I spent that Saturday huddled in the camp’s dreary café, attempting to make single cups of coffee last for hours and for a large part of the time, sitting on a bar of chocolate trying to warm it up enough to break off a piece. By Sunday the weather was showing no signs of let up and reasoning that while hitching onto a peninsula had been easy enough, hitching off a 100-mile cul-de-sac could prove challenging if I didn’t take advantage of the few remaining folks heading back to town, I abandoned my plans for a wilderness hike and turned my feet towards Melbourne.
I got there easily enough and by late-afternoon was sipping a coke in the Youth Hostel garden. Predictably, the sun was brilliantly warm by this time and remained so for the next few months. I continued my way around Australia and never did see The Wilson Prom but for the remainder of my stay, whenever I outlined my route to a local the response was always the same.
“Oh The Wilson Prom, isn’t it beautiful there?”
It wasn’t going to be this weekend however, as through the shed window I could see the pine trees bending before the bitterly cold January wind. I might be enthusiastic about roughing it, but I’m not that enthusiastic.
Although….it isn’t like I haven’t camped in worse.
Australians are rightfully proud of the Wilson Promontory; a scenic peninsula off the Victoria coast, south-east of Melbourne. The southernmost point on the Australian mainland, it comprises 130km of scenic coastline framed by granite headlands, mountains, forests and fern gullies. While I was meandering my way through the region in the early summer of 1992, almost everyone I met encouraged me to go visit.
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” they enthused, “you must see it”.
I was happy enough to follow their recommendation and the only potential challenge as I saw it, was that the park wasn’t served by public transportation. However, hitchhiking in Australia is safe and easy, and I’d been making steady progress around the country so far. I was confident I’d have no trouble and sure enough, I covered the 125 miles from my previous halt in four lifts without waiting more than twenty minutes at a time.
I’d been warned that the sprawling campsite near the park’s entrance was not a good advertisement for the delights to come. Basic, functional and full of oversized motor-homes and mansion-like tents, it was nobody’s idea of a wilderness retreat. But, it was late in the day when I arrived and there was little point in setting out into the bush, so instead I pitched my little hike tent, and snuggled in for the night. Just as I was switching off my flashlight and closing my book, I overheard a neighbor remark in the smug manner of the know-it-all. “There’s going to be a big storm coming in tonight.”
“Yeah, right” I thought, burrowing deeper into my sleeping bag, “there’s hardly a cloud in the sky!” I think it was about 2am when it hit.
Have you ever been in the path of a steam train as it bears down on you, screaming like a thousand prehistoric monsters? No, me neither but I suspect it sounds a lot like the noise the wind made as it thundered through the trees on its way to our campsite. Wave after wave, carrying raindrops, which lashed my tent like thousands of tiny javelins. Standard camping procedure for high wind nights requires that the tent be pitched end on to the gale. Except I hadn’t expected a storm (clear sky, remember?) so had pitched mine at an angle which now turned out to be directly sideways to the storm.
Hour after hour, I lay there listening to the next round careering its way up the valley. Each time a blast hit, my little tent would rock sideways, sometimes to the point where the wall would cover my face. It stood up pretty well but around 4am, a certain flexibility in the floor revealed that the pegs were beginning to work their way loose. Out I went and in nothing but my boxers, scuttled from pin to pin, securing them as best I could. Even the people in the big rigs were having trouble and several of my neighbors were also out (although more suitably attired than I) attempting to re-set guy ropes on awnings and canopies.
Once I was confident my own tent was as fastened as reliably as could be, I grabbed some warmer clothes and set about helping my compatriots. Why this act of altruism? I hear you ask. Well, because I knew that this storm had no intention of letting up in time for me to begin my planned bush-hike in the morning and would no doubt keep me ensnared on this desolate campsite for at least one more day. And in the afternoon, most of the country would be watching the Australian Rules Football Grand Final. And most of these motor homes had televisions. And fridges full of beer. See where I’m going with this? It was a time for making friends.
I needn’t have bothered. By 6am the air was rent with the sound of diesel engines firing into life as the pansies in their motor-homes, luxury trailers and comfort-laden cruisers packed up and ran for home. By the time I poked my red-rimmed eyes through the tent flaps, the site was almost deserted. Branches and other debris lay all around; great pools of water were attempting to link into one vast lake and the sky was dark and brooding. Every one of my newly made friends had abandoned me. However, the wind had eased somewhat so the rain was only at angle of 45 degrees now. Even so, I’d been right in my prediction that I wasn’t doing any hiking today.
I spent that Saturday huddled in the camp’s dreary café, attempting to make single cups of coffee last for hours and for a large part of the time, sitting on a bar of chocolate trying to warm it up enough to break off a piece. By Sunday the weather was showing no signs of let up and reasoning that while hitching onto a peninsula had been easy enough, hitching off a 100-mile cul-de-sac could prove challenging if I didn’t take advantage of the few remaining folks heading back to town, I abandoned my plans for a wilderness hike and turned my feet towards Melbourne.
I got there easily enough and by late-afternoon was sipping a coke in the Youth Hostel garden. Predictably, the sun was brilliantly warm by this time and remained so for the next few months. I continued my way around Australia and never did see The Wilson Prom but for the remainder of my stay, whenever I outlined my route to a local the response was always the same.
“Oh The Wilson Prom, isn’t it beautiful there?”
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
A Walk in Winter
Up before the dawn and the house is still and cold. My breath clouds the air as I stand before the mirror and by the time the shower is hot, my feet are like ice. I stay in far too long, not wanting to leave the sanctuary, but sooner or later, I have to face the world. I dry myself briskly trying to keep the blood circulating near my skin’s surface, determined to stay warm long enough to pull on my clothes. The only sound I can hear is the gentle song of the wind chimes on the front porch. Dog and dog spring to life, as they always do when I head downstairs to let them out. The air is blue with morning light, while the western sky glows Broncos orange in the distance. The snow squeaks underfoot, while the atmosphere itself appears to crackle. It’s so dry.
Back indoors, stamping the snow off my boots and the coffee’s almost ready. The steam rises and disappears into the kitchen, leaving only the aroma that tells of mornings and early starts. I leave Dear Wife’s by the bed, in her insulated mug so it will be waiting for her when she awakes. With difficulty I locate her forehead among the covers and kissing her goodbye, grab a dog leash, young dog and my coffee before heading out to the car. Older dog watches us forlornly through the glass door, her heart breaking. But she’s been sick and will have to make do with a shorter walk around the neighborhood later in the day.
The car doesn’t want to start, it hates mornings too but reluctantly it turns over and coughs into life. I let the motor run for a few minutes, imagining the life giving oil seeping into all the nooks and crannies allowing it to run smoothly and efficiently, rather like the effect strong coffee has on my body. I leave the radio off, in no mood for inane chatter this morning and instead listen to the symphony of an old car, rattling and groaning along the ice-packed dirt road leading us to the highway. Even the gas pedal creaks with the cold, but the gear box feels uncharacteristically smooth and the worn tires hum as we reach the blacktop.
The fishing pond is frozen solid, barely discernible from the fields around it. The fish lying semi-dormant beneath the ice, safe for a while from the anglers who harass them in the summer, both the humans in their rubber waders and the blue heron who stands sentinel on the jetty. The sign tells us to reduce speed as we approach the school. It’s silent and empty on the weekend, but I slow down anyway. I’ve had too many slides on this corner to take it fast the way I used to. The Christian camp too, is deserted; the playground swings sad and abandoned; a skeleton of the happy park of summer. At the gas station, the forecourt is crowded with cars, trucks and campers as people head into the high country for a day of play in the snow. Down jackets and cammo gear, snowmobiles, gunracks and skis, all rubbing shoulders in the mutual camaraderie of gassing up and hitting the coffee pot.
A quick stop at the drive through for breakfast. Egg and potato burrito with bacon for me, while dog gets a chew treat because Dear Wife isn’t here to remind me that it’s bad for her delicate stomach. Driving one handed I follow the winding road, down and down into the valley, still barely touched by sunlight so the tree branches glisten like jeweled necklaces and the ice on the road alternates between blinding silver and treacherous black. Past the field with the three horses, standing far apart but by some hidden communication, all facing in exactly the same direction, towards the morning sun. Are they enjoying the warmth on their faces, or engaged in some form of pagan worship? I don’t know and they aren’t telling.
I park facing the creek, and pull on my jacket, my gloves, my scarf. Dog is bouncing around the back of the car like a wild thing, making no attempt to suppress her excitement. If I’m not careful she’ll be out of the door and off into the wild so taking the leash, I tie her to the hitch until I’m ready to move. Even so, her boundless energy pulls me along the trail and I slip and slide over the ice, the treads of my boots completely ineffective at halting my progress. Down here the trees are still heavy with snow which deadens almost all sound. Occasionally, the chatter of birdsong will break through the hush but even that is muted, as though the animals are enjoying the tranquility too.
I know the creek is there, I’ve seen it before but today it’s hidden beneath the snow and ice. Once in a while, a window opens and allows a glimpse of the black water forcing its way down the valley, bubbling and gurgling in deep, amplified tones sounding like the inner workings of a whale. On either side the ground slopes steeply up into the wooded hillside, reaching to the National Park and beyond. The tan rocks are framed by the snow like some Bev Doolittle painting and if I look hard enough, perhaps I’ll see the face of a wolf, or two Indians stealing horses, carefully camouflaged in the art work.
In fact, on the trail up ahead, there is a wolf. Or is it a coyote? No, it’s a wolf. Or a wolf-hybrid. A wolf-hybrid, there are no wolves here. It’s wearing a bright red collar. Wolf-hybrid then. But is it friendly? Dog’s ears are up and she’s straining hard, wanting to investigate, to sniff, to play. Ah, but you’re a fully domesticated, spoiled rotten house dog my love, and maybe wolf-hybrid won’t like you for that.
“Get on home!” I call, “Go on, git!”
Wolf-hybrid turns and with repeated curious over the shoulder glances, heads up the hill and into the woods. We continue along the trail and see it no more.
The sun is fully up now, which tells me it’s getting late. I no longer need my gloves and my jacket is unzipped to the waist. Time to head home and indeed, there’s the car up ahead. Hikes in Colorado are never long enough, but breakfast was some time ago and I’m ready for lunch. Home then, to the stove, and the fire and a book for the afternoon.
Every season in Colorado is my favorite, but winter is perhaps my most favorite.
This article appeared in Issue # 120 of Mountain Gazette in January, 2006.
Back indoors, stamping the snow off my boots and the coffee’s almost ready. The steam rises and disappears into the kitchen, leaving only the aroma that tells of mornings and early starts. I leave Dear Wife’s by the bed, in her insulated mug so it will be waiting for her when she awakes. With difficulty I locate her forehead among the covers and kissing her goodbye, grab a dog leash, young dog and my coffee before heading out to the car. Older dog watches us forlornly through the glass door, her heart breaking. But she’s been sick and will have to make do with a shorter walk around the neighborhood later in the day.
The car doesn’t want to start, it hates mornings too but reluctantly it turns over and coughs into life. I let the motor run for a few minutes, imagining the life giving oil seeping into all the nooks and crannies allowing it to run smoothly and efficiently, rather like the effect strong coffee has on my body. I leave the radio off, in no mood for inane chatter this morning and instead listen to the symphony of an old car, rattling and groaning along the ice-packed dirt road leading us to the highway. Even the gas pedal creaks with the cold, but the gear box feels uncharacteristically smooth and the worn tires hum as we reach the blacktop.
The fishing pond is frozen solid, barely discernible from the fields around it. The fish lying semi-dormant beneath the ice, safe for a while from the anglers who harass them in the summer, both the humans in their rubber waders and the blue heron who stands sentinel on the jetty. The sign tells us to reduce speed as we approach the school. It’s silent and empty on the weekend, but I slow down anyway. I’ve had too many slides on this corner to take it fast the way I used to. The Christian camp too, is deserted; the playground swings sad and abandoned; a skeleton of the happy park of summer. At the gas station, the forecourt is crowded with cars, trucks and campers as people head into the high country for a day of play in the snow. Down jackets and cammo gear, snowmobiles, gunracks and skis, all rubbing shoulders in the mutual camaraderie of gassing up and hitting the coffee pot.
A quick stop at the drive through for breakfast. Egg and potato burrito with bacon for me, while dog gets a chew treat because Dear Wife isn’t here to remind me that it’s bad for her delicate stomach. Driving one handed I follow the winding road, down and down into the valley, still barely touched by sunlight so the tree branches glisten like jeweled necklaces and the ice on the road alternates between blinding silver and treacherous black. Past the field with the three horses, standing far apart but by some hidden communication, all facing in exactly the same direction, towards the morning sun. Are they enjoying the warmth on their faces, or engaged in some form of pagan worship? I don’t know and they aren’t telling.
I park facing the creek, and pull on my jacket, my gloves, my scarf. Dog is bouncing around the back of the car like a wild thing, making no attempt to suppress her excitement. If I’m not careful she’ll be out of the door and off into the wild so taking the leash, I tie her to the hitch until I’m ready to move. Even so, her boundless energy pulls me along the trail and I slip and slide over the ice, the treads of my boots completely ineffective at halting my progress. Down here the trees are still heavy with snow which deadens almost all sound. Occasionally, the chatter of birdsong will break through the hush but even that is muted, as though the animals are enjoying the tranquility too.
I know the creek is there, I’ve seen it before but today it’s hidden beneath the snow and ice. Once in a while, a window opens and allows a glimpse of the black water forcing its way down the valley, bubbling and gurgling in deep, amplified tones sounding like the inner workings of a whale. On either side the ground slopes steeply up into the wooded hillside, reaching to the National Park and beyond. The tan rocks are framed by the snow like some Bev Doolittle painting and if I look hard enough, perhaps I’ll see the face of a wolf, or two Indians stealing horses, carefully camouflaged in the art work.
In fact, on the trail up ahead, there is a wolf. Or is it a coyote? No, it’s a wolf. Or a wolf-hybrid. A wolf-hybrid, there are no wolves here. It’s wearing a bright red collar. Wolf-hybrid then. But is it friendly? Dog’s ears are up and she’s straining hard, wanting to investigate, to sniff, to play. Ah, but you’re a fully domesticated, spoiled rotten house dog my love, and maybe wolf-hybrid won’t like you for that.
“Get on home!” I call, “Go on, git!”
Wolf-hybrid turns and with repeated curious over the shoulder glances, heads up the hill and into the woods. We continue along the trail and see it no more.
The sun is fully up now, which tells me it’s getting late. I no longer need my gloves and my jacket is unzipped to the waist. Time to head home and indeed, there’s the car up ahead. Hikes in Colorado are never long enough, but breakfast was some time ago and I’m ready for lunch. Home then, to the stove, and the fire and a book for the afternoon.
Every season in Colorado is my favorite, but winter is perhaps my most favorite.
This article appeared in Issue # 120 of Mountain Gazette in January, 2006.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
The 5 O'clock Toast
I forgot to have a drink at 5 O’clock this New Year’s Eve.
I had a drink at midnight and several before and plenty more after, finally wrapping up (I’m told) at about 4:30am. But I forgot to have one at 5 O’clock and thereby broke a tradition I’ve maintained for thirteen years. Why 5 O’clock? Well, because that’s midnight in Britain and even though I’m gradually losing touch with many of my old friends from the old country, it still feels appropriate to raise a glass and see in the New-Year in with the folks back home.
The practice began when I was in Australia for New Year 1991 and was suggested by my pal Roy. He told me that if I arranged to have a drink in my hand at a given time, the gang back in Britain would make something of a ceremony out of having a drink with me across the miles. He considered, quite wisely, that they would be well liquored up by the time midnight came around and could easily forget so instead he pitched the idea for 9pm, when they’d still be functioning. Unfortunately, he made something of a miscalculation with the time zones and didn’t realize that this would be 5am where I was. I was willing to push down a beer at that time, but had no desire to be awake. It was too late to tell him that, so instead I sank a beer with a nod to the old team, right on the stroke of midnight, Greenwich Mean Time.
By New Year 1992 I’d been in the US for about 3 months. I had the 5 O’clock drink but not until after I’d called my folks. This time it wasn’t simply to wish them a happy New Year, but to tell them they were soon to have a new daughter-in-law. Dear Wife and I had decided upon marriage just a few hours before and as we’d only known each other for a few weeks before this, I was anticipating this might come as something of a shock to my dear old Mum. I took a deep breath, dialed the number and prepared to launch into my carefully rehearsed speech. She cut me short.
“Happy New Year. We’ll need to call you back as we’re off out to watch the fireworks”.
Yeah, OK. No biggie. I’ll wait. By the time midnight USA came around, we’d received the blessing of my family several times over. Dear Wife’s family was a slightly different matter. While I welcomed 1992 in with friends in the living room, my new fiancé spent our first New Year’s Eve, sitting on the bathroom floor with the phone pressed to her ear while my mother-in-law to be lectured her on what a mistake she was making.
The tradition of the 5 O’clock toast became even easier to follow when a “British” pub opened in Phoenix. This was a delightfully seedy bar which was about as far from a traditional British pub as it was possible to get. Manchester United scarves hanging from the rafters and a mug shot of the Queen on the wall do not a real pub make, but it did have British music on the juke box, Boddington’s Bitter behind the bar, and some pretty excellent fish and chips. New Year’s Eve was a big old party but what was especially wonderful about this whole deal was that not only was it a convenient stop on the way home from work, you could have several drinks, see in the New Year in style, then go home for a couple of hours shut-eye before heading out to do it all again.
During our final few years in Arizona we headed out into the desert with a group of friends and celebrated New Year around an enormous camp fire. People would save wood for the entire year just to burn when New Year’s Eve came around. One year somebody had a nine-drawer dresser which took hours to burn. Another time, a piano aficionado brought the shell of an upright along and that kept us toasty until the wee hours. We were in the desert for New Year 2000 and were all relieved to see the fire continue to burn as Y2K came and went.
The five O’clock toast tradition continued here as a couple others in the company were also Brits by birth. Of course there’s seven hours to kill before midnight so somebody usually brought along an atlas. That way every hour we could find somewhere that people would be celebrating the midnight hour. Beer cans, wine bottles, paper cups and plastic glasses were raised to welcome in the year with our friends around the world. Way off in the distance, we could hear a party of good ol’ boys following the same ritual by loosing off their cannons into the night. Every hour, on the hour. Except in 2000 when they apparently used up all their ammo by 11pm. That or their guns didn’t work following Y2K.
For all my adherence to the 5 O’clock toast, it’s a curious fact that New Year’s in Britain, tended to be something of an anti-climax. Over there, the big celebration is on Christmas Eve and tends to continue right through Gift Grab ™ day and well into the next week. By the time New Year came around, the liver, not to mention the pocket book was usually pretty hammered and it was hard to get “up” for the occasion. Furthermore, a lot of the pubs tended to be infested by part time drinkers; people that would normally balk at having more than two drinks in one night, but felt the need to impose themselves on the rest of us at this time. Many pubs imposed a “No Admittance After 11pm” rule, which meant one had to strategize in order to be in the best location by midnight. “Best” location in this instance being the bar with the most girls. I still shudder in horror at the memory of the year we mistimed our move and got trapped in a wine bar of all places. The horror, the horror.
We’ve celebrated New Year twice in Colorado; both times at a party in the mountains above Idaho Springs. There’s always lots to drink, lots to eat and some killer jello shots which aren’t exactly drinking and aren’t exactly eating. This year’s shindig was a blast as always and the hangover lasted well into January. As far as I can recall, I acquitted myself well and had more to drink than I’ll need for quite a while.
But I still wish I’d had one more drink. At 5 O’clock.
I had a drink at midnight and several before and plenty more after, finally wrapping up (I’m told) at about 4:30am. But I forgot to have one at 5 O’clock and thereby broke a tradition I’ve maintained for thirteen years. Why 5 O’clock? Well, because that’s midnight in Britain and even though I’m gradually losing touch with many of my old friends from the old country, it still feels appropriate to raise a glass and see in the New-Year in with the folks back home.
The practice began when I was in Australia for New Year 1991 and was suggested by my pal Roy. He told me that if I arranged to have a drink in my hand at a given time, the gang back in Britain would make something of a ceremony out of having a drink with me across the miles. He considered, quite wisely, that they would be well liquored up by the time midnight came around and could easily forget so instead he pitched the idea for 9pm, when they’d still be functioning. Unfortunately, he made something of a miscalculation with the time zones and didn’t realize that this would be 5am where I was. I was willing to push down a beer at that time, but had no desire to be awake. It was too late to tell him that, so instead I sank a beer with a nod to the old team, right on the stroke of midnight, Greenwich Mean Time.
By New Year 1992 I’d been in the US for about 3 months. I had the 5 O’clock drink but not until after I’d called my folks. This time it wasn’t simply to wish them a happy New Year, but to tell them they were soon to have a new daughter-in-law. Dear Wife and I had decided upon marriage just a few hours before and as we’d only known each other for a few weeks before this, I was anticipating this might come as something of a shock to my dear old Mum. I took a deep breath, dialed the number and prepared to launch into my carefully rehearsed speech. She cut me short.
“Happy New Year. We’ll need to call you back as we’re off out to watch the fireworks”.
Yeah, OK. No biggie. I’ll wait. By the time midnight USA came around, we’d received the blessing of my family several times over. Dear Wife’s family was a slightly different matter. While I welcomed 1992 in with friends in the living room, my new fiancé spent our first New Year’s Eve, sitting on the bathroom floor with the phone pressed to her ear while my mother-in-law to be lectured her on what a mistake she was making.
The tradition of the 5 O’clock toast became even easier to follow when a “British” pub opened in Phoenix. This was a delightfully seedy bar which was about as far from a traditional British pub as it was possible to get. Manchester United scarves hanging from the rafters and a mug shot of the Queen on the wall do not a real pub make, but it did have British music on the juke box, Boddington’s Bitter behind the bar, and some pretty excellent fish and chips. New Year’s Eve was a big old party but what was especially wonderful about this whole deal was that not only was it a convenient stop on the way home from work, you could have several drinks, see in the New Year in style, then go home for a couple of hours shut-eye before heading out to do it all again.
During our final few years in Arizona we headed out into the desert with a group of friends and celebrated New Year around an enormous camp fire. People would save wood for the entire year just to burn when New Year’s Eve came around. One year somebody had a nine-drawer dresser which took hours to burn. Another time, a piano aficionado brought the shell of an upright along and that kept us toasty until the wee hours. We were in the desert for New Year 2000 and were all relieved to see the fire continue to burn as Y2K came and went.
The five O’clock toast tradition continued here as a couple others in the company were also Brits by birth. Of course there’s seven hours to kill before midnight so somebody usually brought along an atlas. That way every hour we could find somewhere that people would be celebrating the midnight hour. Beer cans, wine bottles, paper cups and plastic glasses were raised to welcome in the year with our friends around the world. Way off in the distance, we could hear a party of good ol’ boys following the same ritual by loosing off their cannons into the night. Every hour, on the hour. Except in 2000 when they apparently used up all their ammo by 11pm. That or their guns didn’t work following Y2K.
For all my adherence to the 5 O’clock toast, it’s a curious fact that New Year’s in Britain, tended to be something of an anti-climax. Over there, the big celebration is on Christmas Eve and tends to continue right through Gift Grab ™ day and well into the next week. By the time New Year came around, the liver, not to mention the pocket book was usually pretty hammered and it was hard to get “up” for the occasion. Furthermore, a lot of the pubs tended to be infested by part time drinkers; people that would normally balk at having more than two drinks in one night, but felt the need to impose themselves on the rest of us at this time. Many pubs imposed a “No Admittance After 11pm” rule, which meant one had to strategize in order to be in the best location by midnight. “Best” location in this instance being the bar with the most girls. I still shudder in horror at the memory of the year we mistimed our move and got trapped in a wine bar of all places. The horror, the horror.
We’ve celebrated New Year twice in Colorado; both times at a party in the mountains above Idaho Springs. There’s always lots to drink, lots to eat and some killer jello shots which aren’t exactly drinking and aren’t exactly eating. This year’s shindig was a blast as always and the hangover lasted well into January. As far as I can recall, I acquitted myself well and had more to drink than I’ll need for quite a while.
But I still wish I’d had one more drink. At 5 O’clock.
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