Pictures

Hi, folks:  I said earlier that Mark, my son, had bounced me into operating my own blog before I was really ready for it.  And certainly it is now obvious to me – as an ex-newspaperman – that my blog is not going to grab the hits without the aid of a few pictures to make the thing sparkle.

Well,  we took plenty at the time, although I had no particular plans for the writing of a blog or a book, and it is probable that, had there been a little forward planning, the pictures would have been more relevant…

Never mind.  I’ll see what Mark and I have on our files and try to estimate – after all this time -  whether the pictures may possibly turn out to have a little potential…

I’ll have to scan and upload any that are any good, but, meanwhile, watch this space…

Now, there’s a thing. How do you upload pictures onto a blog?  Guess  that’s something else I have to learn how to do…

Christmas Crackers

  And what a Christmas cracker the last one was…! 

  My wife visited the doctor a few weeks ago for a minor tummy complaint.  After what appeared to be a cursory examination around her waist he found something he didn’t like – an enlarged kidney.  To give all credit to him and to the National Health Service, within a few days she’d had a scan, which confirmed the doctor’s suspicions.

She was roped into hospital within a week, which happened to be two days after Christmas.

But this was only after we had both – one after the other - been bed-bound by by the infamous sickness and diarrhoea bug that has beeen doing the rounds all over Europe this year.  As I climbed out of bed on Christmas Eve, she climbed in – to be running to the bathroom continually throughout the hours of darkness.

Since she was disabled over the Christmas period, and I, myself,  was half-disabled, it was left mostly to my son - visiting from Germany for the Christmas holiday – to do the family honours (or chores, for want of a more descriptive activity!) and help prepare a form of Christmas repast for us both, (his mother, obviously, not eating…).

This, in the circumstances, had to be something plain and simple, like convenience meals. straight from the freezer…

Ah,well.  We didn’t go hungry.

Two or three days later, it being considered she had recovered enough from the Bug attack,  my wife had the operation, which entailed the removal of the suspect kidney.  Everything went well, and after a few recuperative days in hospital, arrived home to begin – with her usual optimism - the New Year and her convalescence.

I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and wish you a belated Happy New Year.

Out West: Chapter 12

I have no idea what happened to Tuesday. It came. And it went.

So did most of Wednesday, come to think.

Forty-eight hours of infamous jet lag had thrown a filigree veil over my head, in the same manner that a South Sea fisherman would cast his net wide.

Darting little silver fish, desperately trying to escape the fisherman’s guile would fail miserably. Just like my darting little silver thoughts, desperately trying to wriggle a way through the cobweb veil, which still had my groping mentality entangled within its spectral mists.

It was as if I were moving through a shaded forest wherein, on occasion, I would reach a bright patch, a clearing where sunlight would filter through and open up my clouded vision.

At such moments, I would become aware that I was following Mark around a huge, brightly lit supermarket. Or that we were in a diner, or a restaurant, where I would be mumbling, zombie-like, my dietary preferences as he despairingly consulted a menu and ordered for us both.

It was Wednesday, I think, during one such ’oasis’ of clarity that Mark said: “We’re going to Castle Rock, this morning.”

I decided at once that this is where it all starts – the big adventure. This is where I start seeing the sights…

“Where’s Castle Rock, then?”

“About eight or ten miles south on Interstate 25. Not very far, but it’s worth a visit.”

Castle Rock. I took this to be, probably, a towering needle of red sandstone, growing out of some desert; a phallic edifice, which probably had been thrusting its macho proportions at wide-open desert skies for a million years or more.

I was wrong.

Castle Rock turned out to be a popular little colony of factory outlets: retail shops and warehouses – which are located soon after leaving Interstate 25 at Exit 184.

The shops and warehouses are owned by the factories supplying them, which, of course, make a point of supplying their outlets at rock-bottom prices. This, as a consequence, encourages retailers to accept lower profit margins, thereby satisfying the public’s demand for ‘bargains’.

It was here, at Castle Rock, that my son led me to a vast emporium, which was staffed and supplied by Levi – the jeans people.

Apart from the tiny island in the middle of the floor where two young ladies took your money, jeans, jeans, and more jeans occupied the whole enormous place. Climbing up the high walls were tens of dozens of jeans of all sizes, styles and colours. And they were stacked on shelves that ascended proudly from floor to ceiling.

I decided, at this point, that if they hadn’t got what you wanted at Levi’s, then they hadn’t got it anywhere, and you would have to go naked in the streets…

“If he wants to buy clothes, you choose them. He’s hopeless.”

Such were his mother’s words to Mark just before we left England. He was as good as her words. He marched me through this mighty labyrinth of jeans and accessories. Then he started to choose.

I’d never worn jeans in my life. For one thing, they reminded me of the bib and brace overalls that I had worn for my first day as an industrial worker. For another, I just could not understand why the younger generation looked upon them as clothes for social occasions – or for any occasion for that matter…

But now I’m in America, I notice it isn’t just the youngsters that seem to be caught up in the wearing of jeans anytime and anywhere. I swear that old chap over there is seventy if he’s a day. He’s parading around like a teenager. And he’s wearing jeans…

The hall was well populated with browsing shoppers, evidence of how universally accepted was an item of clothing to which I, personally, had never given a moment’s consideration.

I left it all to Mark. He strode up and down the shelves, examining a pile of denim here and a pile of denim there, perusing their labels, and, occasionally, sweeping me up and down with a skilful eye.

Finally, satisfied, he handed me a neatly folded pack of blue jeans. “Try these on”, he ordered.

Directing me towards the changing rooms, he waited outside while I went through a doorway to find myself facing a choice of five or six curtained cubicles on each side of a short passage. I entered a vacant booth.

I stepped out of my corduroy trousers and pulled on the jeans. I thought I was donning a couple of tubes of moulded sheet steel. The denim cloth felt hard and unrelenting. Even the denims we wore doing fatigue duty during National Service were softer than this abrasive material. What was he getting me into?

What he was getting me into was certainly the hardest cloth I had ever encountered. I’d heard that denim jeans last forever, so maybe they would turn out to be the hardest-wearing pair of ‘trousers’ I’d ever slid over my legs. We’ll see…

I left the booth and went out into the main store, where Mark was waiting for me. The iron touch of denim cloth scraped at my knees and thighs as I twisted and turned like some bimbo model parading her gown before a prospective, socialite customer.

I felt a little self-conscious. Other people were moving about in the area as they glanced over what Levi had on offer. I wondered what they were thinking: ‘What’s so special about this old guy and his new jeans (an ordinary wear-every-minute-of-the-day garment to them…) that he has to be guided in choice by the young feller with him?’

Mark nodded his approval. “Just the job”, he said. “They look good on you.”

His acceptance encouraged me a little.

I shrugged off any curious glances in my direction. How could these folk understand that a considerable amount of metamorphosis was taking place before their very eyes. In fact, I felt like a young lad trying on his first pair of long trousers…

Half an hour later I was onto another ‘first’- trainers.

I had always looked upon trainers as glorified ‘pumps’ – the cheap canvas and rubber footwear that impoverished parents bought for their kids instead of shoes during the early thirties.

But I revelled now in the feeling of comfort my new trainers offered as a result of their contoured insoles. They went a long way towards supporting ageing feet that had developed an unfortunate tendency towards fallen arches.

Suddenly, I felt I was ready. Ready for Mark’s deserts. Ready for Mark’s canyons. Ready for anything!

Out West: Chapter 11

I woke with a start. It was still dark, except for a faint square of illumination at the window as the dim emergency bulb outside chinked its way through the edges of the curtain.

I’d slept well all night, and now I was wide awake.

The fact that it was still dark was due, no doubt, to Colorado’s time zoning. It was obviously having the same effect on daylight as did our own British Summer Time…

In the darkness to my right, I could just hear my son’s deep, regular breathing.

Mark was badly in need of sleep after his two flights across the Atlantic in one weekend, and I slid out of bed carefully so as not to disturb him.

Quietly, I felt my way to the bathroom. Once inside, I closed the door noiselessly and switched on the light.

I was startled for a moment as the extractor-fan started whirring above my head. I had forgotten that the switch was dual-purpose and actuated the fan as well as the light. Actually, it was more than a whirring sound I was hearing. There was a slight rattle from the fan, as well – probably due to a worn bearing.

I was concerned that the noise may have disturbed Mark. There was little chance of that, though. As a rule, he swims beneath the surface, and usually finishes up with the blankets well over his head.

Besides which, the bathroom door was tight shut, and the mere flushing of the toilet would not create a bigger racket than was being caused by the extractor-fan.

I flushed the toilet…

I wondered what time it was, here in the United States. Should I take a quick look?

My watch was on the dressing table. If I left the bathroom door open slightly, I would be able to see the time in the half-light from the bathroom.

The toilet cistern was still re-filling. I waited for the hissing to stop, then, disregarding the rattling whirr of the fan, I ducked quickly out of the bathroom.

In the semi-darkness, I picked up my watch and blinked obliquely at its face, which was dimly illumined in the bounced light from the bathroom. It was seven o’clock.

A bit early, really – a little too early for holidaymakers to be dragging themselves out of bed. And I wanted Mark to wake up ‘naturally’, in his own time…

There was nothing for it but to go back to bed for an hour – or until Mark came alive.

I switched our room back into silent darkness and groped my way back to bed. Not to sleep. To await daylight. Or for my son to resurface…

I don’t know how long I lay there. It was as if I was watching a film show. My restless mind played ceaselessly with colourful pictures my imagination – working overtime – was conjuring up about the odyssey upon which I was about to embark.

What was the scenario that was likely to lead me into the experience of a lifetime? I had no idea what was in store. Apart from the cousin-seeking detour, which would be taking us soon through the Rocky Mountains, Mark had not discussed with me any specific itinerary.

I decided that, because I was right here beside him, he was restraining the outpourings of his own enthusiasm – wanting me to see for myself amazing natural happenings, or breathtaking spectacles, without the doubtful benefit of his probably inadequate descriptions acting as precursors.

Mark’s bed creaked as he turned over in his sleep. I heard the soft sigh that comes of a sleeper who has adjusted to a new and more comfortable position.

I hoped for a moment that he was waking up. But he wasn’t.

I lay there for what must have been over an hour. It was at least eight o’clock by now, surely…

I looked towards the window. What time does it get light, for God’s sake? Colorado Time is worse than British Summer Time!

I pondered that outside our dark and quiet room was another life. Potentially, it was a thrilling, exciting kind of life. America was beckoning with a giant forefinger.

Yet here I lay, trapped and frustrated, inside a suffocating black shroud.

I could stand it no longer. I had to break out.

I couldn’t shake Mark. That seemed a bit heartless. On the other hand, I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to let him sleep on until lunchtime. We had a lot of shopping to do before we began out trek in earnest, so it was better to be up and about…

I made up my mind. I switched on my reading-lamp, bounced out of bed, and made my way to the bathroom. On went the light and the rattling extractor-fan. I left the door wide open.

A great shaft of illumination spilled out onto the luggage corner and deflected to merge with that from my reading-lamp. Stultifying darkness was gone. I felt free and alive. My soaring, runaway spirit could now make preparations for the heady prospect of facing my first full day in America!

I turned on the taps and let the water rush forcefully into the washbowl. I watched it swirl cleanly around the smooth, white, sloping sides of the porcelain before it gurgled merrily down the plughole to pursue its inevitable destiny.

I brushed my teeth, had a quick wash, and began to towel myself dry. While I was doing so, I stepped out of the bathroom to take a glance in Mark’s direction. The edge of the blanket near the unoccupied pillow was beginning to move. It looked like he might be about to break surface…

I watched gleefully as my son’s tousled brown hair slowly came into view. Finally, his head lifted. He made a supreme effort and, laboriously, managed to turn his face towards me.

“Dad”, he mumbled. “What are you doing? You’ll wake everybody up.”

“I’m having a wash”, I replied. “It’s eight o’clock – time to get up.”

Mark reached for his watch. He squinted painfully at the time. Then he peered back at me.

“What are you going on about? It’s only half-past-two…!”

For a second or two I couldn’t take in what he was saying.

“How can it be half-past-two? It was seven o’clock when I checked my watch, and that was over an hour ago!”

“You’d better check again. It must have stopped, or something.”

Mark pulled the blankets back over his head and went back to sleep.

I went over to the dressing table. He was right. Two-thirty. But how could it be? It had definitely said seven o’clock.

Then I caught on.

Earlier, I’d examined my watch in semi-darkness. When I picked it up it was upside down! It had been reading one-thirty, but upside down it would have seemed like seven o’clock.

Idiot!

Then I realised something else. For the first time in my life, I was experiencing the effects of the phenomenon known to all intrepid air-travellers as…jet lag.

My body clock was telling me I shouldn’t be asleep. I should be up and about. Jet -lag, together with my upside down watch, had been telling me to get up!

Poor Mark. And I thought I was being kind…

Mark had slid back into his cocoon, utterly resigned to his fate. Three weeks with his old man, and this was only the first day!

I slipped quickly into the bathroom. I put out the light and quietened the fan. Sheepishly, I crawled back into bed. I reached up and pulled the cord on my reading-lamp. All-enveloping darkness enfolded me, once again, to its triumphant bosom.

My head touched the pillow. Faraway, I heard someone snoring.

I think it was me.

Out West: Chapter 10

Half an hour later we were cleaned up and ready to eat. It had stopped snowing, but the Colorado air still had a bite to it and I was wearing my new, hard-weather anorak, which Mark had brought back for me as a present. The anorak was a sort of double-barrelled affair consisting of a warm, woollen, lumber jacket that zipped into an outer coat of tough, navy-blue nylon. I drew the zip to the top of the anorak’s ear-covering collar.

“Where are we going?” I asked my son.

“Dunno”, he shrugged. “I know as much about Denver as you do. We’ll call in at the first decent place we come to.”

He started the engine and adjusted the gearshift. The car rolled slowly over a thin layer of crackling snow towards the car-park exit.

Mark chose a left turn and joined a long line of slow-moving vehicles, their exhausts steaming white in the frosty air. We had travelled no further than five hundred yards before we spotted ‘Denny’s.’

We swept off the road onto the diner’s small forecourt.

‘Denny’s’ was to become our favourite coffee-stop in the few days we stayed in Denver – both at the beginning, and at the end of our trip to the United States.

Through the large polished windows, this bright little diner looked ‘comfortable.’ It seemed the sort of establishment where you could order a coffee and read a book. And nobody would bother you.

We pushed open the glass-fronted doors and walked into a small, square vestibule where my nostrils were assailed at once by a delightful variety of appetizing cooking odours. They seemed to be drifting from an unseen kitchen situated to one side of the well-filled dining room.

My taste buds reacted at once. I began to look forward with a keen and eager appetite to whatever gastronomic treasures that ‘Denny’s’ was about to spread before us.

A pretty blonde, in waitress uniform, was bent over a table making notes on her order-pad. She looked up as we entered and her blue eyes sparked off an electric welcome.

Pocketing her order-pad, Blondie came towards us. Her smile was wide and brilliant.

“Hi, guys”, she chirruped, as if greeting two old friends. Where would you like to sit?”

I’ll remember her always, our little fair-haired waitress. Somehow, her cheerful greeting and her easy friendliness cut through my self-conscious timidity and dispersed any lingering doubts I may have had regarding my right to a place in the American sun. As she led us to a table, I noticed I had been dead right about ‘Denny’s…’

In one corner sat a middle-aged man. He was alone. In front of him was a cup of coffee. He was reading a book.