"And I said, "Daddy, I'm so afraid
There's no guarantee in the plans I've made
And if I should fail who will pay my way back home?"
And he said, "That's my job. That's what I do.
Everything I do is because of you, to keep you safe
with me. That's my job you see."
Conway Twitty
When my mother fell ill and had to leave assisted living for the hospital and then the nursing home, and I walked in to find her shivering, uncovered, her blanket on a nearby chair that may just as well have been in another country, I made the decision to take a family medical leave from work and move her home to die. The thought of her being alone, possibly scared, or in need was too much to bear. To get a call that she was gone, that nobody had been with her was too much to be borne. No, she was not perfect. As Mitch Album observed, "All parent damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair." But she was my mother, and she loved me as best she could.
Dying alone or cold and untended was not going to happen to her. Her childhood may have been a living hell, but her dying would not. I would do for her as I did my husband: take her home to die. Watching staff make her get up to meet federal regulations when she just wanted to rest was unbearable. At 99 one deserves to be able to lie in bed and move onward without being tortured into eating a bite or two of food that you don't want because you can't go back to bed unless you do or sitting up to prevent pneumonia and extending your life for a month all the way pleading for surcease. Old age, you see, is different than illness. There is no recovery. As my mother told me, she was tired. I did not want her to go, I grieved her going, but it was time for her to go. Life had become a burden, not a joy, and there was no way to reverse that trend. I could, however, let her know that I loved her and that I would use my time to care for her as she cared for me.
Dying alone or cold and untended was not going to happen to her. Her childhood may have been a living hell, but her dying would not. I would do for her as I did my husband: take her home to die. Watching staff make her get up to meet federal regulations when she just wanted to rest was unbearable. At 99 one deserves to be able to lie in bed and move onward without being tortured into eating a bite or two of food that you don't want because you can't go back to bed unless you do or sitting up to prevent pneumonia and extending your life for a month all the way pleading for surcease. Old age, you see, is different than illness. There is no recovery. As my mother told me, she was tired. I did not want her to go, I grieved her going, but it was time for her to go. Life had become a burden, not a joy, and there was no way to reverse that trend. I could, however, let her know that I loved her and that I would use my time to care for her as she cared for me.
While she did not last long after I took her home, a few weeks, I had lots of time to think as I cared for her. Brevets, perhaps, prepared me for the hours with no true sleep: a few minutes snatched here or there, occasionally a half hour, but never a night. As I sat, it saddened me to think that there were so many things she wanted to do that she denied herself, and how I wish she had spent it doing the things she wanted to do, making memories and having experiences that would have enriched her. Unlike my father who divorced us children when he divorced her, giving us less time or thought and grieving us less than I would the family dog, my mother worried about us and tried to protect us in the only way she knew. She saved the little money she had to leave a small inheritance. In the end, rightly or wrongly, I suppose that meant more to her than the things she could have done for herself. Being a victim of the Great Depression and severe poverty growing up, being unable to say I love you, she showed it the only way she was able: the things she did for me throughout my life, the hard won wisdom she shared, and this small inheritance.
I vow to not make the same mistake despite knowing she would turn in her grave over what I am about to do. The children and I will spend the inheritance on a trip, a memory that I hope will last them the rest of the their lives, the last of many gifts they received from my mother. I determine to return to England, my home for a year when I was nine, and to Scotland, a place we visited during our time there, and I will take the children with me. And I have always told my children that I love them because I do and I want them to know it, for it to seep into their pores and being that someone truly cares about them. As Mary Wollstonecraft said, "To have, in this uncertain world, some stay that cannot be undermined is of the utmost importance." I text it, I e-mail it, and I say it to them regularly despite the fact that they are grown. And I hope I show it, that they are wise enough to see that the mistakes I made were never made maliciously or purposefully, but were mistakes, the mistakes that all parents make to some degree because parents are human and come with their own set of baggage. Perhaps there is a tad of guilt in my decision, for the vacations not taken while they were small, the things we could not afford, but my husband and I were determined that they would have a college education and they would have it without coming out in debt, and since neither of us were huge wage earners, this meant deciding what was important and doing without. But we were successful, more so than we expected to be with Jeff getting a scholarship that covered almost everything. And perhaps I am more like my mother than I would like to admit, for while I admired my mother, loved my mother, like most daughters I struggled not to be like my mother.
I vow to not make the same mistake despite knowing she would turn in her grave over what I am about to do. The children and I will spend the inheritance on a trip, a memory that I hope will last them the rest of the their lives, the last of many gifts they received from my mother. I determine to return to England, my home for a year when I was nine, and to Scotland, a place we visited during our time there, and I will take the children with me. And I have always told my children that I love them because I do and I want them to know it, for it to seep into their pores and being that someone truly cares about them. As Mary Wollstonecraft said, "To have, in this uncertain world, some stay that cannot be undermined is of the utmost importance." I text it, I e-mail it, and I say it to them regularly despite the fact that they are grown. And I hope I show it, that they are wise enough to see that the mistakes I made were never made maliciously or purposefully, but were mistakes, the mistakes that all parents make to some degree because parents are human and come with their own set of baggage. Perhaps there is a tad of guilt in my decision, for the vacations not taken while they were small, the things we could not afford, but my husband and I were determined that they would have a college education and they would have it without coming out in debt, and since neither of us were huge wage earners, this meant deciding what was important and doing without. But we were successful, more so than we expected to be with Jeff getting a scholarship that covered almost everything. And perhaps I am more like my mother than I would like to admit, for while I admired my mother, loved my mother, like most daughters I struggled not to be like my mother.
There are times when I worry that I raised my children to be too cautious, to not take risks, to be too conservative (not politically speaking), to not see how high they could truly fly as heights require the risk of falling. How do you balance safety with growth? Both are responsible adults, self-supporting, independent. Still, I don't want them not to try new things, to experience the world at her fullest, because they might fail. I want them to stretch their wings, to fly, to feel the wind on their faces, to experience life's sweetness and bitterness. And I want them to know that like the Conway Twitty song, I will be there if their flight results in a tumble, at least as long as I am able. I, personally, have lived a life that was too cautious, afraid of failure, afraid of newness, afraid of change. For my children, as most parents do, I want more.
So the trip is arranged. Tiffany and I will fly over and meet my son, Jeff, and his wife, Lena, in London. I will see some of the sights I saw there as a child, and I will see sights I have never seen before. And I will do all this while I still have my physical health and before my mind has faded and dimmed further than it already has. I can only give them this memory, however. It will be up to them to appreciate it and, perhaps, build upon it, learn from it.
Prior to leaving, I Googled the house where we lived when I was small, 5A Copse Hill, Wimbledon, but it appears to be gone now or changed so as to be unrecognizable. For a moment, I think of the lonely child that lived there, separated from her siblings for the first time, from friends, in a new country, alone at home after school for the first time, riding her stick horse wildly around the back yard garden, devouring "The Secret Garden" and "Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass" over and over again. Soaking up British history which appealed to my imagination. Sailing my wooden boat at the Commons pond. Making my Guy Fawkes for Guy Fawkes day and going with my parents to set it on fire at the Commons which drew the constable.
The school I attended, however, which I expected to be gone and demolished, remains and has flourished: "The Rowans." I will not see it on this trip, time is just too scheduled and too limited, but I do learn that the Rowan is a type of tree with bright red berries, a fact I had not brought home with me. I remember my teacher, Cliffy, and how we students all planted flower bulbs in the school garden that fall and got to see them rise in their glory during the spring, tulips and daffodils and hyacinths, a riot of color, red, purple, white, and orange spilling out against the gentle green of spring grass, my first experience in the joy of helping things grow. I think of the old woman who lived upstairs, quietly rocking in her rocking chair, patiently teaching me to knit while the other children were at recess. The time I got sick and they asked if I wanted warm milk and learned that they truly meant warm milk and not hot chocolate. My trip will trigger more of these memories, will restore part of my childhood that I had forgotten.
When we arrive, the British accent flows over me, almost as if it is welcoming me, making me realize that without knowing it, I retained some of the unique phrasing, a turn of words that I hear here occasionally. But still everything is different. I am glad that a friend of mine, Bill Pustow, recommended that I read, "The Road to Little Dribbling" by Bill Bryson. I think it is interesting that while we know that things change, expect things to change, we do not have this expectation of things from our childhood. It is as if somehow we expect those things from our youth to remain the same, frozen and immutable. And of course, life is change, childhood homes and places change, memories can be incomplete or false, whether our personality is the type that likes it or not, and the book reminded me of this, tempering my expectations so as not to leave me disappointed.
The tour company we used, for I was assured that this was the most reasonable way to travel and my funds are limited, whisks us to the hotel where Tiffany and I wait for Jeff and Lena, and when they arrive we embark on what will be, in my opinion, the best two days of the trip. These days we did what we wanted to do when we wanted to do. I suspect that in the end, I am not a good candidate for most tours liking my freedom. Perhaps if our guide had been more knowledgeable about her country, but while a very sweet young lady, she is not well versed in her history, and I do so adore a good storyteller. It is one thing I desperately miss about my husband. And again, in the end I think that tours are probably not the best way for me to travel with my personality.
Tiffany accompanies us the first day, but has plans to go to a Dr. Who exhibition the following day, something that does not interest the rest of us as much as seeing London sights. We are staying in Hammersmith. The first thing that strikes me are all the bicycles. Bicyclists pass in an endless stream. Bicycles are parked everywhere. It is delightful. Some riders are on road bikes, and some are not. Some are in kits, some are not. Some are thin and some are not so thin. But all are riding. It strikes me that I will be almost two weeks with a bicycle, something that has not happened since I was injured in an automobile accident. I take a moment to grieve and to steel myself for the inevitable moodiness that accompanies the lack of regular, physical exercise. Yes, I am an addict. However difficult it may be to make myself go out the door at times, I like my endorphin fix from riding my bike. And if I were by myself, I would manage a ride or two while here, but not this time.
The first day, like most of the trip, is a blur. History surrounds me. We take the tube, marveling at the efficiency of transportation here, and then walk taking in Buckingham Palace and St. James Park. I begin by Googling statues that we come upon only to give this up rather quickly for their are so many and I can't retain the information the computer is feeding me. I think how I wish I had a story teller with me, someone who knew the history of things. I think of two of the men I knew in college, one I dated and one I did not, but both had minds that retained so many facts. I used to have good memorization skills, but I don't retain so well for lengthy periods, particularly now, but I love to listen to the stories.
The flowers are incredibly beautiful and lush and I resolve to give tuberous begonias, what appear to be a mainstay, another chance, though the hotter climate at home will likely render them less lush. The grass is green and accents the flowers which are planted in such a way that there often seems to be a pattern. The second day, while Tiffany is off doing her Dr. Who thing in Cardiff, Jeff and Lena treat me to the Tower of London, something they know that I have been absolutely rabid to see. It is crowded, but that is the price you pay to see things, particularly I suppose this time of year. Lena tells me that August is when most of Europe takes their vacation. On the way in, I am the only one who seems to notice a hand reaching through a crack in the stone wall. It is not a real hand, but somehow it captures the desperation and hopelessness so many must have felt upon imprisonment there. From my youth, I remember the phrase, "Abandon hope all ye who enter here." In some places it is almost as if the strong emotions became part of the walls, the very being of the place. But then it is just my overly vivid imagination running rampant.
We come upon two of the ravens and I remember from childhood that the ravens must never leave the tower. They are obviously tame and, being quite plump, well cared for. I Google it to confirm and briefly think how computers have changed our world. I see the outside of the tower where Sir Thomas Moore was kept, though from the outside, and resolve to read more about him, this man who died for his beliefs and his refusal to recognize Henry VIII as the head of the church. Ann Boleyn was kept here, Henry's second wife, the mother of Elizabeth. We miss her beheading spot, but I remember it from childhood, shivering as I went by, not yet recognizing the significance of the break with Rome. We pass where the bodies were found that people believe were the bodies of the two little princes, and I vividly remember my mother telling me that story and reading Josephine Tey's book when I was older. Briefly I wonder if there is still a group that meets to discuss this mystery, and whether the princes were murdered by Richard or Henry. Power and what it drives us to. God help those who stand in the way. I don't think that time has helped us to conquer our baser instincts. There are the Thomas Moore's of course, but they are the exception rather than the rule and always will be. Most of us are not the stuff of which martyrs are made. We stay many hours, but still do not get to see everything I would like to see, but we are hungry.
Meals here and throughout the trip surprise me. Most of the places we eat in seem to make meals an occasion. You expect to wait 15 minutes to order while your waiter is obviously talking to co-workers and horsing around. Then you wait another half hour while the food is prepared. I wonder aloud to the children if the relaxed attitude helps worker retention or if they have the same problem with retaining workers as we do at home. And the food is so different, mostly good, but very different. There are, of course, McDonalds and KFC's and other fast food chains, but we have no desire to frequent these places on vacation though I will admit that by the end of my stay, I long for food I am familiar with. One of my multitudinous faults is a bland palate that does not enjoy the introduction of new or unfamiliar foods. This combined with the children's vegetarianism sometimes makes meals difficult throughout the trip, but we manage.
Following our meal, we walk along the Thames a bit and are accosted during our admiration of a monument to someone for their antislavery work. A young man comes up, dark skinned and with raven black hair reaching to his shoulders, and begins ranting about how Great Britain was involved in slavery well into the 1900's. I am uncomfortable because he seems so forceful, hammering me with statements and questions, and perhaps, I am shamed to admit, due to his unusual dress, a brightly colored red vest, short, with no shirt underneath. I worry more as I have the children with me and I don't know where all this is going, but he eventually departs and we proceed on our way.
Another thing that causes Tiffany and I much amusement during the trip are the plumbing differences. Whoever gets the first shower has the pleasure of trying to figure out how to turn the shower on. This is complicated at our first hotel because, as we only realize later after beginning to get a grip of the plumbing differences, it was broken and not working right. I am proud at the end of the trip when I have figured out why there are different buttons on the back of the commode and she has not. Oh, I quite adore the differences.
The following day we join the group to head toward Edinbourgh with numerous stops and overnights along the way. We briefly visit Stamford, York, and Leeds before coming to the Scottish border. Terrain begins to change. Hills and heather and sheep, everywhere there seem to be sheep. Our guide explains that the colors on the sheep are put there by the owners. She said that the underside of the male is colored by the farmer and the color rubs off on any female he mates with so the farmer knows who has been mounted. The hills begin to color purple with heather, and I dream of walking them one day knowing full well that in all likelihood I never will. For I am not rich and my time, alas, is not yet my own. As I tell the cats as I go to work most mornings, someone has to work to buy cat food;-)
One day we pass a sheep dog herding competition. Oh, how I wish I were on my own so that I could stop and watch. This is one of the most frustrating things about the trip: so much to see and so little time to see it and to explore. The scenery here is stunning and yet again I dream of bicycling these roads. I see no bicycles out here until we near Edinburgh. I dream of Mary, Queen of Scotts, almost a new born when she became queen, and Lord Bothwell and Lord Darnley. As always, I wonder how she chose Lord Darnley. How complicated life must have been. I vaguely remember that her son, Jamie, became King of England, and I think I remember that he was raised Protestant, but I don't remember if his is the blood that lead to the currently royal family. My tour guide, alas, does not know; but a tourist from New Zealand is able to explain what happens, at least in fact, for he does not appear to be a story teller.
In Edinburgh, we once again separate from the group for part of two days, walking the streets that are jammed with people, seeing parts of the castle, and climbing Arthur's Seat. I make it most of the way up before being struck by my fear of heights and deciding to retreat before I became even more uncomfortable. I see nobody but young people doing the climb and I wonder why. It is not an easy climb but it is not that difficult. The view is spectacular. On the way we passed Edinburgh castle which we will visit the following day. It is the time of the Fringe Festival, and there are entertainment opportunities galore. Alas, our time is so limited. Normally I would hate these crowds, and I would not want to live amongst such crowds, but for now it is exciting, a change from my rather dull, regular life. I take the time to pick up a few gifts for friends at home: shortbread and wool scarves woven in the most lovely patterns.
While in Edinburgh, we go to see the Scottish Tattoo at the entrance to the castle. Great flames shoot from the torches lit on the walls of the castle, and I can almost image that it is as it must have been eons ago when it was a working, thriving living place. There would have been no electricity and the torches perhaps would seem to burn even more splendidly. It is evening and we are told there will be a special surprise. And there is: Prince Charles and Prince William are attending. A red mist peels out of the castle entrance as the tartan clad bagpipers march out, and what a spectacle it is. Luckily, I packed for this event as we would otherwise have been cold, and we were lucky as the promised rain failed to materialize. My personal favorite, other than the bagpipes, were the Japanese band with their lighted fairy wings and graceful dancing. I think how glad I am that I have family to enjoy this moment with, savoring walking through the streets afterward with the hum of conversation and laughter floating in the air as we make our way back to where we are staying.
When we leave Edinburgh, we head toward the Lake District and stop for just a moment at Lake Windermere in Chester. It is so lovely, and I renew my vow to one day do a walking tour of the lake country, home to Wordsworth, where I can "wander lonely as a cloud." The Romantic poets always appealed to me: Shelley, Lord Byron, despite what some have termed the pathetic fallacy. Label me pathetic I suppose. Down the road a bit, we visit his grave and have lunch at a small cafe overlooking a stream. It is so very scenic and beautiful.
We return to England seeing Stratford upon Avon, Bath, and Stone Henge before returning to London. And now, as I have so many things I treasured from childhood, I have tried to give a taste of them to my children, the people I most love in this world. I remember climbing on the stones at Stone Henge as a child and wondering if there were blood sacrifices as my imagination ran wild with a reality that I knew nothing about. Now the stones are roped off, only to be seen at a distance unless you are a Druid at the summer solstice. How odd to think that Druids actually exist. I have certainly never met one, at least not one that made his or her beliefs known to me. How odd how much things have changed. Are the changes due to people or a better understanding of the damage we did not know we were doing? Probably a combination of the two.
It is good to arrive home, despite being quite thoroughly searched by TSA on my way back into the country. But the things we do, particularly new or different things, are necessary to help us define what we actually want to do, and I have found that I want to travel a bit more, to see different places and different ways of doing things. Will it be different doing this alone? Certainly. And perhaps I will find that it is not for me, but for now, at least, I walk alone and there is only one way to find out. Oh, come, retirement, and with it time, precious time, to spend on doing things that I want to do. A gift my husband's death and my mother's death brought, the realization about how very precious and limited our time truly is. Thank you, mother, and thank you, Lloyd, that is perhaps, along with the other pearls of wisdom, your dearest gift to me. The words of one of my favorite Mary Chapin Carpentar songs, " I had to learn to be grateful, I had to learn how to see, mistakes that might have been fatal are gifts I now receive."
So the trip is arranged. Tiffany and I will fly over and meet my son, Jeff, and his wife, Lena, in London. I will see some of the sights I saw there as a child, and I will see sights I have never seen before. And I will do all this while I still have my physical health and before my mind has faded and dimmed further than it already has. I can only give them this memory, however. It will be up to them to appreciate it and, perhaps, build upon it, learn from it.
Prior to leaving, I Googled the house where we lived when I was small, 5A Copse Hill, Wimbledon, but it appears to be gone now or changed so as to be unrecognizable. For a moment, I think of the lonely child that lived there, separated from her siblings for the first time, from friends, in a new country, alone at home after school for the first time, riding her stick horse wildly around the back yard garden, devouring "The Secret Garden" and "Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass" over and over again. Soaking up British history which appealed to my imagination. Sailing my wooden boat at the Commons pond. Making my Guy Fawkes for Guy Fawkes day and going with my parents to set it on fire at the Commons which drew the constable.
The school I attended, however, which I expected to be gone and demolished, remains and has flourished: "The Rowans." I will not see it on this trip, time is just too scheduled and too limited, but I do learn that the Rowan is a type of tree with bright red berries, a fact I had not brought home with me. I remember my teacher, Cliffy, and how we students all planted flower bulbs in the school garden that fall and got to see them rise in their glory during the spring, tulips and daffodils and hyacinths, a riot of color, red, purple, white, and orange spilling out against the gentle green of spring grass, my first experience in the joy of helping things grow. I think of the old woman who lived upstairs, quietly rocking in her rocking chair, patiently teaching me to knit while the other children were at recess. The time I got sick and they asked if I wanted warm milk and learned that they truly meant warm milk and not hot chocolate. My trip will trigger more of these memories, will restore part of my childhood that I had forgotten.
When we arrive, the British accent flows over me, almost as if it is welcoming me, making me realize that without knowing it, I retained some of the unique phrasing, a turn of words that I hear here occasionally. But still everything is different. I am glad that a friend of mine, Bill Pustow, recommended that I read, "The Road to Little Dribbling" by Bill Bryson. I think it is interesting that while we know that things change, expect things to change, we do not have this expectation of things from our childhood. It is as if somehow we expect those things from our youth to remain the same, frozen and immutable. And of course, life is change, childhood homes and places change, memories can be incomplete or false, whether our personality is the type that likes it or not, and the book reminded me of this, tempering my expectations so as not to leave me disappointed.
The tour company we used, for I was assured that this was the most reasonable way to travel and my funds are limited, whisks us to the hotel where Tiffany and I wait for Jeff and Lena, and when they arrive we embark on what will be, in my opinion, the best two days of the trip. These days we did what we wanted to do when we wanted to do. I suspect that in the end, I am not a good candidate for most tours liking my freedom. Perhaps if our guide had been more knowledgeable about her country, but while a very sweet young lady, she is not well versed in her history, and I do so adore a good storyteller. It is one thing I desperately miss about my husband. And again, in the end I think that tours are probably not the best way for me to travel with my personality.
Tiffany accompanies us the first day, but has plans to go to a Dr. Who exhibition the following day, something that does not interest the rest of us as much as seeing London sights. We are staying in Hammersmith. The first thing that strikes me are all the bicycles. Bicyclists pass in an endless stream. Bicycles are parked everywhere. It is delightful. Some riders are on road bikes, and some are not. Some are in kits, some are not. Some are thin and some are not so thin. But all are riding. It strikes me that I will be almost two weeks with a bicycle, something that has not happened since I was injured in an automobile accident. I take a moment to grieve and to steel myself for the inevitable moodiness that accompanies the lack of regular, physical exercise. Yes, I am an addict. However difficult it may be to make myself go out the door at times, I like my endorphin fix from riding my bike. And if I were by myself, I would manage a ride or two while here, but not this time.
The first day, like most of the trip, is a blur. History surrounds me. We take the tube, marveling at the efficiency of transportation here, and then walk taking in Buckingham Palace and St. James Park. I begin by Googling statues that we come upon only to give this up rather quickly for their are so many and I can't retain the information the computer is feeding me. I think how I wish I had a story teller with me, someone who knew the history of things. I think of two of the men I knew in college, one I dated and one I did not, but both had minds that retained so many facts. I used to have good memorization skills, but I don't retain so well for lengthy periods, particularly now, but I love to listen to the stories.
The flowers are incredibly beautiful and lush and I resolve to give tuberous begonias, what appear to be a mainstay, another chance, though the hotter climate at home will likely render them less lush. The grass is green and accents the flowers which are planted in such a way that there often seems to be a pattern. The second day, while Tiffany is off doing her Dr. Who thing in Cardiff, Jeff and Lena treat me to the Tower of London, something they know that I have been absolutely rabid to see. It is crowded, but that is the price you pay to see things, particularly I suppose this time of year. Lena tells me that August is when most of Europe takes their vacation. On the way in, I am the only one who seems to notice a hand reaching through a crack in the stone wall. It is not a real hand, but somehow it captures the desperation and hopelessness so many must have felt upon imprisonment there. From my youth, I remember the phrase, "Abandon hope all ye who enter here." In some places it is almost as if the strong emotions became part of the walls, the very being of the place. But then it is just my overly vivid imagination running rampant.
We come upon two of the ravens and I remember from childhood that the ravens must never leave the tower. They are obviously tame and, being quite plump, well cared for. I Google it to confirm and briefly think how computers have changed our world. I see the outside of the tower where Sir Thomas Moore was kept, though from the outside, and resolve to read more about him, this man who died for his beliefs and his refusal to recognize Henry VIII as the head of the church. Ann Boleyn was kept here, Henry's second wife, the mother of Elizabeth. We miss her beheading spot, but I remember it from childhood, shivering as I went by, not yet recognizing the significance of the break with Rome. We pass where the bodies were found that people believe were the bodies of the two little princes, and I vividly remember my mother telling me that story and reading Josephine Tey's book when I was older. Briefly I wonder if there is still a group that meets to discuss this mystery, and whether the princes were murdered by Richard or Henry. Power and what it drives us to. God help those who stand in the way. I don't think that time has helped us to conquer our baser instincts. There are the Thomas Moore's of course, but they are the exception rather than the rule and always will be. Most of us are not the stuff of which martyrs are made. We stay many hours, but still do not get to see everything I would like to see, but we are hungry.
Meals here and throughout the trip surprise me. Most of the places we eat in seem to make meals an occasion. You expect to wait 15 minutes to order while your waiter is obviously talking to co-workers and horsing around. Then you wait another half hour while the food is prepared. I wonder aloud to the children if the relaxed attitude helps worker retention or if they have the same problem with retaining workers as we do at home. And the food is so different, mostly good, but very different. There are, of course, McDonalds and KFC's and other fast food chains, but we have no desire to frequent these places on vacation though I will admit that by the end of my stay, I long for food I am familiar with. One of my multitudinous faults is a bland palate that does not enjoy the introduction of new or unfamiliar foods. This combined with the children's vegetarianism sometimes makes meals difficult throughout the trip, but we manage.
Following our meal, we walk along the Thames a bit and are accosted during our admiration of a monument to someone for their antislavery work. A young man comes up, dark skinned and with raven black hair reaching to his shoulders, and begins ranting about how Great Britain was involved in slavery well into the 1900's. I am uncomfortable because he seems so forceful, hammering me with statements and questions, and perhaps, I am shamed to admit, due to his unusual dress, a brightly colored red vest, short, with no shirt underneath. I worry more as I have the children with me and I don't know where all this is going, but he eventually departs and we proceed on our way.
Another thing that causes Tiffany and I much amusement during the trip are the plumbing differences. Whoever gets the first shower has the pleasure of trying to figure out how to turn the shower on. This is complicated at our first hotel because, as we only realize later after beginning to get a grip of the plumbing differences, it was broken and not working right. I am proud at the end of the trip when I have figured out why there are different buttons on the back of the commode and she has not. Oh, I quite adore the differences.
The following day we join the group to head toward Edinbourgh with numerous stops and overnights along the way. We briefly visit Stamford, York, and Leeds before coming to the Scottish border. Terrain begins to change. Hills and heather and sheep, everywhere there seem to be sheep. Our guide explains that the colors on the sheep are put there by the owners. She said that the underside of the male is colored by the farmer and the color rubs off on any female he mates with so the farmer knows who has been mounted. The hills begin to color purple with heather, and I dream of walking them one day knowing full well that in all likelihood I never will. For I am not rich and my time, alas, is not yet my own. As I tell the cats as I go to work most mornings, someone has to work to buy cat food;-)
One day we pass a sheep dog herding competition. Oh, how I wish I were on my own so that I could stop and watch. This is one of the most frustrating things about the trip: so much to see and so little time to see it and to explore. The scenery here is stunning and yet again I dream of bicycling these roads. I see no bicycles out here until we near Edinburgh. I dream of Mary, Queen of Scotts, almost a new born when she became queen, and Lord Bothwell and Lord Darnley. As always, I wonder how she chose Lord Darnley. How complicated life must have been. I vaguely remember that her son, Jamie, became King of England, and I think I remember that he was raised Protestant, but I don't remember if his is the blood that lead to the currently royal family. My tour guide, alas, does not know; but a tourist from New Zealand is able to explain what happens, at least in fact, for he does not appear to be a story teller.
In Edinburgh, we once again separate from the group for part of two days, walking the streets that are jammed with people, seeing parts of the castle, and climbing Arthur's Seat. I make it most of the way up before being struck by my fear of heights and deciding to retreat before I became even more uncomfortable. I see nobody but young people doing the climb and I wonder why. It is not an easy climb but it is not that difficult. The view is spectacular. On the way we passed Edinburgh castle which we will visit the following day. It is the time of the Fringe Festival, and there are entertainment opportunities galore. Alas, our time is so limited. Normally I would hate these crowds, and I would not want to live amongst such crowds, but for now it is exciting, a change from my rather dull, regular life. I take the time to pick up a few gifts for friends at home: shortbread and wool scarves woven in the most lovely patterns.
While in Edinburgh, we go to see the Scottish Tattoo at the entrance to the castle. Great flames shoot from the torches lit on the walls of the castle, and I can almost image that it is as it must have been eons ago when it was a working, thriving living place. There would have been no electricity and the torches perhaps would seem to burn even more splendidly. It is evening and we are told there will be a special surprise. And there is: Prince Charles and Prince William are attending. A red mist peels out of the castle entrance as the tartan clad bagpipers march out, and what a spectacle it is. Luckily, I packed for this event as we would otherwise have been cold, and we were lucky as the promised rain failed to materialize. My personal favorite, other than the bagpipes, were the Japanese band with their lighted fairy wings and graceful dancing. I think how glad I am that I have family to enjoy this moment with, savoring walking through the streets afterward with the hum of conversation and laughter floating in the air as we make our way back to where we are staying.
When we leave Edinburgh, we head toward the Lake District and stop for just a moment at Lake Windermere in Chester. It is so lovely, and I renew my vow to one day do a walking tour of the lake country, home to Wordsworth, where I can "wander lonely as a cloud." The Romantic poets always appealed to me: Shelley, Lord Byron, despite what some have termed the pathetic fallacy. Label me pathetic I suppose. Down the road a bit, we visit his grave and have lunch at a small cafe overlooking a stream. It is so very scenic and beautiful.
We return to England seeing Stratford upon Avon, Bath, and Stone Henge before returning to London. And now, as I have so many things I treasured from childhood, I have tried to give a taste of them to my children, the people I most love in this world. I remember climbing on the stones at Stone Henge as a child and wondering if there were blood sacrifices as my imagination ran wild with a reality that I knew nothing about. Now the stones are roped off, only to be seen at a distance unless you are a Druid at the summer solstice. How odd to think that Druids actually exist. I have certainly never met one, at least not one that made his or her beliefs known to me. How odd how much things have changed. Are the changes due to people or a better understanding of the damage we did not know we were doing? Probably a combination of the two.
It is good to arrive home, despite being quite thoroughly searched by TSA on my way back into the country. But the things we do, particularly new or different things, are necessary to help us define what we actually want to do, and I have found that I want to travel a bit more, to see different places and different ways of doing things. Will it be different doing this alone? Certainly. And perhaps I will find that it is not for me, but for now, at least, I walk alone and there is only one way to find out. Oh, come, retirement, and with it time, precious time, to spend on doing things that I want to do. A gift my husband's death and my mother's death brought, the realization about how very precious and limited our time truly is. Thank you, mother, and thank you, Lloyd, that is perhaps, along with the other pearls of wisdom, your dearest gift to me. The words of one of my favorite Mary Chapin Carpentar songs, " I had to learn to be grateful, I had to learn how to see, mistakes that might have been fatal are gifts I now receive."
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