On the next episode of Survivor

When Stephen and I were first dating, one of our mutually favourite Monty Python routines was the  SPAM sketch. "Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, SPAM lovely Spam, wonderful Spam!"

And so, as newlyweds, and just getting started in our small apartment in Omaha, Nebraska, one of our first purchases for the pantry was a genuine can of Spam.  We never intended to eat it, but kept it as a knick-knack on the shelf as a memento of our early days of shared humour.  Over time it became a symbol of our relative prosperity: we had never been too poor or too hungry to have to open it.

After about ten years and being relocated several times to different houses and kitchens, we noticed that the can was beginning to bulge! It had held pride of place in our home in each move, but by now long past its expiration date, it was time to dispose of it.  Somehow, simply buying a new grocery-store replacement lost the original significance, so we were resigned to simply and unceremoniously throw it out.  Later, Dad saw a novelty gift catalogue that featured the familiar SPAM can (with the key-turn opener on top and everything) that had been made into a battery operated clock. He had it shipped to our door.  Now, in our 30+ years of marriage, it sits in the Cleveland Place pantry reminding us that though we've had a few hardships along the way, we've never really suffered, we've survived.

Several years ago I travelled from New Jersey to New Brunswick on the tail end of a fierce winter nor'easter. Kathryn, Olivia and I drove in our minivan following snow plows, sand trucks, salt spreaders, and passing several abandoned vehicles that had skidded off the snow covered roadways. It took us about 20 hours to take the typically twelve-hour trip because of the road and travel conditions, and we finally arrived in Alma particularly road-weary.  We weren't surprised to find the driveway at Cleveland Place completely snowbound, so we parked next door where the wind had blown the church parking lot clear.  We waded through drifts to Cleveland Place only to find the normally unlocked door was locked!  Even the secret hiding place for the spare key only revealed an empty and cold disappointment, and we realized: we were locked out ....after midnight, below freezing, with no cell phone.

Undaunted, I announced we'd drive onward to the Gazebo (our three-season cottage) about 10 minutes away. We could start a fire and hunker down until morning, when we could round up a spare key from somewhere.  The drive took another 1/2 hour since we had to take a longer route (the minivan couldn't get up the hills of Alma with the recent and yet unplowed snow). Arriving at the Gazebo, we found that more drifting prevented us from driving right up to the door as we usually did.  So we parked on the road and hiked up the driveway through deep snow to get to the door (one that I did have a key for).   Finally inside, the three of us found ourselves in total darkness -- flicking the light switch uselessly, we remembered that the power had been shut off for the winter.  We lit a candle or two to shed light and as our eyes adjusted, we saw to our further dismay there were merely a few sticks of kindling and two small logs for the wood stove.  This would not get us warm, let alone keep us warm until morning.  Nevertheless, we set to the task of lighting the fire. The wood burned with the sound and the speed of a freight train, quickly reducing to ash while we huddled under sleeping bags.  The remainder of the woodpile outside was under several feet of frozen ice-covered snow, probably with the missing hatchet close by.

Unanimous with our complaints, we realized we couldn't stay and freeze until dawn, so we hoofed it back down the hill to the van and drove back toward Alma.  By now it was about three in the morning, and sliding sideways down the hills with absolutely no traction, we assumed our safest position for the night in the recently plowed parking lot of the general store, just a few doors down the street from Cleveland Place.  Sporadically snoozing and waking and freezing and running the engine to keep us warm, we spent the next several hours in fitful, uncomfortable bouts of sleep. When the store opened, we used their phone to call Dad to rescue us and deliver a spare key. 

There was no rest for the weary, however, since once Dad arrived almost two hours later, he employed the girls to shovel out the driveway, and chastised me for not choosing a window to carefully break and sending one of our skinny girls through it, to get ourselves inside.  Damned if you do, I thought to myself, damned if you don't.  But we survived.

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Alma in winter is a much different place than in the summer.  Many of the residents are seasonal, and spend winter in Florida or warmer points south.  Though there are plenty of winter activities -- amazing cross-country ski trails, pristine snowshoeing conditions, and miles of snowmobiling opportunities -- most of the tourism-supported businesses shut down.  Many of the fishing boats keep working, though, and being tide dependent (Alma has the highest tides in the world) the fellows going back and forth with their trucks or equipment on Main Street in front of Cleveland Place are scheduled by tide-time, not clock time, for their work at the village wharf.

The waters of the Bay of Fundy are some of the most treacherous in the world, too.  Winter fishing can be brutal.  The guys on their boats have to be strong; they have to withstand the rough seas and frigid waters, resist the harsh winter winds, haul the weighted lobster traps, and winch the scallop trollers -- all physically demanding non-stop activity in the open seas. Tough work for tough men.

Several years ago, we were enjoying the company of friends with a cheerful wee fire on a snowy, howling, winter night at Cleveland Place. We were wearing cozy pajama pants and slippers (as we certainly weren't going outdoors). Our house guests told us that the front storm door had come unlatched, and it wouldn't close tight now due to the snow that had blown in.

So Stephen -- just starting to be known in the village as a new resident -- grabbed the tiny metal shovel from the coal hearth and a short scarf that was handy, and shuffled out to the front door. There he tried to shoo away the drifting snow, free the threshold, and relatch the door.  He returned just a few minutes later, breathless, as the wind was cold and strong as it came straight off the ocean up to the front porch. He came back into the living room, paused, red-faced, and held up the tiny black shovel with a chagrined expression as he described for us all his perceived reactions of the fishermen passing by in their trucks watching him.  He could imagine them all shaking their heads on their way to the wharf at high tide, about to cast off a line into sub-freezing temperatures in white-capped waters, hauling eighty-pound lobster traps, and seeing Stephen, in thin pants, a dangling skinny scarf, and a T-shirt, out in the weather and battling the snow drifts with the smallest shovel ever known. "That's guy's never gonna survive a winter around here."

It's what you learn after you think you know it all that counts.

Some people learned everything they need to know in Kindergarten.  It has taken me a lot longer. 

When I was eleven, my sister and brother were already grown and out of the house, off on their own. I was the last one at home to join my folks when they took their annual holidays or weekend getaways.  With the precision, efficiency, and ranking of a military bivouac my folks had a familiar routine to prepare the camping equipment, chuck box, boat, tent equipment, and the one allotted piece of luggage per person.  For an upcoming trip, I knew that Dad would be home early from work, and we'd be leaving promptly at 3 p.m.  Somehow, I'd lost track of time, and before I knew it, I heard the garage door open, announcing his arrival.  I grabbed my suitcase and hustled it out to the car, and came back into the house where my mother gave me a few last-minute tasks.  Right on schedule Dad announced, "Let's GO!" and went out to the idling car with trailer in tow.  With my mum sitting shotgun, the dog panting and full of anticipation in the back seat, they began to pull away. Wishing I had just one more minute to put on my sneakers, but without time to even find them, I knew it was now or never, and ran after them down the street.  Dad slowed a little for me to jump in the moving car and we were off.  My entire vacation, I had just a pair of bedroom slippers to wear on the shores and campgrounds of northern Michigan.

Lesson learned: Promptness.


When I was very young, I was with my mother driving home during a cold steady rain in downtown Detroit at rush hour.  At a gridlocked intersection, we sat through several cycles of red/green lights while people stood at a corner bus stop just a few feet from our car.  As we waited our turn to get through the traffic light, an older woman rapped on my window, startling me.  Not knowing what to do, my mother calmly told me to open my window and see what she wanted.  Dripping, the woman stood looking at us, then leaned in slightly and asked for a ride.  Wide-eyed, I quickly looked at my mother and again back to the woman, while my mother cheerfully asked where she was going and then told me to unlock the back door so she could get in and sit in the back seat.  During the long ride, this elderly, soft-spoken black woman described how she took the bus daily, for two hours, to an affluent Detroit suburb to do housecleaning.  That day, with the traffic issues, she'd missed one of her bus connections.  My mother listened, drove her to the neighborhood, which was well out of our way, and then we went home, arriving too late for supper and long after my bedtime.  I sat silently during the long detour, while my mother and the gray-haired woman chatted. After we'd left the woman off, I asked my mother why she'd done that.  She simply remarked, "To be nice."

Lesson learned:  Kindness 


In high school in central rural Massachusetts, I worked two jobs.  One was as a respite provider for a large family who had a teen daughter with autistic-like developmental disabilities.  My job was to provide companionship to Michelle so other members of the family could be relieved from those demands, which often required constant attention.  Michelle and I usually found ourselves in the bustling kitchen, coloring, piecing jigsaw puzzles, painting fingernails, working clay, or helping with simple tasks for the family's meal preparation (It was at that table that I learned how to peel and chop an onion, and to this day EVERY time I cut into an onion, my memory takes me back to the Leroux family kitchen. Lesson learned: onion chopping).  For two or three hours, several days each week, she and I would keep company and I'd guide her through the job of setting the supper table for this large family -- routine was an important aspect for her in our afternoon activities.  For dinner, the family would gather, sometimes as many as ten of them.  I would often join them as they shared the events of their day, ate the meal, and worked as a family for clean-up, while including both Michelle and me in conversation, laughter, and routine.  The contrast to my quiet home (just my Mum, Dad and me those years) was glaring as this busy household of ten interacted with each other every single night.

Lesson learned: Family loyalty and devotion.


When Stephen and I lived in Omaha Nebraska in our early years together, he was soon to be transferred to Illinois to attend meteorology school for his job as a weather forecaster.  At the time, we were young, active members of the Unitarian Church, and enjoyed many opportunities for friendship and social outlets.  In the congregation we had several friendships, some still lasting to today.   At potlucks, meetings, and various church events we had become friendly with a couple who learned about our impending (though temporary) move; we would be gone for six months before returning to Omaha.  They took us aside, and sincerely offered their home to us for a few days when we came back and would need to get settled again.  It was a huge relief to us, and we kept in touch with the couple while we were away in Illinois.  Shortly after our arrival back in Omaha, exactly as anticipated, we sought out this couple and inquired about when we could take them up on their offer.  She was a doctor, and he was a lawyer, so we hoped to coordinate with their busy schedules.  To our surprise and disappointment, they decisively rescinded their offer, giving thin excuses.  We were left standing gap-jawed with few immediate options.  It all worked out for us, but it left an indelible impression.

Lesson learned: Integrity


Another member of our church called me shortly after we'd bought our home in Omaha saying we were practically neighbors, and invited me to visit with the kids anytime.  I was needy and eager for friendship and a companion, and so Hilma Lathrop immediately became our surrogate grandmother.  Welcoming our pop-in visits for tea, spontaneous shopping trips, and captivating us with her life stories and practical home-making skills, she embraced our children, and found humour in all things.  With me, she shared her recipes, wisdom, and heart.  One important recipe she shared was her long-time family soap recipe.  When I was washing my hands at her kitchen sink, I remarked at how wonderful the bar of soap felt, and she dismissively waved her hand and said, "Oh, that's just plain soap I make."  Astounded, I asked for the story, and she explained how it was made, and offered me a lesson.  For the following month, I collected bacon fat and beef drippings in a five-pound coffee can, and had the basic necessary ingredients to make a batch of soap for our every cleaning need.  From that first lesson, I've been making our own soap ever since.

Lesson learned: resourcefulness helps frugality.


My mother was smart funny.  Not practical funny.  She never played practical jokes, though she was often the victim of them in our household. She never insulted to be amusing, but had a clever, sharp sense of humour.

When my folks moved to Cleveland Place, there were several renovations and improvements to be made, most needing a lot of elbow grease and a fierce work ethic.  She thrived on both.  At some point in years past, the pantry's wooden counter tops had been covered with Formica and glued down  with black mastic.  It was a mean chore to remove and strip, but worth it as it revealed a warm chestnut-colored wood surface.  They eventually used this area to make bread and pastries for the Bed and Breakfast. Over time, excess flour filled the small cracks between the old boards.  When our cousin Max, who had lived in Cleveland Place for several years before my folks, was in the pantry he noticed the improvements and admired their work, appreciating the effort to return the counter and cabinet underneath to the original wood.  My mother called him over, opened the wide cabinet door, and showed the interior of the cupboard where large tubs of flour and staples were stored.  She then guided him to look closely at the wood surface that had been hidden beneath the Formica for so long.  As Max bent over and peered closely at the countertop, my mother quickly and purposefully slammed the cupboard door, sending a cloud of flour dust up into Max's face.  My mother took her work and cleaning very seriously, but she also very easily found humour.

Lesson learned: Look for humour and enjoy the laughter.


When Stephen and I were exploring the endless opportunities that New York City offered when we first moved to the area, we were dazzled by the lights, activities, street shows, spontaneity and random encounters each trip unveiled.  One crowd that attracted my attention was surrounding a quick-paced three-card monty game set up on a cardboard box.  As the dealer flipped and tossed cards, he asked spectators to point out where the hidden Queen had landed.  One man bet $10 and found her, and was awarded $10 more.  Many placed bets, and they usually won.  The lively game and crowd activity was a distraction, but I was amazed that I knew EVERY single time where the Queen was, no matter who in the crowd was betting.  I could have been winning money all that time! Before I knew it, the dealer pointed right to me and asked me where I thought that elusive Queen card was.  I knew, pointed to the card, and he exclaimed that I was RIGHT! He turned over the card to reveal the Queen, and, chagrined, told me I'd just won TWENTY dollars!!   I was immediately overcome with giddy excitement, and extended my hand to accept his $20 bill, but he held it up and cautioned that I had to prove that I had my own twenty to make it a legitimate bet.  No problem -- I was a winner! I quickly reached into my pocketbook and pulled out a twenty dollar bill -- the ONLY money we had that day -- and presented it.  As the dealer pinched my bill between his finger and thumb, Stephen leaned into my ear, and firmly and seriously said, "Do. not. let. go. of. that. money." so I pulled it back out of his firm pinch and said, "Thank you very much" as Stephen pulled me out of the crowd.

Lesson learned: Don't let excitement surpass common sense.


Last year we were visiting and working with Stephen's siblings in Massachusetts while settling their deceased mother's estate.  When we'd done all that we could we left their company and headed back to Canada, but just 10 miles away I realized I'd left behind a black leather glove.  Not just any glove, but a buttery Italian leather with a cashmere lining, of special sentimental value; our cousin Peter had given it to me as an elegant accessory.  It was a lovely gift, and typical of Peter's generosity toward me and our family.  Since Peter had died just earlier that year, the gloves were quite dear to me.  We immediately called back to the others to ask about it and explained why they were special.  Stephen's older sister, Anne, found it and to my relief said she'd mail it to us in Canada, saving us from turning back.

After several weeks with nothing in the post box from Anne, I asked about it, assuming with many things on her mind during that sad time, she'd simply forgotten about it.  But Anne again assured me that she'd send it that month.   Yet, now it's spring, and we've heard nothing back from her, no mail, no call back, no explanation, no glove....nothing.  Naturally, that leaves me entirely bewildered since it's really a keepsake more than a winter accessory -- one whose special value I had made very clear.
   
Lesson Learned: Keep your promises.


We like family games.  Board games, dice games, trivia, general knowledge, strategy, word games.  For Christmas one year, Olivia gave us a fun group party game she simply made out of wide rolls of cash register tape.  The premise is that everyone who has a paper roll starts by writing a short descriptive sentence at the top edge of the paper and passes it to the person seated next to them.  That person is then given one minute to draw a picture depicting the sentence.  When time is up, the initial sentence is folded down to be hidden, and the paper roll revealing only the drawing is passed to the next person, who looks at the drawing and composes a sentence describing what they see.  After one minute, the roll is passed on to the next person so at anytime there is only one drawing or one sentence showing.....and so on until all the rolls have been passed all around the entire group of four or more.  Then the tape is unrolled and hilarity ensues as all the drawings and sentences are revealed and the unavoidable misinterpretations are shared.

We played this game on Boxing Day with my dad, Wallace, who, once the rules were explained, demanded, "How do you WIN?"  Also joining the game was Dad's wife, Anna, Anna's adult son George, and his girlfriend Evita. Anna got an egg timer from the kitchen, and full of anticipation we started.  Olivia wrote a sentence, the hourglass was turned -- a minute goes by FAST!-- next in the circle, Anna took the paper and pencil and drew the picture -- this is becoming a fast-paced game -- "TIME!"  Next was Dad, who interpreted Anna's sketch and wrote down his sentence and passed the paper roll to George.  As the timer began dropping a minute's worth of sand, George carefully read what Dad wrote, and extended his hand to receive the pencil.  Time is of the essence, but Dad slowly looked at the pencil, and with raised eyebrows he slipped it into his shirt pocket, and quietly said, with a mischievous smirk "This is my pencil."

Lesson learned: Keep competition fair.



I've learned a lesson about learning lessons: you often learn them when you least expect them.

O Tannenbaum

For me, the holidays are times for creating happy memories, maintaining family traditions, and gathering loved ones around the hearth and table, often sharing good food, music, and exchanging special gifts. Since we've settled into Cleveland Place, I've enjoyed decking the halls – stringing up delicate heirloom Christmas ornaments, arranging centerpieces for the big meals, and setting candles on the windowsills to create a warm welcoming light for visitors or passersby.  Nearly every bedizening ornament has some kind of sentiment, keepsake value, or story.  I treat each one with care, and when I’m standing high on a ladder to reach the eaves to hang one, I think of the person or event that connects it to our family tree.

Sadly, this year starts with the loss of a family member by a fall from a ladder.  Given the time of year, I assume she was taking down her own special holiday decorations. She too may have been remembering loved ones, happy times, and special people.  I’d like to think she was full of happy thoughts of her own extended family; but now a sadly broken branch on a family tree.

For many years, our growing family lived far away from our origins, so we created some new traditions. If you’ve read in other blog entries about our Solstice events and not-so-traditional American Thanksgiving, then you know that gathering, eating, and laughing are integral elements to me for a successful get-together no matter the occasion.

A particular Christmastime in Alma Village with a group of friends and family remains a vivid memory of happy chaos.  It started out as a casual gathering for dinner, holiday glühwein, and some festive merrymaking with friends and family, featuring (among others):

• Wolfgang:  While vacationing from his home country of Germany to the Fundy area, Wolfie fell in love with our small fishing village and its rural lifestyle, and soon after moved to Alma.  Retired as concertmaster from the German Army, he sought out fellow musicians in our small community and quickly found a circle of friends who, like him, were “from away.”  He became acquainted with my dad, Wallace (alone after my mother's sudden and unexpected death after almost fifty years together), who welcomed the distraction of friends and activities to keep him busy.  When at Cleveland Place, Wolfgang would sit at our parlor grand piano and practice his exercises, running complicated scales up and down the antique keyboard.  The piano, made in Berlin many years ago, has a rich bass and beautiful tone.  A true musician, Wolfie enjoyed playing it to its full capacity.  After thirty minutes of warm-up, he would stand, stretch (a large, tall, imposing man), prop up the piano’s lid, and then really play music.  We’d open our front door facing Main Street, and as summertime tourists strolled the village streets, they'd slow down or stop to listen, and admire the grand music flowing from our home. 

• Kirstin:  Our hostess at this gathering and long-time true family friend. Originally from Germany, she relocated in Alma via Ontario many years ago.  Amber Brook, her B&B, was Wolfgang's respite “weir spreken deutch” when he was touring the Fundy area.  Fluently bilingual, she also helped Wolfie adjust to the provincial and village culture. A leader in every capacity, Kirstin is assertive but friendly, often taking firm but polite command of situations.

• Linda:  Kirstin's housemate, and another good family friend.  A retired librarian, Linda is mild-mannered, soft spoken, well-read, and unfailingly gracious as co-hostess, keeping conversation flowing with her extensive knowledge of current topics and historical or literary references.

•  Gerry:  Readers of The Jugular Vein blog have already met Gerry, a talented musician and friend, in “Share it If You Got It.”  Always eager for the company of friends and holiday socializing, Gerry rarely missed an invitation to share food, song, or companionship. He lived alone in a remote farmhouse outside the village limits, where unrelenting Fundy fog often compounded loneliness.  An expert jack of all trades, Gerry always made do for entertainment, fun, and practicality, and – like my mother – wore Dollarama brand readers to save the expense of optometrist and prescription glasses.

•  Dad (Wallace): Happy to have someone else hosting the evening, and keen to relax with the company of friends, he always enjoys a gathering. Usually an active participant or initiator of an evening’s entertainment, Dad was more an observer on this night.

After we finished our meal, the lively conversation around the table quieted as the dishes were cleared away and the cleanup began.  Since it was the holidays, someone suggested we sing traditional Christmas carols.  Regrettably, Gerry didn't have his guitar and there were no musical instruments at Kirstin's house – except for one.

A small children's electronic keyboard toy with one octave of keys, and dead batteries.  Kirstin quickly found and installed new batteries while we half-heartedly hummed and vaguely tried to recall lyrics from familiar carols.  Once the keyboard had power, Wolfgang stood and suddenly took command of the toy, running his large fingers over the keys to assess the sound.  One key wasn't working, which sorely disappointed him.  I was highly amused at the sight of this respected conductor’s serious efforts to generate music from a cheap toy, dwarfed by his big hands that were more accustomed to producing grand classical works from our parlour.

Gerry reached up and took it from him, and used a small pocket knife to unscrew the back and reveal the electronic chips and connectors.  He found a loose component and tried to bend it back into place, but it snapped and completely lost its connection. Kirstin, who’d been hovering over his shoulder, gave a “tsk!” at the realization that Gerry had ruined the evening's opportunity for music.  

Undaunted, Gerry took out his second pair of Dollarama readers, and put them on over the first pair he was already wearing. He exclaimed, “Well, now I can see the problem!” and asked Kirstin to get a soldering iron.  

Impatient to begin the music, Wolfgang stood up and raised is arms in full orchestra conductor mode, commanding attention by announcing in his strong German accent, “I vill make ze tone!” and started humming a mid-scale note for us all to follow.

I looked at Dad who sat back in his chair with a contented smile, enjoying the scenario as Kirstin repeatedly spanked Gerry's hand away from the electronics to prevent him from causing any more damage.  With each spank Gerry shrank back and resumed fiddling with the parts, both reassuring and teasing Kirstin that he could repair it.  The scene would have been the same had they been 10 and 12 year old brother and sister competing for the fix.

Kirstin eventually came up with a wood burning tool, and plugged it in. Gerry, wearing his two pairs of glasses, bent over the small panel to melt and fuse the broken connection, while Wolfie tried to organize a small chorus of dinner guests to give a rousing rendition of the German-English favourite “O Christmas Tree.” 

Though distracted by Kirstin and Gerry's activities at the head of the table, Linda, Dad, a few other guests and I vainly tried to attend to Wolfgang's directions, as he sternly insisted we follow his lead.  But with the noise of Linda clearing the dinner dishes, the smell of melting plastic and metal from the soldering project, the increasing tempo of the scolding/slapping/teasing between Gerry and Kirstin, and Wolfgang’s voice rising over all, demanding the attention and performance of reluctant carolers, repeating sternly, “Listen!  Follow! I vill make ze tone!” the scene was one of complete and uproarious chaos. When Gerry finally presented the repaired toy to a relieved Wolfgang, we managed a warbled rendition of “O Christmas Tree” in English and German. But when he found the formerly silent key now made a low crackling buzz instead, he set it down again with disgust, to our great amusement.

By now dessert was ready, and we'd fulfilled the promise of music, the camaraderie of an evening, a memorable holiday celebration.  Though I have no delicate ornament to serve as a memento of that evening, I have a genuinely happy memory of friends who have become family; extensions of my small family tree. 

How lovely are thy branches.

The Small World Problem -- or-- 6 Degrees of Separation

It's a common catch phrase with us. You'll mostly hear it when Dad is around and you're discussing a landmark, one of the United States or Canadian provinces, a country, museum, mountain range, or body of water.  Dad has traveled to a lot of places in this world, either through his career with Norton Company or his adventurous travels over his many years.  There are few places on the map that you can point to that he won't say, "Been There!"  When we all sit to watch a movie, frequently while mostly amusing himself he'd blurt out, " BIN 'DERE!" when he recognized a familiar scene.  He's also met an awful lot of people.
 
It happens when we're among our friends and acquaintances, usually during animated conversation, that the name Wallace West will invariably come up.  So often, in fact, it became a sort of running joke among us  later becoming a challenge to see who would bring his name up in a topic first.

Our friends Jos and Darcy first became acquainted with Dad in his book shop at Cleveland Place.  Darcy was visiting Alma and getting re-acquainted with her ancestral home after many years of absence.  While talking in the bookshop, Dad learned that Darcy was a professor at a small college in central Tennessee where my sister's son was a student, not far from where my sister was living.  While Darcy and her family were getting more familiar with Alma, they often relied on Dad for his knowledge of the area and its long-time residents, seeking homeowner advice for their 100 year old home, enjoying each other's company with a shared devotion to Fundy.  Eventually, Darcy left Tennessee and accepted a teaching position at a university in Abu Dhabi, and traveled back to Alma to live with her family during the summer months.

After Dad moved to The Farm, we became friends with Darcy's family during their short time spent in Alma each year.  During the months she was teaching in Abu Dhabi we stayed connected through e-mail and she would recount their experiences and adventures in the United Arab Emirates, sharing exotic tales of visiting neighbouring countries while they immersed themselves in the culture, food, and surroundings of the residents there.  Darcy wrote that she'd been introduced to a fellow at the university and in the course of their conversation they each described their lives and where they lived when they weren't living and teaching in the UAE.  Darcy told about the Fundy area and Alma Village and her new acquaintance exclaimed, "Well, you must know Wallace West!"  Over 6,000 kilometers away, but just one degree of separation.

Several years ago, Dad and his friend Gerry built The Gazebo; an octagonal cottage at the edge of the Bay of Fundy --one of the few areas in North America where the eastern shore is still pristine and undeveloped.  We've hosted guests at The Gazebo from all over the world.  One was a fellow who found his way from the west coast of Canada to the east traveling by bicycle to celebrate turning 55.  As he passed through Albert County, he eventually landed at The Gazebo since he was rain soaked, tired, and the rural area offered few overnight accommodations.  It took one call to reach Dad who opened the door and offered a snack of peanuts and a respite for the weary biker.  Later, when Henk wrote a book about his travels, he told about his encounter with Dad and The Gazebo. 

With our New Jersey friends, Jim and Jen, bringing up Wally nearly became an eye-rolling annoyance that I was becoming self-conscious about.  Once, within just a few hours spent together over dinner at their house, we counted three times that Wallace West had been introduced into the conversation:

• His acquaintance with author E. Annie Proulx and her visits to Dad's book shop at Cleveland Place.  Having read all of her books, we shared his excitement and brush with fame (I later met her myself on two of her subsequent visits).

• His travels with my mother in a soft-top Jeep Wrangler to The Yukon and The Northwest Territories.

• His scuba diving adventures in Michigan and Canada and a spoiled diving expedition when Canadian customs officers released all the air from their scuba tanks after a traveling companion got arrogant with an agent. 

We all decided enough was enough. Though Wally's exploits and life stories were entertaining, we had to start drawing on our own experiences to fuel conversation and so we made a friendly agreement: we would not bring Wally into conversation again.

Weeks later, we met Jim and Jen for a fine meal.  We'd been anticipating  the grand opening of an authentic Greek Restaurant in central New Jersey.  We knew the owners as we'd become frequent customers at their other business; a small specialty market that featured Greek imports and fine wines.  One hard-to-find item that they carried was slivovitz, or plum brandy.  On one of our visits to the shop, Dad bought several bottles to bring to Canada with his new wife, Anna, who'd left Bratislava many years earlier and happily recalled the memory of her father making slivovitz when she was a young girl.  Tassos, the owner, chatted with Dad enjoying the novelty of meeting a Canadian foreigner.

When Tassos bought the adjacent building and announced the opening day for the new restaurant, we eagerly made our reservations, anticipating Jen and Jim's impression with the new taverna and its Athenian decor with enticing aromas from simmering pots of rich Greek cuisine, and our ability to get a table on a busy grand-opening night.  When we arrived we were immediately seated by fresh-faced expectant servers to our reserved table in a very lively and crowded restaurant --every seat filled.

Not long after we'd settled at our table, and perused the menu options, I leaned over to Jen and reminded her that since we hadn't seen each other for several weeks, we had a host of topics to cover, adding that none of them involved Wally.  Remembering our previously agreed upon pact, she laughed, said, "We'll see" and continued to read the menu.  Moments later, when our wine was opened and poured, we toasted the evening just when Tassos caught Stephen's eye and approached our table with arms outstretched, beaming a welcoming smile, and loudly said, "Hello!" while eagerly shaking Stephen's hand thanking us for coming out.

His next words were, "How is your father, Wallace West?"

I experienced my very first spit-take.

Those Were the Days, My Friend.

In her early days of marriage and motherhood in Marlboro, Massachusetts, my mother had a small group of friends who also had young children. Our families would gather at Fort Meadow Lake in our neighborhood to play, swim, or parade for the much anticipated Spree Day.  We didn't live there for long, but nearly fifty years later, I'm still acquainted with some of the friends and families from those days.

Swimming at Fort Meadow Lake 1957

Spree Day, Marlboro, Mass. 1959

My mother's girlfriend from those days, Carolyn Brewer (now Carolyn Towles) is my godmother.  Carolyn and her daughter Brenda, who is my sister's age, have both visited New Brunswick and Cleveland Place, and I visited Carolyn at her home in Florida just a year ago.  Since my mother died several years ago, it was special to get reacquainted with one of her peers and recall good memories.

Grey Shingles February 1962

 
Carolyn happily recalled an incident at Grey Shingles, which was the wee house my folks and grandfather, Allyn, built in Marlboro. When my grandmother, Anne Carritt, came by and found nobody home and the house locked, she climbed in through a window. Our dog Mixie, a large shepherd mix, cowered and hid under a bed, too afraid to be coaxed out.  Carolyn was incredulous that this large dog would be so petrified of a tiny old lady to the point of incapacitation. She never forgot it, and laughed easily recalling it.

Mixie with her pups 1961

I don't know how Carolyn and her then husband, Bud, landed in Massachusetts.  Carolyn's mother was a doffer girl at Dixie Mercerizing in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where her father was a plant manager.  That seems like a time far away and long ago to me.  I imagine it was Bud's engineering career that brought them to the growing technology sector that Massachusetts was becoming in the 50's and 60's along Route 128.  Those are the stories I absorb and relish -- the chaos of the universe that brings people together in place and time. 

My folks called Carolyn a classy lady -- high praise from my parents -- and I easily recognize that quality in her.  She was genuinely gracious and welcoming with hospitality during our visit.  She remarked that she could still see the little girl in me.   

Little Jane 1964

In the day we spent with Carolyn in Florida, I admired the array of artwork in her home and was impressed to learn that most of them were her own work. She pointed out those of a few other artists, but hers was the real talent on the wall.

Carolyn, Jane, and Bill 2010

I was surprised to see two New Brunswick landscape scenes that I immediately recognized.  One of Red Head at Waterside, and the other of the marsh at Waterside. Carolyn had taken photographs of the local area during a visit to Cleveland Place when my folks were still operating the B&B together.  She then painted these landmarks.  It was strange and thrilling to see these familiar scenes captured by Carolyn's hand, so far away from their natural setting that was so familiar to me.

Having forgotten the names of the locations, Carolyn got pen and paper to write them down and I remarked that the Red Head scene (a local tidal promontory) that she'd captured had since eroded into the ocean.  Our friends Tim Issac and Jim Blewett wrote a song about it, and made it the cover shot and title song for one of their albums.  I especially appreciated that Tim remarked to me that his song is a metaphor for my mother, as Red Head fell around the time my mother died.  Her ashes are scattered at Waterside.

Carolyn met Jim Blewett at his 50th birthday party celebration during her visit to New Brunswick.  I'm quite sure that the party was one like none other she'd been to before, as she and her husband Bill, my folks, friends, and neighbors gathered in a large circle on the wooden floor of an old farmhouse and each guest shared deeply personal anecdotes, feelings, admiration, and memories of the birthday boy.  It was quite emotional for everyone.

I sent Carolyn a copy of Issac & Blewett's Red Head CD, and in return she sent me the two large paintings.  Priceless.

Red Head and Waterside, by Carolyn Towles

Though my mother was a private person, she did tell a few stories on herself. In those early years in Marlboro, she and Carolyn had an acquaintance about their same age who'd recently had twin babies. My mother described how they'd gone to the friend's house and stood in the doorway, anticipating a visit with the new mother, when they noticed a crib and high-chair folded and unused off to the side.  The woman explained that one of the twins had inexplicably and unexpectedly died.

Saddened, the two friends silently stood searching for words of comfort, and one of them asked what was to be done with the baby furniture. The mother explained that it had been sold to another family who also had a new child.  Trying to find supportive words of optimism, my mother cheerfully replied, "Well, it won't be a total loss, then."

She immediately heard how grossly inappropriate it was, but it was too late.

I have to assume they were all good friends enough to know it was an aberration of thought and speech, and thus easily forgiven, knowing the intention.

I hope that eventually I'll have friends that long-lasting and forgiving.

Guess What?

On several occasions over the years when I was growing up my Dad would quietly grin as he'd ask the question.  As I recall it was usually timed just as we were lifting our forks to take the first bite of a meal as we five sat at the dinner table.

"Guess What?"

It immediately made my sister cry.  My mother would set her fork back to her plate with a look of realization, steel herself, and simply state:

We're moving.

I'd be elated.  But for everyone else in the family, it meant something different.  For Dad it was a promotion, a new territory to cover for Norton Company, a better opportunity.  For my mother, it meant selling a home, searching and buying a new one hundreds of miles away, and cleaning.  Not just dusting and setting aside knick-knacks and gee-gaws to attract a potential buyer, but a thorough scouring and renewing of our house that was already in near pristine condition  -often, one we'd lived in for just a few years.

Mayflower was the contracted mover for Norton Company, and the familiar green and yellow transport truck would pull up in front of our house with three men, blank newsprint and cardboard boxes.  It was a good contract for them at our house, no doubt.  We had books, and lots of them.  Books are easy to pack and weigh a lot--benefits for the both business office and the packers at Mayflower.  Also, our house was clean.

When they pulled a chest of drawers away from the wall, there was nothing there; no dust, no stray socks or missing toy parts, no intricate cobweb structures that had housed several generations--all that was there was the footprint of the furniture in the thoroughly vacuumed carpets.  When the washing machine was disconnected, there was no lint, no detergent spills, no telltale sign of leaks that had repeatedly dripped and dried, just gleaming linoleum that was cleaner than most family's kitchen floor, all the while, my mother exclaiming and apologizing to the burly workers for the unsightly conditions, contritely suggesting that they must see some real 'doozies' of filth in their line of work.  They'd nod politely and continue with their work while she'd kneel and wipe. 

As a little kid, of course, I was oblivious to the concerns of my folks who had to oversee these operations, transitions, school transfers, mortgage approvals, title searches, interest rates, closing dates, car and pet licensing, and my siblings' emotional turmoil for the upheaval of yet another move.  My brother and sister were several years older than me and they had to leave schools, friends, scouts, bands, and familiar neighbourhoods; mostly the ties that I never had or realized being much younger. 

When a new home in a new state was ours, my mother acted as forward artillery and attacked all its imperfections, wear and tear, and the previous owner's dirt with fresh paint, and elbow grease.  Our boxes would arrive ready to start again.  We kids would start a new school -often in mid year, and then we'd do it all again, soon.  A familiar routine, each with a unique story or memory.

A vivid memory is the move from Illinois to Michigan in dead winter in the late 60's.  My sister and brother were in high school by then, and had several moves under their belts.  I was seven.  We stayed at The Mayflower hotel in downtown Plymouth, arriving tired on a blistering cold mid-winter's night.  After a full day's drive in our Volkswagen bus, we were keen to get out of the car and get some warm elbow-room in the hotel.  We walked up the wide stairs in the stately 30's era hotel, continued down a long hallway to our large 3rd floor room, and settled in.  Beds were turned down, the heat turned up.  Once pajama'd, we were ready to call it a night, but nature called and Buffy, our dog, needed one more run.  To make a quick trip of it, shirtless, but wearing his pajama pants and socks, my brother Allyn took the dog to the fire escape at the end of the hall.  Once outside, the door shut behind him and he quickly realized there was merely a two-foot square platform and he would be unable to get down to the street level carrying the dog on the iron-rung drop ladder.   Too late, he also realized that the door was now locked from the inside. They were trapped.

As the rest of us slowly let the day drift away, it didn't occur to us that the knocking and muffled yelling outside was my brother --just a faint background noise in strange surroundings.  He banged, hollered, and pounded on the thick fire door for a long time while holding a very unhappy dog who did not like being suspended several stories above ground on an open grid ironwork platform and wriggled earnestly to be freed. The pounding persisted, the yelling continued, until it worked its way to Dad's nearly asleep semi-consciousness when it occurred to him that Allyn and Buffy had been for gone quite a while.  He poked his head out of the room to look and heard -much more clearly- the imploring racket.  Back in the room, as Allyn warmed up and described his predicament, our laughter was even louder.  My brother was not nearly as amused.

That was our last move together as a family.  When I was in high school, my folks and I moved again to rural central Massachusetts.  I watched, unseen as one mover whisked away my dress-making mannequin, and with a gruff voice, said, "C'mon baby, let's dance!" while he waltzed her all the way out to the truck. It's funny, the little details you remember that made big impressions.  As adults Stephen and I moved many times with our growing family.  Those moves, too, had some stresses and unique adventures we can recall --you may have read a few of them in earlier blogs.

After Stephen and I moved from Nebraska to New Jersey in the mid 90's, our family of six stayed at an extended stay hotel called Embassy Suites.  We had a two room suite and they allowed pets.  The company that had hired Stephen was paying for the stay while he worked as a consultant.  The four kids and I went house hunting with real estate agents during the day.  At the end of the day, we'd all meet up at the heated indoor pool, enjoy the Manager's Complimentary Cocktail Hour, and the kids swam while Stephen and I would catch up.  Our spacious rooms, which had complete housekeeping services and two televisions  included a full cooked-to-order breakfast every morning in the dining-room/courtyard.  I quickly got used to the surroundings, routine --and luxury-- while we stayed there for several weeks.  

Eventually, we found a home, the kids enrolled in school, and we started again.  Justin started middle school and since the school year was well underway, he was quickly thrust into the curriculum and his science class required a few 'from home' supplies.  Justin was asked to bring a raw potato the very next day.  Not yet moved into the house, Justin matter-of-factly explained we didn't cook and didn't have any potatoes.  The teacher, understandably, took this as a lame excuse to avoid the assignment and quickly chastised him and dismissed his excuse.  Justin insisted he was being honest, and compromised that he could probably ask one of the kitchen staff for a potato.  Now his teacher --with an entirely new assumption-- wanted more information about her new student and his 'kitchen staff' and asked where he lived.  Justin simply replied,  "The Embassy."  She stopped asking questions and I think with our foreign sounding last name, it temporarily left quite an impression on her; it may have been Justin's first not-lie.
 
Recently, I hope, we've finally made our last move.  Stephen and I have settled in at Cleveland Place.  Here my folks, Pat and Wally, had done the spectacular and complicated forward artillery work with their battery of skills, taste and work ethic.  We have the luxury of turning the key and comfortably settling in to continue the high standards that they set. The stories and memories and friendships they shared here are abundant, and we hope to carry on those standards and traditions. Except for one.

Guess What?  Chicken Butt.

Behind closed doors.

Paul started it.

He told another story about his dad, Dwight, to illustrate his dad's subtle humor. There's no laugh-out-loud,  knee-slapping, guffawing, corn-ball humor with the Hoff family.  It's a quieter, laying-in-wait, tap you on your shoulder when your back is turned, get you when you least expect it sort of amusement.  Once you've fallen victim, you'll know, but you don't shout it to the world, and-- unlike our family-- they don't ridicule, point, and laugh once you've fallen prey.

Paul told us about the time Dwight filled his bathroom medicine cabinet with marbles.  This kind of humor takes patience for the reward of a laugh; an unknown victim would eventually be revealed.

I found this highly amusing, and couldn't wait to implement it.  We got to work; Stephen drilled a hole in the top of the middle section of our three paneled wall mounted medicine cabinet, and we poured about 30 marbles into the closed cabinet from the top.  Testing it, we had one of the kids open the cabinet door but to our disappointment nothing happened.  There weren't enough marbles filling the space to cause a cascade and the few marbles that were sitting on the shelf sat like beady little eyes watching the reaction of our failure.  Dejected, we knocked at a few of them and down they rained into the porcelain sink below.

The racket it created was loud, jarring and dangerous!  Several marbles broke sending slivers of glass shards all over the tiled counter-top.  This was not working, and clearly wouldn't have a fun outcome if the hail of marbles came down on someone's head, or worse, sent broken glass into someone's eye.

We re-evaluated the process, and considered other options:

ping-pong balls?  Too big.
Super Balls?  Too big, too bouncy.
Cotton Balls?  Too soft, no surprise element.
 
We decided that gumballs would be just as colorful as glass marbles, equally surprising, and far less dangerous.  Our intended victim was the nosy Parker house guest who secretly opens the medicine cabinet to see what family secrets are revealed from the pill bottle labels and unguents.  We've all had one or been one.

Off to the candy store.  We purchased three bags of 50 gumballs, installed them in the cabinet, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Over the months, with the cabinet prepared and full, we had several house guests and two Solstice parties with well over 20 guests and no one ever opened the cabinet.  How 'bout that?  We determined that this was actually a test of character of the company we keep.

A.  Do you open the cabinet?
B.  What do you do if you're caught opening the cabinet by unleashing a hail-storm of gumballs?

It wasn't until several years later when we learned how some people handle it.

After my mother died, our family started running the Bed and Breakfast my folks had been operating together for nearly 20 years.  Early in the B&B season we had friends of my folks stay with us who'd been visiting Cleveland Place and The Bay of Fundy for years.  We were pretty well acquainted, and thought that they would be good subjects for the Gumball Prank and set up the medicine cabinet in the guest bathroom with 300 hundred brightly colored balls.

This was no easy task.  Cleveland Place is nearly 100 years old, and the oak medicine cabinet is built into the lath and plaster bathroom wall making it impossible to drill any holes.  We had to form a sort of false cardboard door to funnel the gumballs in, close the real door, and then slide the cardboard out from underneath.  After several failed attempts, and chasing countless escaped balls, we eventually got them all in.  We welcomed our guests, Dan and Betsy, and invited them to make themselves comfortable in room #2 and enjoy their full private bath just a few steps down the hall.

For me, there's a bit of an ethical puzzle to this gag.  If I was a family-friend guest in a home that is run as a professional lodging establishment and I saw the little door in the wall with the wee brass plate above the latch that read private please, I probably wouldn't open the door, assuming it was for the supplies or operations of the facility.

However, if I was a paying lodger and unfamiliar with the hosts I'd be concerned with what might be behind the mirrored cabinet that faces directly in front of the bathtub.  After all, I've seen the 20/20 episodes on television that exposes creeps who use small video cameras watching the innocent  in their most private moments. So, I'd probably peek inside the door to confirm that it simply contains travel sized shampoos and cotton swabs.

To their credit, neither Dan or Betsy ever opened the cabinet door.  Over the years, we've become good friends and they've returned to Cleveland Place several times and have been our hosts at their home in Massachusetts.  We eventually revealed the test that they unknowingly passed and they have since fallen victim to the gag in their own home.  For a simpler version we used a cardboard Morton Salt container that was emptied of salt, the bottom cut out, filled with gumballs and secretly stashed in the kitchen cupboard when their backs were turned.  Eventually, when it was time to fill the salt shaker, the prank was exposed. 

As the busy B&B season came in full swing, we left the medicine cabinet as is, and actually forgot about its contents.  Unfortunately, we were reminded very late one night after checking in guests.  Kathryn and I were sitting in the den downstairs and heard the tell tale rattle of 300 hundred gumballs raining down on the wooden floor above our heads.  Alarmed and startled at first, then quickly realizing the scene above, Kathryn and I were forced to leave the house as we were convulsed with laughter imagining the dazed guest, fresh from her bath, standing wrapped in her white Cleveland Place terry-cloth bathrobe in a pool of bright, shiny, primary- colored confectioneries.

The next morning at breakfast, nothing was mentioned by the guests (or by us) about the incident.  When they'd left for the day, I went to the bathroom to refresh towels, swab the toilet, and assume the daily duties of running a B&B, and found several of the gumballs stashed about--a few in a basket, others in a soap dish, some that rolled to far corners.  Most remained in the cabinet (though I'm curious how she got them back in the cabinet since several were crushed flat apparently from her shutting the door on them).  The couple stayed 5 days.  No one ever said a word about it.  Was she embarrassed?  Annoyed?  Amused?  We'll never know.  I was tempted to use a few gumballs as garnish on their pancakes one morning to make mention, but chose to let it be.  I wonder if they kept a few as a souvenir.  So:

A. She opened posted private cabinet door.
B. She never said a word about it.

Odd?  I think so.  Curious, most definitely.  But more, I wonder if she's told on herself.

Over the years, Dwight's little prank has made quite a few rounds in Alma village-- Cleveland Place has even fallen reverse victim to it on several occasions--but our rule is, you can't gumball someone until you have been gumballed, and like Dwight, you never let on that it was you who you set up the prank.

Patience.  All it takes is patience.

Happy Days Are Here Again!

My mother, Dad, and our pal, Paul, got along famously. Paul employed the proper amount of respect for the older couple while sharing family anecdotes, amusing travel stories, books read, movies that each other appreciated, and music to entertain. My mother especially liked him, and she didn't cotton to many people quickly or easily. A credit to Paul's character.

On a surprise visit to us all in New Jersey, Paul had interrupted a family movie we'd all started to watch. In the ensuing activities, that particular movie had been abandoned and later Paul suggested renting one he'd heard very good reviews about and had been well recommended by friends whose opinions he trusted. Cautioning that it wasn't a 'family' movie, we reserved it until the four kids had gone to bed.

We five gathered around to watch with wine glasses in hand, and Paul sat perched in his chair expectant with hopeful anticipation for an entertaining evening. As the opening credits rolled, my mother groaned loudly. Bruce Willis was among the lead actors. She loathed him. Paul sank imperceptibly lower realizing a slight disappointment early on, but it only got worse: the movie generously featured sex, violence, kidnapping, dismemberment, foul language, lesbian witchcraft, drugs and alcohol. Now, Pat and Wally were no prudes, but this might not have been the best blind-choice selection to view with brand new elder acquaintances. Paul shriveled in the overstuffed club chair as the on-screen embarrassments continued, muttering apologies and protesting 'I just didn't know'. He was mortified. Pat and Wally were more amused at his discomfort than they were offended by the movie's content.

Never-the-less, Paul's good standing over the course of the weekend earned him an invitation from Pat and Wally to Cleveland Place where they'd semi-retired in New Brunswick, Canada. Naturally, when the opportunity presented itself for our next visit, we invited Paul to join us, and much to our surprise, he accepted. He caught a flight to Newark airport in New Jersey where we picked him up in our Blue Dodge Grand Caravan and we proceeded to make a non-stop fourteen hour trip northward with Justin, Andrew, Kathryn, Olivia, Scout, and Mittens the cat. A sack of egg-salad sandwiches sat between Paul and Kathryn. She was in charge.

By the time we'd reached Hartford, Connecticut--normally a two hour drive--we'd been on the road in heavy traffic which added an extra solid hour. Paul was already tired as this was the second leg of his long trip. Occasionally, Scout, our otherwise extremely passive, non-barking, gentle, pink-nosed, yellow Labrador would burst out with vicious, deep throated, seriously intent barking and growling episodes when a motorcycle passed or followed us. Not just any motorcycle, only the Harley-Davidson with its distinctive low 'pah-tay-tah-pah-tay-tah pat-tay-ta' engine noise. We're sure it conjured up negative puppy memories from before he joined our family from the pound with paint on his ear and a profound fear of beer bottles. Co-incidentally, it seemed, these episodes would occur just as Paul's head bobbed about as he was nodding off, snapping him to alert wakefulness. We all found it quite amusing. Paul did not.

Becoming road weary, Scout weary, and needing a break, we pulled over to a rest stop and allowed everyone a 7.5 minute bathroom/stretching break (we had to make up for lost road time). As well seasoned travellers the kids knew we meant business and anyone of them could potentially be left behind if they didn't stick to our schedule. As we all gathered to head back to the parked van, Kathryn ran ahead to reserve her seat of choice next to the egg-salad sandwiches. She jumped in the open door, not realizing that it was another families' look-alike blue Dodge van, and they were already in it. We laughed and pointed calling attention to her, and she quickly re-emerged embarrassed and quite cross, which made us laugh harder, longer and louder. Back on the road, the heavy traffic dispersed, and we were on our way. By the time we'd reached Maine, we'd run out of conversation, Scout was fast asleep, and we were all tired. We asked Paul for a story to help pass the miles and keep us alert. He told us this one:

My father was chief engineer on a B-24 Liberator bomber. They were returning to England after a bombing mission when flak hit a hydraulic fluid line. It was the middle of the night, the plane was low on fuel, and the floor of the plane was slick with spilled hydraulic fluid. Because the hydraulics were out, the only way to lower the landing gear was to crank it down manually.

Flying over the English Channel in pitch black, it was up to my father to manually crank the two landing gear wheels down. He had to stand on a small narrow catwalk under the plane where the landing gear was located, below him was nothing but water. One crewman held onto my father by his flight jacket while another held onto him.

As my father was turning the crank to lower the first wheel the cable slipped off the pulley. Despite the noise and vibration of the bomber in flight and wind whipping around, he undid the nut holding the pulley wheel on so he could get the cable back on. As luck would have it, the nut slipped out of his fingers. He watched as it plummeted down into the North Atlantic.

My father kept his cool. He lowered the second landing gear wheel, removed the nut from the pulley of the lowered gear, and used it to successfully lower the other wheel. They were able to land in England no worse for the wear.

Pretty amazing especially considering these were 18- and 19- year old kids.

But there's more to the story.

After safely landing at the air base in Manston, England, because there was a landing strip especially long, and because the hydraulics was out, they had no brakes and it was necessary to come to a long and agonizing roll to a stop at the end of the strip. They were then picked up by the local base people and taken to a barracks to spend the night. In the middle of the night, their pilot, Dick Rice, woke Dad to tell him that their plane had been wrecked. Dad said" Yes , I know, that's why we're here. Rice said "No, you don't understand. The plane has REALLY been wrecked. A British bomber loaded with incindiary bombs had aborted a mission and landed on the same strip as we had and had slammed into our plane." They went out to the strip to see the damage and ,sure enough, the plane had been slammed into by the big Lancaster bomber. There were incindiary bombs scattered all over the ground together with huge puddles of oil and gasoline. AND believe it or not, NO fire !!!! Dad's plane's name "The Flying Jackass" was later to be replaced by the "Modest Maiden" which they flew for the rest of their missions.

This captivating story entertained us until we were just a few miles from the Canadian border crossing and customs. It was at this point, Kathryn asked plaintively, "Daddy, how much longer until we're at the interrogation?"

Bearing no passport Paul blanched.