It has been almost a decade since my time as director of a summer camp ended so some of the memories may have faded a little. Others are as clear as if they happened yesterday.
I am reminded of certain occasions by a name on Facebook or a chance meeting with an ex-counselor or camper but for some inexplicable reason other incidents come to mind and make be giggle suddenly.
One such occasion involved a serious little girl from Quebec. On this particular day she was taking her riding lesson in the ring when she lost her balance and fell heavily to the ground. The impact caused the wind to be knocked out of her, considerably frightening her. The resulting screams brought people running from all directions including the camp nurse and me. On further examination it appeared the pain in her back was of significant concern to request an ambulance to transport her to the nearest emergency room.
While waiting for the ambulance to arrive we kept our patient immobilized in the dusty arena. Once the initial shock of the event had worn off she wanted no part of being taken to hospital. Now the second round of screaming commenced and continued through the back-boarding exercise and into the ambulance.
Once in the emergency room she calmed down but remained seriously ticked off. Finally the nurse arrived to take the particulars. “What is your name, dear?” the nurse asked sweetly. “Janet” our little camper spit back. “and your last name, Janet?” “Duncan” was the sharp retort.
To give the nurse credit, she remained pleasant. I was ready to strangle her. “When is your birthday, Janet?” “December 12th” she begrudgingly replied. “what year?” the nurse persisted. With her teeth clamped tight and a look that could drop a grown man at 20 feet, she hissed “every year.”
The nurse caught my eye and bit down hard on her lip to keep from laughing. I was ready to burst but we both managed to retain our professional demeanor just long enough to escape the room.
Fortunately there was no serious injury and Janet came back to camp that evening with stories to tell. I had a different story to share!
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Motorcycle Riding
My father had a real love for cars and motor cycles which incidentally, is not shared by either my sister or me. He especially loved car rallies. If you have never been on a rally in England you haven’t lived! These were similar to paper chases but often lasted 2 or 3 days and nights and were complex enough that some competitors became so lost and disoriented that search parties were sent out to find them, once the time limit had been exceeded by 12 hours or so. The object was to navigate the smallest roads and back lanes to pick up clues and arrive at the various check-points within the allotted time allowance. The planners made sure you could do this without excessive speed but once a competitor became lost or missed a clue then time had to be made up. This necessitated driving at break-neck speed in the pitch dark on narrow lanes. More than once my father ended up in a river and on one occasion, came face to face with a famer pointing a loaded shotgun at him. Apparently he wasn’t the first to miss a bend in the road landing him in the farmer’s front yard at 3:00am.
As kids we went on some of the day rallies and they were fun. My father would drive and my mother would navigate. Just listening to the pair of them disputing the directions was sport enough.
Motorcycles were his first love, however. On occasion my father would go to a race track with a couple of chums but more often it would be a family outing to a motocross in a field or a hill climb through the woods in some obscure place. Off we would go with a picnic basket, raincoats and wellington boots for a day of ‘excitement’. Once parked we would traipse through the mud, find the best vantage point and watch the bikes and riders as they slid around in the mire. It got old very quickly for me but my father never tired of this activity.
In spite of, or maybe because of this upbringing, I joined the Middle-Age Motorcycle Club back in the 60’s. I was far too young for it, I might add, but a friend lent me a small woods bike and, with minimal instruction I followed the group of 6 or 8 men and women into the woods. It was so much fun although somewhat reckless, now that I look back on it.
One warm, Sunday afternoon the group stopped at our local pub for a cold one after a particularly taxing ride. On leaving the establishment we had to enter a busy road. In turn we lined up on a slight incline and waited for a break in the traffic. When my turn came my inexperience became obvious to all who watched. After stalling on my first two attempts, I saw my opportunity, pulled back on the throttle, popped the clutch and stood my bike on its back wheel! I cleared the road in a wheelie that would have impressed Evil Knievel. Across the road was a gravel parking lot where I landed reasonably unscathed although not on my wheels.
That little exhibition stopped traffic and also brought the inhabitants of the pub running to pick up the pieces. They dusted me off and sent me on my way with only minor damage to the bike but major damage to the ego. Although I didn’t know it at that moment, one of those rescuers was to become my husband of 38 years and counting.
Motorcycles are still not my thing and my helmet has been hung up for a number of years but if I hadn’t thrown my leg over that bike on that day, my man for life might have slipped away.
As kids we went on some of the day rallies and they were fun. My father would drive and my mother would navigate. Just listening to the pair of them disputing the directions was sport enough.
Motorcycles were his first love, however. On occasion my father would go to a race track with a couple of chums but more often it would be a family outing to a motocross in a field or a hill climb through the woods in some obscure place. Off we would go with a picnic basket, raincoats and wellington boots for a day of ‘excitement’. Once parked we would traipse through the mud, find the best vantage point and watch the bikes and riders as they slid around in the mire. It got old very quickly for me but my father never tired of this activity.
In spite of, or maybe because of this upbringing, I joined the Middle-Age Motorcycle Club back in the 60’s. I was far too young for it, I might add, but a friend lent me a small woods bike and, with minimal instruction I followed the group of 6 or 8 men and women into the woods. It was so much fun although somewhat reckless, now that I look back on it.
One warm, Sunday afternoon the group stopped at our local pub for a cold one after a particularly taxing ride. On leaving the establishment we had to enter a busy road. In turn we lined up on a slight incline and waited for a break in the traffic. When my turn came my inexperience became obvious to all who watched. After stalling on my first two attempts, I saw my opportunity, pulled back on the throttle, popped the clutch and stood my bike on its back wheel! I cleared the road in a wheelie that would have impressed Evil Knievel. Across the road was a gravel parking lot where I landed reasonably unscathed although not on my wheels.
That little exhibition stopped traffic and also brought the inhabitants of the pub running to pick up the pieces. They dusted me off and sent me on my way with only minor damage to the bike but major damage to the ego. Although I didn’t know it at that moment, one of those rescuers was to become my husband of 38 years and counting.
Motorcycles are still not my thing and my helmet has been hung up for a number of years but if I hadn’t thrown my leg over that bike on that day, my man for life might have slipped away.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Back in the Groove
I have been absent from my blog writing for far too long and have no real excuses other than it slipped in my list of priorities. More pressing items had jumped to the top of the list but I am about to correct that.
Helping to set up a new office has taken much of my time over the last couple of months. Now happily ensconced on Main Street in Stowe with my trusty Lily by my side and back up to speed on daily real estate needs, I am ready to write again.
Lily is a one year old Yorkshire terrier barely 6 pounds in weight but with the stamina and tenaciousness of one much larger. She will approach any man or beast with a wiggling body ready to lay kisses all over the poor unsuspecting recipient’s face. Then the wanton little hussy rolls on her back with legs spread wide for a tummy scratch.
Lily gets plenty of exercise running and playing with our other dog, Chief and taking long walks in the woods with us in the mornings. During the day there are quick trips down Main Street to the bank, where she performs her party tricks for biscuits, and to the recreation path for strolls between client appointments. While in the office she naps hard and often goes unnoticed. Quite the perfect little dog!
Those of you who have ever owned or known a terrier also know the mischievous side that they all possess. They can’t help themselves. Very smart and trainable for sure, but only to a point. This week two events have come into Lily’s life that have caused her much consternation.
Some critter it appears, probably a fox, takes his evening walk through the fields and noses around the barn for signs of mice. The scent left behind is so powerful to small terriers, although undetectable to humans, so as to send her into a tizzy of yelping and tracking and no amount of whistling, calling, imploring or the offer of treats makes a blind bit of difference. She is gone! Eventually she comes back of her own accord but this is not acceptable behavior.
The second event is the acquiring of a bunny by the neighbors. They rescued this domesticated version and now keep it in a cage close to their house. Lily discovered it quite by chance and now cannot get it out of her mind. Rabbits are supposed to live in burrows in the ground and terriers were bred to find and remove them.
So now we are faced with a dilemma. How do we give Lily and Chief the freedom to explore our fields and woods but not everyone else’s? Hence the invisible fence. We have had one in place for several years that has always worked well for Chief. So well in fact that most of the time he didn’t have to wear his collar to respect the line. A reminder now and again was all he needed. Lily is so tiny that I have been hesitant to shock that little body even once for fear it will kill her. The vet and the manufacturer have assured me that the smallest collar they make is for dogs her size and shouldn’t harm her. The collar is on order and should arrive any day. Lily’s antics will be curbed sooner or later just as long as my stamina and tenaciousness outlast hers!
I’ll let you know who the winner is just as soon as it has been determined. Don’t hold your breathe!
Helping to set up a new office has taken much of my time over the last couple of months. Now happily ensconced on Main Street in Stowe with my trusty Lily by my side and back up to speed on daily real estate needs, I am ready to write again.
Lily is a one year old Yorkshire terrier barely 6 pounds in weight but with the stamina and tenaciousness of one much larger. She will approach any man or beast with a wiggling body ready to lay kisses all over the poor unsuspecting recipient’s face. Then the wanton little hussy rolls on her back with legs spread wide for a tummy scratch.
Lily gets plenty of exercise running and playing with our other dog, Chief and taking long walks in the woods with us in the mornings. During the day there are quick trips down Main Street to the bank, where she performs her party tricks for biscuits, and to the recreation path for strolls between client appointments. While in the office she naps hard and often goes unnoticed. Quite the perfect little dog!
Those of you who have ever owned or known a terrier also know the mischievous side that they all possess. They can’t help themselves. Very smart and trainable for sure, but only to a point. This week two events have come into Lily’s life that have caused her much consternation.
Some critter it appears, probably a fox, takes his evening walk through the fields and noses around the barn for signs of mice. The scent left behind is so powerful to small terriers, although undetectable to humans, so as to send her into a tizzy of yelping and tracking and no amount of whistling, calling, imploring or the offer of treats makes a blind bit of difference. She is gone! Eventually she comes back of her own accord but this is not acceptable behavior.
The second event is the acquiring of a bunny by the neighbors. They rescued this domesticated version and now keep it in a cage close to their house. Lily discovered it quite by chance and now cannot get it out of her mind. Rabbits are supposed to live in burrows in the ground and terriers were bred to find and remove them.
So now we are faced with a dilemma. How do we give Lily and Chief the freedom to explore our fields and woods but not everyone else’s? Hence the invisible fence. We have had one in place for several years that has always worked well for Chief. So well in fact that most of the time he didn’t have to wear his collar to respect the line. A reminder now and again was all he needed. Lily is so tiny that I have been hesitant to shock that little body even once for fear it will kill her. The vet and the manufacturer have assured me that the smallest collar they make is for dogs her size and shouldn’t harm her. The collar is on order and should arrive any day. Lily’s antics will be curbed sooner or later just as long as my stamina and tenaciousness outlast hers!
I’ll let you know who the winner is just as soon as it has been determined. Don’t hold your breathe!
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
More from Russia
My previous blog detailed my journey to and from Russia but the excitement didn’t end there. The whole trip was one adventure after another. While in Moscow our group of Camp Directors was heavily supervised by the government allowing us access to only what they wanted us to see. They held our passports and travel documents and planned our every move. We were bused from one event to another but couldn’t avoid noticing, as each day lengthened that the number of business men staggering along the streets increased rapidly. As many of them left work they stopped at kiosks for a shot or two or more of vodka. Some were falling down drunk while others made it to the train stations and eventually, home. It was November and there was snow on the ground causing me to wonder if any were ever frozen in place in their suits. It was very depressing.
Our excursions included visits to schools where we were treated like royalty. Students performed for us: dancing, singing and gymnastics at levels far beyond what we were accustomed to for the particular age group. And there was always food. Plates piled high with salami-type meats and other unrecognizable items were pressed on us. Before I wised up, I struggled to make a good showing of cleaning my plate only to have another and another course follow. It was not advisable to decline, I discovered, but painful to soldier on.
The evenings were also planned for us; one night, a visit to the Moscow Circus and another to the Ballet. At the circus, our guide produced tickets for the group but the large female at the door wouldn’t even look at them. She was yelling and gesturing for us to leave. Our guide took up the challenge and the two went at each other for several minutes until suddenly she threw up her hands and stepped aside. Even our guide couldn’t explain it. After a stunning performance we joined the throng to leave and found ourselves tightly massed together and headed for the one door that was unlocked. You hear about people being trampled to death as crowds surge forward in semi panic. I was in full panic mode. Hands were shoving me from behind and yet the wall of people in front was barely moving. At one point I was no longer perpendicular and was unable to regain my balance but luckily there was no room to fall. Somehow we made it out.
Some of our group was taking a side trip to St Petersburg and I wished I had made this plan in advance. An older couple from Mississippi had befriended me and absolutely insisted that I travel with them. Before I could say perestroika the arrangements had been made and we were on our way to the station to catch the overnight train. Since my ticket was booked separately I was assigned to a compartment many carriages away from my friends. It was very small with two sets of double bunks and barely enough room for me to maneuver onto the top one. Once there, the heat was suffocating. My companions, two men and one woman, Russian-speaking only, were unfazed and quickly bedded down. The porter came by to offer sheets, a wonderful improvement on the vinyl covered mattresses, at the daunting price of 12 cents. That was a no-brainer. It was only later that I found out that my ticket cost only $3. For $12 I could have had the compartment to myself!
We arrived at first light, spilling out onto the platform already packed with people. My discomfort from the sleeping arrangement was nothing compared to the panic that seized me when I recognized not one soul. Remember, my passport, travel documents and even my return plane ticket was still in Moscow with the authorities. Stupid! I can’t speak the language and didn’t have a clue what I would do next. With that, a hand took my arm and steered me towards my friends …it was our wonderful guide to the rescue.
The plan that day was to visit a children’s camp in the far reaches of the steppes many miles out of the city. The others in my group had no intention of going as time was short and the city had so much to offer. We toured the summer palace of Tsar Peter where my Mississippi friend’s grandmother had been born. It was quite emotional for her as she explained that her great grandfather had been the ambassador to Russia and he and his wife had been graciously invited to stay there for the birth of their child.
Next was a mandatory visit to the Mayor’s office. Many Russian women over the age of 40 are quite large in girth. Some are large all over. And so it was with the Major. She greeted us in her office through an interpreter, produced tea and cakes and gave us our orders for the camp visit. As we explained that we really didn’t have time for this overnight trip and would much rather enjoy her city, her color rose and her stature grew. There was absolutely no discussion – the group was going. All except me. I was to return to Moscow that night on the train in order to catch my flight back to the US the next morning.
A nice young man was dispatched to accompany me for the rest of the day and make sure I returned to Moscow as planned. So there I was completely alone in a very foreign city with a guide who spoke no English. Our only form of communication was gestures with an odd French word thrown in. It was going to be a long afternoon and evening. Somehow I conveyed that I would really like to go the Hermitage, one of the finest art museums in the world. It is magnificent – floor after floor or masterpieces and almost no one there. My guide clung to me, afraid for his life if he lost me, as we wandered from room to room.
Our next stop was a tall office building where I was seated in the lobby while my guide disappeared into the elevator. It seems he had to pick up my train ticket. Don’t ask why it was there. We then sat together for dinner and to kill several hours before it was time to leave. I was actually looking forward to getting back into that stuffy train compartment for another night.
It was still dark when we arrived in Moscow and I had no idea what was to happen next. What if there was no one to meet me? How would I ever join up with those who held my passport and ticket home? Once again there was just enough time to hyperventilate and then, like magic, a familiar face appeared and scooped me up. We rushed to the airport where I was reunited with a couple of my earlier companions for our flight home. And I thought the worst was over!
If you haven’t already read my previous blog - read on.
Our excursions included visits to schools where we were treated like royalty. Students performed for us: dancing, singing and gymnastics at levels far beyond what we were accustomed to for the particular age group. And there was always food. Plates piled high with salami-type meats and other unrecognizable items were pressed on us. Before I wised up, I struggled to make a good showing of cleaning my plate only to have another and another course follow. It was not advisable to decline, I discovered, but painful to soldier on.
The evenings were also planned for us; one night, a visit to the Moscow Circus and another to the Ballet. At the circus, our guide produced tickets for the group but the large female at the door wouldn’t even look at them. She was yelling and gesturing for us to leave. Our guide took up the challenge and the two went at each other for several minutes until suddenly she threw up her hands and stepped aside. Even our guide couldn’t explain it. After a stunning performance we joined the throng to leave and found ourselves tightly massed together and headed for the one door that was unlocked. You hear about people being trampled to death as crowds surge forward in semi panic. I was in full panic mode. Hands were shoving me from behind and yet the wall of people in front was barely moving. At one point I was no longer perpendicular and was unable to regain my balance but luckily there was no room to fall. Somehow we made it out.
Some of our group was taking a side trip to St Petersburg and I wished I had made this plan in advance. An older couple from Mississippi had befriended me and absolutely insisted that I travel with them. Before I could say perestroika the arrangements had been made and we were on our way to the station to catch the overnight train. Since my ticket was booked separately I was assigned to a compartment many carriages away from my friends. It was very small with two sets of double bunks and barely enough room for me to maneuver onto the top one. Once there, the heat was suffocating. My companions, two men and one woman, Russian-speaking only, were unfazed and quickly bedded down. The porter came by to offer sheets, a wonderful improvement on the vinyl covered mattresses, at the daunting price of 12 cents. That was a no-brainer. It was only later that I found out that my ticket cost only $3. For $12 I could have had the compartment to myself!
We arrived at first light, spilling out onto the platform already packed with people. My discomfort from the sleeping arrangement was nothing compared to the panic that seized me when I recognized not one soul. Remember, my passport, travel documents and even my return plane ticket was still in Moscow with the authorities. Stupid! I can’t speak the language and didn’t have a clue what I would do next. With that, a hand took my arm and steered me towards my friends …it was our wonderful guide to the rescue.
The plan that day was to visit a children’s camp in the far reaches of the steppes many miles out of the city. The others in my group had no intention of going as time was short and the city had so much to offer. We toured the summer palace of Tsar Peter where my Mississippi friend’s grandmother had been born. It was quite emotional for her as she explained that her great grandfather had been the ambassador to Russia and he and his wife had been graciously invited to stay there for the birth of their child.
Next was a mandatory visit to the Mayor’s office. Many Russian women over the age of 40 are quite large in girth. Some are large all over. And so it was with the Major. She greeted us in her office through an interpreter, produced tea and cakes and gave us our orders for the camp visit. As we explained that we really didn’t have time for this overnight trip and would much rather enjoy her city, her color rose and her stature grew. There was absolutely no discussion – the group was going. All except me. I was to return to Moscow that night on the train in order to catch my flight back to the US the next morning.
A nice young man was dispatched to accompany me for the rest of the day and make sure I returned to Moscow as planned. So there I was completely alone in a very foreign city with a guide who spoke no English. Our only form of communication was gestures with an odd French word thrown in. It was going to be a long afternoon and evening. Somehow I conveyed that I would really like to go the Hermitage, one of the finest art museums in the world. It is magnificent – floor after floor or masterpieces and almost no one there. My guide clung to me, afraid for his life if he lost me, as we wandered from room to room.
Our next stop was a tall office building where I was seated in the lobby while my guide disappeared into the elevator. It seems he had to pick up my train ticket. Don’t ask why it was there. We then sat together for dinner and to kill several hours before it was time to leave. I was actually looking forward to getting back into that stuffy train compartment for another night.
It was still dark when we arrived in Moscow and I had no idea what was to happen next. What if there was no one to meet me? How would I ever join up with those who held my passport and ticket home? Once again there was just enough time to hyperventilate and then, like magic, a familiar face appeared and scooped me up. We rushed to the airport where I was reunited with a couple of my earlier companions for our flight home. And I thought the worst was over!
If you haven’t already read my previous blog - read on.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
To Russia and back...but only just
With the remarkable landing, recently, of a US Air flight in the Hudson River and the survival of a plane load of people, I am reminded of an occasion in the early nineties when I seriously doubted my own safe return to terra firma.
I had been invited to Moscow to attend a series of events specifically for Camp Directors to aid in hiring summer staff. Never a nervous traveler, I thought little of joining a small group of strangers for a 10 day working holiday in a very foreign country where the language is completely indecipherable, both spoken and read, to most and particularly to me who has no propensity for foreign language.
Flying on Aeroflot would never have been my first choice or even my last but it came with the package. Embarking in New York for the 10 hour flight, my companions and I appeared to be the only non-Russians and certainly the only non-smokers. Suffice it to say that the flight was unremarkable apart from the fact that we were vibrated, starved, slightly inebriated and our lungs were filled with smoke by the time we arrived. This was nothing compared to the return trip.
Just two others from my group took the flight home together. Some had gone on to more distant lands while others just evaporated. I suspect that they changed their flight arrangements to avoid another Aeroflot experience. If I had been a gambler I might have decided that the odds were against me and made a similar decision.
Too late now! Seated together near the front of the plane we were surrounded by middle aged men and a cello. The three seats directly across from me were occupied by the owner of the cello, the instrument itself and a man already well into his cups. The usual safety rules for take-off, such as fastening seat belts, stowing the tray table and placing the seatback in the upright position seemed not to apply. My seat would not lock into place and my drunken neighbor had a bottle of vodka and a shot glass on his table.
Once in the air the musician began complaining loudly to the fight attendant. Of all the passengers he looked to be the most harmless but soon it became apparent that he feared for his cello and was demanding to be moved to a new seat. Quickly he and the cello disappeared into ‘first class’ leaving me a clear view of the now semi-conscious traveler who, to my horror, was vomiting all over himself. Obviously this was not an uncommon practice. The three men directly in front of him were engaged in a lively card game punctuated by the refilling of their own shot glasses and paid no attention at all. The flight staff continued passing out bottles of vodka, none of these little one drink-size miniatures you normally get but whole fifths.
Our food trays had just arrived when one of the card players began yelling at the man in front of him. Who knows what started this argument but in no time he was out of his seat and face to face with his tormentor. Bam! In a flash he took a hard fist to the face and fell to the floor in the aisle right next to me. Egads! Blood was pouring from his nose and upper lip as he struggled to his knees. My napkin was still on my lap so I passed it to him as a temporary measure, fully expecting a fight attendant to come to the rescue. It appears that you don’t mess with these Russians since the attendants were all in the galley peeking out around the curtain and not making a move to help.
Much subdued, he crawled into the seat that the cello payer had vacated and quickly passed out. Now that whole row was unconscious.
Somewhere over Western Europe the pilot announced that we were going to make an unscheduled stop in Shannon, Ireland. Was this to remove the 2 unconscious passengers and others in a similar condition or were we having mechanical problems? We were instructed to disembark on landing for a period of an hour. Now might have been a good time to re-think the continuation of this particular flight. However, without luggage and already desperate to get home we soldiered on. Back on the plane our 2 sleeping row-mates were just where we left them. The one guy’s lip was fatter and his nose more swollen and the other certainly didn’t smell any better but otherwise they hadn’t moved. Lack of sufficient fuel to make it across the Atlantic seemed to have been the problem. Don’t you wonder how that happens?
As we began our descent into New York the now sleeping travelers began to reorganize. Our potted friend hauled himself to a standing position, dragged the sweater, that was loosely knotted around his neck and strewn with dried vomit, over his head, added a rather nice leather jacket and made himself quite respectable-looking. He then removed several metal parts from the overhead bin, took a wrench out of his pocket and proceeded to reconstruct a suitcase trolley right before my eyes. Once assembled, this pre-war, rusty, two-wheeled deadly weapon had to stand in the aisle during landing.
Fat Lip also managed to look decent as he exited but one look in the mirror might have surprised him. I wondered how he explained that to whoever was meeting him.
Needless to say we did make it back but if a flock of birds had crossed our path I don’t believe even Sully could have saved us.
I had been invited to Moscow to attend a series of events specifically for Camp Directors to aid in hiring summer staff. Never a nervous traveler, I thought little of joining a small group of strangers for a 10 day working holiday in a very foreign country where the language is completely indecipherable, both spoken and read, to most and particularly to me who has no propensity for foreign language.
Flying on Aeroflot would never have been my first choice or even my last but it came with the package. Embarking in New York for the 10 hour flight, my companions and I appeared to be the only non-Russians and certainly the only non-smokers. Suffice it to say that the flight was unremarkable apart from the fact that we were vibrated, starved, slightly inebriated and our lungs were filled with smoke by the time we arrived. This was nothing compared to the return trip.
Just two others from my group took the flight home together. Some had gone on to more distant lands while others just evaporated. I suspect that they changed their flight arrangements to avoid another Aeroflot experience. If I had been a gambler I might have decided that the odds were against me and made a similar decision.
Too late now! Seated together near the front of the plane we were surrounded by middle aged men and a cello. The three seats directly across from me were occupied by the owner of the cello, the instrument itself and a man already well into his cups. The usual safety rules for take-off, such as fastening seat belts, stowing the tray table and placing the seatback in the upright position seemed not to apply. My seat would not lock into place and my drunken neighbor had a bottle of vodka and a shot glass on his table.
Once in the air the musician began complaining loudly to the fight attendant. Of all the passengers he looked to be the most harmless but soon it became apparent that he feared for his cello and was demanding to be moved to a new seat. Quickly he and the cello disappeared into ‘first class’ leaving me a clear view of the now semi-conscious traveler who, to my horror, was vomiting all over himself. Obviously this was not an uncommon practice. The three men directly in front of him were engaged in a lively card game punctuated by the refilling of their own shot glasses and paid no attention at all. The flight staff continued passing out bottles of vodka, none of these little one drink-size miniatures you normally get but whole fifths.
Our food trays had just arrived when one of the card players began yelling at the man in front of him. Who knows what started this argument but in no time he was out of his seat and face to face with his tormentor. Bam! In a flash he took a hard fist to the face and fell to the floor in the aisle right next to me. Egads! Blood was pouring from his nose and upper lip as he struggled to his knees. My napkin was still on my lap so I passed it to him as a temporary measure, fully expecting a fight attendant to come to the rescue. It appears that you don’t mess with these Russians since the attendants were all in the galley peeking out around the curtain and not making a move to help.
Much subdued, he crawled into the seat that the cello payer had vacated and quickly passed out. Now that whole row was unconscious.
Somewhere over Western Europe the pilot announced that we were going to make an unscheduled stop in Shannon, Ireland. Was this to remove the 2 unconscious passengers and others in a similar condition or were we having mechanical problems? We were instructed to disembark on landing for a period of an hour. Now might have been a good time to re-think the continuation of this particular flight. However, without luggage and already desperate to get home we soldiered on. Back on the plane our 2 sleeping row-mates were just where we left them. The one guy’s lip was fatter and his nose more swollen and the other certainly didn’t smell any better but otherwise they hadn’t moved. Lack of sufficient fuel to make it across the Atlantic seemed to have been the problem. Don’t you wonder how that happens?
As we began our descent into New York the now sleeping travelers began to reorganize. Our potted friend hauled himself to a standing position, dragged the sweater, that was loosely knotted around his neck and strewn with dried vomit, over his head, added a rather nice leather jacket and made himself quite respectable-looking. He then removed several metal parts from the overhead bin, took a wrench out of his pocket and proceeded to reconstruct a suitcase trolley right before my eyes. Once assembled, this pre-war, rusty, two-wheeled deadly weapon had to stand in the aisle during landing.
Fat Lip also managed to look decent as he exited but one look in the mirror might have surprised him. I wondered how he explained that to whoever was meeting him.
Needless to say we did make it back but if a flock of birds had crossed our path I don’t believe even Sully could have saved us.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Gas Station Antics
Finally the iPhone has come to Vermont. I resisted for 10 days but being the gadget junkie that I am, could hold out no longer. This slim, magical piece of technology is now residing in my purse and I am ecstatic. It is slick!
Back a few years I experienced a rather unfortunate incident that might well have been recorded on someone’s cell phone had most people had cell phones at the time. That morning the whole town was without power causing all gas stations to be temporarily out of commission. En route to Burlington I stopped in Waterbury to fill up my gas tank where I met many Stoweites doing the same. We chatted as we pumped and reconvened inside to buy coffee for the trip. Back outside, more conversation ensued and then with a hearty wave I drove off to my destination some 30 miles away.
The radio was playing as I travelled the required 65 miles an hour down the highway. After overtaking a number of cars I glanced in my passenger side rear-view mirror where to my horror I saw, not only had I failed to close the gas tank door but had also failed to remove the nozzle. The accompanying 10 feet of hose was flapping in the wind as I sailed down I-89!
What to do now? I wanted to crawl under a rock in embarrassment. How many people had seen me already? Should I pull over and try to rectify the situation and risk being seen by even more amused passers-by? It had to be done. Parked on the shoulder I proceeded to remove the hose and nozzle, screw the still present gas cap back on and close the door, all as cars whisked by. Now I was faced with another dilemma. What to do with the hose. I seriously contemplated heaving it over the bank but instead stored it in the trunk.
Visions of the chaos I had created back at the gas station loomed into view. Spilled gas, fire trucks, emergency evacuations, police cars dispatched to track me down……!! Dare I return? An illegal u-turn and 20 minutes later I pulled into a very calm and normal-appearing gas station. People were still pumping gas except at pump #4. There the dial was still where I left had it. Anyone could have continued pumping gas on my credit card, that is, if they had their own hose and nozzle.
Without removing my contraband, I cornered an attendant and as quietly as possible, admitted to my dastardly deed adding “I’ll pay for repairs.” “Not to worry’” she responded loudly, “it happens all the time. The break-away connections were installed for that very reason. Just bring back the pieces.”
One more sighting was documented as I removed the offending hose from my trunk but otherwise, I was scot-free. Personal humiliation was all that remained, I thought, until I opened the Stowe Reporter the following week. In the section called Seen Around the Mountain there was a full accounting of my antics. I suppose it could have been worse. With today’s technology I might have been The Best of You Tube!
Back a few years I experienced a rather unfortunate incident that might well have been recorded on someone’s cell phone had most people had cell phones at the time. That morning the whole town was without power causing all gas stations to be temporarily out of commission. En route to Burlington I stopped in Waterbury to fill up my gas tank where I met many Stoweites doing the same. We chatted as we pumped and reconvened inside to buy coffee for the trip. Back outside, more conversation ensued and then with a hearty wave I drove off to my destination some 30 miles away.
The radio was playing as I travelled the required 65 miles an hour down the highway. After overtaking a number of cars I glanced in my passenger side rear-view mirror where to my horror I saw, not only had I failed to close the gas tank door but had also failed to remove the nozzle. The accompanying 10 feet of hose was flapping in the wind as I sailed down I-89!
What to do now? I wanted to crawl under a rock in embarrassment. How many people had seen me already? Should I pull over and try to rectify the situation and risk being seen by even more amused passers-by? It had to be done. Parked on the shoulder I proceeded to remove the hose and nozzle, screw the still present gas cap back on and close the door, all as cars whisked by. Now I was faced with another dilemma. What to do with the hose. I seriously contemplated heaving it over the bank but instead stored it in the trunk.
Visions of the chaos I had created back at the gas station loomed into view. Spilled gas, fire trucks, emergency evacuations, police cars dispatched to track me down……!! Dare I return? An illegal u-turn and 20 minutes later I pulled into a very calm and normal-appearing gas station. People were still pumping gas except at pump #4. There the dial was still where I left had it. Anyone could have continued pumping gas on my credit card, that is, if they had their own hose and nozzle.
Without removing my contraband, I cornered an attendant and as quietly as possible, admitted to my dastardly deed adding “I’ll pay for repairs.” “Not to worry’” she responded loudly, “it happens all the time. The break-away connections were installed for that very reason. Just bring back the pieces.”
One more sighting was documented as I removed the offending hose from my trunk but otherwise, I was scot-free. Personal humiliation was all that remained, I thought, until I opened the Stowe Reporter the following week. In the section called Seen Around the Mountain there was a full accounting of my antics. I suppose it could have been worse. With today’s technology I might have been The Best of You Tube!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Living in a school bus
We are having a particularly cold spell of weather in Vermont. Temperatures are hovering around zero during the day and as low as minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit at night. The home that my husband and I have built over the many years is so snug and cozy to come home to each evening that the weather doesn’t bother me at all.
It was not always that way. When first we met and began our life together, our dreams were grand but our pockets were empty. This giant of a man, to whom I have been married for more than 37 years, lived in a dear little house close to the river without heat or indoor plumbing. Together we would transform it into our first home.
First, we had to own it. We borrowed the purchase price of $5,000 from my father and the house with 3 acres of land bordering Sterling Brook was ours. Once a tenement building for the local saw mill and used only seasonally it was in need of a major renovation.
Just by chance, an old friend showed up at this time, driving a school bus that had seen better days. The proverbial light bulb went off and with just $50 passing hands, the school bus became permanently parked on our lawn. The term ‘lawn’ is used loosely since that lawn was buried under about 3 feet of snow. It was already April but little snow had melted from the long winter and so the emergency door in the back of the bus was level with the snow. Very convenient! This was to be our temporary home while we worked on the house.
Quickly, we ripped out the seats and set about furnishing the space. With windows on all sides, curtains were a priority. Next we dragged an old oriental rug out of the house to cover the floor. Where the seats had been, anchoring devices still remained stubbing our toes. Looking back, that rug was probably quite valuable although a corner had already been cut. Now we took shears to it and redesigned it, bus-shape. Next was the double bed complete with head and foot boards. It fit crossways with just enough room to squeeze around the end. A table and two chairs, a two burner hot plate and a bucket completed the interior design. We ran an electric cable from the house and had a telephone installed just inside the folding entrance door.
We had no heat but spring was coming and a large malamute/shepherd cross named Beau and two cats helped provide body heat once we all crawled into the rather inadequately-sized bed.
The bucket was our water container but also served as a thermometer. When ice had formed overnight, it was cold! The water came from the brook and had to be hauled several times a day for flushing the toilet in the shed, washing and cooking. It was frigid and just boiling it for coffee on the hot plate was a lengthy procedure. As spring moved into summer the passive solar heat from all the windows we had enjoyed in colder weather turned our capsule into a sauna. Now we could enjoy dipping in the brook to cool off.
All the while we were tearing the house apart. The interior walls made of lathe and plaster and some newspaper stuffed in for insulation had to be removed. The foundation was old stone, collapsing in places, and the sills were rotten. These all needed replacing and a small addition was added. The two of us worked together in the evenings and on weekends while working our regular jobs until late in November when we were able to move into two rooms of the house. Still we had the hotplate and by now an electric frying pan but best of all we had a working bathroom. We were on our way.
The yellow school bus had served us well and in time was passed on yet again. We continued to work on the house, room by room, until we had added a mother-in-law, a child and another on the way. It was time to move to bigger accommodations. We sold the house, purchased another property, close-by, with 30 acres and an existing farmhouse and started building our second home. Now some 32 years later, back to just the two of us, we are ready to move once more. The property is for sale and we are planning our third house to suit our senior years. Are we crazy? Maybe ……
It was not always that way. When first we met and began our life together, our dreams were grand but our pockets were empty. This giant of a man, to whom I have been married for more than 37 years, lived in a dear little house close to the river without heat or indoor plumbing. Together we would transform it into our first home.
First, we had to own it. We borrowed the purchase price of $5,000 from my father and the house with 3 acres of land bordering Sterling Brook was ours. Once a tenement building for the local saw mill and used only seasonally it was in need of a major renovation.
Just by chance, an old friend showed up at this time, driving a school bus that had seen better days. The proverbial light bulb went off and with just $50 passing hands, the school bus became permanently parked on our lawn. The term ‘lawn’ is used loosely since that lawn was buried under about 3 feet of snow. It was already April but little snow had melted from the long winter and so the emergency door in the back of the bus was level with the snow. Very convenient! This was to be our temporary home while we worked on the house.
Quickly, we ripped out the seats and set about furnishing the space. With windows on all sides, curtains were a priority. Next we dragged an old oriental rug out of the house to cover the floor. Where the seats had been, anchoring devices still remained stubbing our toes. Looking back, that rug was probably quite valuable although a corner had already been cut. Now we took shears to it and redesigned it, bus-shape. Next was the double bed complete with head and foot boards. It fit crossways with just enough room to squeeze around the end. A table and two chairs, a two burner hot plate and a bucket completed the interior design. We ran an electric cable from the house and had a telephone installed just inside the folding entrance door.
We had no heat but spring was coming and a large malamute/shepherd cross named Beau and two cats helped provide body heat once we all crawled into the rather inadequately-sized bed.
The bucket was our water container but also served as a thermometer. When ice had formed overnight, it was cold! The water came from the brook and had to be hauled several times a day for flushing the toilet in the shed, washing and cooking. It was frigid and just boiling it for coffee on the hot plate was a lengthy procedure. As spring moved into summer the passive solar heat from all the windows we had enjoyed in colder weather turned our capsule into a sauna. Now we could enjoy dipping in the brook to cool off.
All the while we were tearing the house apart. The interior walls made of lathe and plaster and some newspaper stuffed in for insulation had to be removed. The foundation was old stone, collapsing in places, and the sills were rotten. These all needed replacing and a small addition was added. The two of us worked together in the evenings and on weekends while working our regular jobs until late in November when we were able to move into two rooms of the house. Still we had the hotplate and by now an electric frying pan but best of all we had a working bathroom. We were on our way.
The yellow school bus had served us well and in time was passed on yet again. We continued to work on the house, room by room, until we had added a mother-in-law, a child and another on the way. It was time to move to bigger accommodations. We sold the house, purchased another property, close-by, with 30 acres and an existing farmhouse and started building our second home. Now some 32 years later, back to just the two of us, we are ready to move once more. The property is for sale and we are planning our third house to suit our senior years. Are we crazy? Maybe ……
Friday, January 2, 2009
Boxing Day
When I was growing up in England, Boxing Day, named for the boxes filled with left over food and given to the servants on the day after Christmas, was second in my book, only to the gift receiving day itself. By the fifties, few families had servants including ours but Boxing Day was special for another reason. Traditionally, it was the opening day of fox hunting.
My first introduction to this gala event at age 11 is deeply ingrained in my memory for many reasons, not all of which I can be proud. The 'Meet' for the Duke of Beaufort's hunt was held on the lawns of his stately home in Gloucestershire where more than a hundred riders would gather to sip sherry and speculate on the upcoming day's events. Many of the women rode side saddle with long skirted habits while the men wore hunting pink and top hats, I kid you not! The children of these affluent families, dressed in miniature tweed jackets and jodhpurs rode perfect ponies with braided manes and polished bridles. Then there were the others. My sister and I, together with our friends, fit the 'other' category.
On this first outing we rose at daybreak to feed and groom our ponies, clean our tack and stuff a couple of turkey sandwiches into our pockets. By 8:00 am we were mounted and had begun our 10 mile journey just to get to the Meet. By the time we arrived two hours later, damp and mud splattered, our appearance was disheveled but our excitement was intense. The hounds were baying, anxious to get going, the horses were beginning to stamp their feet and the sherry glasses were almost empty. I was loving it. Proudly I sat on my little round pony of no particular ancestry, soaking up the moment, when without warning my pony’s knees buckled and I was on the ground. The wretched creature had decided that he had an itch and it was time for a roll. While he was on his back grinding my saddle into the mud and onlookers were quietly giggling behind their leather gloved hands, I tugged ineffectually on the reins to try to right the beast. That was only the first of several embarrassing moments.
For those of you unfamiliar with this age-old sport, now banned in England, this is how it goes: the huntsmen encourage the hounds to pick up the scent of an unsuspecting fox and once detected the lead hound gives voice and the pack then takes off in pursuit. Once the fox is caught, possibly miles and hours later, it is consumed by the hounds, that is why it is called a ‘blood sport’, and then it begins all over again .The rest of the riders are just followers. Rule #1 – never, I repeat, never go ahead of a huntsman.
Neither my pony nor I were very experienced so my control of him was severely limited. He had a tendency to take the bit between his teeth and run away and no amount of hauling on the reins had any effect. He also didn’t like to jump much. Still my confidence level was high as I positioned myself near the back of the ‘field’ listening for the ‘Tally Ho’ and the hunting horn signifying that the hounds were on the scent.
Within minutes we were away. This huge mass of horseflesh was instantly in full gallop across endless rolling fields separated only by stone walls. What a rush! The first obstacle was coming up fast and much to my surprise we sailed over a low section of wall without hesitation. My, this was fun! Ahead of us the field was slowing to allow the hounds to regroup and one of the huntsmen signaled the field to ‘Hold Hard’. This was not an order my pony understood and by now I had no say. We tore past the other riders, past the Field Master, a major rule infringement, but still a stone wall separated us from the working hounds. Fortunately, at this point my headstrong equine came to a screeching halt sending me flying over his head. Embarrassing moment #2.
As the day wore on the ‘field’ spread out and I found myself hacking to the next likely location in the company of the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort. My ego now restored, I eagerly jumped out of the saddle to open a gate to allow them through. They acknowledged my politeness with a nod and waited to allow me to remount. I was feeling pretty good. As I swung my leg over the saddle that disgusting little four-legged animal moved swiftly to his left depositing me on the far side, flat on my back in a plowed field. Did I mention that it had been raining for days? Embarrassing moment #3.
I survived that first Boxing Day hunt to go on to many more. There were new ponies and more unspeakable moments but the thrill of the chase surpassed all. Yes, the ‘sport’ was ugly but the pageantry was magnificent.
My first introduction to this gala event at age 11 is deeply ingrained in my memory for many reasons, not all of which I can be proud. The 'Meet' for the Duke of Beaufort's hunt was held on the lawns of his stately home in Gloucestershire where more than a hundred riders would gather to sip sherry and speculate on the upcoming day's events. Many of the women rode side saddle with long skirted habits while the men wore hunting pink and top hats, I kid you not! The children of these affluent families, dressed in miniature tweed jackets and jodhpurs rode perfect ponies with braided manes and polished bridles. Then there were the others. My sister and I, together with our friends, fit the 'other' category.
On this first outing we rose at daybreak to feed and groom our ponies, clean our tack and stuff a couple of turkey sandwiches into our pockets. By 8:00 am we were mounted and had begun our 10 mile journey just to get to the Meet. By the time we arrived two hours later, damp and mud splattered, our appearance was disheveled but our excitement was intense. The hounds were baying, anxious to get going, the horses were beginning to stamp their feet and the sherry glasses were almost empty. I was loving it. Proudly I sat on my little round pony of no particular ancestry, soaking up the moment, when without warning my pony’s knees buckled and I was on the ground. The wretched creature had decided that he had an itch and it was time for a roll. While he was on his back grinding my saddle into the mud and onlookers were quietly giggling behind their leather gloved hands, I tugged ineffectually on the reins to try to right the beast. That was only the first of several embarrassing moments.
For those of you unfamiliar with this age-old sport, now banned in England, this is how it goes: the huntsmen encourage the hounds to pick up the scent of an unsuspecting fox and once detected the lead hound gives voice and the pack then takes off in pursuit. Once the fox is caught, possibly miles and hours later, it is consumed by the hounds, that is why it is called a ‘blood sport’, and then it begins all over again .The rest of the riders are just followers. Rule #1 – never, I repeat, never go ahead of a huntsman.
Neither my pony nor I were very experienced so my control of him was severely limited. He had a tendency to take the bit between his teeth and run away and no amount of hauling on the reins had any effect. He also didn’t like to jump much. Still my confidence level was high as I positioned myself near the back of the ‘field’ listening for the ‘Tally Ho’ and the hunting horn signifying that the hounds were on the scent.
Within minutes we were away. This huge mass of horseflesh was instantly in full gallop across endless rolling fields separated only by stone walls. What a rush! The first obstacle was coming up fast and much to my surprise we sailed over a low section of wall without hesitation. My, this was fun! Ahead of us the field was slowing to allow the hounds to regroup and one of the huntsmen signaled the field to ‘Hold Hard’. This was not an order my pony understood and by now I had no say. We tore past the other riders, past the Field Master, a major rule infringement, but still a stone wall separated us from the working hounds. Fortunately, at this point my headstrong equine came to a screeching halt sending me flying over his head. Embarrassing moment #2.
As the day wore on the ‘field’ spread out and I found myself hacking to the next likely location in the company of the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort. My ego now restored, I eagerly jumped out of the saddle to open a gate to allow them through. They acknowledged my politeness with a nod and waited to allow me to remount. I was feeling pretty good. As I swung my leg over the saddle that disgusting little four-legged animal moved swiftly to his left depositing me on the far side, flat on my back in a plowed field. Did I mention that it had been raining for days? Embarrassing moment #3.
I survived that first Boxing Day hunt to go on to many more. There were new ponies and more unspeakable moments but the thrill of the chase surpassed all. Yes, the ‘sport’ was ugly but the pageantry was magnificent.
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