Home: Part 33

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

March 1977

Shannon had gone from dark to light, as though she had turned the sun onto her hair. The hair was shorter, too, no longer at her shoulders but just below her earlobes on the sides. "It was Val's idea," she said. "As soon as I sat in the chair, she said I looked like I needed a change." She pirouetted. "This is how she thought I should look."

"You're a blonde now," I said from the sofa. When she'd first come through the door, I hadn't recognized her.

"Dirty blonde, Val says."

"Short blonde," I said.

She looked at her reflection in the wood-framed mirror we had found at a yard sale. Then she looked at me. "What do you think?"

"Let me touch it," I said. She sat beside me, and I caressed the side of her head, feeling the hair. "It even feels different."

"So?"

"I think I like it," I said.

She leaned into  me. "It's a change, isn't it? That's all."

"First you get me to eat pomegranates, and now this."

She laughed. "I forgot about the pomegranate."

I kissed the top of her head. "It's beautiful. You're beautiful. You would be even if you didn't have any hair at all."

"Like a mannequin?"

"Yeah, but with eyes and a real smile."

"You're sweet. My dad will hate it."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. He's just always said how much he likes long hair on women. That's why my mom never gets hers cut short."

"Well, the hell with him." She brushed her bangs away from her eyebrows.

More Random Thoughts

In the span of about six months not long ago, my three best friends died. Or, maybe it's more accurate to say that three people who had been my best friends at one time or another died. One I saw at the hospital just before he went, in pretty much his own words, to see Jesus. Another thought he could pray his way out of a terminal brain tumor, but it didn't quite work out that way. The other got sick, got better, then went home from the hospital and died in his sleep. I got to carry his coffin to his grave, and then I got to speak at his memorial service. Each of these people had influenced in one way or another, and now they're gone. Death works like that, I guess--the epitome of an equal opportunity employer.

---

Some nights when it's late like this, when everyone one else is asleep, I think I'd like to call one of these friends, even though one of my irrational fears is talking on the phone. Of course, wanting to call a dead person is beyond irrational, so we'll just leave that alone.

What I'm thinking right now is, Who's awake? Who's prowling the internet or reading email or looking through the online TV guide to find something worthy of watching, and who are they thinking about? I'm also thinking that I'd like to have my electric guitar in my hands right now, but the house is quiet, the neighborhood is quiet--everything is quiet but what's bouncing through my little brain right now, it seems.

---

It's one of those times of major changes that lead to certain choices--the road taken, the road not taken.  You know how it is: something happens, and then you start thinking about what you should do, and even how you got to this point in the first place. Maybe you want to tell someone what you're feeling, but you know it wouldn't help you make a decision because it's your choice what you do next.

---

One of my students is a barber, but he wants to be a writer. His essays are good, and he is eager to learn. He has asked for recommendations for people he should read, and I've been liberal in my thoughts. But I've also told him that he could do worse than ignoring what I say, that he should be cautious of what kind of literature think is "good" and is essential to his edification. But I'm vain enough to be flattered, too, because it's rare that conversations in the classroom go beyond an academic fixation with the Oxford comma. Many years ago in my first professional job, I worked with Jim, who was 30 years my senior but who recommended books and authors to read. So, I did. I changed jobs, and Jim retired, and we kind of lost touch with each other. Several years ago Jim's wife called me out of the blue, telling me that he'd died, but that he'd said often that he'd enjoyed working with me. I liked that--more flattery, I guess.

Now, though, it's late at night. I'm wondering who's awake, who's waiting to be called.

Home: Part 32

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

March 1982

After a winter of steady, persistent rain, spring arrived as sunshine and dry weather. Kathy and I were sitting on the small balcony outside our apartment’s living room. Trees in the woods behind our apartment complex had been budding slowly for several weeks, but on that first day of spring they seemed green and alive.

“I like this so much,” Kathy said. She leaned back in her chair and turned her face to the sun, the first time we’d even seen the sun in three weeks. She undid two buttons on her tan blouse and bared her skin to the sun.

“It’s a nice change, isn’t it?” I asked. I could see that the creek running through the woods was still running high.

“Speaking of change,” Kathy said. “When I was shopping with Holly a couple weeks ago, she said she might be pregnant.”

“I thought you said she couldn’t have kids.”

“That’s what changed, I guess. Something must’ve clicked the right way.” Kathy’s older sister, Holly had been married for nearly a decade. Andrew, her husband, owned a Ford dealership and had done quite well. The two of them lived alone in a large house Andrew surrounded by walnut and almond orchards his parents had planted when they were first married. An arborist and all around environmentalist, Holly managed the orchards for her in-laws.

“I assume she’s happy about it,” I said.

“She’s starting to be, I think. She’s just now far enough along to tell people.”

“That’s good news, then,” I said.

Kathy didn’t say anything, just undid another button so that the tops of her breasts could absorb the sunlight.

Home: Part 31

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

January 1958

The roads were slick. My father took each turn carefully as he drove me, Cindy, and Terry to church. Terry and I sat in the back seat; I kept my face turned toward the window and watched heavy flakes of snow fall so thickly around us that I could see nothing beyond the car. My sister had prevailed and convinced Terry that I should accompany them. My father had suggested earlier that morning that it would be a good day to stay home, that he didn't relish the thought of driving across town to get Terry, then another few miles to the church. 

"It's Sunday," Cindy had told him. "It's god's day. He'll watch out for us."

"God doesn't work like that," my mother had said as she stood with her arms crossed and watched us leave the house.

Cindy was in front of my father and me. She stopped walking and stared at my mother. "You don't understand god, Mom."

"Maybe god should do the driving today," my father said. I knew he was joking, but Cindy would have none of it.

"You, too, Dad. You think Sears is going to save you? Or Mom? Or anyone?"

My father sighed. "Not save us, but at least feed us. Let's just go, okay"

Terry lived in a two-story farmhouse that was surrounded by large trees. He was waiting at the end of his driveway when we arrived, and the box of church bulletins he'd brought with him was now between us on the slippery seat. Occasionally as my father rounded corners, the box slid against my thigh, and Terry was quick to retrieve it. Once, he set his hand on my half-leg, looked at me, and told me to leave the box alone, as though I had a part in the matter.

At the church, Terry and Cindy bounded out of the car and left me behind. My father helped me navigate snow drifts that had been plowed against the sidewalk. "Be careful," he said. "God sure the hell doesn't want you to fall."

I looked at where Cindy and Terry had gone. "Do I follow them?"

My father seemed to evaluate things. Perhaps he'd hoped that I was in Cindy's care and that he could just go home. "No, I think you want the big building, over there." He pointed to a set of large double doors through which mostly old people were entering. "That's the sanctuary, or something. Where the service is. There are places for you to sit there. Someone will help you. An usher."

I considered my options, one of which was getting back into the car and going home with my father. "Where do I go when things are over?" I asked my father, who was already getting back into the car.

"Right here," he said. "Or find Cindy. She won't forget about you."

Back to the Somewhat Familiar

I awake early not by choice, but because in the hotel lobby near my room there are many eager, noisy people.  Resigned to starting my day before I'd wanted, I climb out of bed, dress, and head out of my room and down the stairs to where breakfast is served. I have found the noise-makers: a gaggle of American tourist on the Bath-end of an organized Rick Steves tour. They speak of their previous trips; one woman speaks of her previous husband. Shortly, they are all gone, off to meet their tour guide. Not long later I check out of my room, for the first time in nearly a week having to schlepp my  full burden of luggage as I make my way to the train station. I find a coffee shop and stop for coffee, killing time. 

The train ride back to London is quick; an hour and a half later I check into the final hotel of my stay, the Easy Hotel near Earls Court. The room is small, barely large enough for the double bed, nearly no space for my luggage, for the clothing that no matter how hard I try will get scattered about the room over the next few days. The next day I figure out how to get to Greenwich, where the Prime Meridian is located. You could say that time as we track it starts here. Many years ago in the navy we synchronized our cryptographic gear to Greenwich Mean Time, each day listening to the female voice announced each minute: "At the sound of the tone, the time will be 11:45 Greenwich Mean Time," for example. It was, perhaps, the only female voice I would hear for months at a time when we were at sea.

When I started my Cotswold walk in Painswick, I happened upon a plaque described how sundials work, and how sundial time relates to Greenwhich Mean time. Far above the plaque was a sundial, something that I would see again on the sides of churches in other villages. In Greenwhich, I think about how we define a "long time," and I remember the Long Barrows (ancient burial mounds) I during the walk, sites that were upwards of 6,000 years old. Then, a few days later I am in the British Museum, standing over the hoards of school children enthralled by the mummies, which are also very old. I cannot help but consider the human belief that we are at any time important or significant. These mummies are the preserved remains of people who also considered their lives important, and here they are barely saved from the same dust of those hidden in the Long Barrows.  It's not a pessimistic thought, really--more of a kick-in-the-mouth jolt I need every now and then when I start taking myself too seriously.

I am sad when I leave England, for it seems as though I have just started growing comfortable. I am in an airplane for over 10 hours, landing in SFO late in the afternoon, working my way through the morass that is U.S. Customs and finding the BART station from where I'll travel into San Francisco. I check into my hotel and am tired but also glad to be closer to home. I like the familiarity of my room: how the electrical switches work, how the shower functions, what the TV stations are. My room has a balcony, and I step onto it, sit in one of the chairs, and enjoy fresh air that is so welcome after so many hours of being cooped up. In a few days I am back to work, and at first I spend what seems like a long time staring at my computer screen and wondering what will happen next.

Getting Beyond the Familiar #2: We End Walking

After a restless, largely sleepless night, somewhat spooky night, I lie in bed and feel both sad and happy that this is the last day of walking. The previous days' walking and exploring were exhausting, exhilarating, exciting, and, well, a bunch of other things. Today's distance should be only about 10 miles, a distance that seems short, a minor hop-skip-jump down the path.

Breakfast, alone again, is at a large table; this is my last day of being pampered and served, and my feelings are mixed. As someone who feels guilty at being waited on by servers at restaurants, I've had a bit of difficulty having someone prepare my breakfast each morning. When Monica, my host, greets me, we talk about my day ahead, and we talk about how she's not sure of how much longer she'll be hosting anyone, a quandary brought about in some way by her brother's illness. The table at which I'll eat and the food I will consume look like this:

There is enough food for several people. I eat some of it, wrap the meat in a napkin for lunch. Not much later, I say goodbye to Monica, thank her for taking care of me when she would rather have been taking care of her brother, and I head out the door. I look at the churchyard I passed through yesterday, and I wonder if the time I'd spent roaming the graveyard--and peeking into crevices and crypts--contributed to the previous night's sleeplessness and thinking that someone was in the room with me.

The weather is, once more, superb: sunny, warm. Some of the terrain looks like this:

The walking is fairly easy as my legs legs and lungs have adapted to walking. Along the way I pass through (and even around) the fields where the Battle of Lansdown took place in 1643. The path takes me over a wall, which looks like this:

The flag-markers I encounter for much of the morning delineate the battleground's boundaries, and I am reminded of a trip years ago to Battle, England, where the battle of Hastings was fought in 1066. As I get older and turn into more of a pacifist, I tend to also become more pessimistic about the our species' bent toward self-destruction. Battlefields make me think of these things.

The miles pass easily. From a hill, I see the first traces of Bath in the distance:

I walk through the town of Weston, and I stop at a Tesco Express for a sandwich and a drink, which I consume while sitting on a stone wall just up the road. I have just a couple of miles left, according to the signpost, and I'm torn between hurrying along or simply lingering in Weston for a while longer. I split the difference and walk slowly, easing into the commotion that is Bath. It is not long until I am somewhat lost and disoriented as I find it nearly impossible to find trail markers. In the shade of a large tree near a park, I consult my guidebook and find the note that the trail "signage is small and difficult to spot," which makes me feel better. I am searching for the Bath Abbey, the traditional start/finish of the Cotswold Way, but I finally give up and navigate to my lodging, where I check in, shower, and relax. The room is comfortable and large, as is the bed on which everything I have carried for the last 5 days rests:

I am staying about a mile from the Abbey, so I head back into the city and find the place, which looks like this, outside and inside:

Finally getting here is, predictably, anti-climactic: no trumpets sounding my arrival, no committee of angels to welcome me. Quickly weary of the crowds of tourists (yes, I know I am one of them), I head out again and find the Sacren's Head pub, where Dickens reputedly wrote sections of The Pickwick Papers. The pub even has this:

It is a nice touch, especially because Dickens is one of my favorite authors, and I started this trip to England with a visit to the Dickens' House (a small museum) in London. I order a Guinness from the bartender, find a seat near the window, and let myself sink into relaxation. This adventure is over.

Getting Beyond the Familiar #2: We Begin Walking Part E

Breakfast at the Sodbury House at, again, about 7:30. My legs are tired from the previous day's hike, but the rest of me is anticipating what lies ahead over what should be only 10 miles or so. Imagine: 10 miles seeming like an easy stroll. Before I leave I speak with one of the owners about traveling, how he's a bike rider and recently rode to London in about 6 hours. We talk about bikes. We talk about his travels to Las Vegas and Florida. And then I am out the door. The weather is good.

I retrace some of my steps from the day before and turn right at The Dog Inn, heading down a paved road until I'm once again in the woods, then out of them and walking through fields. I look at some notes in the guidebook: "Extensive views across fields to hills"; "ornamental bridge"; "take care: busy road." And there are several busy roads, it seems--not the country lanes I might expect, but full-blown expressways. Some views I see look like this:

At one point begin hearing the noise of motorcycle engines, a noise so out of place and grating. I look in my guidebook and see the note "motocross track," and for half an hour I hear the engines before, just over a hill to my left, I see an occasional motorcycle in mid-air. Later, I find a sign announcing that I am just 2 miles from Cold Ashton, where I will spend the night. I am happy to be so close, but I am also bordering on despondence because with each step over the past few days I become quite at home with being outside. I think that, if a person planned well enough, he could carry a small tent and backpack and spend the nights outside, as well. Not long later I pass through the small town--really not much of one, really--of Pennsylvania, where I find a fuel station/mini-mart in which I buy a sandwich and drink for dinner. I cross another highway, hike diagonally across a field, and find that the trail cuts through a churchyard, which looks like this:

Because I have arrived in Cold Ashton earlier than I expected, I linger in the churchyard and walk among the headstones. Some are old, some quite new. One thing about death, I guess, is it's always there. I find the Laburnum Cottage, where I will be staying, but rather than check in right away I head up a small country lane. And there, coming toward me, are a woman and her dog. I barely notice the dog. The woman is dressed in shorts and a bikini top, with a wide hat on her head. The woman has the whitest, most pure skin I have ever seen on an adult human being, and I am aware that I look as though I have just left the trail after a long day of hiking. I keep walking. She and the dog keep walking. Moments later I turn around to check into the Cottage, and I see that the woman seems to have more clothes on than she had earlier. She and her dog turn, too, so that they are coming toward me again. The dog, though, suddenly turns left, and the woman follows. In moments I am where they had been, but there is no trace of them.

I meet Monica at the Laburnum Cottage. She is in her seventies, and she tells me to take my shoes before we discuss who I am and what I shall have for breakfast. And then she tells me that she had not been sure that she would be there when I arrived because she'd been at the hospital all day with her sick brother. She says she was not sure of where her loyalties should be placed: with her brother, or with her business. We then discuss the church, and she says that the doors should be open until 6:00, and that I am welcome to go inside. She says that, if the doors are locked, to talk to her because she is a church warden and is happy to let me inside. I am then shown to my room, which has a small sign that reads "Catherine's Room" hanging on the outside. Alone, I shower. I make myself comfortable. My view through the window looks like this:

 Somewhat refreshed, I head outside again. And the church, inside, looks like this:

Back in my room, I eat the sandwich I'd bout in Pennsylvania, and I watch the BBC. I do not sleep much throughout the night, the first time this has happened since I began my trip. My dreams are strange, and more than once in the night I wake up and think I hear someone else breathing, as if sleeping soundly.

Getting Beyond the Familiar #2: We Begin Walking Part D

I am in the dining room of the Swan Hotel at 7:30, opening time, though my preference is to be on the trail by now. I am the first one seated. Soon, an elderly couple strides in, and they sit near the window. They discuss having eggs. Moments later a young American couple enters. From the looks of it--haircut and tattoos--the man is in the military. They look at their copy of the same guidebook I have, and I hear them say that their destination that day is Old Sodbury--where I am headed.

Continuing with my habit, I wrap bacon and ham in a napkin so that I can eat it for lunch later. And soon enough I am walking again--a 13-mile hike, which seems short compared to yesterday's 17 miles. Leaving town, this section of the walk takes me by St. Mary the Virgin church, erected in the 13th century.  The church looks like this:

It is not long until I am in the countryside again: bucolic, verdant. I try to figure my pace, knowing that I have at least 13 miles to hike. I keep telling myself to stop and enjoy the view. Often while backpacking I find that I need at least 3 days to leave the noise and speed of society behind, to not worry about the time of day. I think: stop when you are tired; eat when you are hungry. But I persist. And soon I come across a small waterfall, which looks like this:

The weather is good all day--even a bit too warm. Hours later I follow the Cotswold Way signposts through another churchyard, St. John the Baptist, this one close to my destination of the Old Sodbury House. The churchyard looks like this:

I am tired and sweaty. I can hear people singing. I have stopped to take photographs, and a woman comes out of the church and smiles at me. I am aware of how I must look. "Hello," she says, and I reply the same. "We're just rehearsing. Feel free to come inside. We'll be serving refreshments afterward, and you're more than welcome to join us." I think I misquote the bible: "That's where the joyous noise is coming from." She laughs.

I remove my hat. I take a chance and step into the church, finding a pew toward the back. I am aware of how I must look, that old-man-hiking kind of thing. My legs are tired. Thankful for the respite, I listen to a couple of songs and then gather hat and backpack and sneak out as quietly as I can. I orient my map and head downhill, where I encounter a young woman. "Where's the trail?" she asks. I point the way that I am going, and she strides quickly ahead. The path is not far from the Old Sodbury House, and not much later I greet the hosts, a husband-and-wife team about my age. They are cheerful and welcoming. They mention that I am only a mile or so from Chipping Sodbury, and old market town. "You've walked so far already today, another couple of miles won't matter," I am told.

I relax in my room for a while. I shower away as much old age as I can. Outside again, I head in the direction of Chipping Sodbury, a place that I think I would like to spend more time. I stop in a pub and ask if they are serving food, and I am told that they are not. Down the rode I try my luck again, but I am told the same thing. So, I settle for a pint of beer, a good chair, and a soccer game on the large TV. Back near the Old Sodbury House is the Dog Inn, which my guidebook recommends for food. I am happy to find that food is, indeed, available. I sit at a small table, another pint of beer in front of me as I wait for my food. I watch people interact. Dinners by myself have gotten lonely, but that is what one gets during solo travel.

My legs are quite tired. I have walked many miles today.

Getting Beyond the Familiar #2: We Begin Walking Part C

After about 17 miles of hiking on a day that is supposed to be 15 miles but involves a bit of getting lost and backtracking, I arrive at the Swan Hotel in Wotton-Under-Edge. I left the Elmond House early, though some might think that I cheated a bit at the start: Rather than backtrack through town to where I'd left the trail yesterday afternoon to make my way to the B&B, I accepted a ride to the top of the hill I would've had to climb. Maggie, the woman in charge of the Elmond House, asked if I were "a purist," if I would feel somehow deprived if I cut out a section of the trail and avoided that backtracking I assured her that I am far from pure in anything in my life, and what would've been a 2-hour hike was replaced by a 5-minute car ride. 

The weather is wonderful. The topography is wonderful. Some things I see look like this:

More than once, somehow, I lose the trail along the way and have to retrace my steps to find my way. Imagine my glee, though. Like most trips, navigation becomes an effort in problem solving, and I solve each problem with only a small bit of frustration. Approaching the town of Dursley, I walk along a ridge and see the town below. The views look like this:

I am looking forward to finding a place to stop for a snack of some sort, a place of respite. In the town, though, I struggle to find the trail markers, and at one point stop in the shade of an old building, comparing my surroundings to the map and guidebook. A woman at least 25 years my senior walks by, and she asks if I needed help. I tell her I do. She points me in the right direction, tells me that she'd walked the Cotswold Way when she was younger, and wishes me luck. I head up a steep road that led to a steeper dirt path, and at a trail junction find the a signpost lying on the ground, one of its signs with an arrow showing the direction of the Cotswold Way. The way the sign is situated, though, I can not be sure of which path to follow. According to the guidebook, I am supposed to walk along a golf course, which I can see at the top of the hill. Small problems resolved again.

I am hot, tired, and sweaty when I reach the town of Wotton-Under-Edge. I manage to find the Swan Hotel, and inside am greeted by a man who says, "Are you alright?" I think first that perhaps he knows the older woman I saw in Dursley who asked if I need help. I tell him who I am. He shows me around--the bar, the dining area--then shows me to my room which is bright and cool. He tells me when the dining room opens for dinner, when it opens for breakfast. Alone, I lie on the bed and rest. My legs are tired. I am hungry. I probably stink. I wash a shirt in the sink and hang it in front of an open window.  And it is not long, until I force myself to move, to clean up a bit (showers seem so welcome at the end of the day!) and to explore the town. Most of the shops are closed for the evening, but I scout around a bit to see where I'll be starting tomorrow. I return to the Swan Hotel, which looks like this:

I have a beer, and then I have another. I eat dinner. When it is dark outside, I head up to my room and read my map and guidebook in preparation for another long day.

Getting Beyond the Familiar #2: We Begin Walking Part B

The first bed and breakfast, in the town of Leonard Stanley, is a welcome site after a long day on the trail, a day filled with general confusion and disorientation. The place is run by Maggie, whom I meet right away, and James, whom I will meet later. Again, I am the only guest. The building is old, as in several hundred years old. It is near an old church. I sit at a table with Maggie, and we exchange pleasantries while we drink tea she has prepared. She likes birds, and we look at the many in the trees around us. When James arrive, we discuss hiking. We discuss our careers and jobs. He is a "social mediator" and that night will be meeting with families who have been in conflict that started because of one post or another through one type of social media or another. This is their third and final meeting, and James will be mediating some kind of negotiated settlement along the lines of "quit calling us names" or something. I listen to him talk (or, perhaps hear him talk), and I think, Three meetings to settle this? He is also taking food that Maggie is preparing because he says that people always do better when there is food to be eaten.

Later, I head toward the old church to look around, and then to a local pub, The White Hart, that Maggie has recommended. In the pub, I drink a couple of beers and watch a football match on the large TV across the room. Some locals begin playing darts, but soon enough lay their darts on the pool table and vanish. I am sitting at the bar, and if anyone started a conversation, I have already decided to be brave and engage with someone. Nobody says anything, however, so I have no obligations.

I pass by the church again. The church looks like this.

Back in my room, I watch one channel or another of the BBC, then turn out the lights and go to sleep.

Getting Beyond the Familiar #2: We Begin Walking Part A

I wake up earlier than I need to, both eager for the walk to begin and anxious that it is going to. I walk down to the dining area at 8:30, the time my host and I agreed upon the day before. I sit alone at the table, and I am served this:

The plate has more food than I usually eat for two meals, but because I do not want to insult my host, I clean my plate thoroughly. Soon, the host, her husband, and I are discussing what lies in front of me for the day. We also continue some discussion of politics and the non-husband host says that, really, "the Germans are waging World War III, this time with money." When they are in the kitchen together, away from my, the husband says this is the first day in many that he has felt "almost human." She does not hear him, so he repeats it. I am stuck on "almost human" because it is the name of a small literary publication the writing group I was a part of many years ago produced. It was great fun. We were a creative bunch in a literary way.

Half an hour later, I am out the door and in search of The Cotswold Way. According to my itinerary, my hike today is just 10 miles, though I know that 10 miles into the unfamiliar can seem, and even be, much longer. I see a group of hikers down the street, so I follow them. Though they disappear, I find the first marker, walk through a gate, and start through the field. Not long later, I see this:

This shows that I am on the correct path, and that my final destination is only 55 miles away.

The hiking, overall, is relatively easy, though anything approached with a beginner's mind is. During the day, I will see things like these:

At one point not long into the morning, I encounter a three women from the Seattle area. They are much older than I, and they have already walked the northern half of the Cotswold Way. We pass each other at various times, and at one point I see them in the distance and, as I did at the start of the day, chose to follow someone. From a rise, just before I descend to where they are, I see them stop and consult their maps and guidebooks. When I reach them, they let me know that that (we) have gone the wrong way, and that I am the second man they have led astray during their trip. I, too, consult my map and guidebook, and we use my compass to orient ourselves, figuring out that we're just a bit off trail. They say that at some point the trail will pass by many cows, which they want to avoid because one of the women has heard that one hiker each year is killed by cows. They decide to stop for lunch; I decide to keep walking. We say our goodbyes.

An hour later I sit down on a stack of logs and eat lunch. My shoes and socks are off of my feet, and we area all enjoying a cool-down. And older man and his dog approach, and we greet each other. "Are you from the southern hemisphere?" he asks, and I am able to answer this question easily. I never know why he asks, but I assume it is because of my wide-brimmed hat. We talk about his travels to the U.S. when he worked for General Electric. We talk about his dog, Jack, which is a fine English Setter but is unfit for breeding because of an underbite. When the man and his dog are gone, I prepare myself to walk, and then do. I pass through "round barrows" and "long barrows," which are graves of people who lived here many thousands of years ago. I think of those people, how they walked this hills, too. And then, 30 minutes later, I miss a sign post; 30 minutes after that I realize that I am lost. Backtracking, I find the sign I missed concealed by bushes and brambles. Not long afterward, I pass through a gate but cannot make out where the trail goes. The field in front of me is full of cows that seem to be moving from one pasture to another. Some of the cows look at me as though they are full of bovine hatred, as though they have read The Jungle and Fast Food Nation. I let the cows pass. I hear other hikers behind me, so I let them pass and hope they will lead to the correct path. Another group joins them: the women from Seattle. They ask how I managed to get behind them again, and I tell them that I rested a few times, plus I got lost.

We hike as a large group for a while, until we reach part of a small town and part of a busy road. The women and I are confused: they are supposed to head one way, and I am supposed to head another. This is, predictably enough, the point where I anticipated confusion as I reviewed maps in the preceding weeks: the directions and diagrams were not clear to someone who is not familiar with the area. The women go on their way, and I make a guess: up this path, then backtrack; up this road, then backtrack; up that path again, this time farther, then backtrack. Finally, I choose the road, eventually see some landmarks mentioned in the guidebook, and keep walking until I find my bed and breakfast.

Getting Beyond the Familiar

The Day Before the Trail

London has a peculiar odor, perhaps a combination of antiquity, sweat, and human potential. But, I have to leave that odor behind for a while, trading it for what should be air that is less pungent. I enjoy traveling, but I'm always a bit anxious as I leave the go beyond the familiar.

I board a train in Paddington Station and ride it to the town of Stroud where I find the local information center and chat with the nice woman working there. She directs me to where I'll eventually find the bus stop I'll need later, but before first I find a busy bakery and sit down for a cup of coffee and a fine brownie, a Double Belgian Chocolate treat that hits the spot though for the most part, lately, I have eschewed such sweet things. Back out on the streets I quickly forget in which direction the bus stop is supposed to be, so I wander through some streets and through a shopping mall, just me, my knapsack, and my heavy bag of luggage. The bus shows up and I climb aboard. The only other passenger is the bus driver's son. The bus driver and I chat. He is married to a Filipina woman, and he and his family loves the Philippines themselves. We talk a bit about our travels to that country, and then a few minutes later he drops me off in Painswick, where I'll spend the night. I wander through the St. Mary's Church cemetery before making my way to the B&B. I am the only guest, apparently, though the night before the place was filled with seven psychologist. Once again I am a day too late to see people who might help me. I was once interviewed for a job, by seven people. They worked for the State of California, and I figured that seven psychologists might be more helpful. 

The B&B, which as a building that is several hundred years old, is owned and operated by a married couple. The female half of that couple and I have a good conversation that is filled with small talk, discussion of the Brexit and Donald Trump, of her daughter who has been working in Africa, of where to have dinner, of what I would like for breakfast. Painswick is a small town; perhaps it is just a village in the truest sense. I am shown to my room, which is up a steep set of stairs. It is a comfortable room. Half an hour later I have cleaned up and am out the door to The Falcon, where I  have dinner. I am seated at a small table in a corner of a large room. Though I do not mind being alone, there are times when even I would like someone to talk to. But the chair across from me remains empty, and that makes me think of one of the worst lines ever written for a mediocre song: "And no one heard at all, not even the chair." (Neil Diamond, "I Am, I Said," 1971).

After dinner I wander again through Painswick to kill some time. I am, I find, ready for bed. More of the unknown awaits tomorrow, and I want to be ready and rested.

St. Mary's Church--very old. Yew trees.

Where I slept, outside and inside.

Getting There and Setting Up Shop

Let's Go, S - F - O!

Hours before the flight and we're congregated within the United Lounge in the airport's international terminal. I'm not a member of said lounge, only a visitor blessed with a one-day pass. The world is different from the one outside where the lowly people who have no passes linger. We get free food. Free wine. Comfortable seats. An array of newspapers that provide viewpoints we agree with along with those we don't. I read them all. I actually get two meals, each different from the other: more food than many people in the world have access to in a full week. God assuredly blessed me with the benefits of trickle-down economics because I am an American.

On the airplane, though, things equal out and, though I am still an American, I am flying on United. My butt is too big for modern-day seats on modern-day aircraft: Those trickle-down economics stopped a few percentage points above my demographic. Ten hours of being a voluntary prisoner inside this aircraft might not be as bad as an hour in Guantanamo, but I'm pampered and self-righteous enough to make that comparison.

Here We Are, L - H - R!

I like London. I even like Heathrow airport, which must be larger than the town I grew up in. This is my fourth time here, and I even know where the bathrooms are after getting off the plane. Waiting in line to pass through Customs, I listen to the people behind me, strangers before they got into the queue, as they discuss their respective jobs. The man traveling alone, is a college teacher somewhere in the Sacramento Valley; the others, a married couple from Texas, are retired. The man asks the couple if they approved of President George Bush, since he, too, is from Texas. I don't hear their answer.

Just a Rube on the Tube

The fast way into London is via the direct Heathrow Express: quiet, efficient, clean. The chosen alternative is the Piccadilly Line: 10 or 12 stops, lots of noise. I emerge at Earl's Court Station, and it's still early morning, many hours before I can check into the Easy Hotel. I step into a Starbucks I've visited many times before, and I nurse a cup of coffee and try to acclimate to London's smells and commotion. Finally bored enough to move, I get back on the train and reverse course to the stop near the Victoria & Albert Museum. I check my heavy luggage and wander around for a few hours, then get on yet another train and travel to Paddington Station, which is near my hotel.

Killing Time and London Times

For a couple of days I wander around London: a few pubs, the Dickens Museum to search for remnants of the Muse. The British Library: bits and pieces of writers and musicians and philosophers, the paperwork of centuries gone by. I'm always amazed at what we save, what we label as important. And Hyde Park, too--one of my favorite places to visit. I could wander around Hyde Park for days, following the paths and roads. It's a respite from the city, a place that can help ease me into what will come next.

Home: Part 30

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

January 1958

My father, most likely at my mother's suggestion, sometimes took me to work with him on Saturdays. He would wake me up early, hours before the store opened. "We have work to do before the work begins," he was fond of saying. But a couple of Saturdays after he broke my mother's tooth, he drove silently.  I sat in the front seat of our old Chevrolet as he navigated through snowy streets to the Sears store several miles away. Though he worked in the appliance department, he had been in the store long enough to have worked, as he said, "everywhere but where they keep the women's unmentionables."

I watched the snow fall. I watched a rabbit run race along beside the car before it darted left and into a snowbank. I usually looked forward to going to work with him, but this time there was so much tension between us that I wasn't looking forward to doing anything. My parents, my sister and I had barely spoken to each other since that night at the dinner table. My father seemed to be spending more time at work, staying later than he normally did and often returning home after dinner time.

"We should go on a vacation this summer," my father said so abruptly that I flinched. "I was thinking we could drive to Michigan. I spent a few weeks there when I was a kid. I don't remember where. But I remember we swam a lot, so there must've been a lake."

He might have wanted a response, but I wasn't sure. So, I stayed silent for the rest of the ride. At the store, my father unlocked the door, and I followed him into the dark store. We made our way to the small warehouse at the rear of the building. "There isn't much stuff," I said. On other visits, the shelves and floor had been stacked with boxes.

"Still stocking up after Christmas." He turned on the lights and gestured to the shelves. "They'll be filled again in a week or so. I don't have much for you to do today, so you can wander around the store, if you want. Nobody else will be here for a couple of hours, so you should be fine." He sat down in a large chair and started reading notes scattered across a metal desk.

I never tired of walking through the quiet store. I would lie on the beds and test each for comfort, then look through the tool department for a collection of wrenches that I thought I'd buy my father for Christmas when I had the money. I was in the toy department when my father called me. "I'm over here," I yelled.

"I need your help for a few minutes. Appliances." He had used a hand truck to haul new washing machines from the warehouse to the showroom. "Help me with these."

We positioned the units side by side. "Mom would like one of these," I said. "A new one."

He stared at me for just long enough to make me anxious, and then he ran his hand across the top of one of the machines. "Yeah. She would."

Home: Part 29

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

July 1974

Mitchell called a few days after I got home. "You need to stay home more," he said when I answered the phone. It was still early for me even though the sun had been up for hours.

"Why?" I asked.

"So people who call you don't have their hearts broken when you don't answer."

"I've been home," I said. "I was away for a while, but now I'm home."

"Quit trying to sound poetic."

I pulled the phone's chord as far as I could, opened the kitchen window, and sat down at the table on which a half-full glass of Scotch still sat. "Where are you?" I asked.

"Heading to Pensacola."

"Where are you now?" 

"Christ. Poetic and angry. That's not a good combination."

"Why not?"

Mitchell laughed. "Because they just don't mix. When did you ever write a love poem when you were angry?"

"I've never written a love poem." 

"Bullshit. Who was that girl in high school--Minnie? Molly? M-something."

Here name had been May, but I wasn't going to give in. Mitchell and I had been friends since we met on the volleyball court during gym glass in our freshman year. He was picked last, even after me and my fake leg. Some time during high school I'd tried to write poetry, and only Mitchell had seen it. He'd had the grace to say he liked it. After graduation, he'd enlisted in the army just to get away from being selected last for anything. He'd come home from basic training fit and confident, and had then volunteered to go to Viet Nam. 

"So, you know it's early here, right?" I said.

"It's always early there, isn't it?"

"Now who's trying to be poetic."

"Come back here for a visit," he said. "I'm working with the navy for a while, but I'll have my own 
place off base."

"Pensacola?"

"F-l-a," he said. "Well, it's more like South Alabama. It's full of righteous Baptists and frustrated housewives. I'll buy you a ticket."

"I just got home. I need some time to recover."

"Recover? You're getting old! Look, I'm at a payphone in the airport in Atlanta. I'm running out of time. When I get to my place, I'll call you and we'll figure things out."

"We'll see, Mitch. I've got things to do here."

"You never have anything to do anywhere, so you might as well do it with me. I'll call you in a few days."

Liner Notes

Not long ago I was speaking with an old friend about our respective relationships to music, relationships that perhaps because of our similar age were more similar than not. Over the last several years he has taken to the ukulele, and I have become close to both an electric and an acoustic guitar. He will certainly be a better player of a ukulele than I will of a guitar, and I am sure that like most trysts mine playing days will end in deception and tears.

But along with our penchant for stringed instruments, my friend and I also see--or perhaps used to see--music as something beyond the auditory. We both grew up when record albums were popular, when going to a store and finding just the right album demanded physical effort: find an artist or two and evaluate any visible artwork, hold the cellophane-sealed cardboard container, and go with faith that the deep cuts were as good as the song or two we'd heard on the radio. Then, at home, we would slice the cellophane and slip the paper sleeve out, cradling the record itself as if it were a newborn baby that we'd helped deliver. on the sleeve we'd find the liner notes, bits of information about who played which instruments on which song, who the producer was where the music was recorded and mastered. We'd find the lyrics, too, and even commentary written by the musicians and songwriter. It was a way, perhaps, to keep track of the music industry itself.

Placing the record on the turntable took care and attention, and we would clean the record first before dropping the needled. If we were especially fastidious, we the first time we ran the turntable we recorded the music onto good cassette tape, saving the original source and playing only the copy.

When CDs and their clean, static-free sound came along, we lost a bit of information just as we lost the hiss and pop from even the most clean of albums. Liner notes got smaller and briefer; lyrics were often excluded; inventive artwork was reduced to underwhelming sizes and proportions. We certainly got to hold the product, but the experience was diminished even if the process had changed only a little. And now, with nearly all music available to be downloaded, we have only the music and not the experience. We seldom take risks with music because it's so easy to listen to and buy only what is presented to us by one gatekeeper or another. Deep tracks on an artist's "album" these days? Bah...the stories and themes that can be developed on an album-length production have been replaced by digitized meanings-of-the-moment. Recording artists for years have sought and been pressured to release a hit song, but today it is too easy for everyone--artists and consumers alike--to stop there.

Perhaps this is just a case of a couple of old people remembering how "things were so much better" when we were young. In fact, "perhaps" might even be too nice of a term. But over the last six months during which three of the best friends I've ever had have died, I've allowed myself to genuflect a bit to certain nostalgic tendencies in several areas of life. Because I had known each of these people for many decades, I know a lot about them just as they knew a lot about me. Some of the secrets we shared are better off now that they, too, are dead, but I'd often prefer the deep cuts and the hiss and pop of a life over one that is clean and static free. 

I think about how tt different times but never together we shared much information and many experiences--our producers, the musicians we played with, our lyrics and personal commentary...liner notes that we could read at our leisure.

Home: Part 28

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

July 1974

I was home. The taxi driver had made his way through the traffic north of the airport and dropped me in front of my apartment just after dark. He got out of the car and pulled my Samsonite from the taxi's trunk. He looked at me as I turned to pay him.

"You okay?"

"Tired," I said.

"You need a hand with this thing?"

I handed him the money. "No, thanks."

He pocketed the bills. Fog seemed to drift down from the streetlights above us. "You have a good night, then," he said. He buttoned his coat and stood with his hand on the car door. "Everything okay?"

"Tired," I repeated. "A long day."

"Get some rest, then. This fog's killing my hands, you know?" He settled into the seat and drove away.

I knew what he meant about the fog: Even inside my apartment my own hands felt chilled. San Francisco was always a shock after being in the Philippines. I poured a bit too much Scotch into a tumbler and sat in the kitchen nook from where I could see out to the street and, on a night clearer than this one, glimpse the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. I'd inherited at least part of my father's penchant for drinking alone in dark rooms, and even as I sipped from my glass I thought there were other, better things I should be doing. I'd not had a real conversation with anyone since leaving Narcie what seemed like weeks before; the stewardess on the plane were the only ones I remembered talking with.

Shannon, before she experienced what she said was her "life's epiphany," had once found me asleep with my head on the kitchen table, my fingers wrapped around the stem of a martini glass. "Wake up," she'd said. 

"I'm awake," I said though I moved neither my head nor my hand."

"What are you doing out here?"

I sat up straight and took in my surroundings. "Drinking and sleeping."

She took the glass. "Yes," she said, brushing the hair from my forehead. "Are you really this lonely?"
"Just had one martini too many," I said.

"Yes," she said.

Afterward I became more careful about letting myself get like I was that night. It was something my father never learned to do--keep the dark away when things mattered. My sister and I had both tried to get him to quit drinking altogether, and he feigned his changed habits well enough--and often enough--that Cindy and I chose to believe his act enough to make us give up. We were both, I suppose, fools to not realize that our mother had tried just as often and had been just as unsuccessful. 

But sitting there and watching the fog, I let myself drift into weariness. I would wake up late the next morning and be glad that the glass was still half-full of Scotch, something I counted as no small achievement. 

Home: Part 27

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

April 1958 

During one or another of her bible study classes, Cindy met Terry Pipes, the boy who many years later would become her first husband. He was thin, wore one cheekbone higher than the other, and had a slight twitch in his eyebrows. He was older than Cindy by a couple of years, and his parents worked one of the farms outside of town. Half of their fields were soybeans, the other half corn, and they had acreage enough to pasture a good number of milk cows. Many of my classmates lived on working farms, and I knew how hard they worked before and after school. Terry didn't seem strong enough to be of much use on a farm, but I wasn't one to question him. His brothers, whom I'd met just once, seemed stronger; perhaps Terry took care of the fields and cows, I thought.

"Terry has thought about being a minister," Cindy said one night as she and I cleaned the kitchen after dinner. My parents were in the living room watching Wagon Train on black-and-white Silverstone television set that my father had brought home from Sears one day. "He is quite enthusiastic about spreading god's word."

"What about his farm?" I asked. 

"It's not his farm," Cindy said. "Terry says that he wants to have a small church somewhere."

I thought about the farm, what would become of it and the cows if Terry left. "He could put his church on the farm," I said. "He could be a farmer and a minister."

Cindy looked at me. "You really have no idea what you're talking about, do you? Dry the plates and put them away. I'm going to go read."

A week or so later, a Saturday, Terry and Cindy sat at our kitchen table. They were typing up the church program, something that my sister had volunteered for and seemed to enjoy doing. "You want to help?" Cindy asked.

"There's not much he can do," Terry said.

"Maybe if we give him a task, he'll come to church with us tomorrow."

Terry looked at me. "Him? In church?"

Cindy looked at me, too, as if re-thinking what she'd said. "Sunday school, then. He could go to Sunday school."

Terry's eyebrows twitched. "No."

Home: Part 26

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

April 1958 

I don't know if Cindy changed much the night after I saved her life, but a couple of Sundays afterward she insisted that my parents take her to church. "You don't have to stay with me," she said. "Drop me off and I'll call you when it's over."

"Why?" my father said, and then he seemed to think about something. "Which church?"

Cindy answered quickly. "It doesn't matter. I just want to go to church." She looked at me as though she knew I wanted to add something to the conversation, but she bent her head in a way that I thought better of it.

"Church," my father said as though the word were foreign to him.

So for several months Cindy attended church each Sunday morning, never asking any of us to join her. She went to bible study on Wednesday evenings, and hosted sleepovers during which she and her new friends discussed all things religious. Before going to sleep they would take turns praying aloud, raising their hands toward the ceiling and asking for god's blessings on themselves and their families. 

"There's bible study for boys, too," Cindy said to me one Wednesday afternoon before one of her friend's parents picked her up. "You could go with me, and I'll introduce you to everyone."

"He's a little young," my mother said as she brushed Cindy's hair.

Cindy  pulled her head away from the brush. "How can anyone be too young for god, Mom?"

"God's a big concept," our mother said. "Give him a few years."

"We might not have a few years," Cindy said. "If the Russian's bomb us, we want to be ready."

"Who has been feeding you that? Let me finish your hair."

"We talked about it last week, Mom. First god created the Russians, then he gave them atomic bombs."

My mother set the brush down and put her hands on her hips. "I don't remember learning that in Sunday school."

"God's always changing, Mom."

Interlude and Notes on the Process

I am, if nothing else, a slow writer these days. Sorry. Perhaps I've been too absorbed by the devolution of the American political process to pay much attention to other, more creative things. But that's a different story....

For Home, my own process is somewhat scattered, even haphazard. Hence, the number of typos one might find in any given section. For the most part, what is written stays at it is until I copy things to a Microsoft Word document and make some tweaks there. So far, I've written just over 10,000 words, and I'm shooting for about 50-60,000. Other books I've written are above 90,000, but I'm deliberately keeping Home somewhat short for a novel (which is what it will be). That said, at some point there has to be a significance to everything, something to make a potential reader care. Crappy writing is crappy writing, but a good plot makes things less crappy.

Right now, I think most of the major characters have been introduced, though if you've ever written a novel you know that characters appear--and disappear--without any planning or prompting. They're born when they are ready to be born, and they die when they're ready for that. Predetermination, I guess. And, yes, I realize that, thus far, there is no identifiable story line, no plot. This is, believe it or not, mostly predetermination on my own part, as it were, and when I am finished with the thing, I'll write about what I tried to do.

That's it.

Home: Part 25

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

April 1958 

The first time my sister died, we were at home by ourselves. Our parents had gone to the neighbors' to "lighten things up a bit," and Cindy and I were left to the small black-and-white television and two cans of tomato soup my father had picked up at the A&P on his way home from work. The neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson to me and Cindy, had just returned from a vacation to Florida and had stories to share. Mrs. Johnson, like my mother, stayed home all day while her husband sold real estate. They had no children, and I often wondered what Mrs. Johnson did all day in such an empty house. Sometimes I would see her sitting on their back porch. She would sit and smoke, staring into the two maple trees my father had helped them plant years before. She would smile if she saw me. She would raise her cigarette in a type of salute before turning her face away.

"We won't be late," my mother said as she and my father walked out the front door. I noticed that she had put her pearl necklace on.

"Behave," my father said.

"I'll make the soup," Cindy said when they were gone. "And some toast. I'm going to eat in my room. You can watch TV."

"I'm not hungry," I said.

"Yes, you are. You just don't know it." She walked into the kitchen while I lay on the carpet beside Tiger and scratched his ears. I removed my leg and tossed it onto the frayed sofa.

"What do they do over there?" I said.

"Parcheesi, or something," Cindy said from the kitchen. "Sometimes they play cards. And they probably drink. I'm making you two pieces of toast. I'm having peanut butter on mine."

"I'm not going to eat," I said.

"Yes, you are."

I was still lying beside Tiger when Cindy carried a bowl of soup and the two pieces of toast into where I was in the living room. She set them on the end table beside the sofa. "I said that I'm not hungry."

"There's your food," she said. "Don't let Tiger get it." She went back to the kitchen and got her own bowl and toast. "I'm going to my room." The smell of peanut butter lingered when she was gone.

I crawled to the sofa, then sat on the cushion nearest the food. Tiger watched, his head tilted as he watched me eat. Cindy's room was down the hall, closest to the bathroom. As I chewed my toast I heard something fall and break. Waiting for something else, I heard nothing more. "Stay," I said to Tiger. I put on my leg and walked toward Cindy's room. I put my ear to her door but could hear nothing. "What was that," I said. "Cindy?"

She was lying half on, half off her canopy bed as though she were in mid-prayer.  The soup bowl had shattered when it hit the floor, and tomato soup was soaking into the rug. The window was open, and I could hear cars as they passed in front of our house. "Hey," I said, but she didn't move. I got closer and looked down at her, at her blue face. I pulled her shoulder, and she slid off the bed so that she was lying on her back with her face toward me. My first thought was to call the Johnsons' house and to talk to my parents. Instead, I reached beneath Cindy's armpits and pulled her upright. I patted her back--softly at first, then hard. Her mouth sagged open, and I stuck my finger deep inside. Whatever was there was thick and soggy. I curled my index finger around it and pulled, removing a large, sticky piece of toast coated with peanut butter. I slapped her back again, and she seemed to belch and cough at the same time. Her eyelids fluttered. When I set her down and leaned her against the bed, she stared up at me as though trying to figure out who I was.

I looked down at her. "I was happy," she said flatly.

I left her room but did not shut the door. I returned to the sofa and found that Tiger had eaten my dinner. I wondered if I should call my parents anyway, let them know what had happened. But I just sat there and listened to Cindy as she rustled about. When she walked into the kitchen and dropped the pieces of soup bowl into the garbage can, she seemed to be fine.  On her way back to her bedroom, she stopped a few paces away from me and seemed to take in her surroundings. Finally, she looked at me. "You finish your dinner?"

"Yes," I said.

"Okay." She considered her hands, then lifted her eyes to me again. "There's so much to see," she said, and then she went into her bedroom and shut the door.