How I Spent My Summer Vacation

 

 

One of the more bothersome exercises of my childhood was the annual “How I Spent My Summer Vacation” essay we were required to write from about 4^th grade to 8^th grade.

Unfortunately, the only two times my family went on vacation during my childhood happened at the end of first and second grades, and we went to the same place both times.

“My family doesn’t take vacations,” doesn’t make for much of an essay. Hinting that we were too poor for vacations wasn’t something a not-very-popular child would willingly admit, although that’s what my mother would have me believe.

Years later, my brother and I were talking about our dearth of vacations, and he said it had little to do with money. My father simply didn’t like going on vacation.

I knew he hated going to the shore. As a result, I was 13 the first time I ever went to the shore, and it wasn’t with my family. A neighbor I used to babysit for invited me.

Days in the ocean and afternoons at the arcades on the boardwalk were payment for the one or two evenings of watching the kids while the grownups went out on the town without children in tow.

It was great, despite the worst case of sun poisoning I’ve ever had. Those were the days before sun blocks with SPF numbers.

Looking back, the grownups were taking a bit of a risk that probably wouldn’t happen now. In the late ‘60s a 13-year-old could babysit without question. But there were no mobile phones. In fact, I’m not sure there was a phone in the house they were renting. It wouldn’t have mattered. I had no idea where they were going, so there was no number for me to call in case of emergency except the police.

That’s a huge responsibility for a child barely into the teen years watching three children under the age of ten. But nothing happened, so I thought nothing of it.

I also had a good deal of responsibility for the two older children when we were at the beach (the youngest was an infant). I was in charge while they were in the water, although at least one adult was always nearby. I was more the entertainment so the adults could enjoy the beach.

At the time, what was being asked of me didn't seem like much, but  that responsibility now strikes me as too much for the child I was at the time. It’s what was expected then. I wouldn’t have traded in the chance to go to the shore for anything.

The only thing that marred the trip – aside from the pain of glow-in-the-dark, Santa-suit red skin – was a demand my mother had made of me. She didn’t know the neighbor all that well, since she hadn't been in the neighborhood a year. I’d spent that time babysitting for her once or twice a week. Still, my mother didn’t want to be beholden to someone she barely knew for my upkeep for two weeks. She gave me some money and told me not to let them pay for everything I did.

I tried paying for ice cream or amusement park rides, but they didn’t want me spending all my money when they had invited me. They didn’t understand. I thought my mother would be upset if I came home with all the money she gave me.

After being repeatedly refused the right to use my own money, I ended up one night crying in the bathroom. I was found out, and they thought I was homesick. Despite insisting I wasn’t, that’s what all the grownups believed. How humiliating! I was 13, after all, far too old to be homesick because of a two-week vacation. But I couldn’t tell them the real reason I was crying. That was a confidence between my mother and me.

Still, the following September, I finally had an essay to write. Of course, I left out the part about crying, and focused on the amusement park in Wildwood and jumping through waves in Cape May.

My childhood was pretty good, despite the fact that we didn’t go on vacations. We went to local state parks to swim and have picnics, and I had a few friends with swimming pools who sometimes invited me over. There was also one local creek (pronounced crick where I'm from) where we swam on weekends, and my brother sometimes took me with him to swim there during the week. (When I was older I went there on my own, another risky endeavor.)

There was always the hose in the back yard to cool off with on steamy days. On the not so hot summer days there were woods to explore and sometimes blackberries to pick.

I adored the days off from school from mid-June to Labor Day, days where there were no school requirements, when I could sit in my tree fort and read the books I wanted to read, or ride my bike all over the neighborhood.

There were days I accompanied my mother to the grocery store and learned about comparison shopping, and why some products were better to get as the brand name while others were just as good if you had the store brand. I learned estimating totals and reading labels, how to order lunchmeat at the deli counter – and my mother always wanted the American cheese sliced thin – and which aisles to find particular items.

In reality, those things would have been great to include in the summer vacation essay, so my teachers would know I hadn’t squandered my time in the summer. But I was looking for the glamorous vacation – or at least a week at camp – and came up empty. So I tried to glamorize days at friends’ pools and never mentioned the continuing education at the grocery store or the ecological education in the woods and state parks.

At 14 I had the ultimate summer vacation, not because of where I went, but because of how I went.

My aunt, who lived in a suburb of Chicago, was visiting some of our relatives in Philadelphia. During a family get-together, she invited me to come visit her family in Illinois.

As the youngest and only girl, whenever I wanted to do something, the answer was usually no. My parents wouldn’t be going, so the idea of my traveling alone halfway across the country was not likely. But parents can be surprising.

I would have to fly to Chicago alone. That kind of flight was expensive by my family’s standards. But we learned about a program the airline TWA had for teens up to age 21. It was called the 50/50 club (I still have my membership card, even though TWA no longer exists). A teen could fly for 50% off the ticket price. The ticket was stand-by, so I might have to wait for the next flight. But in 1969, especially midweek, mid-afternoon, it was generally expected that I could get on my chosen flight.

My mother took me to the airport, and my aunt would pick me up in Chicago. In those days before the first plane hijacking, family members could accompany the person flying right up to the boarding gate, no security or x-rays, and the traveler could be met at the arrival gate at the other end.

At 14, getting on the plane unaccompanied was exciting. I remember I had a window seat. I must have looked like a wide-eyed country bumpkin to the stewardesses – they all looked like my Barbie doll when she was wearing her stewardess uniform, only without the cotton ponytail – but at least I wasn’t a trouble maker. I don’t think I even took off my seat belt through the entire flight.

I arrived at O’Hare International Airport and started looking for my aunt. I had no idea where I was supposed to meet her. Since I didn’t see her, I began following the other passengers to baggage claim.

I had only gone a short distance when I heard my name called. I turned and came face-to-face not with my aunt, but with my uncle. He’d come in from a business trip and waited until my flight arrived to save my aunt the trip.

While the vacation itself wasn’t extraordinary, traveling solo sparked my love of travel. I spent a month with my relatives where five children – three boys and two girls – provided entertainment I didn’t normally have. At home, one brother was away attending university and the other was back from Vietnam, but still in the army.

Because we had always lived at least a state’s distance away from this set of relatives, I didn’t know these cousins as well as many of my other cousins. I did know that the oldest boy, who was a year younger than I was, hated me.

The girls were quite a bit younger than I, but we got along. I think most little girls enjoy it when an older cousin pays attention to them. We played games together and generally got to know one another. I didn’t have to worry about anyone making fun of me for playing with younger girls since they were cousins.

I also spent time playing with the two younger boys. The one who didn’t like me was away at scout camp or something through most of the time I was there.

The film Romeo and Juliette, with Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey came out that summer. I desperately wanted to see it. I imagine my aunt called my mother for permission – I’m fairly certain it was R rated, and I wasn’t old enough to go unless accompanied by an adult. She said she wanted to see if it was appropriate for her two eldest sons, and would I like to go with her to see it?

What an exciting afternoon! We had a great time, just the two of us, and I felt quite grown up because she thought I was mature enough to see the film. After seeing it, she decided the boys were too young.

As with most women I was either related to or otherwise close to at the time, I felt more comfortable talking with my aunt than I did with my mother. My aunt wasn’t the disciplinarian or the one who usually said no. She was also 10 years younger than my mother, and shared with me the distinction of being the youngest in the family and the only girl (and left-handed) – although she had four older brothers (one being my father), and I had two.

We talked about a lot of different things, and I felt comfortable around her, despite the fact that we had so seldom seen each other. She even recommended me as a babysitter to one of her friends whose regular babysitters were all busy one night. So, I even had the chance to make some money on my vacation.

My aunt went back east for a wedding one weekend, and my uncle took us all to the Milwaukee Zoo. He couldn’t believe that, at 14, I’d never been to the zoo, especially since I lived so close to the Philadelphia Zoo, the oldest one in the country. I told him my father always said if the zoo wanted me badly enough, they could come get me.

The real reason was that my mother was allergic to animal dander, although I don’t think dogs and cats bothered her. But never let the facts stand in the way of a good story.

I also saw the moon landing while I was at my aunt’s, as well as Prince Charles’ investiture as Prince of Wales. By the end of that day, I had his investiture speech memorized – I was quite the monarchist at the time.

After a month at my aunt’s, I returned home, a seasoned traveler. I had taken my first trip ever on a plane, and I’d done it alone.

Unfortunately, after such a monumental achievement, I was about to start high school, where the focus was on the writing of authors like Shakespeare, Ibsen, Dickens and Dostoyevsky, so having finally been armed with the fuel for the summer vacation essay, I didn’t get to write it.

My next plane trip wasn’t until seven years later, when I flew to England for a semester abroad. While I was technically with classmates then, once there I had to navigate life on my own.

The experience of solo travel and my parents’ trust in me to take such a trip by myself set me up to fearlessly travel abroad after college, and if I had no one to travel with, I would simply go alone. Probably because of my lack of going somewhere for vacation as a child, I took every opportunity to go places as an adult.

My mother was never comfortable enough to travel alone. Her biggest solo adventure was flying to Florida to visit my brother, where I took her to the airport and pointed her in the right direction in Philadelphia, and my brother collected her in Florida. She was a nervous wreck the whole flight.

My father grudgingly – probably due to ill health – went with us to Colorado twice to visit the same brother when he lived there, but my dad never really cared to travel. Since I have relatives scattered all over the U.S., his dislike of travel meant that I never met a fair few of my cousins until I was an adult -- and a couple I've never met.

My wanderlust is definitely not inherited from either parent, although both brothers have traveled to the limits of their purse strings. I sometimes wonder if the three of us are changelings left by the fairy folk, and somewhere three other sibling are living with a family that can’t understand their dislike of travel.

 

To London, to London

 

[ There is a comment section, but no way for me to actually answer questions that are sometimes asked in those comments. I have decided to answer them at the beginning of the following month's blog. In October, someone asked how old I was when my dad died. I was 32.]

My favorite sport is travel. You may say that’s not a sport, but just trying to get through TSA at the airport is a marathon event: the dead lift of carry-on onto the conveyor belt, emptying your pockets and removing jewelry before the person behind you pushes past, and hand raises as you pass through x-ray, all while juggling a ticket and passport. And when you consider that a flight to Europe costs about the same as the basic equipment needed to take fencing lessons (my other sport), I stand by what I’ve said.

While I travel with my husband for vacations to destinations we’ve both never been to, when I go to the UK and Ireland, I usually go alone. His attitude is, “I’ve been there before; I want to go someplace different.”

My take is that there are still so many places in the UK and Ireland that I’ve never seen, I still need to go back.

Our conversation usually goes something like this:

Him: It’s cold there.

Me: It’s warmer there in the winter than it is here.

Him: It rains there.

Me: Surprise, surprise, it rains here, too.

Him: Not all the time.

Me: I spent a month in Ireland, and it rained one day in the Republic, and one day in Belfast while I was there.

But I don’t push the envelope. He knows I like to travel more than he does. He doesn’t mind. I go without him. There are places in the world I refuse to go. If he wants to see those places, he’s welcome to go without me.

You may wonder why I don’t travel with someone else, instead. I have done that. It has its pluses and minuses. On the plus side, you get to discover somewhere with another person and share the experience. Often my friends can’t afford the trip or don’t have the time off from work to go. Others have commitments that don’t allow them to go. Of course, the introvert me also needs my alone time. Traveling with someone else is exhausting.

I carefully plan my trips, and if someone is coming with me, I give them a copy of the itinerary. It isn’t because I have to be in charge. In fact, I ask the other person where they want to go, what they want to do and see. I’m usually met with, “Oh, you know places better than I do. Whatever you pick is fine with me. And when I give the suggested itinerary, they never tell me if they aren’t interested in something I’ve listed. They give me the, “Oh, this is great.”

I don’t like to arrive in a country with no idea what I’m going to do. I did that once, and it was disastrous. I thought the other person had planned that part of the trip. They hadn’t, and as a consequence, we saw only what we could figure out how to get to on foot with our trusty Tourist Information maps.

It is frustrating, though, when you’ve planned events for the day, especially when some include buying tickets (in advance) for a timed event, and the  other person isn’t ready on time. Sometimes we miss the event entirely.  Yes, vacations should be relaxing, but they shouldn’t be boring. And I hate wasting money, especially over someone else’s disorganization. When I was a child, my family almost never went on vacations.  I have worked too long and hard to be able to afford vacations to have someone else treat it like it’s no big deal.

It’s also frustrating, after you’ve done all the planning because the other person won’t participate, only to find they had their own agenda they didn’t tell you about, and spring it on you at the last minute.

I have also travelled with someone who constantly sabotaged me throughout the trip. It reached a point where a foreigner I’d met actually asked me if said person was really my friend.

I mean, really, if you ask me to make all of the decisions, and you’ve seen and approved all of them ahead of time, don’t play games with it. I don’t jam pack the schedule. I have one, or perhaps two things per day scheduled, and the rest of the time is to relax and do spontaneous things. There are even days with no plans.

Maybe I’m just difficult to travel with. It’s hard to see me from the outside.

It’s simply easier to travel alone.

Of course, traveling in general has its own issues.

Unless I’m going to Ireland, I have to fly into London to go anywhere in the UK. This is because there are no direct flights from where I live to places like Wales or Scotland. First I'd have to fly to Toronto, Washington, D.C., Amsterdam (!) or Chicago – which is in the wrong direction.

That means changing planes, which in turn involves collecting my carry on, standing in the aisle for an extended period because people refuse to wait for the row in front of them to get out first. They don’t stop to consider that would be faster.

Instead, the (expletive, expletive) people in the back race up the aisle before the doors are open, and often before the seatbelt light has gone off, in the wrongheaded idea that they need to be the first one out.

This is another reason I call travel a sport. I keep expecting to hear the winner of “first person out” announced once we arrive in the airport, along with medals for first, second and third place.

Then there’s the Olympic race to wherever your connecting flight is leaving from – usually at the other end of the airport – and resettling in another plane for the now at least seven-hour flight.

I’ll pay a bit extra for a non-stop flight, thanks.

Once at the final destination, there is a mad dash so as not to be the last one in line at customs.

Customs is its own special world. I usually arrive in London between 6 am and 10 am. Mine is never the only flight. There are several hundred packed like sardines in each flight, since they moved the seats closer together. Want more leg room? It’ll cost you an additional $80. Care to move to business class? Another $2,000, please. They know at the airport what time the various flights are due to arrive. They come in at the same time every day. There are hundreds, if not thousands of people, mostly sleep-deprived, waiting to have their passport stamped.

There are perhaps 20 customs kiosks, yet never, including pre-Covid, are there more than two customs officials for British and EU passports, and two for the rest of us. Bring a good book and maybe one of those canes that opens out into a chair; it’s going to be a while.

The next leg of my journey is the trip from Heathrow or Gatwick to Central London. After collecting my checked luggage, finding the correct lift to the trains or the underground and purchasing my ticket, the journey is lovely. The trains are clean, well-lit and smooth-riding. They leave often enough that they’re not jammed with travelers.

It’s a nice change after an overnight flight where, unless you’re gifted in being able to sleep anywhere, or wealthy enough for business class, you get little to no sleep. Often the first two hours of the flight are taken up with the noisy prospect of flight attendants offering some form of dinner, and the last hour pretending it’s been long enough since dinner to feed you breakfast. In any case, there’s too much noise – and often crying babies – to allow for any sleep. And four quiet hours don’t exactly provide the recommended good night’s sleep.

From Heathrow, the high-speed train arrives at Paddington station, where I maneuver my luggage – which, over the years I’ve whittled to the size of a carry on suitcase – and whatever small carry-on I have, which usually contains my electronic devices.

I usually spend my first day in London to reacquaint myself with the place that feels the most like home to me. If I’m leaving that night to go to Scotland, I need to take the tube to King’s Cross station. There, I can get the night train to Edinburgh or the train to Hogwarts.

Once at King’s Cross, I can check my bags at Left Luggage, and start seeing the sights I’ve chosen for the day.

If I’m going to Cardiff, Wales, I don’t need to leave Paddington, since the First Great Western train line leaves from Padding to Cardiff. If I am going directly there, it’s usually only a short wait for a train, and in two hours I’d be in Cardiff.

On my most recent trip, I opted to spend a few days in London, and take day trips to nearby places I hadn’t yet seen, as well as a few plays on the West End – London’s equivalent to Broadway.

Staying in London means there’s still the matter of baggage. Most places, check in time is 2 or 3 pm.  Since I arrived in Paddington before noon, I had to deal with what to do with the luggage.

Most hotels and B&Bs will allow you to drop off luggage before check-in time if you’ve made arrangements, at no additional charge. If they don’t, there’s Left Luggage at Paddington for a nominal fee.

I usually try to get accommodations near the railway station I’ll be leaving from, to keep from having to navigate stairs and escalators when I’m trying to catch a train. I’ve learned from past experience that the cheaper places are inconvenient to railway stations going elsewhere, and they usually don't have elevators, so you may have to carry your luggage up a few flights of stairs.

Getting luggage around London is its own event. It’s almost always necessary to take at least one underground train to get from place to place. (This assumes you’re not going to splurge for a taxi, which I have done in smaller cities that don’t have the underground.) I’m adept at minding the gap and getting my suitcases over it most of the time. Most tube stations usually have lifts or escalators to transfer you from different level platforms and to the street level.

There is sometimes a problem when the underground station is quite old and not attached to a railway station. In this case, sometimes there are neither lifts nor escalators, and it’s necessary to take a long stairway, made to seem longer if your luggage is heavy.

I have stood at the bottom of a set of tall stairs, looked up and sighed, gearing myself up to pick up the heavy suitcase and making the climb, pulling myself up the railing while my suitcase threatens to pull me back down.

Fortunately, my experience has shown that Londoners are incredibly generous people. Most of the time, someone on the way up the stairs will see me preparing, and simply pick up my suitcase without a word, and carry it up the stairs, then wait for me to get to the top to claim my bag. They have my eternal thanks.

Of course, on the tube there are signs telling people to give up certain seats to those with special needs, pregnant women and the elderly. While I have never been handicapped or pregnant, apparently people can look at me and conclude I’m a senior citizen. While my chronological age qualifies, my inner self still identifies as 25, so it’s both a shock and a bit of an embarrassment to have someone give up their seat for me.

What’s really difficult is trying to decline the kindness when I will be getting off at the next stop. People take it almost as an affront for this senior to decline the designated seat just because the train will be stopping about the same time my bum hits the seat.

Sometimes people will assist me with getting my bags off the train.

Often, the most difficult place to manage luggage is where I’m staying. It’s really important to check out the finer points of hotels and B&Bs. Some hotels are more like B&Bs unless they’re big name places like the Sheraton or the Marriot.

If you book through Bookings.com or Kayak.com or any of a growing number of such places, you can find out whether or not there is a lift in the hotel. You can also request a ground floor room, but they don’t guarantee you will get one. 

If the booking site doesn’t have that information, they usually have an email address for the hotel, and you can find out that way.

If you really can’t manage multiple flights of stairs with your luggage, you may have to opt for a name-brand hotel which is often – but not always – more expensive than those with more old-world charm.

Once free of suitcases, the underground, walking and taking in the sights are much easier. There is no need to rent a car in London. Aside from the extra city tax when you rent in the city, there are buses and the underground to go anywhere you want within the city, and trains for places outside the city. Walking from place to place is fairly easy.

The usual suspects – Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Parliament, The London Eye, and Trafalgar Square – are walking distance to one another. Hyde Park, St. Paul’s, The Tower of London and Carnaby Street are fairly quick underground trips from there – just keep your Oyster card topped up.

If you want to be spontaneous with visits to things like the London Eye or the Tower of London, you’ll need to stand in line (or queue up, as they say in London) for a bit. But a quick visit online either to the place’s website, VisitUK.com, Viator.com or Bookings.com, among others before your trip can get you advanced tickets and allow you to skip the queues. And definitely take advantage of the hop-on-hop-off busses. It’s a great way to get the lay of the land, as well as a ride from place to place, if not the most direct one.

Traveling can be exciting, even with some of the drawbacks. Like all sporting events, it’s all a matter of planning, and being realistic about what you physically can do.

The best tip I can offer is make a list of places you want to go, make sure you don’t list more places than you have days for vacation, then cut the list in half, and you’ll be in the right ballpark. Even if you guess wrong and have extra time, you can always add things. Just remember that traveling from one place to the next takes time, too.

 

Having a "Huh?" Moment

 

 

            “You’re something the Catholic Church fears: a thinking Catholic.”

Those words were uttered to me by a priest once, a million years ago, when I was in my 20s.

No this is not a blast on Catholicism, or even a blog about religion. It’s more of a “Huh?” about the modern world.

To put the statement in context, I used to sing and play guitar for our parish’s guitar Mass. Every year, the group had a picnic at a park about an hour from where we lived. I always found that odd, since there were parks closer to home, it was usually a hot day, and there was no place at the park to swim. We would invite the priests, but they usually didn’t come.

One year, one of the priests, who liked our group’s music, decided to go to the picnic. He didn’t know how to get there, and I didn’t have a car, so he offered to drive me there since I could show him the way.

Along the way we chatted about miscellaneous and sundry things, and at one point got into a conversation about that day’s gospel, which was the one about the rich man giving his money to three of his servants and telling them to take care of it until he returned. Two of the servants invested the money, which I considered a risky thing to do with someone else’s money. They were lucky they didn’t lose everything, and they were rewarded for making extra money for him, which, in my opinion, he had no reason to expect. The third did exactly what he was told to do, and buried the money, giving the man back exactly the amount he was given, exactly, to my mind, all that the man should have expected back. And that servant was punished. I thought that was grossly unfair.

Yes, yes, I understand the point that the money --“Talents” -- was a metaphor for one’s talent in life, but taking it on face value, the parable is unjust.

When I pointed out that one of the men investing the money should have suffered losses, since that was a real world situation -- just as having talent in an area, but life situations preventing it from being used -- he told me I was putting 20^th century values -- this happened back then -- on the gospel. Quite the “Huh?” moment.

Of course, I felt that if it wasn’t relevant to the century we’re living in, what’s the point, anyway? And then he said what I quoted at the beginning of the blog.

I apparently don’t pick up the undercurrents of things people tell me. Perhaps that’s why I don’t understand the world I find myself living in.

For example, when I was a wee, small child, my mother told me that we shouldn’t judge people by their race, religion, gender, ethnic background, and by extension, sexual orientation, we should look at the individual, and decide by their values and behavior whether or not we wanted them as friends.

 I took that to heart to such an extent that sometimes, if someone else mentions someone race, religion, gender, ethnic background or sexual orientation, I have to stop and think, “Really? I never noticed.”

This is not to say my mother didn’t have her own prejudices; she did, and I recognized them when I was much older.

However, when I was in seventh grade, my teacher, who was a nun, started a conversation with my class about a movie that had just come out, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, which 1) we were not old enough to see, since it had an R rating, and 2) involved bi-racial dating, something that was apparently taboo at the time. After telling us the premise of the movie, she asked us -- 12 and 13-year-olds, who were too young to be allowed to date -- if we would date someone of a different race. Keep in mind, this was an all-white school in an all-white suburb in the late 1960s, when integration in schools was in its infancy in the US.

I listened with increasing disgust as my classmates said they would, but their parents wouldn’t let them -- always blame someone else -- and very few were brave enough to admit they would never consider it. The hypocrisy was overwhelming.

I finally raised my hand and told the good sister that I wouldn’t have a problem with it, and told her what my mother had taught me. Sister was apparently pleased at my parents’ forward-thinking ideals. I was proud of myself and my family.

But when I arrived home, my mother was less than proud of me when I told her about what happened in school.

“You said WHAT???!!”

Another “Huh?” moment.

Apparently, what I was taught at home was a state secret, because, if discovered, what would the neighbors think? My mother, it seemed, was afraid of my classmates’ parents thinking ill of my family because of what I had said. I didn’t think it was memorable enough for them to tell their parents.

My thinking was that people should be happy to see that someone was living according to what Jesus was telling us in church every Sunday. Sigh. I just didn’t get it.

Flash forward to today.

I used to feel safe going into Philadelphia. However, with the uptick in gun violence, I don’t have it on my radar as a place to go.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry. That only happens in the neighborhoods,” people often tell me. And while that’s somewhat true, “The neighborhoods” is racist code for certain parts of the city. However, at least two deaths and a couple of other shootings in Dilworth Plaza, which is part of City Hall’s footprint, the very epicenter of Center City, puts the lie to the idea that shootings only happen in “the neighborhoods.”

And people wonder why I think they’re ridiculous telling me I’m brave to travel to Europe alone? I feel safe in London; not so much in Philadelphia.

So it was a real shock on my latest visit to the UK when I heard that someone had been shot and killed -- randomly -- in Wallasey, near Liverpool. Add to that the fact that, when I heard about the shooting, I was visiting a cousin in Wallasey, and it had only happened a few days earlier.

Beyond the sadness that this had happened, especially since it had happened on Christmas Eve, was my first thought: where did someone in England get a handgun? That was also the first thing I was asked by my friends at home when I told them about the incident.

I live in a country that, sadly, has reached the point that gun violence on a daily basis is almost expected. But the Wallasey shooting was yet another “Huh?” moment.

Back in America, I think something needs to be done about the violence, although, given our laws and the people who think anyone who doesn’t own a gun is a radical looking to take away their guns, I don’t know what we can do about it or how to even start. (Don’t get me started on guns. If you really want to know, check out my previous blog, “The Not So Okay Corral,” Aug, 2018.)

It’s sad to think I have to go to another country to have a good day out.

That’s not to say I’d go to just any other country. There are several I don’t care to go to, either because they’re such crowded places, or because of their political regimes.

For example, although I’ve been to Russia in better times, I wouldn’t go there again as long as their current leader is in power. That means I’ll probably not be able to go there again in my lifetime.

New Zealand, on the other hand, is definitely on my list of must-see places.

I love to travel and meet people different from myself, but I can’t always do so, which means I need to stay in my own country sometimes. And I do realize that other countries have their own problems, some of them the same situations we have here. I know that some situations I’ve seen reported on television are almost world-wide, and it saddens me, mainly because it demonstrates that humans largely haven’t learned from the past.

The other day I saw a report on someone being attacked solely for being Jewish. My immediate response was, “What is wrong with people?” (ask Blue Scream of Jeff – read his blogs –and he can tell you. He was there when I said it.) I feel the same when someone is attacked for being Black.

Every time I hear about a Jewish group being attacked, I ask myself if we’re living in 1930s Germany or Russia, and if not, why we’re still not better than that. Ditto for blacks, women and LGBTQ+ people.

Every time I hear about “ethnic” groups being attacked in countries around the world, I think about the fact that those same countries have been through this before. Why haven’t they learned from it yet?

To quote a song by the Manic Street Preachers, "If you tolerate this, your children will be next."

We seem to be going backwards, too far backwards.

I’m a child of the ‘60s. Peace, love and understanding -- and by the way, some fantastic music! We protested against war. We protested against injustice. We marched for civil rights. 

If we’re going to go backwards, let’s go back to those ideals, not the wild west, or the ethnic cleansing of the 1930s and ‘40s, or even the so-called Communist purging of the 1950s. I was raised with the ideal of eradicating bigotry as far as possible. I was educated in schools that emphasized social justice.

Although I wasn’t a member of Girl Scouts, they have a basic rule that you leave a place better than the way you found it. I’ve always tried to be that person. Or, to quote Maya Angelou, “When you know better, you do better.”

 

Adventures in London

As anyone who knows me can tell you, I love to travel. In fact, one of my greatest fears when considering retirement is not being able to afford to travel.

While I enjoy seeing the world with my husband, Blue Scream of Jeff (shameless blog plug), there are countries I want to explore repeatedly, and in detail that he isn’t interested in revisiting, namely, the British Isles.

He has nothing against Great Britain and Ireland except his concept of their weather. He’s been there, so he’d rather go elsewhere. And it’s not his heritage.

While many people I know consider London the ultimate British destination, for me it’s just a place I can get a direct flight to from the East Coast. Even traveling to Dublin a few years ago, the airline with the best price had a layover in London.(I know; it makes no sense to me, either.)

I don’t hate London. I’m just not a big city person. That said, I usually wind up spending at least a day in London before going to another destination. I did that a few years ago before taking the night train to Edinburgh for a week in Scotland.

I started my day touring churches I’d never visited. Since most weren’t open, I decided take in a bit of Dickens’ London.

No, I never expected it to look as it did in Dickens’ day. I simply wanted to see some of the places he’d mentioned in his novels. I couldn’t believe, in all of the times I’d been in London, I’d never been to Covent Garden or The Old Curiosity Shop.

Off I went to Covent Garden. A cobblestoned square, surrounded by buildings that were mostly restaurants, and an open air market, I began snapping pictures and looking everywhere but down.

Suddenly, as I walked across the square, my foot jolted down unexpectedly, and I fell.

What the hell? What just happened? My camera!

These were the thoughts that went through my head as I got off the ground.

The camera was a relatively new DSLR. I only hoped it hadn’t broken in the fall.

Looking around the ground, I noticed a curb I hadn’t seen. I had thought I was on the square, and hadn’t noticed this bizarre peninsula of slightly raised walkway jutting into the square. Maybe jetlag could be blamed for my not noticing it.

A young man who appeared to be a waiter from one of the outdoor restaurants dashed over to see if I was all right. I thought it was sweet that someone cared enough to ask, but I was embarrassed that it had happened at all.

I assured him I was fine, and had only hurt my pride and maybe bruised my knee.

He brought over a chair and called someone else over while he had me sit down, right in the middle of the square. Now I was embarrassed, imagining various diners wondering why that woman was just sitting in the middle of the square.

Enter a gorgeous young man half my age who looked like a young, slender Russell Crowe. He was the man the waiter had called over.

He was apparently a medic. He asked my name, where I was from, when I’d arrived, and what had happened. He wanted to know how I felt, whether or not I’d hit my head and whether or not I was hurt anywhere else.

I assured him I’d only bruised my knee. He offered me ice, but I declined. This was really much ado about nothing. I just wanted to be on my way, even though the scenery he was providing wasn’t hard to bear.

We chatted for a while, although I couldn’t imagine this young man was interested in my touring plans.

Of course, I realized he was only doing his job. He needed to make sure I really wasn’t injured. It wouldn’t do to have an injured American wandering around. Everyone knew how litigious we are.

What I didn’t realize until, while talking with a friend sometime later, was that his questions were a subtle attempt to assess if I’d had a stroke.

Me? Well, yes, I was of an age that it was possible, and I had fallen for seemingly no reason, although that wonky curb would have caught up anyone, especially someone who was jet-lagged.

Once I had spent the requisite amount of time for him to determine I hadn’t had a stroke, he let me go on my way.

Careful not to trip over any more curbs, I resumed my explorations.

While I didn’t get to all of the places I wanted to see, I’m sure I’ll be back again on my next trip to somewhere else.

Privilege

While on a recent vacation in Europe, I found that there are, generally, two types of Americans who travel abroad.

The first type tends to be polite, use their indoor voices, and are keen to discover new places, cultures, and people, and learn about foreign countries from a different perspective to what they’ve learned stateside.

They may try to learn at least a little of a foreign language when possible, and they willingly acknowledge that the whole world is not English-speaking.

The second type tends to believe money talks. Regardless of their economic status, these people have reached the point of being able to afford a European vacation, whether they’re company CEOs or they’ve saved for the vacation of a lifetime.

Having reached this status, they often exhibit a sense of entitlement. I call them The Privileged, “knock this chip off my shoulder” type. They are American in all caps.

This second group is often loud, quick to take offense when things don’t go their way, and appear to think they already know everything about the places they’re visiting and the people who live there. They are looking to have their opinions reinforced.

They also are likely to have the attitude that everyone in the world speaks English; foreigners simply pretend they don’t to make things difficult.

I know what you’re thinking: these are stereotypes. No one is exactly like either of these descriptions. But stereotypes are based in reality, even if they take it to the extreme.

I have met people who fit very neatly into each of those categories.

Most people are a combination of the two, and depending on how the day is going for them, show more of one or the other.

Those who exhibit more characteristics of the second type are the ones who embarrass the rest of us. They also tend to be the ones Europeans remember as Americans.

We’ve all had an “ugly American” moment when weather, disappointment or the hassle of packing and moving from place to place just gets to us.

The problem is that many Americans look on this not as rude but as “just having a bad day,” with no explanation or apology necessary. Some people act as if it is our right as Americans to expect the best, and insist that we get it.

I have seen this so much when traveling that it is refreshing to find Americans who are empathetic, polite and considerate of those from different cultures.

Yes, we’re considerate – usually – with other Americans, but we can often be more abrupt than those of other cultures are used to.

The “This is who I am; get over it” attitude is precisely what Europeans find distasteful.

The attitude doesn’t end when Americans come home, either.

Those who cater to the tourist industry welcome having their guests leave comments on sites such as Trip Advisor.

I use this site to help decide where to book when I’m planning a vacation. And I leave comments about the places I’ve stayed, as well.

I admit, I have few requirements: clean sheets and towels, a working shower and a bed with no bedbugs. While a television is a nice touch, and these days expected, unless I’m traveling alone, I probably won’t turn it on, especially in a non-English-speaking country.

While a dripping faucet or a drafty window can be irritating enough to disturb sleep, other things people complain about (drab curtains, tired carpets or even a creaky floor) make me shake my head.

I once traveled in a group where one woman complained that the walls in her room were dirty! This was in a new hotel, and no one else had that experience.

Sure, mentioning that the rooms could use an update might be a valid suggestion. But some people seem to have nothing to say except whether or not they liked the color of the room, the carpet or the lighting fixtures, and then give a low rating as if they worked for Queer Eye for the B&B. They say nothing of comfort, security or the quiet factor of the room.

I once stayed in a B&B where I’d read the complaints about the layout of the bathroom. (It had one; I was good with that.) The main issue was that there was only about 2 feet between the sink and the door. It was a single room. I found the distance adequate to get from the toilet on one side to the shower on the other. When I reviewed it, I suggested that people who found it too narrow a space simply leave the door open. It was a single room, after all.

I’ve also read reviews from Americans who ripped a B&B to shreds because the batteries in the remote for the TV were dead.

Really? Did you ask for new ones?

The management doesn’t generally know about these issues unless a guest mentions it. Maids are there to clean, not check TV remotes.

My experience, whether with a B&B or a hotel, is that management is more than willing, with great apology, to quickly remedy issues like batteries, towels and assorted other problems. They will work with guests to make accommodations on things that can’t immediately be fixed, like Wi-Fi dead spots. But the guest needs to speak up.

I find it odd that the Americans who are willing to loudly complain about cultural differences will wait until they get home and put issues like batteries in their complaints about their accommodations.

It’s true that Europeans can also be critical of places to stay. But on the whole, they tend not to be as harsh in their ratings over minor inconveniences.

My attitude when traveling is that, like it or not, I am representing my country when I travel abroad. My behavior will affect how others view Americans.

Do I always behave like the model tourist? Admittedly, no. But I do try, and when I fail, I try to make amends.

A European vacation is an opportunity to learn new things, and I try to learn as much as possible.

Americans who can afford to vacation in Europe should not use that as an opportunity for arrogance.

An American tourist should not expect better treatment simply because of national origin.  Because of some tourists, the reverse might end up being the case in some places.

You are not just a guest in another country. You are an advertisement for whether or not others should come to visit America.

The only privilege should be the chance to see new places and learn new things. It should not be a guest’s expectation of entitlement simply for having been born in a land of opportunity.

Stroke of Fate

      Aidan Morgan yawned and stretched as he rose from his bed, touching feet onto the cold, bare floor of his bedroom. He looked out his window through the dim, grey winter light and a slight fog that hovered between the mountains. From there he could see the eastern side of the property, the part of the road that wound back toward the hills and Mr. Richards’ lower pastureland.

      Mr. Richards, staff in hand, rambled along his land examining his fields and coaxing the odd stray sheep to run along back to the others. The man stood for a long time staring off toward the hills. As a child Aidan had enjoyed wandering with Mr. Richards, asking questions of him. He knew every inch of the surrounding hills and valleys. Aidan had thought at the time that Mr. Richards must be the wisest man in the area.

      The boy stretched again and dressed for what looked like a raw day that offered little likelihood of improving. Corduroy trousers, a rugby shirt and a jumper would do, he thought, pulling the clothes out of drawers and his wardrobe. He pulled on a pair of woolen socks, knowing he had the sheep to look after before he’d have any free time to spend with his friends.

      “We’re to have guests this evening,” his mother said as he appeared for breakfast. That was what she called those who stayed at their bed and breakfast. The additional income, combined with a pub attached to the house, kept them just a bit better off than the other sheep herders in the area. It allowed Aidan to have more certainty of a university education.

      “I didn’t know we were open this time of year,” he replied.

      “We’re never officially closed, but we don’t often have requests after October or so. Had it been for any of the last three days, I would’ve said no.”

      Aidan knew his mother kept the three-day Christmas holiday sacrosanct. The twenty-seventh, however, was fine.

      “It’s odd this time of year, isn’t it?” Aidan asked.

      “And American. I gather they’re over for Christmas and decided to see a bit of the country.”

      “Daring that, Americans driving here. This is a bit out of the way,” Aidan said.

      “Probably think the inn is actually in town. Or they could originally be from here.”

      “Or taking the bus,” Aidan replied, chuckling.

      “See that the sheep are properly penned. Mr. Richards said he saw one of ours wandering down by the stream on his side of the road.”

      “That was kind of him. What did he do about it?”

      “He brought it back. He just wanted us to be aware that part of the fence might need mending.”

      Mr. Richards’ pastureland was on the other side of the road that wound down and around the hills between Caernarfon proper and the south.

      The Morgans’ pasture was up the hill behind their home. Although their land extended about an acre farther on the other side of the road, they only used that portion of it as the car park for the pub.  In good weather it would be full. This time of year only the locals, many of whom simply walked, kept the pub from being empty most nights.

      Gwilym Jones and his family came every Thursday for dinner. He never took advantage of discounted prices Mrs. Morgan offered.

      “Your prices are fair and I need no charity. Save it against a time when I may,” he’d say.

      Aidan finished his breakfast and prepared to go outside to see to the sheep. His mother bustled about making sure the empty breakfast room was set with breakfast things. Then she went upstairs to clean the en-suite bathroom and make sure everything in the main room was dusted and as it should be. She refilled a container with tea bags and instant coffee packets, and put out fresh packets of shortbread.

      Meanwhile, Aidan wandered the pasture, the sheep moving as he passed. He walked the perimeter of the wire fence and found the break – a cut, actually. Sheep or even a dog hadn’t done this. Humans had. He bound top and bottom of the fence with some cord he’d brought until he could fix it.

      He whistled, and Tally, their border collie ran to him. At Aidan’s command the dog rounded up the sheep. Aidan counted them twice and found none missing. Whoever had cut the fence apparently wasn’t in the sheep stealing business.

      The sheep accounted for, Aidan walked the perimeter again before checking the shed where the sheep sheltered in bad weather. It was empty, but things were not as they should be. It looked like someone had spent the night.

      Aidan sighed. He wouldn’t have a peaceful night tonight. There were predictions of sleet. He wanted nothing more than to spend the night in his own bed, warm and dry.

      He found his father inside the pub directing the delivery of beer. Mr. Morgan looked up as his son entered.

      “Everything all right with the sheep?” he asked.

      “They’re all there. But the fence was cut and needs mending. And the shed has a look of having been slept in.”

      “Help me with the replacement kegs, and when the delivery’s done we’ll mend that.”

      “Do you think it’ll be cut again?”

      “We’ll keep an eye to it, now it’s been done.”

      “Will we patrol the grounds, do you think?”

      “I doubt anyone will be about tonight. Rough weather. Keep an eye today for strangers in town if you’re there with your friends. You know the sort.” Aidan nodded.

      The man from the delivery lorry, Isaac Adams, entered with a keg on his shoulder.

      “Aidan, is it? How are you boy? Was Father Christmas good to you, then?”

      Aidan laughed. Isaac still spoke to the sixteen-year-old as if he were six.

      “He was good as he usually is. Did he treat you well?”

      “Oh, fine, fine. You know how he is, all about the children.”

      Aidan knew little about Isaac beyond the fact that he worked for the beer company. Occasionally over the years he’d mentioned a wife, and Aidan thought he must have children. But Aidan was seldom about when Isaac made his deliveries.

      “So, did he treat your children well?” Aidan asked.

      “Mine? Och! They’re grown with their own children.”

      Aidan hadn’t expected that. Isaac didn’t look much older than his own father, who was in his forties. Aidan’s sister, had she lived, would just be 21 this year.

      “Your grandchildren, then?”

      “He’ll never finish to see them if you rabbit on like that,” Mr. Morgan said.

      Mr. Adams hadn’t stopped his work while he spoke, and now he was finished.

      “Happy New Year to you, Aidan, lad.”

      “And to you, Mr. Adams.”

      Aidan took a damp cloth and wiped the tables in the pub while Mr. Morgan and Mr. Adams finished their business. Although they’d been cleaned at the end of service the night before, Mr. Morgan liked to be certain of a thorough job.

      That finished, the boy made sure each table had its correct number of chairs and that the salt and pepper shakers were filled. By the time he had finished, his father was ready to set up the kegs under the bar. Aidan helped move them and connect them to the taps. Once everything was attached properly, they went to the pasture.

      When they got there, his father taught him how to make the repair so it was nearly invisible. Once they had finished, he showed his father the place he thought intruders had slept.

      “We run a bed and breakfast and folk steal a place!” Mr. Morgan muttered.

      He rang the local constabulary to alert them to what had happened.

      “Likely hikers passing through,” P.C. Evans said when he arrived to inspect the area.

      “I don’t like that they cut the fence,” Mr. Morgan replied. “It’s one thing to use the sheep shed, but they’ve cost me time and materials for repairs.”

      “We’ll keep an eye. Cold time of year to be living on the land,” the policeman said. “Hopefully, we’ll have no more incidents.”

      Mr. Richards came by and Mr. Morgan thanked him for such a watchful eye.

      “No more than you’d do for me,” he replied.

      They discussed the cut fence and whether or not it was likely that troublemakers would be about.

      Aidan sized up the two men. His father still had a full head of hair, although the curls were salt and pepper now. He was medium height and a little stocky whereas the balding Mr. Richards was taller and leaner, with sharp features that looked to have been shaped by the windswept landscape. Mr. Richards frightened many of the local children, who thought he was strict and as sharp-tempered as he was sharp featured. Aidan had known the man all his life and found him amiable, quick to laugh at a joke, but serious when the need arose. He knew how to drive a bargain or take pity equally.

      Once Aidan had told the police what he’d seen, he went on his way to find his mates in town. Winter carnival provided amusement for the children and teens out of school for the holidays. The town bustled with activity.

      Aidan told his friends about the sheep pen incident.

      “Who’s daft enough to sleep in the open in this weather?” Jason Bond asked, looking at the heavy grey sky that was only slightly lighter at noon than it had been at sunrise.

      “Dunno,” Aidan replied. “And why come to our farm when there are warmer places to kip in town?”

      “So we’ll be on the lookout for someone smelling of sheep, then?” his other friend, Matt Hopkins asked.

      They all laughed. Matt was as dark haired as Aidan, but with brown eyes rather than Aidan’s blue. He was considered the wit of the set. Jason, with his light ginger hair that was always falling in his eyes, was their thinker, taking in information and ruminating over each bit for hours at a time. He’d likely have some theory about the incident by next day.

      They headed toward the carnival grounds, thoughts of anything else replaced by the anticipation of a day of fun.

      Morning rounded into afternoon amid fish and chips and food from the vendors. As the afternoon light faded, Aidan told them he was needed at home.

      “It’s only three,” Matt protested.

      “I need to be back before dark. We have guests in tonight.”

      This time of year?” Jason asked. “So you didn’t close for the holidays?”

      “We closed for the hols themselves. It’s unusual to have anyone now, and since it’s not a huge party, it doesn’t put Mum to much work.”

      “Foreigners?”

      “Americans. I’ll let you know what they’re like tomorrow. At least they won’t sleep in the sheep pen.”

      “Are we on for the panto tomorrow?” Jason asked.

      “Definitely,” Aidan replied.

      They parted company and Aidan walked to the bus stop for the journey home.

      “Ah, good, you’re home,” his mother said. He’d forgotten and used the front door. They generally didn’t when they had guests.

      “Have they come?” he asked.

      “Yes, they’re up in their suite. Apparently spent the day in town and were quite surprised how far we were.”

      “I imagine it’s dearer in town,” Aidan commented.

      “If anything is open in town.”

      His parents knew all of the bed and breakfasts as well as hotel people in Caernarfon. They were likely to know which were open.

      Mr. Morgan had done a check of the sheep pen before it was full dark and found nothing amiss. He hadn’t expected anything wrong in daylight. The landscape was empty of people except for the occasional car and one passerby who’d stopped for lunch.

      “Aidan,” his mother said, coming out of the hallway, “the ladies upstairs need towels. Be a love and run these up to them. I’ve been up and down all day.”

      He took the towels and ascended. He knocked on the door, and to avoid any embarrassment, said, “Towels, Miss.”

      The door opened. A girl nearly his height with large brown eyes and pale blonde hair smiled at him.

      “Hello. Thanks,” she said.

      He smiled. “Anything else, Miss?”

      “No, we’re fine now. Thanks. What’s your name?”

      “Aidan.”

      “Hi. I’m Susan.”

      Aidan nodded.

      “Sue, I’m sure he’s busy,” said the other woman from farther back in the room. She was a bit older, dark-haired and bore no resemblance to Susan.

      “Well, if there’s nothing else?” he said.

      “Oh, no. Thanks. But, when does dinner start?”

      “Half five, Miss,” he replied.

      “Half?” She looked confused. He realized Americans phrased it differently.

      “Sorry. Half past five.”

      “Oh. Okay then. Thanks.”

      He nodded and went downstairs.

      “Everything all right?” his mother asked when he returned to the lounge.

      “Yeah. Pretty one, that blonde. Is that her mum with her?”

      “No. Two different names. I don’t think the older one’s old enough to be her mum.”

      “Dunno. I didn’t get a good enough look.”

      Mrs. Morgan had the family’s meal ready for tea. While they ate, she asked about the sheep and Mr. Morgan asked after the guests.

      “Will you check the pen tonight?” Mrs. Morgan asked.

      “I reckon before bed Aidan and I can have a look.”

      “Do you think we’ll be busy this evening?” Mrs. Morgan asked.

      “Not if the sleet comes.”

      “I hope it doesn’t,” Aidan said. “I don’t fancy going through the pen in the sleet.”

      “How are the guests settling in?” Mr. Morgan asked.

      “I’ve heard not a peep since they went up other than asking for towels,” Mrs. Morgan replied. “Although I suspect Aiden fancies the younger one.”

      “Does he indeed?”

      “I only said she was pretty. I think they’ll be down for dinner.”

      “It’s Thursday. Gwilym Jones usually comes,” Mrs. Morgan replied.

      “I hope you have your shepherd’s pie ready,” Mr. Morgan said. His wife laughed. Gwilym, without fail, ordered shepherd’s pie.

      They finished tea and Mrs. Morgan finished preparations for meals for the pub.

      Gwen Owens came by to help with cooking as she did three nights a week. A quiet, middle-aged woman, she’d never married and enjoyed the quiet, behind-the-scenes work of preparing food and cleaning dishes. She’d have been embarrassed beyond all telling if she’d had to face customers, even those who were neighbors. She got on well with Aidan, who never teased her, although some of the town children did.

      Aidan walked through the pub making sure everything was as it should be, and his father brought glasses behind the bar to put away.

      “Kevin Flynn says his parents are thinking of going back to Ireland to live,” Aidan offered. “We ran into him today at the carnival.”

      “Does he, then? I hear there aren’t any jobs to be had there just now.”

      “His dad would still work for the company here, but as an advisor to a shop there.”

      “I wish him good luck, then. I know they’ve sorely missed their homeland,” Mr. Morgan said.

      “I can’t imagine needing to leave your home,” Aidan said.

      “And just last summer you were talking of going to America.”

      “Not by being forced. And I’d go for a visit first to see if I liked it.”

      “It’s different to what they show in the movies, I’ll wager. Ask our guests if you want to know.”

      Aidan laughed. His parents never encouraged bothering the guests.

      The women came down to the pub and sat at a table. Mr. Morgan gave them menus and asked if they’d like anything from the bar. They each ordered a glass of wine and looked over the menu. When he brought their wine they ordered.

      Aidan entered the pub and went behind the bar.

      “Go on with you,” his father said. “You can’t be back here.”

      “Just getting a bag of crisps.”

      “Eating the profits, are you? You’ve just finished tea. Go. You know you’re not to be back here during hours.”

      Aidan nicked the bag of crisps and scooted out.

      “Here, take this order, will you?”

      Mr. Morgan handed his son the check. Aidan glanced at the two women, then went the back way to the kitchen.

      Mrs. Morgan and Gwen busied themselves with the order.

      From the kitchen they could hear Gwilym’s booming voice as he and his family made their weekly appearance. They sat in a booth by the window and Gwilym called his greeting over to the bar.

      “Your usual?” Mr. Morgan asked as he took out a pint glass and some glasses for the cokes he knew the two girls would want.

      “I’ll have white wine if you have it,” Gwilym’s wife said.

      “When have you known me not to have it, my darling?” Mr. Morgan asked.

      He reached overhead for a wine glass.

      As he took the drinks to the table, a young couple entered and hailed Mr. Morgan. Thomas Andrews and his new bride hadn’t been to the pub since before their wedding a month earlier.

      “Thomas, about time you showed yourself. Glynnis, is this lad treating you well?”

      “He is.”

      Mr. Morgan took Gwilym’s family’s order, and handed it to Aidan as he returned. He gave the couple their menus and returned to the bar to get their drinks while Aidan took Gwilym’s order to the kitchen.

      It looked like a busy night for midweek. Aidan wondered if the weather would hold so that the later regulars would come for their pints.

      The boy came back quickly to get Thomas’s order.

      Lively conversation arose amongst the local patrons who spoke now in English and now in Welsh. The locals frequently used a mix of the two.

      When the meal was ready, Aidan brought it on a tray and set a plate in front of each of the ladies.

      “Will you have anything else?” he asked.

      “Thank you, no. We’re fine,” The older woman said. The younger smiled and blushed.

      “I saw the blonde flirting with you,” his father said in Welsh.

      Aidan laughed and returned to the kitchen for Gwilym’s order.

      Mr. Morgan went to the ladies’ table to see if they needed any more wine, but they assured him all was well.

      “The waiter asked us already,” the older woman said.

      “Ah. My son isn’t old enough to serve the liquor just yet.”

      “Oh, I guess he looks older than he is,” the younger said.

      Mr. Morgan smiled. He thought nothing of the kind, but supposed she meant it as a complement.

      “If you need anything else, give a shout.”

      Aidan appeared a few moments later with Gwilym’s order.

      “You have yourself a girlfriend, have you?” Gwilym asked.

      “A guest only,” Aidan replied, glad that the Americans didn’t understand Welsh.

      “And I thought I was your one and only,” Morgan, Gwilym’s youngest daughter teased.

      “Ah, but think of it. If we married you’d become Morgan Morgan.”

      Gwilym and his family laughed. Morgan was two years older than Aidan and as a small boy he’d been smitten with her. He’d outgrown that, but they shared a playful fondness.

      “I hear you’ve had troubles with your sheep pen?” Gwilym asked.

      “News travels fast.” Aidan told them what had happened. “The police thought perhaps it was someone passing through. They’ll keep an eye, but they don’t expect a repeat of it.”

      “With the weather turning colder, I’d expect not. If you need help, let me know.”

      “We will, I’m sure.”

      He crossed the room and stopped at the guests’ table on his way.

      “How is everything?”

      “Wonderful,” the older woman said.

      “What language was that you were speaking over there?” Susan asked.

      “Welsh.”

      “Oh. Does everyone speak that here?”

      “Mostly everyone. But we all speak English as well.”

      “That is so cool,” she said.

      He smiled and nodded and returned to the family part of the house.

      Once his mother had ascertained that all of the customers were taken care of, Aidan told her he was going to check the sheep pen.

      It was full dark and the cold bit his face when he first stepped outdoors. He looked at the muddy-looking sky. The clouds looked ready to burst. He expected to see snow the next day.

      Aidan trudged around the perimeter of the fence. All looked well, but he noticed the latch on the gate was open. He didn’t remember his father leaving it that way, but he’d mention it later. With people vandalizing things, it wouldn’t do to leave the gate open. He shut it.

      He wandered around the field, making sure the sheep weren’t out. The dog usually investigated whenever anyone came inside the fence, which is what made the previous night’s vandalism so odd. Aidan couldn’t imagine him being silent or even being friendly toward a stranger when no one from the house was there.

      “Tally!” he called. “Come on, boy!”

      There must be a sheep out of bounds for him not to race over to Aidan.

      The boy crept to the shed the sheep stayed in at night. As he entered he saw the dog lying on the floor just inside the door.

      “Tally!” he cried, kneeling down to see if the dog was alive.

      As he touched the warm fur, the crack of something hitting his head hard reverberated through his skull before blackness.

      The pain in his head confused Aidan. He didn’t expect to feel pain after death. Perhaps he hadn’t been good enough for heaven after all. Or perhaps he was only on his way to judgement.

      “I think he’s coming round,” said the disembodied voice.

      St. Peter? Surely St. Peter wasn’t a Welshman?

      St. Peter surely would have spoken Aramaic. And he’d spoken in Welsh. Is that what they meant by speaking in tongues?

      He opened his eyes against the glare of celestial light to see the local doctor, Gwilym and his anxious parents staring at him.

      Oh. Not being dead was so much less disappointing than a headache in hell.

      “Aidan,” his mother said, “how do you feel?”

      “My head hurts.”

      The men chuckled.

      “I expect so,” the doctor said. “You’ve had a good crack in the head.”

      “I went to check the pen and didn’t see Tally. He didn’t come when I called, so I went to the shed to check, and found him. Is he dead, then?”

      “No. He was drugged, but he’ll be just fine,” Mr. Morgan said.

      “Someone hit me in the head, and that was the end of it. I didn’t see anyone. Who’s minding the pub?”

      “My son, Gareth is, and Davey Furman came by to help,” Gwilym said.

      “And Sarah stayed behind until our return for the guests,” his mother added.

      “Don’t worry yourself about anything,” Mr. Morgan said.

      “Fortunately, you’ve had no fractures,” the doctor said. “I’ve put in a few stitches to fix the break in your scalp. It’s a hard head you have there, Aidan Morgan.”

      Once they’d made sure everything was all right, Aidan was allowed to return home with his parents.

      A light snow had begun to fall as they went along the winding, deserted road. Aidan wondered briefly if the guests would have any difficulty getting out in the morning, and thought if only it had snowed earlier, he would’ve been alerted by footsteps – or someone could at least have tracked the intruders.

      When the Morgans returned, their friends dashed out to see how Aidan was.

      “I’m fine,” he answered them.

      “A thwack on the head,” Gwilym said, “wouldn’t harm this boy.” The others laughed.

      A policeman stood inside the door. He followed the family into the breakfast room and asked Aidan a few questions about the events of the day.

      We have a man in custody,” PC Evans said. “Mr. Richards saw something out of the ordinary and stopped the man as he ran from your property. He had him when we arrived. I need your memory of what happened. What of the dog?”

      “He was drugged, but the vet says he’ll be all right in a few hours,” Mr. Morgan said. “Apparently they did the same to him last night, which is why we heard no barking.”

      “The man was in possession of some sleep aids. That’s likely what he gave the dog. And he stole some tools. Now that we have him, I trust we’ll have no more trouble here.”

      “Has the bloke said anything?” Mr. Morgan asked.          

      “Not much so far. He’s at least guilty of theft and trespassing, and we’ll likely have him for assault as well as damages to your sheep pen.

      Aidan told him all that he knew, and PC Evans went on his way.

      In the morning Aidan awoke with a terrible headache. He lay in bed thinking about the previous evening. His father had said they’d gone looking for him when he wasn’t back in half an hour.

      He glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly nine. He jumped out of bed and regretted it almost immediately as the pain became a steady throb. Slowly, he dressed and prepared for the day.

      “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked his mother when he entered the kitchen.

      “That man nearly split your skull. You’re owed a bit of rest after that. I’ve kept watch, and I woke you a few times in the night to be sure you were all right.”

      “Did you? I don’t remember. Are the guests gone?”

      “No, they’re having breakfast. I told them they might want to wait a bit before leaving to let the roads clear.”

      “I didn’t even look,” Aidan said, peering through the window.

      “Not much. Just enough to make a mess for morning traffic. The roads were well gritted last night. You could see if the guests need anything.”

      Aidan walked through the kitchen to the breakfast room. George Singleton, the local plumber, was sipping coffee at the table nearest the kitchen. It had been his habit to do so ever since Aidan’s parents first opened the bed and breakfast. The small table with a single chair was out of the way of guests. He insisted on paying for his coffee, saying it was his job to see the place stayed in business.

      “I heard you came to some mischief last night,” he said as Aidan entered.

      “Yes, but I’m better now. Head just hurts a bit.”

      “They’ve caught the party responsible, have they?”

      “Yes.”

      “And you’ll testify at a trial, then?”

      “I expect I will,” Aidan replied.

      That would be the talk of the town, Aidan suspected. This sort of crime was unusual, and folks would hope it wasn’t a sign of the times.

      “Is everything satisfactory?” he asked the two ladies who sat at the table nearest the gas fireplace that gave a snug warmth to that part of the room.

      “Oh yes, everything is delicious,” the older woman said.

      Aidan asked if they needed anything else, but the older woman said no.

      “I heard you had an accident last night,” Susan said.

      “Just some minor trouble. I hope it didn’t disturb you. Everything is fine now. Are you travelling far today?”

      “To Aberystwyth.”

      “That’s a long drive, but scenic if you’re taking the coastal road.”

      “Have you been there?” the girl asked.

      “I have. It’s a lovely town. Have you lodging there?”

      “Oh, yes, everything is reserved.”

      “Brilliant. Well, then, drive safely and enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

      He turned away from them on his way back to the kitchen so they wouldn’t see the bandage covering the stitches on his head. He hoped his small talk wasn’t too much. No point in longing gazes at a girl he’d never see again.

      “Oh, wait,” the girl called as he started toward the kitchen.

      He turned, an inquisitive look on his face. “Yes, miss?”

      “Do you have a business card or something? If I’m ever in the area again, I’ll want to stay here.”

      He nodded, wondering how likely it would be that she would visit the area again. Still, she might recommend the establishment to a friend.

      He brought a card from the desk and explained how to make the call from America, something he was frequently asked.

      “Thank you,” she said, smiling at him. He smiled back and nodded before returning to the kitchen. Mr. Singleton winked at him as he passed.

      About an hour later, as Aidan finished gritting the walkway from the door to the car park, the ladies settled their bill with his mother and started toward their car.

      Aidan asked if they needed any help. Each woman carried a small, wheeled suitcase.

      “Thank you, no,” the older woman said.

      “Safe journey,” he said.

      The two smiled and walked carefully to the car.

      Once they were safely on the road, Aidan went inside. His mother would want him to rest after his ordeal, and for once he wouldn’t fight it. He had the memory of the blonde American woman looking out the car window, giving him a wave and a smile in the milky morning sunlight to keep him company.