Saturday, June 14, 2008
Heading home tomorrow, yep that’s it for this year. Yesterday I received an email from my former wife that talked about a cousin of mine in one sentence, then in the next a sentence that said, “Vic died last week.” I go into shock because I only know one Vic and that’s my brother-in-law. It is 9 am here that would make it about 2 am in Arizona. Who can I call, why hadn’t anyone called me. I have pictures of my sister grieving along with her daughters. I need to get home now, so I call the airline and change my departure to tomorrow.
I go to a church to sit and think there a lady comes over and tells me there is going to a funeral in about half an hour “Your welcome to stay” says she. She tells me it is sad because he as a popular fellow in town driving home from work. Someone pulled out to pass and hit him head on. Having seen the way people drive on these narrow two lane roads I wonder why there aren’t more head on collisions. I’m killing time until I can get hold of someone in the states to tell them I’ll be home on Sunday. I watch the Hearst, which is reminiscent the old horse drawn Hearst of the 1800’s, pull up. It has large windows in the back allowing for full view of the coffin. The coffin is certainly of that time period as it appears to be made of gloss lacquered white wood narrow at the top then expanding for the shoulders, then feathering down to be narrow at the feet just like some of the coffins seen in period movies.
I’m amazed at the simplicity of it quite unlike the hermetically sealed 100-pound monsters the dead received in America. The procession is the minister, then the undertaker complete with silver topped walking stick and then six pole bears who lift the coffin onto their shoulders fold their hands in front of them, all walking in cadence into the church. All except for the minister are in long back coats with tails and top hats. As I was leaving the church I got to see a picture of the gentleman who was being carried in and he was quite a happy looking stout fellow with a large red nose.
Finally about four hours later I get hold of my son and my mother. No one has died, all are well, and Carol and Vic are still in California. Relief floods over me, as my brother-in-law is a pretty important person in my life. My daughter calls I tell her about the email her mother sent. She tells me I need to reread the email, only this time read it. I say I read it and it say’s something about a cousin I have on idea who she is talking about, and then it says, “Vic died last week.” I hear my former wife saying something in the background. My daughter tells me that the Vic who died is my cousin’s husband. I’m racking my brain trying to figure out who the hell Vic is. Finally they explain who this Vic is related to using the correct name of my cousin. He is someone I met maybe two or three times thirty years ago married to a cousin I’ve not seen in that number of years.
The night before I had figured out how much I would save if I went home on Sunday, so the wheels were in motion, the email just gave it a push. So today I packed up my stuff and headed back to the YHA where I’ll spend the evening then go down to the train station, where my bike is already tethered, to head to Gatwick. My bag was still in its hiding place in the bike shed and in packing it I find that I can’t get everything into it. I’m confused; I have less stuff then when I got here, but can’t get it in the bag. Well I had planned to have two bags anyway based on the advice received from the Phoenix check in guy. On my way one of the streets usually used was blocked with a trailer advertising “Free Bike Check.” I smile.
A fellow comes over whom, after some conversation, is a police office named Will. We have a pleasant chat about riding to the “Stones” for the equinox, how I fell in love with Salisbury from the first, and that Salisbury along with Wiltshire “county” are the second safest places in England. There was a murder here about a week before I arrived, which I think he said was the first one in three years. I though of Flagstaff where there are sometime three or four murders a year, or Phoenix where there are god knows how many. Salisbury is about the same population as Flagstaff. We talk about the youth and their “Antisocial behaviors” that’s what is called over here which I think is a darn good description.
I’ve had a lot of nice conversations with people this year. Some I remembered to get names, some who’s names I forgot before I could get them written down, like last evening standing an talking with one of the caretakers of the campground who lives up north. He tells me of campground over here that have more then one hundred vans, hikers and cars waiting to be let in when the gates open at noon. Or, Carol who when I arrived two nights ago promptly brought me over a hot cup of tea while I put up my tent, then came over this morning to say goodbye. The fellow who has only had six flats tells me of the wonderful life going from campground to campground then riding around the area. We talk a little as I’m making breakfast then he wishes me luck hoping we meet again next year. I hope we do to, so as Jimmy Durantie used to sing at the end of his TV show “…Till we meet again…” or Roy Rogers “Happy trails to you until we meet again…”
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
On Sunday, June 15, 2008 I’m up at 5 am, arrive at the train station at 6 am boarding the train at 6:30 am. I meet a mother and daughter from California who were staying at the YHA also and are on their way to London. Alexia is the daughter who is enrolled in a program here in England studying psychology and Neurology. When she is finished off to Yale to complete the program. Mother’s name was Pamela visiting England and hanging out with her daughter. We spend time talking about the mental health system in Arizona and California. The train station is right to the terminal at Gatwick and in less then a half hour I’m through customs relaxing at the gate with coffee in hand.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
There are no birds singing! For six weeks the sound of birds singing would greet me when I woke. For six weeks the sound of birds singing would lull me to sleep. They are there in my mind singing away, but not in reality. Waking up with a cool breeze causing the tent to rustle, stepping out of the tent on to grass damp with dew, all the beautiful greens and flowers, riding along the road with no need to hurry, meeting new people daily are just of the few of the things that I look forward to doing again next year.
Heading home tomorrow, yep that’s it for this year. Yesterday I received an email from my former wife that talked about a cousin of mine in one sentence, then in the next a sentence that said, “Vic died last week.” I go into shock because I only know one Vic and that’s my brother-in-law. It is 9 am here that would make it about 2 am in Arizona. Who can I call, why hadn’t anyone called me. I have pictures of my sister grieving along with her daughters. I need to get home now, so I call the airline and change my departure to tomorrow.
I go to a church to sit and think there a lady comes over and tells me there is going to a funeral in about half an hour “Your welcome to stay” says she. She tells me it is sad because he as a popular fellow in town driving home from work. Someone pulled out to pass and hit him head on. Having seen the way people drive on these narrow two lane roads I wonder why there aren’t more head on collisions. I’m killing time until I can get hold of someone in the states to tell them I’ll be home on Sunday. I watch the Hearst, which is reminiscent the old horse drawn Hearst of the 1800’s, pull up. It has large windows in the back allowing for full view of the coffin. The coffin is certainly of that time period as it appears to be made of gloss lacquered white wood narrow at the top then expanding for the shoulders, then feathering down to be narrow at the feet just like some of the coffins seen in period movies.
I’m amazed at the simplicity of it quite unlike the hermetically sealed 100-pound monsters the dead received in America. The procession is the minister, then the undertaker complete with silver topped walking stick and then six pole bears who lift the coffin onto their shoulders fold their hands in front of them, all walking in cadence into the church. All except for the minister are in long back coats with tails and top hats. As I was leaving the church I got to see a picture of the gentleman who was being carried in and he was quite a happy looking stout fellow with a large red nose.
Finally about four hours later I get hold of my son and my mother. No one has died, all are well, and Carol and Vic are still in California. Relief floods over me, as my brother-in-law is a pretty important person in my life. My daughter calls I tell her about the email her mother sent. She tells me I need to reread the email, only this time read it. I say I read it and it say’s something about a cousin I have on idea who she is talking about, and then it says, “Vic died last week.” I hear my former wife saying something in the background. My daughter tells me that the Vic who died is my cousin’s husband. I’m racking my brain trying to figure out who the hell Vic is. Finally they explain who this Vic is related to using the correct name of my cousin. He is someone I met maybe two or three times thirty years ago married to a cousin I’ve not seen in that number of years.
The night before I had figured out how much I would save if I went home on Sunday, so the wheels were in motion, the email just gave it a push. So today I packed up my stuff and headed back to the YHA where I’ll spend the evening then go down to the train station, where my bike is already tethered, to head to Gatwick. My bag was still in its hiding place in the bike shed and in packing it I find that I can’t get everything into it. I’m confused; I have less stuff then when I got here, but can’t get it in the bag. Well I had planned to have two bags anyway based on the advice received from the Phoenix check in guy. On my way one of the streets usually used was blocked with a trailer advertising “Free Bike Check.” I smile.
A fellow comes over whom, after some conversation, is a police office named Will. We have a pleasant chat about riding to the “Stones” for the equinox, how I fell in love with Salisbury from the first, and that Salisbury along with Wiltshire “county” are the second safest places in England. There was a murder here about a week before I arrived, which I think he said was the first one in three years. I though of Flagstaff where there are sometime three or four murders a year, or Phoenix where there are god knows how many. Salisbury is about the same population as Flagstaff. We talk about the youth and their “Antisocial behaviors” that’s what is called over here which I think is a darn good description.
I’ve had a lot of nice conversations with people this year. Some I remembered to get names, some who’s names I forgot before I could get them written down, like last evening standing an talking with one of the caretakers of the campground who lives up north. He tells me of campground over here that have more then one hundred vans, hikers and cars waiting to be let in when the gates open at noon. Or, Carol who when I arrived two nights ago promptly brought me over a hot cup of tea while I put up my tent, then came over this morning to say goodbye. The fellow who has only had six flats tells me of the wonderful life going from campground to campground then riding around the area. We talk a little as I’m making breakfast then he wishes me luck hoping we meet again next year. I hope we do to, so as Jimmy Durantie used to sing at the end of his TV show “…Till we meet again…” or Roy Rogers “Happy trails to you until we meet again…”
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
On Sunday, June 15, 2008 I’m up at 5 am, arrive at the train station at 6 am boarding the train at 6:30 am. I meet a mother and daughter from California who were staying at the YHA also and are on their way to London. Alexia is the daughter who is enrolled in a program here in England studying psychology and Neurology. When she is finished off to Yale to complete the program. Mother’s name was Pamela visiting England and hanging out with her daughter. We spend time talking about the mental health system in Arizona and California. The train station is right to the terminal at Gatwick and in less then a half hour I’m through customs relaxing at the gate with coffee in hand.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
There are no birds singing! For six weeks the sound of birds singing would greet me when I woke. For six weeks the sound of birds singing would lull me to sleep. They are there in my mind singing away, but not in reality. Waking up with a cool breeze causing the tent to rustle, stepping out of the tent on to grass damp with dew, all the beautiful greens and flowers, riding along the road with no need to hurry, meeting new people daily are just of the few of the things that I look forward to doing again next year.
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