The Widow Spooner

For years, Gene lived in a sleepy little place called Tinker’s Cove. She’d been working for a large company in the city when, on the advise of her therapist, she had rented a cottage in the Cove for a month. During that month she taught herself how to make jewelry, actually selling pieces she’d made at the summer fair. With savings and some of the inheritance left by her parents, she bought the cottage at the end of Old Beach Road. The only other cottage belonged to an elderly woman who lost her husband to the sea over fifty years ago. Mrs. Spooner’s garden was her pride and joy, winning first prize every year. When asked what she used as fertilizer, she’d grin and say it was a secret her husband taught her.

Once the summer tourists returned to their city lives, Gene spent her evenings combing the beach for sea glass. She acquired boxes of it. When the harsh winter winds and snow began to blow, Gene would begin making her jewelry for next summer’s tourists.

Late one night, Gene was unable to sleep. Her mind was full of new designs. Tea cup and sketchbook in hand, she took advantage of the Indian summer night. The full moon was bright enough so a lamp wasn’t needed. Just as she was getting up to get some sleep, she saw Mrs. Spooner, her apron covered with blood and dragging a sack around to the back of her house. Looked like Gene wasn’t the only one up in the Cove who couldn’t sleep.

The next morning there was breaking news, the mayor of Tinker’s Cove was missing. Mayor Jacob Milner was also a mainland contractor who had been trying to acquire parcels of land to build a large hotel. He claimed it was to boost the economy in Tinker’s Cove. The locals claimed it was to line his already bulging pockets. It was rumored he was now sending men from the mainland to scare the residents into selling. Gene and Mrs. Spooner lived on a parcel he wanted. After declining several offers, threats began coming. Gene had hired an attorney to help her deal with the mayor. Mrs. Spooner had no one to help her, but the spunky woman was holding on tight and refused to sell.

The newscaster was saying Mayor Milner had not been home the previous evening. Mrs. Milner reported him missing when he didn’t return any of the messages she’d left. His car, wallet and cellphone were still in the lot behind his office. Burglary was not suspected. It was believe he had taken a walk and stayed in one of his empty cottages. The news stated he was last seen wearing faded jeans, a red plaid flannel jacket, and a pair of well worn work boots. Anyone seeing the mayor was asked to notify the police chief.

Later that same day, Gene had made a special necklace for Mrs. Spooner. It was made of light green sea glass; it was her favorite color. Gene found Mrs. Spooner giving her garden the last of her special fertilizer for the winter. Back at the edge of the property, the old woman’s burn barrel was smoking. Gene saw a worn work boot leaning against the barrel. She gazed from the barrel to Mrs. Spooner to the freshly sprinkled fertilizer in the garden.

Mrs. Spooner chuckled. “Looks like we won’t be selling after all. Come in for a cup of tea dear.”

How Was Your Day?

It’s a simple question, one you have been asked or asked yourself. My days are the same yesterday as they will be tomorrow. However, every now and again something happens to shake it up. Today was just one of those days.

About an hour before my alarm was to go off, I heard a whimper coming from our dog. Well, not exactly a whimper. It was more like a death howl. As if the love of her life had left, never to return. The next sound I heard was an odd scrapping noise. Once my sleep filled mind began to focus, I realized the scrapping was my loving spouse shoveling the driveway and cleaning the truck off for me. Willow, our wolfhound mix, feels the need to mourn her master’s disappearance even when she sees him just outside the window. This song of her people stirs Hazel, our cat, into persuading me into filling her breakfast bowl. She has the figure and waddle of a pot belly pig, but believes she is a Greek goddess, Aphrodite she is not. Ah, my chance to get back into bed; the alarm goes off. Three snoozes later, I’m up and moving.

I’ve discovered over my 40 some years commuting to work, some people really must have received their license in a Cracker Jack box. Today’s awarding winner is a woman who likes to be ahead of everyone. To avoid the slowing traffic at a construction site or the mounting potholes, she decided to drive on the sidewalk. When it snows in this area, people avoid the thruway and drive the mains. I get it. If you have ever been stranded on the highway during a blizzard, you just don’t take chances. Now the thruway is clear, but the mains are congested. Thank you Snow Miser for the shit show we call the morning commute today.

I’m not sure what I was thinking of this morning, I grabbed jeans which are about a size larger than I am now, but in my haste forgot my belt. Since the lot is about a half mile walk to the building I work in downtown, I begin to look like a 15 year old from the hood. As I approach my favorite coffee shop, I saw a man in front of me wearing his jeans in a manner making me think we are kindred spirits. He is having an animated conversation. I thought he was on a phone until I saw him shaking it in the air as if to make his point. It appears he is either talking to a ghost or an imaginary companion. Hashtag mentalhealthmatters.  No matter, I’m on a mission to keep my pants up and grab a cuppa. Not necessarily in that order. Coffee in hand, I decided it was a great idea to make a donation to Make a Wish and buy 5 burlap coffee bags to make rugs with. This will become a regrettable decision later.

Ten interviews, four cases written, and several return calls later, I called it a day. Half way to the parking lot, pants, burlap bags, tote, and purse slipping, my mind turned to my kindred spirit with the drooping drawers, wishing he and his imaginary friend were around to help with those damn bags.

A quick stop at the bank for a rousing game of “who’s on first” (don’t ask) I pull into the driveway vowing never to leave again….until tomorrow.

So, how was your day?

The Rocker

As I lay here in the dark, I hear the creaking of the rocker. It’s then I remember I have no rocker.

Mairzy Doats

Mairzy doats and dozy doats

And liddle lamzy divey.

A song you sung on every trip

To keep we five content and lively.

You taught me how to cook and sew.

You taught me to knit, I taught you to crochet.

I took you to concerts of Mathis and Sha Na Na

It was always fun to hang out and play.

You stood by me through my boyfriends

The duds, the dudes, and the crushes.

You were there when Mr. Right came along

And smiled through my stories and gushes.

After years of your hoping and praying

We were able to tell you it wasn’t the flu.

You were there for the sonos and the stress tests

You beamed when you bought her first shoes.

Soon you and your granddaughter were bonding

As she grew by leaps and bounds.

In only a short six months

You were no longer around.

If wishes here horses,

Beggars would ride.

Today’d be your birthday

And I wish you were at my side.

The Living Rough of London

Vagrant. Almsperson. Pauper. Transient. Beggar. Bum. Derelict. Vagabond. Panhandler. Drifter. Bag lady. Hobo. Wino. Destitute. Homeless. Pick one, they all represent names used to describe someone living on the streets. In London, the term living/sleeping rough is used. As my daughter and I were visiting the old city for the first time, I began to notice them scattered here and there.

When first arriving in London we’d decided instead of storing luggage in a locker at Victoria Station, we’d find the hotel and see our sights from there. On our way home that evening we began to notice, not only pub and restaurant goers spilling out onto the streets, but the homeless, or as they say in the United Kingdom, those who are sleeping or living rough.

The same people are in the same spots every day. Only a few blocks from Victoria, huddled in an alcove, crouched a woman wrapped in a blanket. Although she shivers, I’m not entirely certain it’s due to the cold. I fear she may be newly without a home. Her eyes show a fear of something unknown. While her blanket is tattered, the jacket she wears is still fairly new.

Not far from this woman was a man who seemed to have become more accustom to living on the streets. He sat not far from the Sainsbury we’d come to think of as our local grocery. He sat cross legged on a wool blanket which covered a stack of newspapers. His clothes and bomber jacket he wore were worn and thread bare in places. He greeted passersby with a smile and a “Good evening.” Our stay was only a week, but his presence was so pleasant and strong, I know I will never forget him. Mid-week he was missing and I found myself missing his cheerful greeting. I’d hoped he’d found some place permanent, however he was back within a couple days.

In keeping with our “getting lost” theme, we’d made our way to the East End for our Jack the Ripper tour. Believing we were in the proper spot for the tour, my daughter and I noticed a gathering crowd across the street. We had begun to think we were in the wrong spot. A scruffy looking man sat at the top of the underground entrance. He waved, said hello, and tipped his hat to commuters entering or exiting on their way home or to the pub. Who better to ask? He told my daughter he’d noticed us standing here and knew right away we were waiting for the tour. It wasn’t much, I know, but she gave him a pound for his help. While on our tour, story for another time, I literally trip on a poor man stretched out along the side of a building. Deeper into our tour, an entire family was sleeping rough on the street.

 

When we were on Charing Cross Road in search of bookstores, we passed the Wyndhams Theatre. Sitting on the sidewalk between posters, was an amputee in his wheelchair. Next to him was his traveling “home,” a pup tent.

According to a Guardian article, in 2014/2015, there were approximately 7500 souls sleeping rough in the streets of London. As everywhere, housing cuts, downsizing, and out sourcing to name a few, are the reason for the rise in street people. I see it daily and have myself been there.

On one of our final rides on the tube, we sat across from a man with his hair and beard matted and smelling of mold and mildew. He was in layers of clothing, clutching bags with his belongings, and sleeping to the swaying car’s rhymed movements. He brought the reality of the plight of those without a place to rest their heads at the end of the day. As bad as we thought our hotel was, it was clean and we had our place to rest.

In the Beginning

Every vacation takes planning and preparation.  A vacation abroad takes a bit more. For example, did you know it includes the reading of 13 Little Blue Envelopes by Maureen Johnson? Apparently, my reading about a teen backpacking through Europe with an itinerary given to her in blue envelopes by her dead aunt was to prepare me for our trip; clearly a story for another day.

I also made a call to Air Transat to question my taking a crochet hook on board.

“No, it’s not two pointed sticks, it’s one rounded hook.”

“And what is this hook used for?”

“Well, it is a crochet hook. I use it to crochet.”

"Do you know the French word?"  Let’s just say at this point, I was happy this wasn’t on Skype.

Having my fears of plummeting into the North Atlantic assuaged by friends who had flown with the same airline we were taking, my travel panic attacks lessened. However, my fear of getting car sick on the bus was no doubt going to come true.

The day arrives. Luggage, check. Tickets, check. Passports, check. Medical alert and St. Christopher bangles, check. My husband volunteered to take us to the bus station, the type of volunteering I believe is implicated in the military.

The megabus comes from New York City and is usually on time. Unless, of course, I’m traveling and on a tight time schedule. Not only did we get to the bus station 45 minutes early, the bus was late. We should have taken this as a sign.

On Saturday mornings, while driving my daughter to work, we see the same elderly gentleman standing at a bus stop. He is always dressed in a suit and seems to engage in pleasant conversation with another commuter. After checking the arrival time of the bus, again, we saw our gentleman standing by a pamphlet stand hawking his religious wares. The mystery is gone.

Sorry, back on track. We boarded the bus 75 minutes later than scheduled, but we were on our way. And then, we weren’t. Going through the US Canadian border went smoothly and we should have been out of there within minutes. I’d over heard from other passengers the bus was delayed in Buffalo because the breakdown of the bus around Rochester. The company sent a new, off the assembly line bus to replace it. With this, we were told the battery was dead on the bus and they were waiting for a new battery or a new bus. Time was ticking and our time in Toronto becoming less and less. Late and starving, I munched on a granola bar which not only gave me a headache, but car sick as well.

Found it odd I was finally seeing names of places and streets I’d hear of my entire life listening and watching Canadian television. We did have time for dinner in the food court at the Eaton Centre. Let me just say, Canadians are a trusting lot. Where, here in the States, when you eat in at the food court, you get a higher quality of paper plate and plastic cutlery. In Canada, a glass plate and real flatware. I know, right? Trusting. The only plastic I saw during our quick stay was the money. I’m curious, what happens to the money when it goes through the washer and dryer?

Two trains and a bus costing a small fortune, we arrived at Pearson Airport in the allotted time. We met our first of many angels at Pearson. As we were looking for signs to get us to the correct counter, she came up to us and basically realized we were a bit lost, announced she was headed for the same counter and escorted us to Air Transat. We turned and she was gone. With our boarding passes in hand, our first stop was security. Silly me, I set off the alarm with the medical alert and St. Christopher bracelets. However, crochet hook was not detected.

After a couple hours of people watching, free entertainment in my mind, our flight had announced it would begin boarding. The adventure continues.

A Trip of a Lifetime or how to see a Month of London Sights in Eight Days

Planning a vacation is pretty similar to preparing for a major holiday. Thanksgiving and Christmas come to mind; as do Easter, Kwanza, Hanukah or Halloween. You get the idea. You spend months planning and preparing for the big day. Time is spent on getting the best bang for your buck with flights and hotels. Thanks to the internet and online “travel agents,” you can do this from the comfort of your own home in you pajamas, boxers or buck naked, should that be your favorite surf attire. Click, click. Booked and Booked. Now comes the scary part, deciding your itinerary.

In this case, my daughter took care of the itinerary. Everything from our Oyster cards and admission tickets down to the number of minutes it would take to walk from point A to point B. You know, on paper that all sounds great. When actually walking? Not so much. In any major city in the United States we’d have had it down to the number of steps. With London, it’s a story for another blog.

Buffalo Bus Terminal

Armed with boarding passes, admission tickets, oyster cards, dollars to pounds, maps and luggage, we boarded the bus to Toronto on our first leg on our journey. And like any holiday, regardless of the planning, it went too fast and there was disappointment; like the unwanted gift from Aunt Tilly. During the next few weeks, I'll be sharing my holiday in merry ole England.