How Sweet It Is!

Rancho Embarcadero. Goleta. California.

A Different Christmas Poem

A Different Christmas Poem.


I am grateful that someone sent me the link to this poem. I'm passing it on to all my friends and acquaintances.

Both of these links should work. Paste into You Tube or your browser - or go to You Tube and enter A Different Christmas Poem. (It's 5.23 minutes long).


 https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=sUGOjNsE4aY

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sUGOjNsE4aY

Merry Christmas to ALL

A "Multiple Choice" Merry Christmas to ALL!

Christmas, like all other holidays in America, is now more a party and gift-giving time than a celebration of a real holy day...the birth of Christ.

Because we all approach things from a different viewpoint, I'd like to offer these perspectives for your consideration.

Happy Hanukkah

                                                                 Begins at Sundown

Time out.

Will return in a few days.

Mentoring

Offer of free mentoring for young people about planning for the future, including interview techniques and resumé preparation.

Career aerospace engineer and aerospace manufacturing company general manager.

SCORE (Service Corps Of Retired Executives) counselor emeritus and author of a Small Business Start-up book.

Former restaurant owner.

Contact me at ww802666@gmail.com

Will 

I Think of You

Something beautiful your way comes.

Romantic music American style. Close your eyes and see it.

Perry Como - "I Think of You." (3.32 min)

I'll have to learn the techniques of posting music, but until I do just copy the URL below and paste it into your browser. It'll take you to You Tube and the song. Ignore any statement about why it won't play - because it will.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8qml60CJTg

The Masked Ball

Note: I did not write this but it was in a folder of newspaper cuttings in my files without authorship.  I thought it was worth exposure.

The Masked Ball

A couple was invited to a swanky masked ball.

She got a terrible headache and told her husband to go to the party alone.

He, being a devoted husband, protested, but she argued and said she was going to take an aspirin and go to bed, and there was no need of his good time being spoiled by not going. So he took his costume and went.

The wife, after sleeping soundly for an hour, awakened and surprisingly was pain free, and as it was still early she decided to go to the ball. Inasmuch as her husband didn't know what her costume was, she thought she would have some fun with him by watching to see how he acted when she was not with him.

She joined the party and soon spotted her husband cavorting on the dance floor with every woman he could and copping  a kiss here and there. His wife seductively sidled up to him and he left his current partner high and dry to take advantage of this new stuff that had just arrived. She let him have his way with her; naturally, since he was her husband.

Finally, because this partner was very amenable to his actions he whispered a proposition into her ear and she agreed. Out in the parking lot they got into one of the cars and had a lot of unbridled fun.

Just before unmasking at midnight she slipped away, went home and climbed into bed, wondering what kind of explanation he would make for his behavior. She was sitting up reading when he came in and she asked what kind of a time he had.

"Oh, the same old thing. You know I don't enjoy myself when you're not with me."

The she asked, "Did you dance much?"

He replied, "I'll tell you, I never even danced once. When I got there I met Pete, Bill Brown, and some of the other guys, so we went into the den and played poker all evening. But you're not going to believe what happened to the guy I loaned my costume to...

XXX

Music Appreciation!

On Monday November 3rd I posted "Music and the Minds Eye" which sought to explain that music today is visual and has no resemblance to music. Yesterday, while perusing the news on the web I noticed the reportage of the American Music Awards from the previous day which included many photos. I post two here as evidence of my argument. One "lady" is a music award candidate on the red carpet and the other "lady" is actually performing a "song". I'm sure if you go to You Tube you can hear many examples of the "music" too. If you'd like to see all the photos go to yesterdays Daily Mail online.

Remember that this is the norm for the youth of today. Many parents probably don't know what their kids are watching, and with those ear buds in place 24/7 they haven't a clue what it sounds like either.

I rest my case!

Looking at Love

Looking at Love

"I'm Glad There Is You" is a song written by Jimmy Dorsey and Paul Madeira

In this world of ordinary people...
Extraordinary people,
I'm glad there is you.

In this world of overrated pleasures
And underrated treasures,
I'm glad there is you.

I live to love,
I love to live with you beside me.
This role, so new
I'll muddle through with you to guide me.
 

In this world where many, many play at love
And hardly any stay in love,
I'm glad there is you.
More than ever, I'm glad there is you.

Blog content must necessarily be easy to assimilate. It's not like settling down to read a book. The reader wants to be informed or entertained on their visit but not chained to a clock...so let's get to the point. Let's look at love!

Love is not about sex. Love is not about having a swinging lifestyle. It's not about taking advantage of someone. It's not about selfishness or ego. Its not about material things. It's not even about physical attraction per se.  

Why don't marriages last the way they used to? Our world has changed significantly in the last 50 years. There are a number of societal reasons why, and they should be examined - but they are not the subject of this narrative. We know of the mistakes that are made in marriages but do we know why? I think it's because we don't really understand love.

A story was published in an English newspaper recently about a couple who celebrated 77 years of wedded bliss. Most weeks, wherever you may live, there are announcements of fifty and sixty year anniversaries. Why does it work for some and not for others? Our faster lifestyle, and advanced technology engage us in a myriad of pursuits and are partly to blame. Easier to obtain divorces contribute to the lack of staying power. Not worth the effort to resolve the irritations which occur in any partnership. The bloom is off the rose is descriptive of real life as in the flower world. It's just as true in relationships. Making life a daily routine of survival and obligation will result in a staleness of existence that will suck the energy and dampen the spirit of just about anyone.

Why do we make war rather than love? At every level of human "being" war is more prevalent than love. In the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the car, in families, in politics, in sports, in religion, in commerce, in industry and in international relations. Let's concern ourselves with love in a personal way which may be very revealing.

Our species mate for procreation, otherwise we would no longer exist. We attract each by looks, smells, and behavior - and we make conscious efforts in those regards. So, we're working at it - we want it badly enough to work at it. We connect, and we make a commitment to love each other. We won't examine marriage, or any of the  seemingly limitless new forms of partnership specifically...we just need to know about two people in love and committed to each other.

The secret to lasting love is total commitment. Easy to say, but not easy to do. Why not?

Love does not get mad. Love does not control. Love is not sour. Love is not selfish. Love does not take sides unfairly. Love does not cheat, or lie, or be cruel. How can it, and still be love? Love is gentleness, kindness, devotion, sincerity and sacrifice...wholly and forever. Not just sometimes this week, but every free moment of your life. Your spouse should occupy your mind with the wonder of how lovely it is to be loved and adored and supported. You should always be cognizant of the comfort and warmth of your relationship. Nothing you can or ever will do is consciously meant to hurt your partner. Yes, there will be bumps in life's road but they will be quickly smoothed because they are not deliberate - and as we age, life becomes even more companionable.

We have children and then we often diminish the role of the father and give preference to the children. Was the father essentially the necessary sperm donor and now relegated to a different role? Does the father now spend more time with his buddies and perhaps his golf, while mother can take care of the household duties? The partnership built on love is already crumbling. It will never be the same again. Oh, we carry on, accepting whatever comes our way under these new conditions, thinking this is what life is all about. Make no mistake about this...true, lasting love does not take a holiday, and it can't be relegated to the back of ones mind. If your life becomes tedious, boring, routine and with irritation and bickering seemingly always present...you never really loved each other. You exist in a relationship, nothing more.

While we can't abrogate our obligations and responsibilities in life; love for each other is more important than anything else and it makes everything else easier to handle - it makes all aspects of life much more amenable than it would otherwise be. Your life partner is your reason for happiness and contentment no matter what besets you. The comfort and support can always be relied on. Adversity, if it rears its ugly head, is a lot less onerous than it would be otherwise. If you have abiding love for each other you will create a family atmosphere in which your children will always be comfortable and respectful to you and to others. They will develop a strength of character and a morality mirroring your own. They will also learn to adopt a calm, peaceful approach to life and eschew bickering and pettiness. They will not be threatened by peer pressure.

Those parents who alienate a spouse in favor of the children will never really be winners. Your partner is a life partner and your children may only inhabit a portion of your life. Truly loving your partner certainly puts the odds in your favor as to the permanence and warmth of your relationship with your children.

Have we defined love? Well, I feel that dictionary definitions don't establish a criterion. Love is unique to the individuals and their personalities, but its basis is wanting to do more for each other than for ones self...without fail, and forever!

NOTE: While I offer my opinions on many subjects, I'm certainly interested in your viewpoints and you can contact me at ww802666@gmail.com. You can advise me whether they can be posted or private. Thank you. Will.

Compliments

Compliments

No person is so poor that he cannot give a compliment - nor so rich that he cannot accept one.

Don't forget that appreciation is always appreciated.

It's so easy to vent our frustrations on others when things go wrong. Sometimes we blame others for our own shortcomings, especially in spontaneous situations. The sharp retort is never more present than among those we love the most. Spouses and family often bear the brunt of each others anger to an extent not felt in our other relationships. We always hurt the ones we love...as the saying goes.

What about the other side of the coin? What's so difficult about being complimentary? A compliment is defined as; an expression of esteem, respect, affection or admiration; a flattering remark, formal and respectful recognition, best wishes, etc. That covers a lot of territory when applied to human relationships. It's obvious that almost everyone is in line to receive a compliment once in a while.

The word complimentary means "given free as a courtesy or favor." Giving a compliment doesn't cost us anything...it's free. Let's hand out more compliments. "My you are looking well today." "I do appreciate  your keeping my newspaper dry when it rains." "Honey, that was a lovely meal you prepared tonight." (applies to either gender). "Your mother and I are very proud of your academic efforts." "Your courtesy is appreciated."

You don't need to search for reasons to be complimentary - they're all around you. You just have to be more aware. Perhaps you feel that our society is not offering many opportunities for us to be complimentary to each other? Well, if we all offer just one extra compliment a day beyond our average, we might just effect an astonishing change in the way we relate to each other, and remember...your average will compound.

Minimum Wage?

Minimum Wage?

I saw another article recently about the rat hole that is foreign aid. Billions of dollars disappear from every target and often nothing reaches the target at all. I say "another" because in my very long lifetime there are several stories every year. Some of the foreign aid is just a cover up to pay our buddies, many of whom are our enemies for all kinds of reasons. 

I would urge our congress to investigate this profligate system and to authorize only genuinely compassionate needs with total control. 

We are pounded incessantly by the government and socialistic organizations in America to regularly increase the minimum wage which can be ruinous to some businesses, and destroys the incentive to work and earn a living in individuals.

Our military is not served well financially and in retirement, yet they can be relied on to serve us well. I propose a very thorough overhaul of our military's wages, medical care, and pensions. They must be supported by us in a generous and sincere fashion.

Back to the Future!

For those young people who are searching for substance in their lives and are somewhat disenchanted with the messages they are receiving from the media (in all its forms), confused parents, educators, political activists et al, may I suggest a trip to the past as maybe a step to a more rational future.

Growing up in wartime England was a grim and spartan life. Very little fuel, very little food, and entertainment limited to going to the cinema once or twice a month. The radio was the in-home companion for children and adults alike. What was available was the library. Books were the entrance to every kind of imaginable world and, for myself I was, and still am, a voracious reader.

The technological world of today is a world of wonderment. Its depth of information and speed of access is overwhelming, and difficult to comprehend in the unlimited value to all and sundry. Have no doubt about it, any rational person can educate themselves to levels formally undreamed of. Educators today, in general, are motivated by personal or political objectives which are not always in the best interest of the student.

It's a complicated world today, and for some, more than a little confusing in many ways. I'm reminded of a phrase I've come across quite often..."back to the future". I think it's appropriate to what I'm going to suggest. Go back as a learning experience to understand the basics about character and values. They will shape your life forever.

There is a lot of excellent reading material available from years gone by. You might try Zane Grey (simply written stories of people in the old west). Zanesville. Ohio, is named in his honor. Nevil Shute (people stories set in England and Australia, and a later one "On The Beach" about an American nuclear submarine which survived an atomic war). Shute was known in America under the pseudonym surname "Norway." He was an aircraft designer and an author. He wrote twenty three books and there isn't a dud among the lot. C.S. Forester wrote the Hornblower series from midshipman to admiral. These writers had much in common: (a) they wrote about character; (b) their writing styles were deceptively simple and straightforward; and (c) they were prolific. Youth of my day learned an awful lot from these books and it shaped our lives. If you try them and like them, you'll have enough reading for many a month.

One of the first books I read (and absorbed) was "Anthony Adverse" by Hervey Allen. Yes, it's about overcoming adversity and would be a valuable lesson for modern day youth. Another book about survival and self-preservation is "The Power of One" by Bryce Courtenay.

It's possible that much of this is available on Kindle - and nearly all of their work has been made into movies.

Bittersweet

Bittersweet

The cold, clammy night restricted her view to a few yards in any direction except for the feeble glow of the streetlamp under which she stood. Tendrils of fog gradually crept in from the canal behind her. The only sound, the gentle lapping of water occasioned by some activity near the dilapidated warehouses downstream.

She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, her coat collar pulled up to ward off the cold. He was now twenty minutes late; it seemed like twenty years. Her nose was beginning to run and she could feel her face pinching up. Where is he? Has his wife found out? I’m not going to put up with this any longer.

Crying now, shoulders shaking, the tears mute testimony to her misery and frustration. She stiffened, tilting her head to catch a clicking and scratching of rats on the cobblestones near the factory wall.  The dank, musty night enveloped her like a funeral shroud, eroding her will. She felt faint and her legs began to tremble. I’m sick of meeting this way. I hate him; I never want to see him again! It can’t go on…I can’t go on.

The sound of running footsteps echoed off the walls of the old buildings. They seemed to be coming her way. Tortured gasps growing louder; he burst into view, hair disheveled and rivulets of sweat running into his shirt collar. They grabbed for each other   clinging desperately and swaying from side to side. “I’m so sorry, darling,” he sobbed. “I couldn’t get away and there was no way to reach you. You must have been terrified, all alone in this horrible area”.

“Nonsense,” she said, smiling brightly, “I’m made of sterner stuff than that — besides, there’s nothing in the world that would keep me from being with you.”

###

Immigration and the American Dream

Immigration and The American Dream

My November 3rd post about Music and the Minds Eye nudged me into a thought process about Americanism and immigration. As I said earlier, much of American pop music was created by foreign born immigrants or their progeny and I expounded on what, in my view, was the motivation for their creativity. It was gratitude and pride in being allowed the privilege of living in a free country. No yokes around their necks and the opportunity for unrestricted advancement through merit.

I have no argument with that analysis because I'm confident that it is valid.

Living conditions were not so attractive that one could describe all about America was peaches and cream; but opportunity was there for anyone to seize by personal effort.

Now look at today. Something is different. Yes, conditions have vastly improved, but do we appreciate it? If we don't...why? Opportunity and rewards still exist but do people in general take advantage of it? The very obvious answer is NO!

In those earlier days everyone worked whatever hours and jobs were necessary to improve their lot. Parents had nothing to offer their progeny so they had to earn their way ahead. Whatever gains they made were treasured. No task was beneath them if it meant improvement in living conditions or advancement in "society." A better life for themselves and their family. Their fathers were often artisans (tradesmen) who earned a meager living in their home country as bricklayers, stonemasons, or even menial labor such as field hands. They were determined to earn a better life for themselves. They aspired to family life...a wife and children, but they yearned to provide an improved lifestyle over what they had known.

Today we have a self indulgent society.  We have a government that is determined to destroy the American way of life, and we have families with no value system at all...and we must ask ourselves why. I think it may be because we are not first or second generation immigrants anymore. We, or our progeny, are American born and we ACCEPT what is available without having to EARN it anymore. It's no longer viewed as a PRIVILEGE to live here...its become a RIGHT without cost. Everybody must share the benefits even if they are not entitled. Wow! Where have I heard that word before?

Why is this so? Cut to the chase. Two major elements have caused the shift in our attitude about Americanism. A ton of details are closeted in the two elements and they are volatile and need to be exposed, but for now the simpler identification is that parents have abrogated their responsibility for raising their children to be patriotic and faithful to the precepts upon which America was founded. They have allowed their globalist agenda-minded government to assume their role as mentors and to lead our youth, like the Pied Piper, to a fate worse than death. They are being brainwashed to scorn America and its values.  Parents who fit that category, and they are a large segment in today's society, must wake up before it's too late.

Then too we are being invaded by people who don't want to be American, they just want what America has to offer. We hear the phrase illegal immigrant often and although the noun does mean a person who comes to live permanently in a foreign country, I suspect that to legal immigrants and native born Americans immigrant means a legitimate entrant whose desire is to be an American in the constitutional sense...and the adjective illegal means forbidden by law. They cannot be juxtaposed in our American lexicon.

Our government is encouraging and abetting this activity and the only reason being that they want to further adulterate the American way of life. Most countries have some type of dictatorial government and their living standards and the rights of the people don't compare with the United States of America. They consist of two disproportionate layers of citizenry. A very thin layer of ruling class whose standard of living is extraordinarily palatial and mostly hidden from view, and the majority population who exist at a most abject level of misery.

A perfect example of this is Cuban dictator Fidel Castro who is always seen in public in army fatigues but who lives on a secluded two mile long tropical island paradise called Caya Piedra in absolute luxury while the population struggle for even the most basic needs. He is only one of a long list of tyrants who control the lives of an enormous number of poor people on this globe. It can happen in America and there is a very determined effort to make it so. Sticking our heads in the sand doesn't make it go away - it actually makes our rear ends very vulnerable.

The 2014 mid-term election result will accomplish very little to be satisfied about. Both parties are playing games with the citizenry. They are in league about globalization but present a different front for their constituencies. Party politics is the current evil in America and it must change. It's time to wake up!

"People will generally accept facts as truth only if the facts agree with what they already believe," said Andy Rooney. Do these reflections fit with what you already believed? No hard feelings if they don't. Just offer me your comment by emailing me at ww802666@gmail.com for private or public consumption. I welcome and value everyone's opinion on any subject. Learning and understanding is a two-way street.

Pardon My French

Of particular interest to Anglophiles and expatriate Brit's, but should be well received by all who have a sense of humor. At 4,352 words it's longer than a usual posting but it reads better as a complete "short story." Will.

Pardon My French

“Look out! Oh my God, we’re going to be killed,” my wife Phyllis screamed in my ear. She had my right arm in a death grip and was frantically pulling me toward her side of the car. I presumed that by hanging on to me she was trying to prevent herself from being launched through the windshield in the event we actually collided with the demented drivers around us - or was she merely hinting that she too would like to share the fun of driving on the left-hand side of the road.

There was no sound from the back seat where Jill, our fourteen year old daughter was supposed to be; and not having the time or inclination to look back I took for granted that she had fainted, when all of a sudden she flung both arms around my neck cutting off my wind and started to wail like a banshee. The combination of these two physical restraints and Jill’s hot, panicky breath on my neck - plus my face blowing up like a red balloon from strangulation would seem to be a perfect menu for disaster - but it was only the beginning of a thrilling holiday excursion which we had meticulously planned.

At this, the onset of our European leg of the journey, it became rapidly obvious that there were many details about which we were woefully ignorant.

Phyllis and I had immigrated to Canada from England in 1951, and eight years later we arrived in Los Angeles with two children and a new dream after the dismantling of an aircraft industry which had been painstakingly created through the partnership of a giant British company and the Canadian government. But that is another story!

Like most new young immigrants we were long on enthusiasm and short of funds. So ensued eighteen  years of climbing the ladder of success while trying to avoid the broken rungs, until we agreed that we could plan for this wonderful vacation which would incorporate purchasing a car in England, visiting Phyllis’s family, and a couple of weeks touring Europe - and we were going as American citizens.

We touched down at Gatwick and caught a train to Victoria station in the heart of London, from where we made our way by taxi to the Austin headquarters in Holland Park to take delivery of our new car - a primrose yellow Austin America which was modeled after the most popular car in England at the time but built specifically for the American market. It was lavishly outfitted with leather interior, automatic transmission, independent four wheel liquid suspension, and air-conditioning. Pragmatic Brits would never shell out for such folderol, being fanatical about stick shifts (the more gears the merrier), and obstinately loyal in the matter of hard rides and powerless steering. Something to do with British reserve - which is not an army battalion in waiting, but rather a stiff upper lip.

We entered the august establishment through massive glass doors with highly polished brass handles, which were opened by a doorman wearing impeccable white gloves and who was obviously a retired general in the Grenadier Guards augmenting his pension. His rows (and rows - and rows) of medal ribbons evidence of a lifetime of meritorious service to king and country - and perhaps a queen or two.  He saluted us in the military fashion and escorted us into the hushed halls of British Industry, to be greeted by a lady of indeterminate age who reminded me vaguely of a former schoolteacher - and perhaps several other former schoolteachers I had known.  She could easily have been Celia Johnson from the movie “Brief Encounter,” and who’s to say it wasn’t? She inquired as to the pleasantness of our flight from Los Angeles and “…would we like a cup of tea?” - to which we replied, in very proper London fashion,  “Ooh, ta ever so!” Breeding never really leaves one, does it?

Seated in a tasteful lounge sipping tea and munching  biscuits we were beginning to feel like humans again after twenty four hours without sleep - our charter flight had been delayed three hours in LA to replace a defective part - but then, a cup of English tea can do wonders.

A moment later we were approached by three men wearing spotless knee length white coats and all manner of writing instruments in their top pockets. They looked for all the world like doctors and we wondered if we might have been deposited in a hospital by mistake. The chappie in the middle resembled Trevor Howard (Celia’s inamorata in the movie) and was obviously in charge. The other two, who maintained a deferential step or three behind Trevor could have been twin Noel Coward’s, or rather solemn dentists because they had a small dental mirror in their top pockets among the pens and pencils.

“Welcome to Austin of England, Mr. and Mrs. Wilmott,” Trevor said, in a plummy voice. “Our engineers are just giving your car a final inspection - it will be ready quite soon. If you will come with me we can finalize the documents.”

Our meticulous planning, which I previously mentioned, contained an assurance that the car would be ‘driveaway ready’ because we had a ferry to catch in Newhaven and very little time to spare. This I mentioned, and Noel responded that we were “Not to worry. We will have you on your way quite soon.” From this I gathered that, despite their languid appearance, they really were in overdrive because (a) they would like to see the back of us - and (b) there was also the matter of the final payment in good old Yankee dollars which they were more than eager to get their hands on.

Now, when Trevor invited us to complete the ‘documents’ it was not his intention to handle the matter personally. From his lofty position, attained through the public school system (only in England would private schools be designated public schools) it was expected that his most strenuous activity in life would be to lift a cup and saucer or a sherry glass several times a day.  No, the ‘documents’ would require a woman’s touch, and smarts - and right on cue Celia Johnson appeared  - but Trevor addressed her as Miss. Babbage. In confusion, we glanced at the torpid trio only to find they had discreetly disappeared.

We sat quietly while Miss. Babbage reverently perused the ‘documents’ making small notations in blue ink which she blotted with a hemispherical roller. At one point she left the room, returning a half hour later, without explanation, to continue the painstaking task. We later learned that the whole company, responding to some primeval instinct, ceased all activity once in the morning  (elevense's), and once in the afternoon (cuppa), for a half hour to partake of tea and “bikkie’s.” Eventually, satisfied that all was in order she stepped across the hall to the glassed-in office of an elder statesman type who wore a black jacket and striped trousers (his bowler hat and umbrella on the clothes tree behind him). She stood facing him, as if penitent, in front of the desk with hands lightly clasped behind her back, while he studied the pile of documents with the gravity of an anthropologist deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls.

An unseen signal must have passed from the top of his almost hairless head because Miss. Babbage gathered the neat stack and returned to our office. She extracted a blue ribbon, a parchment like receipt and a one shilling and threepenny postage stamp from a cardboard file. The stamp was affixed to the receipt upon which she entered the financial detail, being careful to cancel the stamp by writing across it. The documents were then rolled into a tube, tied with the blue ribbon and handed to us. We were now the proud owners of a motor car we had yet to see other than in a brochure.

Escorted to the shop behind the offices, we were handed over to a white coated engineer, one of several in the area who had gathered, apparently, to obtain a glimpse of these strange Americans who actually wanted to purchase a British automobile. All had a dental mirror in their top pocket which we assumed was a badge of office - or that Brits were singularly paranoid about their teeth and assisted each other in examinations during the tea breaks.

  After a ten minute discourse designed to acquaint us with the salient features of the car, followed by another ten minutes of questions about California and the San Fernando Valley, their interest waned and we suspected a tea break was imminent - or the BBC was about to rerun a Winston Churchill WWII speech - so we drove out into a maelstrom of careening vehicles which the English seem to accept with such aplomb. We were swept up in the fast moving river of traffic from which there seemed to be no escape. The Chinese proverb  - “Who rides a tiger cannot dismount,” could not have been more appropriate.

Hurtling along at breakneck speed with wife and daughter clinging and crying - luxuries which I could not afford for myself - and totally surrounded by a sea of cars surging within inches of each other like a living thing - I concentrated on staying alive. There were no painted lines for me to stay within and jockeying for position was a matter of desperation and skill - not regulation. While professing disdain for things American, I detected just a wee bit of hypocrisy among Brit drivers because it was soon obvious that they had adopted Admiral Farragut’s dictum: “Damn the torpedoes - full speed ahead.”

Miles later, having survived several roundabouts, we established that we were heading for Somerset which is in the opposite direction to our intended destination of Newhaven. Time running out, and with no stops for food or convenience (but plenty of close shaves) we finally arrived at the ferry terminal where everything proceeded smoothly (due to superior planning and pre-purchased tickets), and we were quickly aboard. Soon we were sailing across the English Channel to La Belle France to do battle with our ancient adversaries. There was some trepidation on our part because the French prefer to parlez vous only in their own language when communicating with the anglais.  Thomas Hood, the poet, once said:

Never go to France

Unless you know the lingo

If you do, like me

You will repent, by jingo

The Newhaven/Dieppe ferry was the least traveled of the England/France routes and whose schedule is somewhat inconvenient for tourists - which is exactly why we chose it. Arriving in Dieppe at midnight after a calm voyage we were surprised to find a solitary light in the utter blackness at the foot of the car ramp without which it would be impossible to determine if concrete or water was our destination. There was no sign of a town or even a building and the “aggravating attitude” (a polite expression meaning bloodymindedness ) of the French was perhaps exhibiting itself.

Sheep-like, we followed the lead car down a dockside illuminated only by our feeble headlights with water on our right and God knew what else on our left. Several hundred yards we traversed when brilliant arc lights suddenly snapped on blinding everyone.  As our eyes adjusted we were able to make out a shed with a single lane passing beneath an extended tin roof under which we were directed to stop. A sign said douane which we understood to mean customs.

A single agent in a blue shirt and dark trousers with a cigarette between his lips grunted something and we proferred our documents, while trying to avoid eye contact. After a quick glance he thrust them back at me already turning his gaze on the next car in line. I opened my mouth to ask the way to Paris but thought better of it and took off smartly indeed. Beyond the cone of light we were enveloped by inky darkness once again and literally crept along the dock - the car in front having disappeared.

If the Bosch had attempted to invade France at midnight it would have been a dismal failure. I have never encountered such complete blackness before or since. It was as if the country was disconnected from a power supply. Perhaps the electric utilities were on strike? Even the car headlights were ineffectual - as if they were afraid to be seen. We crept forward in hopes of finding something resembling civilization - and finally we did. A small cobble-stoned square with ancient buildings on each side and a plinth-like memorial in the center. Four roads, one at each corner, led somewhere but not a sign-post or a human in sight.

By deduction we chose the exit on the right - which proved to be the right exit.  Paris, our destination, should be 200 kilometers to the south and so we headed inland along a two-lane undivided road reflecting on that awful day in August, 1942 when the biggest loss of life in one action occurred in World War II. Somewhere very close to us were the cemeteries containing the one thousand bodies of the brave commando’s who died in the nine hour raid.

Dressed in summer clothes, we noticed a chill in the air. Searching for the heater controls was an exercise in futility because the tiny symbols all over the instrument panel meant nothing to me - except that the gas gauge was reminding us that, although this car was not a gas guzzler, it would not run on fumes.

The headlights cast a feeble glow on the unlit country road. The road was straight and occasionally headlights would appear in the extreme distance as pinpricks and minutes later blossom into reality. We began to notice that, without exception, the approaching cars would sound their horns in a long flat signal to us. They could not know we were anglais so it must be more than a rude gesture. It suddenly dawned on me that this vehicle was built for the American market, and here was I driving on the left. My lights were configured for right lane driving and though the Austin people knew we were to catch a ferry they hadn’t thought about my driving at night in Europe.

New English cars are usually delivered with an emergency kit of flares, reflective triangles, and a small tool kit. I looked in the boot (not to be confused with footwear) and found the items - and voila, a couple of yellow clear plastic saucers with elastic ribbons at the ends of which were metal clips. Their meaning was obvious and after affixing one to each headlight the result was dazzling.

Resuming our journey into the night, we could now see the road quite well and approaching cars no longer sounded off at us. The seats were exceptionally comfortable and the long hours without sleep was taking its toll. Jill was semiconscious in the back, but as long as a car is moving Phyllis will not close her eyes - but we all knew we needed some rest - and soon.

The three of us were crouching in the deep shadows behind a pew. Someone was coming from the nave and we were scared. Why?- we didn’t know. We were cold, clammy, and shivering - and not thinking straight. Why were we hiding? What were we doing here?

A grunting sound and labored breathing: coming nearer. Two figures, and they were almost upon us. They shuffled past, a hunchback dwarf with a deformed leg pulling a young woman along and looking back fearfully. They soon disappeared from sight along with the sound of their flight.

Other sounds permeated the cavernous interior and quickly became identifiable as hoarse whispering and the clanking of steel. Armed men in chain mail were making their way stealthily along the same course as the fleeing couple. They didn’t see us, but their grim features boded ill for anyone who crossed their path. The sound of their passage faded and we remained huddled, cramped, cold and restless.

A tintinnabulation tore the night apart. The noise was deafening and we were disoriented and almost in shock. It seemed as though the heavens had opened up with a metallic clangor of pealing bells. Sudden silence, followed by two separate, single bongs. We were parked at the base of a church tower and the clock had just struck two in the morning. What a nightmare. What next?

This was no place to get a little sleep. We were in the center of a very small, and very dark, village. Are there no lights in France? We had pulled over next to a high wall in what appeared to be a parking lot and the wall was the side of a church tower, and even if we had known about the clock we would not have expected it to chime during the night.

It was quite chilly in the car, and we had wrapped our plastic raincoats around us in a futile attempt to keep warm. Cold and miserable, stomachs rumbling, we knew we had to press on. Several miles later it became imperative that we pull over onto a grassy verge and soon succumbed to fitful slumber.

My consciousness was being penetrated by a ghostly presence. Not yet awake, in the pre-dawn luminescence I became aware that a large shape was peering over my left shoulder. Apprehension coursed through me and I gingerly turned my head while peeking out of my left eye. I recoiled in horror at a gargoyle face only inches from mine - and then sighed in relief as I realized it was a cow. We were parked in the entrance to a pasture wherein a herd of white and brown cows were grazing and several of them had surrounded the car out of curiosity. Why they did not wander into the road I was never able to fathom.

Phyllis and Jill, by now awake and miserable with fatigue and stiffness, declared a pressing need to relieve themselves - a function I was also desperate to perform and which I did with alacrity behind a convenient hedge. With more than half the journey to Paris ahead of us and insufficient gas in the tank, we headed off in search of a more sophisticated environment - which our map indicated to be just over the horizon, so to speak.

The day promised to be clear, and although the chill of night had not yet dissipated, the temperature was climbing. In daylight, all problems are solvable, and in little less than an hour we espied a small town and our spirits rose exponentially.

A gas pump at last. We pulled into the courtyard of a small grocery store which displayed a sign for essence. Civilization, finally. We could accomplish all of our requirements in one fell swoop. Alighting from the car we encountered a stillness so profound as to be unreal. We’re talking utter hush!  Modern day urbanites we; nothing could have prepared us for this bucolic tranquility. Had we fallen down the rabbit hole? At five o’clock in the morning one could almost hear the snores emanating from the townsfolk still abed behind their stone walls. The world...their world, was at slumber.

Absolutely no sign of a public convenience anywhere. We quickly canvassed the limited real estate with no success. Extreme measures were called for - relief within minutes was now crucial for Phyllis and Jill. They would have given “…their kingdom for a commode.”  What to do? What to do?

Some people put their trust in faith, others in fate. Some believe in the supernatural. What happened next would have made me a believer in any doctrine. A gentle cough sounded behind us. We swung around to find a wizened man in carpet slippers, wearing a dark blue smock, shapeless black cotton pants and a black beret - leaning on a walking stick and sucking on a curly black pipe. He seemed timeless, a rock of ages, a Moses from the mount, bearing not tablets, but a promise of aid for the needy.

We approached him with a “Bon jour, monsieur,” it being practically our entire French lexicon. He replied in a guttural patois, which we accepted as a polite reply - his manner did not appear to be offensive. Therein, began a comedic attempt at communication which, from our point of view, was driven by a sense of urgency - and for him a mild sense of amusement as of a meeting with aliens from outer space.

Referring back to the meticulous planning that preceded this voyage from the new world - I pulled out the phrase book and was relieved (unintentional pun) to find that “toilette” was the key to this situation. Alas, there was not a glimmer of recognition from our new ami. Anyone observing my ladies faces would have been puzzled indeed. Much rolling of the eyes and puffing of cheeks. A slightly bent over posture, knees together, and waist hugging. I knew a humiliating end was near. This called for desperate measures so I mimed the act for him and gestured toward my companions. His face lit up as if he had won a lottery and exclaimed…”ah, pee, pee!”

He beckoned for us to accompany him and we walked the gently inclined path toward a cottage - at the side of which was an outhouse (sans door) to which he directed Madam and Mademoiselle. He was beaming with pleasure at being able to offer such a regal solution to the problem. Jill rushed to the appointed place intent on the mission only to discover that Monsieur obviously expected to be a rapt observer. Almost crying with frustration she flapped her hands to shoo him away. Phyllis joined in the charade, and it was left to me to grasp his arm and “gently” lead him away.

I explained our need for essence for the car and he conveyed that the shop was not open and we would go there in a few moments to awaken Emile - but first a café, oui? The ladies joined us inside the flagstone kitchen and Monsieur busied himself preparing the coffee. Phyllis and Jill had utilized the pump in the yard to rinse their hands and were looking askance at Monsieur whose hands appeared to contain a years worth of grime in the folds of the skin and under the fingernails. His clothes were grubby, while his abundant mustache contained enough morsels of food to sustain whatever minute critters were harboring there. The mugs which he set out for the coffee were coated with brown, shellac like stains.   Producing a baguette, he grasped it firmly with his left hand while slicing it with his right. He gestured for us to help ourselves and stood aside for us to partake of the repast.

Amazingly, we were actually conversing in a rudimentary fashion.  A recognizable word here and there - exaggerated facial expressions and some body language and we were communicating. There was no doubt on our part that Monsieur was pulling out all the stops to be a good host and we were somewhat ashamed of our revulsion at the primitive nature of the facilities and the offerings.

From above, a peremptory voice called out something which we could not decipher. Monsieur excused himself and slippered off to the stairway. As soon as he was out of sight we dumped our coffee into the garden outside the front door and stuffed a few pieces of bread into Phyllis’s hand bag. With much rolling of eyes heavenward, I think we all said a little prayer of thanks for the intervention.

Monsieur returned and apologized because his Madam could not join us. He explained that she had undergone the same operation as DeGaulle and was a trifle indisposed. “Never mind, more café and bread?” he enquired. We declined, and asked if perhaps essence might now be available?

He escorted us to the shop, which was still closed. The perfect stillness of the morning was undisturbed. Monsieur gestured to the upper windows with disdain at Emile’s lethargy. Gathering a handful of gravel he tossed it at the window and continued to do so until the window flew open and an angry Emile’s tousled head appeared. There followed a rapid exchange in the local dialect in which I heard anglais something or other from Monsieur, and what sounded suspiciously like cussing from Emile. The window closed and we were left to savor the ethereal quality of the morning once again. The store would open at Emile’s convenience, of that we were quite certain.

Eventually, with the gas tank filled and our good-byes and thank-you’s to Monsieur, we headed south once more to Gay Paree!  A nap, a shower, and some food, and we would be ‘as right as ninepence’ - as the cockney saying goes.

Where the night had been a visual vacuum; a cold, lifeless confining milieu - the day couldn’t have been more promising if Hollywood had painted the backdrop for effect. Warm and clear; in pastels the countryside was achingly beautiful. Grazing cows and sheep in the meadows - the tiny villages with miniscule bridges over graceful streams. Occasionally, a farmer leading a shire horse - a collie scampering from hedgerow to ditch; sniffing a way through a world of its own. Gaggles of geese in the farmyards with their progeny in line astern. Fat hogs and pecking hens, apple trees and waving wheat - descriptively banal perhaps, but perceivably flawless.

As we sailed merrily along admiring the scenic beauty of this pastoral paradise, and laughing about our adventures, it transpired that we were all curious as to the operation that DeGaulle and Madam had in common. We never came close to a satisfactory answer - but it would prove to be the least of our problems, this being only the first day of our European vacation. ©