Dee Blair

Nearly five months ago an SUV rammed my home: repairs, inside and out, are extensive and seem to be taking forever.

Sunnybank is still in a state of disarray. We must climb a tall ladder to enter the house, as part of the front porch and the stairs were destroyed, and the harsh winter has stalled rebuilding.

There’s so much dust coating everything inside that I find myself coughing if I move too fast and stir it up. Piles of gritty clothing and dull-looking furniture are scattered all around the dining room and library floor. Dismantled beds are still stacked against the bedroom walls, so I sleep on the couch. Spreads and blankets will be hauled to the cleaners: all that bulk would be too much for my elderly washer. It would sigh and die.

The plasterer finished on Wednesday; the walls and ceilings look wonderful.

The painting is nearly done.

There is so much that wants attention that it’s easy to become overwhelmed. But I know the worst is over. By next weekend, if all goes well, the cleaning team, with me serving as the fetch-and-carry dogsbody, will begin to make the house habitable again.

A reassuring annual event keeps me laughing when I tip toward despair: Romeo and Juliet Mallard are back. They snog enthusiastically by the big garden fountain, oblivious to peeping people. When I walk by, the lovebirds will move languidly aside to let me pass, then carry on with ducky endearments.

Over the years we’ve learned to accommodate each other. I rake; Romeo is rarely ruffled. (Four years ago, when he’d decided I was too close, he attacked my ankles. I yelled with shock and pain and stomped about, making such a fearsome racket he was too stunned to quack. I threatened to add him to my crispy duck recipe; I radiated furious, because it bloodyhurt! Apparently it was an impressive enough display of “NO” that Romeo has modified his parameters. I’ve not had trouble since.

Juliet, eyes fogged by love, sees only him.

Sometimes, when the sun peeps out, contented murmurs can be heard, topped with one or two hoarse quacks, as they happily amble to grass patches he thinks are warmer, there to settle in.

Yesterday, when my garden helper walked in the back gate, Romeo balanced high on webbed toes and quacked an alarm: this invader didn’t belong! He kept glancing at me as if to say, Well? Toss him out!

“Nonsense!” I admonished him; “He’s here to rake with me, so get used to it. Remember: you’re the guests!”

Annoyed, Romeo flapped off toward Juliet, muttering, and spread his wings to herd her along to a more distant spot. 

Juliet often places her bill on his back…Ah, ducks in love.

But, there was a bit of a kerfluffle in the Fairy Garden.

Josh and I were raking away when he said, tentatively, “What should I do about this duck I almost raked? She doesn’t look right to me…”

I looked. It was Harriet, the unlucky duck I’d seen yesterday sitting smack in the middle of the flowerbed, head down, apparently unable to move without pain. But when Les and I’d looked for her later, she’d vanished. What a relief!

Today, though, here she was again in the same place, looking pathetic. She sat right out in the open garden, perfectly blended into heaps of wet leaves, showing no fear of the giant rake-claws that had almost whacked her. Wait! Could she be nursing eggs? But there was nothing.

What should I do? Ring a veterinarian? Leave her there to die? One wing had an odd cant. I moved closer. She didn’t seem to care.  Just before I touched her she wearily rose, and very, very slowly, in a half-crouch, waddled behind the air conditioner, out of sight. A cat may have crunched her leg, I thought, miserably. If I approached her again she might further injure herself struggling back there…

“Josh, lets finish this work; it’s sleeting now, and the weather could get worse.  I’ll think about what to do. Darn! I wish Les were here!”

Incredibly, the big garden door opened and - Ta-da! There he was! (Sometimes life almost makes sense.)

“Les! Harriet, that injured duck we couldn’t find yesterday, has crept behind the air conditioner; can you help me ease her out so I can take her to the vet?”

He peered behind the big structure for a while, then turned to me, chuckling. “Harriet’s nesting! I can just make out one egg under her. There could be more…That ‘poor me’ posturing is meant to distract you from discovering her nest. And it worked, didn’t it?

Josh and I high-fived, but…where was her other half? (I’d dubbed her absent mate ‘Quackhead.’) For four hours we raked on, but he never showed. It made me sad. She shouldn’t be alone out here in the cold, with children on the way…

Today, though, Les popped into the house, grinning. “I found Quackhead nodding off in the pond by the folly. He’ll relieve her eventually, I suppose.” 

Wow! That featherbrain was seventy-five feet away in the main garden! A monsterman had nearly raked his wife gone while he’d snored there in the weak sun.

Huh. I wasn’t impressed. Q was ducking his responsibilities.

But Les reckons the word is out. People in this garden are safe. The lady’s scary only when billed. So don’t.

Maybe that’s why Harriet had kept her mouth shut when I’d reached for her!

Sometimes ducks are pretty smart.

Here’s what happened in between...

I’ll begin at the end. We were grass-kissing glad to be back on solid ground, having been chucked around the sky for what seemed hours, and almost hurled into Kansas. I’d kissed my backside goodbye and prepared to die high. (30,000 feet high, but who’s counting?)

Back up, old girl…

We were sealed into our 777 ‘heavy’ for a long time; crossing the North Atlantic had taken nearly nine hours, instead of the more usual seven, due to really vigorous headwinds. Crammed into ‘cargo’ with no room to move, those extra hours seemed like centuries.

But still, all was well –if you don’t mind a sardine-like existence- until we began to approach Chicago. Uh-oh. The huge jet thumped and bumped around, eliciting a few gasps from startled passengers. Then we abruptly turned southeast. The captain spoke.

So we flew a racetrack pattern over that city’s airspace for about sixty minutes. Hmmm. Ten hours flying, so far. Our monster workhorse wouldn’t say no to a drink…Then, as though he had read my mind, the captain’s voice filled the cabin.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, we, ah, need to fly on to Indianapolis to refuel, and then” -(he sighed) “wait some more. Storms are still battering Chicago. The weather’s fine in Indy, by the way.”

Thirty minutes later, in late afternoon sunlight, we landed. I glimpsed lots of cornfields and farmhouses as the plane left the runway to park in an isolated area. One engine still murmured, quietly.

We waited.

People stood, walked up and down the very narrow aisles, stretched, updated family on their cell phones, tried to sleep, or just stared out the window.

Joe dug into his bag of gadgets, pulled out a little portable phone battery, hooked his i-phone into it, then dialed up aviation weather. Wow! O’Hare was smack in the middle of a three-state line of powerful storm cells breeding intense lightning, torrential rain, hail, high winds and other delights. It was a thoroughly intimidating picture.

What would our captain decide?

-We’d been confined for over ten hours. Legs can develop circulatory problems from sitting for so long.
-The captain and copilot had to be tired. A shift change was overdue.

We sat some more. Our captain kept us informed, and thanked us for being so patient.

We waited.

I knew the crew was incredibly busy checking radar, reprogramming the computers to approach Chicago from here, rechecking essential navigational equipment, evaluating weather windows, plotting courses for alternate airports, should that become necessary, etc.

Then the captain spoke, crisply.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re fueled up now, and aiming for O’Hare, which has tentatively opened again; we’re gonna slip in between cells. Other flights are slowed way down, because each plane in line must wait till it sees an opening, then dart in, or sneak out. The good news: most of you probably won’t miss your connections. They’re in line, too, or delayed. And they know you are.

Gulp. This aircraft was going to penetrate that nightmare, and so there.  Joe quietly reminded me that the captain knew his job. We had to trust his years of experience.

He turned off his i-phone. We went quiet.

Fifty minutes later we entered the maelstrom. One minute the air was calm- the next, towering cumulus clouds boiled all around us. We dropped so suddenly that my hair rose and my iron stomach, which is never ruffled by high waves, or bumpy air, debated whether to evacuate. There were aircraft creaks and other weird noises as the plane was shaken, stirred and flung around. Its structural integrity was thoroughly tested. The pilots expertly navigated around the fringes of those massive storm cells using their ‘third eye’- Doppler radar. Rain pummeled the aircraft. Strong winds tipped the wings suddenly. I shut the window shade- and my eyes. Too much information. Joe and I held hands. Years later we felt the landing gear descend. Large hail, sounding like big machine guns, hammered the plane’s body and windows: wind-propelled rain added to the cacophony. The pilots compensated for every rapid rise or fall, were alert for microbursts, and constantly tailored the airspeed to accommodate sudden wind fluctuations.

It was masterful flying.

Seconds before landing, much bigger, more intense hail briefly assaulted the windows and airframe. The sound was shockingly loud.

The big jet touched down, slowed, and exclamations of relief rippled up and down the aisles as we taxied for a long time through torrential rain toward our docking area, only to be told there was ‘some sort of situation’ there; our gate was blocked by emergency equipment. Ambulances with flashing red lights were parked next to a jet occupying our slot. The weary captain added his heartfelt thanks for our patience. Our response? He got a big round of applause.

The captain was right; our connecting jet to Traverse City was four hours late. Fortunately.

We finally rode the link-train to Terminal 3, and then had to pass through Security all over again. And believe me, those people were just as thorough as the British.

We boarded our much smaller (nearly full) regional jet at midnight, flew through the storm’s northern edge with only a few bumps, and landed at Cherry Capital Airport in heavy rain.

It was breakfast time in Britain, and wee morning here. Dazed with exhaustion, stalked by leg cramps and emotionally spent, Joe and I staggered outside to meet Les, who drove us through the pouring rain to Sunnybank House.

Dorothy and Toto were exactly right.

There is no place like home!

“Tickets, please!” The train conductor punched ours, and moved on with a smile. Joe and I were riding the rails to the north of England’s city of York. My whole adult life I’ve wanted to enjoy the British countryside traveling this way, and walk its ancient cities.

Having arrived at the station I was loath to leave trains just yet. “Lets go to the National Railway Museum, Joe! It’s right here!” He cheerfully agreed, so, after depositing our bags in our room a short mile into the city, we walked back again.

Returning was worth it! Magnificent train engines and cars, polished to perfection, were displayed in the immense room; they, along with delightful bygone train advertising posters, represented two hundred years of railway history. Japan’s Bullet Train was here, and The Flying Scotsman, not to mention the very earliest Tom Thumb train, with stagecoach carriages mounted on iron frames. (Harry Potter’s beautiful red Hogwarts engine was on exhibit elsewhere at the moment, but would return in a month.) We peeked into the stagecoach windows at shredding horsehair-and-leather seats, and imagined how passengers felt, whizzing along the rails at the shocking speed of 15 miles per hour.

Then we rode the enormous ‘Wheel of York,’ set up just outside the museum. Each snug little cab, with cushy seats, was surrounded by glass; the ride was smooth and quiet, and it rose so high! We saw forever in every direction as it slowly rotated. Wonderful!

York. Hmmm…where to start? First, a thumbnail history.  (Remember these dates. You’ll understand why, later.)

It was founded in 79 AD, when 5,000 Roman soldiers, comprising the ninth legion, set up camp here. They promptly built a massive fortress where the Rivers Ouse and Foss still meet. Then, for the next three centuries, York became hugely important commercially and militarily. (One emperor was acclaimed in this city, and two more died here.) The rivers made transporting goods- and soldiers- much easier. Roman engineers and rivers go together.

Everywhere we looked there were Roman footprints.
Roads. Walls. City streets. Gutters. Towers. Bridges. Aqueducts.

Our hotel was located just feet from an immense Roman wall terminating at an arched gate, which leads into old York. Surrounded by a dry moat, the impressive wall had once enclosed the city. We walked atop part of it, as sentries once did.

The next day we signed up for a superb bicycle tour that lasted two hours. Sally, a history student, guided us into intriguing areas that had been too far for us to walk to comfortably.  Returning to the town centre again, she had us stop behind a familiar building- The Treasurer’s House, located behind the cathedral.

I didn’t realize then that I already knew the basement’s story.

This building, from medieval times until the early twentieth century, had been the residence of every cathedral treasurer. The story Sally related I’d already heard as a child, ‘straight from the horse’s mouth.’ The man involved had finally been persuaded to give an interview for a radio broadcast. Speaking quietly, with a pleasing Yorkshire accent, he patiently told listeners what had happened to him.

In 1953 he, a plumber, was repairing a pipe in the house’s ancient basement when he heard a high horn sound, peculiar enough to warrant investigation. He couldn’t pinpoint the source, and finally decided it was an odd pipe noise.

Then, out of nowhere, the basement’s poor lighting gave way to a sunny late afternoon. Roman soldiers, led by a horseman blowing a trumpet-like horn, marched toward him in formation, moving through the basement wall as though it didn’t exist- closer, closer…The terrified plumber leaped off his ladder, dived under a workbench and crouched there, frightened nearly to death. The soldiers marched right past him, not at all ghostly, but as alive and substantial as he. Their sun-browned faces were streaked with dust, their breastplates muddy. Short, sheathed swords were belted to dark green, kilt-like garments. Each man held a round shield in his left hand, and a long spear in his right. Eyes were cast to the ground. Everyone looked tired, even downhearted. The ground trembled with their passing. Their leader, riding a bay horse, moved further up the road. There was a light breeze; metal equipment flashed in sunlight.

The soldiers showed absolutely no awareness of the petrified plumber.

But here’s the thing. From just below their knees, there was nothing. He watched their upper legs rise and fall as they passed, saw sandal straps tied behind knees, and heard and felt sandaled feet hit the ground. But the soldiers’ lower legs were invisible.

Finally, after what seemed hours, the army passed into the distance. The shattered man shot out of the basement and crashed into the caretaker, who took one look at his sheet-white face and terrified countenance and said, quietly, “You’ve just seen the Roman legion, haven’t you?” 

The plumber was so shocked he couldn’t speak sensibly about it for a long, long time.

But when he did, scholars at the time heard him describe the men’s round shields, sandals laced knee-high, and not to mid calf, as was the accepted thinking, and that they’d marched away up a wide stone road, which had gradually became evident as the terrain rose.

But he stuck to it, and his observations proved correct. Further research, and the basement’s subsequent excavation revealed a wide Roman road under the existing floor at exactly the level the soldiers had been marching on. Round shields and long, laced sandals were unearthed in another part of York, and all of this evidence dated 900 years before the Treasurer’s House- and nearby cathedral- had come into existence.

The man refused to set foot in that basement ever again.

Oh, how I wish I’d gone down there: it would have been a thrill to realize that I’d accidentally stumbled into the very place I’d heard about in my youth, and had never forgotten.

Because that quiet, thoughtful voice had held the ring of truth.

England. March 28, 2013. Joe flew in today, and I hopped the train from Hereford, three hours west, to meet him at his hotel, about fifteen minutes from Heathrow Airport via courtesy bus. (In the morning, we’d head north by train to explore York.) The late evening was fine. He didn’t appear too tired, so we decided to walk to an attractive village a half-mile from the hotel’s door.

It was peculiar to stroll along Colnbrook’s cobbled ‘High’ (main) street: at least nine centuries fell away. But then, seeming to glow in the moonlight, a soundless silver bullet-jet would emerge from a dark, fluffy cloud and aim for land, just 5 miles away.

Here’s the thing: to truly understand the United Kingdom one needs to explore and appreciate its often riveting history.

Casual inquiries yielded an informational gold mine. This inn began, around 1107, as ‘The Hospice,’ meaning a house of rest for travelers, run by a nearby religious order. Today’s name, ‘Ostrich,’ is probably a corruption of  ‘Hospice,’ which would mutate over the centuries to ‘The Crane’ in the Middle Ages, then to ‘The Heron,’ before finally settling on The Ostrich Inn. That flightless fowl now decorates the inn’s outdoor sign.

We sat next to a large, deep fireplace with dying embers. After bringing us wine, the barkeeper staggered up to it with an enormous, slim, wheel-shaped log that he placed upright in the smoldering log cradle. Propped against the hot firewall behind, the large ‘slice’ soon caught, snapping, and crackling.

Huge beams crisscross the generous room’s ceiling; the bare, planked floor sags slightly, and is worn to pale, velvet smoothness from nearly a thousand years of inadvertent polishing by countless shod feet.

Traveling by coach or horse used to be an ordeal. There were no decent roads, only quagmires, muddy cow trails, and approximations of where sheltering inns might be. Nearby, a half-buried rectangular stone still has a readable ‘17’ carved into it, meaning that London town- much smaller in the wee years of the last millennium- was 17 miles away. Few could read, so lettered signs were infrequent in the deep countryside.

Queen Elizabeth I tried to travel through this village, but the road was so full of coach-eating potholes that a royal wheel snapped off. Her Majesty spent the night here, at the Ostrich.

Often, when summoned by Royalty to Windsor Castle, three miles west of Colnbrook (alternatively spelled Coolbrooke, Colebrok, Culbrok, and Coldbroc over the ages), travelers of higher station changed into their best garments here before being ferried across the River Thames to the castle.

Some never left.

What follows is a hair-raising tale that happens to be true.

Mr. and Mrs. Jarman, the Ostrich’s innkeeper-owners for decades in the late Middle Ages, devised a horrific way to enrichen themselves with nobody the wiser. When a guest lodged here whom they thought might be carrying large sums of money- there were no banks or other means to safeguard jewels and coins, so people kept valuables close- the Jarmans put the unlucky traveler into a spacious, nicely appointed bedroom directly over the kitchen, where a ‘mightee greate cauldron’ full of boiling water was positioned. (Many inns, including the Ostrich, brewed their own beer and liquor ‘in house’ using cauldrons of various sizes, so this one never aroused suspicion.)

But those two weren’t done yet. They ran a ladder through the opening and clambered up into the bedroom to pocket valuables and remove evidence. After that, they dragged out the body and chucked it into the River Coine (which still flows by the inn and empties into the tidal Thames). The dead guest’s stabled horse was altered the same night- a long mane was shortened, a tail was docked or an eye removed- leaving no evidence, should anyone ever inquire after the murdered man.

When finally caught, because the last victim’s horse got away and wandered the High Street, Jarman, knowing the jig was up, boasted that they’d dispatched at least sixty lodgers in this way over the years (while continuing to brew booze in that cauldron)!

The two were hanged, with a huge crowd as witness, and for a good while the Ostrich Inn was infamous around the world.

P.S. It no longer houses overnight guests, is infested with ghosts, including that of a child – and serves up a darn good meal.

England is freezing. In fact, it’s exactly like the weather I left in Michigan. It’s difficult to get about in the ancient market town of Hereford, as the wind cuts through my light jacket, and easily penetrates my three thick sweaters. (March usually registers in the high 50s; this brutal cold is unusual and caught me unprepared.) My home, set on a hilltop overlooking the Welsh Black Mountains, is blanketed in white. Monday my brother and I conducted a ceremonial scattering of our family’s ashes in the forest behind the cottage amid two inches of snow, where legions of daffodils wait hopefully for just one decent spring day so they can unfold into gold.

Tuesday afternoon I decided to re-explore one of my favorite places- Hereford’s magnificent eleventh century cathedral. I love its history and architecture, as well as the charming gift shop, set among 16^th century tombs in the walls, and under the stone floor. I hadn’t visited it since the end of May, 2010. There would be new delights in there.

I made my way through the cathedral’s enormous entry doors-- and was stopped in my tracks by music so lovely it brought tears to my eyes. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe. Rooted to the spot I closed my eyes and let its beauty wash over me. Someone was singing, accompanied by a violinist and a small orchestra. But this sound was different- certainly not a boy chorister rehearsing a solo for Easter Sunday services. I was hearing an aria- ‘Erbarme dich, mein Gott, um meiner Zahren willen!’ (‘Have mercy, my Lord, behold my bitter tears!’) from Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, sung with full, rich alto tones, and radiating an ineffable sadness. The glorious music echoed throughout the church. I remained behind a massive pillar, lost in awe.

I peered around the pillar. A good distance away a tall, athletic-looking young man- perhaps late twenties- was standing just below the high altar chatting with the conductor about some musical point. He was dressed in comfy cords and a warm sweater, and possessed thick, wavy dark hair worn just a bit long, which suited him perfectly. He was that rare thing- a counter tenor. Wikipedia defines it this way: (It’s a)…’type of classical male singing voice whose vocal range is equivalent to that of a contralto or mezzo-soprano voice type. A pre-pubescent male who has this ability is called a treble.’ 

It’s a notoriously difficult sound to get right; there seems always to be a place or two that causes the voice to ‘break,’ or go out of falsetto. To position-and hold- the vocal cords exactly where they must be is an exasperating art. This man seemed undaunted by the usual counter tenor haunts. He was, in two words- magnificently oblivious- to the vocal danger, or so it seemed to me. There was no hesitation, no delicately careful placement, just a rich, warm power, and seemingly effortless control.

I’ve heard these rare and special singers a few times. (One sang a carefully delivered solo in Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana in the ‘80s to an appreciative audience.)

(His name- discovered when I was given the evening program notes- was William Towers. He’d read English at Cambridge University before entering the Royal College of Music. Wouldn’t it have been marvelous to be a mouse-in-pocket when the Admittance Committee heard him audition?!)

He chatted briefly with the conductor, then donned a warm coat and scarf and walked briskly down the side aisle of the Cathedral, still quietly rehearsing phrases. I couldn’t help myself; I ran after him as fast as I dared, finally caught up, and touched his sleeve. He turned, surprised.

(Idiot! You’re bothering him! What will you say?) But there was no annoyance; he only looked startled, then curious.

Finally, I managed to blurt, “I have never heard anything so beautiful.” (I wanted to say heard and seen, but didn’t dare. Though it would have been the simple truth.)

His sudden grin showed me he was pleased with the compliment; I relaxed slightly.

“Well, thanks very much!”

I stammered on. “You’re a counter tenor, aren’t you? The best I ever heard.”

He grinned again. “ Yes, I am. And thanks again! Do come to the concert. It’s tonight, you know.”

I nodded, still word-poor, and groaned inwardly. But, taking pity on me, he offered another radiant smile; we cheerily wished each other a good day, and he left the building.

Tongue-tied, are we, you silly old twit? I muttered, at once amused and embarrassed by my codfish-like gaping. But good heavens, he was a stunner. And gracious, to boot.

I dashed into the Cathedral Gift Shop and bought a ticket. I wouldn’t miss this evening for anything.

“Get here at 6:15 for a decent seat; the cathedral will be packed,” commented the clerk. “The concert begins at 7.”

Winter concerts test one’s endurance; these giant stone and granite cathedrals are notoriously cold in weather like this. I’d attended many events here over the years, and had always left numb. Tonight I’d sneak a pillow out of my hotel room, as the benches are rock-hard. The concert would last over three hours, including a twenty-minute intermission to allow singers, orchestra and audience to huddle next to huge, jet-black heaters shaped like giant boilers. These thaw-machines, scattered around the cathedral, have long, vertical metal fins to direct and radiate heat.

And that’s exactly how things unfolded. I came promptly at 6:15, staked out my seat, and settled in. At intermission we were like penguins in the deep Arctic winter; an inner circle would snuggle up to a monster-sized heater and toast for a minute; then they’d rotate toward the back so the people behind them could move close and toast…and so on, until the warning bell.

But nobody complained. The evening was magical; singers, instrumentalists and the cathedral’s choristers- thirteen boys ages 7 to 14- gave flawless performances. The soprano, tenor and bass soloists were outstanding.

I left at 10:45. Fortunately, my 11^th century hotel was just across the street from the cathedral grounds. Numb, I hobbled, exhausted and exhilarated, into my room. It would be impossible to sleep till I thawed my feet. Shedding shoes and socks I sat on the edge of the enormous old bathtub and, still bundled up, turned the faucet to ‘hot’ and showered- no, pummeled- the poor things with warmth till they regained consciousness. It took ages.

The whole time, though, I smiled.

But Tuesday it began to snow in earnest. I soon realized that tomorrow’s 8:15 a.m. flight might well be cancelled, or, worse, delayed. This was already an impressive dump, and much more lake-driven snow was predicted until very late Wednesday evening.
Uh-oh.

If I didn’t get out of TC exactly on time tomorrow morning I’d never be able to run fast enough to make my Chicago-to-London flight, which would depart at 9:30 a.m. I’d be stuck at O’Hare. Worse, there’d probably be no room on Thursday’s jet. (Fewer planes are flying these days, and survivors tend to be completely booked, especially near the Easter/spring break holiday.)

I’d try for that Chicago connection today.

I grabbed my backpack and carry-on (both had been packed since yesterday) and Les kindly drove me to the airport. American Airlines’ afternoon flight just might have a seat.  It was a gamble, but Les was willing to drive me home again if it didn’t work out.
I’d have done my best.

I wondered if any plane could leave. It was difficult to see more than two car lengths ahead. We crept on; the wipers struggled to keep up.

Finally the terminal loomed; I yelled my thanks, rushed inside, dashed to the desk- nobody was there.
And why should they be? The 8:15 plane had managed to leave (late), and another wouldn’t try to take off till 2:30. I was the only soul around. Sighing, I hung in there, willing an agent to wander by. Forty-five minutes later, one did. I leaped up and waved. Puzzled, she asked, “May help you?”

Oh, boy!

I explained my situation, Might there be one. more. seat to Chicago this afternoon? She thought a minute, and set her mind to it. A million key pokes later she’d cleverly managed to switch tomorrow’s ticket to that afternoon, but provisionally. I was number one on standby, but tomorrow morning’s ticket would still work if this switcheroo failed. “The jet appears completely full,” she said, staring at the screen, “but with this awful weather someone might not show up…”

I whizzed through security, as there was hardly anyone there, and then haunted the gate for ages. When an agent appeared behind the boarding gate desk I popped over to let him know I was a hopeful standby flyer. He noted it, and shrugged, noncommittal.
“Well, it’s full, but you never know…”

I paced, but wasn’t anxious. That ticket agent had done her best. Things would happen as they were meant to. I was philosophical. But my heart beat faster.

They began boarding.  Some minutes later almost everyone had gone through. The agent caught my eye- and winked. OH BOY! I’d made it.
I had the last seat.
I was so happy I nearly popped.

We sat on the taxiway while the de-icer folks, bundled into thick winter clothing that enveloped everything but their goggled eyes, hugged huge hoses high on elevated trucks. They carefully coated the entire plane in thick gobs of bright green glop, to prevent ice buildup. (Airborne planes are violently allergic to ice.) The viscous mixture slimed the windows, the wings, everything. Our kelly-green giant rolled onto the runway, which had all but vanished as the storm intensified.

We gathered speed and rocketed up, up through thick clouds and blinding snow, up, up to our assigned 24,000 feet, while the glop gradually dissipated. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the last of it sloughed off- and there was a sparkling clean wing, the sun- and blue sky!

Below us, a snowy whiteout, one day before spring.

The captain cheerfully announced that sunny Chicago registered 39 degrees.

That short plane ride was epic. I beamed all the way there. Three cheers for that tenacious ticket agent lady!

After deplaning I decided to trot to the Hilton, only just around the corner. We’d taxied right by it. Plus, it sat right next to a control tower. (Odd- but interesting.) But the price blew me away. $250 just to lie down. The lovely, elegantly clad receptionist was very helpful, though. “Here are some nice hotels a bit further out, and their phone numbers. There are courtesy buses you can catch, too, just outside.” She handed me a sheet.

I sat on the floor (no chairs were anywhere near), whipped out my phone, and perused the long list. Best Western rang a bell. (Joe and I had stayed at a wonderful one when we’d visited Zion National Park four years ago. It was gorgeous, but inexpensive.) I rang; they quoted a very reasonable price. I hopped a courtesy bus, and 20 minutes later, bingo!

The room was lovely. My grin got wider. The nail-biting part was over.

Wednesday morning I had a leisurely breakfast at 5 a.m., went through security four hours early, and waited, content. We lifted off on time, and 8 hours later, at ten fifty p.m.- London.
I’d awakened in Chicago; I’d sleep that evening in The United Kingdom. Is this not a miracle?

At that hour, though, Heathrow Airport folds up its tent. Only a few sleepy officials awaited us. My passport was banged; customs ignored me- after 48 years those guys knew me, by golly- and the courtesy bus waited just outside. Finally, just before one a.m. London time I tumbled into my Holiday Inn Express room. It was so nice! That huge shower- the classy sofa- brand new everything- for well under $100 - wasted.
“Wake me at 5:15” I croaked to reception, and fell back onto the bed. Lights out.

Four hours later –BBRRIING! The solicitous desk clerk had summoned a taxi to spirit me off to Paddington Station to catch the early morning fast train to Hereford. Six bleary minutes later I was out the door clutching a little bagged breakfast he’d prepared for me.

The taxi driver wove through miles of morning traffic; forty-five minutes later Paddington Station appeared. I bought a second-class ticket and coffee, sank into the cushioned seat, sipped, ate, and literally counted sheep dotting the countryside, for the entire three-hour trip. I love train rides too much to get lost in a book.

My dear friend Gaynor was waiting as I trundled my stuff out of Hereford’s little train station. It was 30 degrees! Brrr. She drove my sleepy self to the elderly Green Dragon Hotel, smack in the middle of this rainy, ancient town.
I booked in, and slept 10 hours. Woke to pounding rain. Then snow.

A snowstorm is expected, announced my computer.
What??  NOW?  In England?
Yep.
Incredible. Here we go again.
And all I have is a light jacket.

Aw, who cares? Life is good!!

I’m living in another hotel in Ann Arbor, as Joe and I are here for two days for his 45th fraternity reunion. Mine is a busy world; I leave for England in three days, so I’ve had zero time to compose a new column, though I have lots to say. So I offer this one, published in 2009.

The thick, slow-moving air seems unearthly.  Hannah Park is only a vague outline. I hear the occasional muffled quack; the thick air mutes the sound as ducks, half asleep, note that they’re floating in a vague, blanketed world. Grinning, I decide that those quacks help everyone keep together. Ducky reference points have all but vanished.

There is no sound; even the cars are asleep. The moon, mimicked by frosted street lamps, bathes everything in a white, icy halo, intricately highlighting jet-black trees and shrubs. Structures gleam. I walk slowly; my cleated boots bite into the slick snow as I admire the bright relief of lingering Christmas lights.

Rod Serling is my silent, invisible companion.

Suddenly, a terrifyingly loud bullet-crack breaks the stillness; a large, snow-loaded branch has chosen right now to give in to gravity. It crashes to the ground, shattering into jagged, chunky pieces in front of me, dying between the lawn and the sidewalk in front of the funeral home.

Wary now, I walk down the middle of the all-white street. Tall walls of plow-heaved snow define its edges.

The dead of night is dead—but wait! Just ahead, movement disturbs the fog.  Three fat adult ‘coons with bandit-markings appear like ghostly apparitions; their coats are slick with frozen raindrops. They rear up and stare, disconcerted; clearly, I’m the intruder. The raccoons are annoyed, and un-intimidated.  Oddly, I feel embarrassed; I’ve been caught wandering around out here, in their world, in their time. Their little eyes skewer me. Oddly, they don’t move—they don’t even blink.

One masked beast is clutching a half-wrapped parcel of something edible; the papered item brings to mind fish-and-chips, a favorite takeaway in England. I’ve interrupted their foraging trip.  Whose trash has been lightened?

After a bit, I say, tentatively, “Hello, there.”  The words break the spell. They lower themselves to waddle slowly down into Hannah Park with their stuff, never once looking back. I’ve been dismissed.

‘Strangers in the night, exchanging glances’… Sinatra’s voice winds around my neurons as I carry on, grinning.

There is another dimension that operates at night, in the Moonlight Zone; those humans who enter it are enveloped in a sort of enchantment. This parallel, deeply quiet world has its own triumphs and tragedies, missed by oblivious day-trotters. In moonlight, we are irrelevant.  

Brown, careless mice stand out against white snow; hungry owls scoop down and snatch them without a sound. Raccoons teach their children how to shop trash bins. Sleepy fish park safely in the river’s deeper middle. Cats slink delicately along snowy walks, intrigued by the menu choices. In the Moonlight Zone, middle-of-the-night dining is normal.

I am a bewitched stranger in a strange land…

It’s been ‘a winter of discontent,’ to borrow from Steinbeck. On December 16, 2012, a large SUV roared over the curb, through my iron fence and across the front garden; then, after rocketing up the big front porch stairs, it plowed into Sunnybank House’s front wall. The front door, and surrounding hand-hewn wall timbers, installed in 1893, buckled. The decorative window next to the door fell apart. The aftershock vibration shattered one old, curved tower window and reduced the ancient plastered front hall walls and ceiling to rubble. Three upstairs bedrooms suffered deeply cracked ceilings. Outside, the porch stairs, pillars and banisters flew across the yard. Workers must climb up a ladder to bring in supplies. Amid snow and ice, that’s been a challenge. (Fortunately, the roof has hung on.) A temporary mailbox perches precariously on the porch floor’s edge. Reaching inside for mail while kneeling on the icy floor is a tricky business.

A protective, temporary wall extending well out onto the front porch keeps winter at bay as rebuilding continues. The exposed foundation underneath reveals more shattered support timber, unnerving me every time I climb up the ladder and step onto the weakened porch. These major outdoor structural problems will be addressed as soon as the weather warms.

It’s been very difficult to stay at Sunnybank, as three bedrooms have been totally dismantled. Dust, plaster chunks, special equipment and large vats full of various necessary glop have cluttered the upstairs bath, blocking access. Furthermore, there is little privacy, as workers are always moving around. It seemed reasonable for me to relocate to our little farmhouse in Saginaw four days a week.

Lately, shifting from town to town every few days, I’ve caught depression trying to sneak into my tired brain. I keep asking myself: what are the odds that this sort of accident could happen? One friend, deep into mathematics, reckoned it was a one in a trillion chance.

There are bright spots, however. Our State Farm Insurance agent has not only written a big initial check to cover all the work done so far, he’s also approved our move into the Park Place Hotel when we return to Traverse City on weekends. The hotel’s beautiful rooms, cheerful, considerate staff and excellent food have kept depression at arm’s length most of the time. Recently, we were settled into a lovely chamber on the eighth floor. Seeing the city and Grand Traverse Bay from that height during a big snowstorm was a memorable experience.

Still, one gets tired of living out of a suitcase for months.

Our bedrooms were finally done! But, just as we sighed with relief and prepared to unleash the cleaning team- bad news! The plasterer was forced to tear away a considerable amount of wallpaper to shore up the lower stairwell wall. (And I’d been so happy that it had survived!) Horrified, we also realized that every bit up and down the second story hallway have to be removed.

What an awful mess that will be! Worse, there is simply no time for me to choose a new pattern. Instead, the walls will be painted, because I must soon leave for England to scatter my mother and David’s ashes, as I’d promised I would. I’ll be gone awhile.

This latest setback means I haven’t much cheer to offer this week, because I’m feeling thoroughly sorry for myself.

The one constant in life is change.  People who don’t/won’t adapt can become difficult to be around, not to mention annoying. I have no patience with moaners. And I see one developing when I look at my reflection. So I’ve vented my frustration by kicking the impervious garage walls, and trying out new swear words in the basement.

On the plus side, my friend Les has cracked some pretty good jokes to lighten me up. Sometimes they even work.

There is an ancient Chinese curse:

‘May you live in interesting times.’

And I respond to that with a sigh.

I do.

I know- a weird title. But that’s exactly what I’m going to tell you about, today.

Joe and I were guests of my sister and her husband in Naples, Florida, in February. The first thing we did when we arrived was rent multi-speed bicycles to pedal miles every day, exploring a myriad of fascinating parks and beaches up and down the Gulf coast.

As we read ‘come-see-us’ brochures one evening, though, a peculiar sort of name caught Joe’s eye.

“Dee, we should drive to Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary! It’s a 13,000-acre preserve not far from Naples by car, and it boasts the largest remaining virgin Bald (because it loses its leaves in winter) Cypress forest in North America. Plus, it has a first rate 2.25 mile-long boardwalk that allows visitors deep access. Imagine what we might see!”

Well. That wonderful name, plus the animal lure, made the suggestion irresistible.  The next morning off we went, arriving at 7:00 a.m., their opening time. Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary was tucked away, down an unassuming road in the middle of nowhere. Only one other hiker, a young woman, was there that early, and she started out well ahead of us.

'Gateway to the Everglades,' read the sign. The Blair-Audubon Visitor Center was spacious and welcoming. We paid the ranger $20.00 for two tickets, and followed the beautiful boardwalk deep into the wild. It would eventually deliver us back.

The hike took about two-and-a-half hours. Magnificent 600-year old cypress trees towered above us, many dressed in strangler fig vines. Their buttressed bases consisted of odd protrusions spread out and around them, aptly named knees, which are thought to help these giants anchor themselves in hurricane winds.

We wandered, fascinated, through three distinctly different ecosystems.

The silence was stunning. Try to imagine perfect quiet. I could hear myself breathe. Our rubber soles made no sound on the boardwalk. We talked seldom, and then in whispers.

This forest was lovely. There was a bit of morning fog, an immense gathering of strange trees, a bewilderment of undergrowth- and, everywhere, eyes. We felt them. Oh, so many eyes, curiously watching the watchers. Bear-eyes, for instance. Big deposits of black bear scat might be found on the boardwalk itself, commented the ranger who’d sold us the tickets. Hmmm…

Anyway, after better than half the hike was over, the boardwalk became a little roofed bridge over a large pool of opaque water. (It was the dry season, so water levels were very low, creating this sort of pond.) Reeds and richly green water-lettuce coated part of its surface. The scene was so very beautiful, so- primeval. Weak shafts of sunlight angled down, creating a misty glow.

We stared; Joe pointed. The water lettuce was twitching. Something alive was under it. The lettuce began to travel, oh so slowly, for perhaps ten feet. Suddenly, under it, a huge alligator surfaced, in total silence.

Philosophical, it sank back under water. Lettuce obediently reblanketed the monster’s armored back. Perfectly disguised, it glided slowly, silently, along the thickly reeded edge of the pond stalking a huge egret about seventy feet away. The long-legged, snow-white bird, its back to the alligator, was standing in a couple of feet of shallow water, concentrating on something invisible underneath, just feet in front of its long bill. It leaned forward, never losing sight of its prey.

Two birds were perched in a tree directly over the egret’s head. One, an anhinga, was drying its huge black wings after fishing underwater. The other was a very large redheaded woodpecker. Both watched the unfolding drama without comment.

The lettuced alligator paused. Measured. Plotted. The egret, totally engrossed in its own stalk, had no clue about what was creeping up behind.

We held our breaths, not daring to move a muscle. This was surreal.

The egret held its rock-still position for perhaps three. Long. Minutes. Then, BANG! That deadly bill pierced the water once! Twice! Then it relaxed, and waited. Up floated an enormous frog, cream belly exposed, legs splayed. The force of that first hit had killed it. Its skin was unpierced.

The egret was delighted. It took a drink of water, then moved around on those stilt-legs, getting the kinks out. Eventually it grabbed the enormous frog, struggled to flip it into the correct position, stared cross-eyed at the limp body, and then looked confused. It thought. The frog was unceremoniously dumped back into the water, where it floated patiently. The egret stared at it. Eventually the bird plucked it out again, flipped the froggie to face forward- and, once again, froze.

Meanwhile, the garnished alligator had moved very much closer -- closer—any second now-

The treed birds squawked and moved up and down their respective branches, wishing they knew how to get the frog up and away quickly.

The alligator, though, spotted its consolation prize. It moved in -The frog disappeared. So did the huge beast, without a sound.

The lovely pool shone in weak morning light, revealing nothing.

Clutching the railing we looked at each other, grateful to be high, dry, and human. This was Raw Nature, in full bloom, where nothing is ever wasted.

Another lovely morning in Naples, Florida.

It’s just after sunrise. Joe and I long for a look at the Gulf of Mexico. Well, this hunger is easy enough to satisfy. We hop on our multi-speed rental bikes, and in five minutes we’re on the beach. Our bare toes scrunch the cool white sand as we slowly walk along the Gulf’s calm edge, exclaiming over the miles and miles of white-sand beach. Downtown Naples, rising out of the foggy southern horizon far away, seems a sand-born mirage. Twenty miles north, Fort Meyers could be its reflective twin.
And, in between, there exists this immensity of sand.

In the sun-lit, multicolored water live intricate life forms tiny and massive.
Pelicans scoop the sea’s opaque surface for tasty morsels just beneath.

Like the zippy little sanderlings that we step around, Joe and I are content to troll the water’s edge to pluck up shells, bits of flotsam, and the odd woody curiosity.

You may ask if I’ve ever gone swimming in here…Well, I might wade in this warm tub, but- to venture out?

There is one skinny old guy about six feet out from shore who teeters on the brink of much deeper water. He’s decked out in a long-sleeved black wetsuit. A snorkel dangles from his rubber neck. Listening through earphones with intense concentration he guides a long-stemmed metal detector underwater, skimming it delicately over the neck-deep bottom, mining for watches, rings  - stuff. Rubber-man doesn’t ruminate about passing sharks that might sneak up to bite off bits of him for breakfast: only his treasure hunt matters. He weaves the submerged machine back and forth in a loose pattern, and occasionally scoops up something interesting with a teeny basket attached to the end of a stick.

A flash of movement. I gasp! Two hundred feet into the Gulf seven dolphins arch out of the water in synchrony; their gray, finned backs gleam in morning sun. They’re fishing. I know this because the flat ocean is agitated toward the middle of their tight circle. Our binoculars reveal their tactics. Confused fish are surrounded; then, taking turns, each dolphin darts in to down some for breakfast.

In minutes they’ve finished dining. One huge animal rockets straight up, clearing the water, just for fun; then everyone dives.

We aren’t that different, are we? Some mammals fish for trinkets; others fish for –well, fish.

Then, a shocking surprise! Fins suddenly split the sea directly in front of me; rapidly approaching giant bodies displace enough water to liberally splash my sandals. I shout for Joe just as three huge dolphins stop on a dime nearly within touching distance, then parade back and forth with slow deliberation, studying us.

Eeee…lumpy sand creatures! Look at ‘em move around slowly, like soft-shelled crabs, waving puny appendages finished off with inadequate (not sharp) fingerlings that seem defensively useless.

Forever separated by two oceans (we at the bottom of ours; they at the top of theirs) we try to comprehend our circumstances.

Sated, the dolphins glance at us, then turn away. Fin-torn water settles into a seamlessly flat surface as they smoothly submerge to glide toward the sun-dappled drop-off,