Circling St. Ives

Optimistically, they thought, “Who doesn’t love a coastal town with the briny wind, the boisterous surf, the confined, winding street lined with touristy merchandise shops?” This was purported to be a magical overnight stay filled with images of pirates and tales of swashbuckling heroics - an idyllic getaway for a hopeful romantic. The lure of these adventure-laden shores had emboldened two wide-eyed American tourists to venture to the southern most tip of England. St. Ives to be exact.

For all intents and purposes, the day started out perfectly despite classic grey April skies and constant rain. These hearty tourists had lived in moist conditions for most of their lives and were emotionally undaunted by a little spitting drizzle.

The rented blue car resembling a used soap bar slipped down the narrow ‘A’ road with ease as the carefree travelers mindlessly hummed along to the only CD they had with them. The jazzy tunes of British artist, Seal, heightened the potential and nearly impending romance of the voyage ahead.

Moment by moment, the scenic English Moors of Dartmoor National Park glided past. Never had the vacationers experienced something as wild and rugged as this. Yes, they had seen the jagged, snow spotted mountains of Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks in America. They had also seen tundra strewn hillsides in remote places of Alaska. These locales feel rough and desolate, but are somehow compelling. They invite one to into the mysterious side of adventure.

However, the English Moors were a beast of a different kind. They were desolate, rugged, rough, and wild to be sure. However, there was another element that permeated the atmosphere. It felt eerily majestic. It was as if the spirits of kings, queens, knights and warriors of the centuries past hovered there like a barren purgatory. Gradually, the loneliness and bleakness of the terrain began to envelope the soap shaped vehicle. Optimism waned.

The quaint and artistic village of St. Ives sits wedged into the crevasse of a rocky outcrop of land. The harsh waves of the Atlantic Ocean beat unceasingly against the seawall. Fishy, salty and grassy smells carried up the side of the hill by a relentless wind draw attention toward the stone houses stacked one on top of the other like one massive terraced garden broken up by occasional bits of jagged, dark rocks poking through.

The map’s address simply read “14 Rose Cottage Way” to the charming bed and breakfast room awaiting. How hard could it be to find in this tiny, yet attractive fishing village? The travelers’ methodical search began by descending the lengthy hill into town.

The view was spectacular even through the rain. The white-capped waves of the open ocean lay before them on the right mirrored by the white house-covered hill on the left.

At the bottom of the hill the road unexpectedly changed into a one-way system of streets that dictated the journeyers’ direction of travel. Circling through the tiny city centre was fun and intriguing the first time through. There were several shops that the tourists wanted to inspect the next day – kite shops, souvenir shops, historical points of interest, the seawall walk and enticing eateries. They noticed a split second too late that they missed the turn to their necessary street. Amused, they finished the loop through the town and began the second round.

Turning onto the desired street proved an adventure in itself. It reminded the pair of a camel going through the eye of a needle. It forced the travelers to creep past parked cars and stone half-walls to avoid damaging the rented car. Tensions mounted as adrenaline surged with the challenge.

At the end of the row of houses, the deceivingly charming street continued to narrow into what looked to be a bicycle path and seemed to wander off down a precarious precipice. Unlike an actual soap bar, this blue car would not slide gently down the obviously uninhabited ravine wall, nor did the travelers want it to.

Somewhere in the last 30 feet, desperation for a respite crept into the minds of the hungry and frustrated couple. Any trace of adventure and romance vanished. Frustration soon gave way to misdirected open hostility. Angry words were exchanged before the driver extricated himself from the vehicle in order to avoid further escalation. However, after a few minutes to catch their breath, the couple reunited, made apologies and changed their plan of attack for the situation.

Gingerly, they picked their way back to the circuitous city route that was gaining annoying familiarity. The return trip did not change the fact that the map provided by their travel agent directed them to a house that was clearly not a “charming bed and breakfast with ample parking”.

With wry and ironic smiles, they noticed that the appeal was fading as they circled through the village centre yet again. They noticed that shops were beginning to close for the evening therefore, they were rapidly losing options for assistance to their goal. Climbing the long hill back out of the town to a petrol station became their only hope.

After gaining the correct directions from the dirt and grease-laden station attendant, the two now weary travelers once again descended into the village. Following these new directions, they were surprised to discover that they were going in a direction opposite to the other attempts to locate their evening target. Insecure glances were exchanged as they asked an elderly, friendly couple walking the white flower dotted sidewalk for more information. Grateful, the assured travelers tentatively continued on, up a hill parallel to the road leading into the village.

Near the pinnacle, like a lighthouse’s beam of hope, they saw the white sign with black letters: “Rose Cottage Way”. Turning left, they were rewarded with a sign further up the street that indicated that they had reached their ‘home’ for the night – #14.

Snuggled under the poofy duvet after a hearty meal and hot showers, the couple reflected on the day’s adventure. Not any time soon, but someday, they decided, they would appreciate the adventure and enjoy the humor of circling St Ives.

Sounds

Contentment a purring cat on my pillow

Comfort the exhale of a friend during a hug

Anticipation the ‘wah na na na’ of a motorcycle motor

Cheer birds faithfully chirping their reports of winter holidays

Fear a ringing phone at an unusual hour

Empathy a friend delivering bad news through her tears

Acceptance the excited greeting of a parent or friend

Anxiety a thumping heart through an important interview

Confusion snapping & popping of ligaments from a strange illness

Grief silent tears in remembrance of past losses – a spouse,

grandparents, a creative mentor, an inspirational

and beloved family member

Selfishness a squeaking, cracking voice interrupting a prayer for

someone you just don’t know if you could live without

Hope the ‘ding’ on your computer indicating an email with fun

plans enclosed

Confidence God’s voice saying, “Take My hand. We’ll go together.”

Novocain Life

Paralyzed

Empty

Useless

Ineffective

Bloated

Limp

Lame

This Novocain life

 

Temporary

Escape

Lethargic

Apathetic

The nitrous of my soul

 

Urgent

Tingling

Thrill

Alive

Free

Just one breath of holy

oxygen to fill my spirit!

The Great ‘L’ Road Incident of the Year 2000

I affectionately call it the Metallic Easter Egg, the Irish Emerald Geo-de, and on one occasion, the Jolly Green…Miniature. For, it was the tiniest car ever to hold 2 very American tourists, their travel gear, and an ever-growing bundle of ‘On Holiday’ souvenirs.

The valiant and spirited underdog zipped like a top let go from a toddler across the Irish countryside. It reminded me of tinny wind up mice that cats play with….whirring and circling and eventually unwinding themselves to a stop. To this day, I feel like it should have been plugged in at night or like we should have fed peanuts to the squirrels on the wheel in the engine compartment. Perhaps, we should have been using a plastic dipstick style cord to insert and then yank out to wind up the internal rubber band mechanism. No, it never did feel like a ‘real’ car – solid, sturdy, dependable, smooth or agile. But, come to think of it, an ‘L’ road somewhere outside Galway, Ireland is no place for a luxury automobile!

Picture it, a hazy sky hanging low like contented cat’s eyes. The knobby clouds covered the horizon like a woolen blanket produced in the finest Merino mills. It was April in Ireland after all.

The aforementioned Americans breakfasted heartily and were abuzz at the thought of a day trip excursion into the countryside of Connaght. Optimism grew to a feverish pitch as they effortlessly pointed the green orb toward its halfway mark for the day, Connemara National Park. Navigation skills were sharp on day 16 of 30 in this magic land. Many a lesson had been learned by missing turns, missing landmarks, and all too frequently, signage that was completely missing. But these tourists were naïve and enthusiastic as they ventured out with only a light snack, map and passports in hand.

The tranquil, olive hillsides slipped by one after another on through the morning. There was no cell phone coverage, no radio reception and if memory serves, no power lines….

An eerie little doubt began to nibble in the wee dark recesses of the mind. Signs in English AND Gaelic began to dwindle. Soon only Gaelic could be seen. Nervous titter was exchanged between the thrill seekers.

The steel egg continued to buzz along without a care. It seemed fueled by the freedom of the country space. The clean air like nitrous to the motor. This life so opposed to the forced labor in the city of Galway under which it usually serves its sentence.

The mood in the tiny jade rocket flagged only for a moment until cresting a knoll, a pub rose into view. Even after consuming cheese, crackers and drinks, hunger had began to motivate these hearty travelers to seek a tavern for a meal.

After a satisfying repast and confirmation of the route chosen for the day, the journeyers were again underway.

However, soon realizing that the day was more than half over and the trip was not, the navigator began to look for alternatives to shorten the distance. The pilot of the spherical machine was eager and trusting. Both had experience with ‘M’ named map lines – they were freeways, ‘A’ referred to highways, and ‘N’ were side streets. But on this map was a new assignment to a passageway. The little white line beckoned the trekkers like the siren song of Greek mythology. The temptation to veer off the known path was too strong. The hapless wayfarers turned off the familiar ‘N’ designation. It was time to live on the mysterious side of adventure with this 'L' road.

It was ‘ON’ now. The challenge was accepted with gusto. No one but the locals knew what lay ahead. With hearts swollen with adrenaline and dopy grins on their eager faces, the metallic rubber ball-like contraption seemed to float over the surface of the earth. The vehicle may have left the ground at one point as the hysterically laughing pilot and navigator were bounced and tossed like a rudderless vessel in a perfect storm.  Up on its side and thrown over a hill, tossed to the left suddenly, then pitching back up and over small rocks. The delight in the machine, paved surface and human exhilaration was intoxicating! The bottle green bubble had subtly taken control of the passengers. The dashboard and steering wheel had become the safety bars on this world-class roller coaster! The passengers were simply along for the ride! And what a ride it was! When the road stopped at the next intersection, they were left stunned and giggling like junior high girls as the unadulterated high began to wear off.

In reality, the thoroughfare was nothing more than asphalt-like substance poured out over grass tuft, rock, hill and dale. I can’t with 100% certainty say, but I would almost swear that one hump actually ‘baaaa-ed’ as we passed over it! No thought of going around any obstacle had remotely entered the, and I use the term loosely, engineer’s mind during ‘construction’.

It was a highlight of an already wonderful excursion to the Emerald Isle and I will repeat it if ever given the chance such was the delight of that hazy April day in the year 2000.

You'll Never Guess...

This short was inspired by a black and white photograph of a theater full of laughing children on a postcard. Who knew I could do this in just 10 minutes?!

Chrissy had never laughed so hard! She had been led to believe that this was a serious film. But what she was seeing couldn’t be, could it?

Sure, she enjoyed dreaming about the future as much as her friends next to her. They all hoped that one day there would be flying cars. But she could tell by their laughter that they doubted. Even the boys were laughing. If anyone could comprehend the magnitude of the scenes before them, surely it would be the boys!

Faced with the contents of the film she was forced to mock or consider the possibilities presented to her. With technology evolving exponentially every day, she guessed that it could happen.

In the dark theater she felt safe among the other scoffers. However, it would be at home later that night, lying in her familiar bed, that she would allow her imagination to take flight. She let the scene unfold in her mind over and over again.

Maybe, just maybe, someday the newsies would proclaim the day’s newspaper headlines, “Christa McAuliffe: 1^st Female Astronaut”.

Shredder Tales

The day started like any other. I reluctantly oozed out of bed, groped for the stair rail while avoiding the blinding light of dawn, ravaged the coffee can, impatiently waited for caffeine to surge into my veins while in the shower, performed the appropriate albeit mundane ablutions, sprinted the last few precious minutes of freedom to the office and took my dutiful position in the corporate workforce.

While the windows developed prison bars, I set about the tasks awaiting my attention. Today corralling paperwork and details felt like herding felines since my attention was repeatedly summoned by “The Leash”, cynically referred to as the telephone.

Then it happened. From across a wall partition wailing and gnashing of teeth could be heard! The end of the world having been announced by many scruffy street dwellers was upon us! It was being heralded aloud!

"Armageddon is nigh!"

The paper shredder was jammed!

Whatever shall we do? Who will save us from certain doom?!

I leaped from my helm, donned my equipment belt and hard hat and headed to the source of the catastrophe. Along the way, I wondered if, perhaps, just perchance, the bin was full and the shredder, not really jammed. At every turn on the route the feeling of calamity became palpably concentrated.

OHHHHHH, it was JAMMED. No amount of cajoling, supplication or entreating would turn the sadistic metal teeth free. I wrenched and jabbed and flossed the living whoopee out of those ferocious incisors.

Time passed. I was repeatedly reminded that ‘the leash’ was securely fastened around my neck and that there was no life outside the walls of this dungeon.

After much brow mopping, flailing of paper ribbons and occasional swearing, the violent fangs gave way!

I had done it! I had conquered, triumphed, surmounted the impossible!

My coworkers cheered, threw ticker tape into the sky, and cavorted in the street. Two raised me onto their shoulders and walked throughout the building chanting, “Dana is the queen, Dana is the queen!”

“The Leash” yanked me back to the stark reality that I was lording over a mechanical monster with nothing but a letter opener. It was not my coworkers singing my praises, but my own little inner voice reminding me of a single fitting phrase. A self satisfied smile crept over my lips with the memory of it.

“More than merely a secretary – only slightly less than a goddess”.

Keep Checking In!

I WILL have postings in the near future! I plan to do A LOT of writing this summer and will post as much as I can! Don't give up on me!