Dear Family and Friends  

Thank the Lord, Jay decided not to buy the 40 acres up the lake. (For details see 2008 post.) However, a couple of days ago, I heard his voice spark with interest as his visiting physiotherapist mentioned that she might be selling her house down the lake. Ah, yes. His visiting physiotherapist, you ask?

It all started in January, when I went off to London for a week to celebrate my birthday. I was sitting in a lovely restaurant with my family and friends and one of them asked me whether Jay was planning to break anything else this year. I roared with laughter, and said “No chance,” knowing he had made a bet with his personal trainer that he wouldn’t - and he never loses a bet. As I was uttering these words, Jay was back in New Hampshire, falling off a snowmobile and stopping his onward flight by hitting a fairly sturdy sapling with his knee. It stopped his onward flight, all right.

Here is Fred demonstrating how to do a wheelie and still stay on the snowmobile...

When I got back from Las Vegas to chilly New Hampshire - Oh, I forgot. It was my 60^th birthday (some mistake surely) and in an effort to cheer me up, my daughter Helenka had arranged a girl’s weekend in Las Vegas, with Jay’s sister Judy (whose birthday is two days after mine) and her daughter Laurie. We were there to see Bette Midler, a busty American chanteuse who’s been a favourite of mine for years, and to win a lot of money. Bette Midler cancelled on the night of the show, but I did win some money. Three dollars, to be precise, which was almost enough to buy me a cup of coffee in the casino. I worked out the system, though. I put the coins into the one arm bandit in front of me, and Judy took them out of the machine next to mine.

Meanwhile, back in chilly New Hampshire, Jay was staring moodily out at the magnificent view and contemplating spending the next few weeks recovering from surgery while tethered to the house. It wasn’t long before he was accompanying me to the supermarket, where he took to driving those electric chair things at very high speeds around the shop. I followed in his wake, apologising and explaining that this was the kind of driving that had caused the accident in the first place…

He decided we should venture further afield. After rejecting Montreal, (close, but icy) we settled on Bermuda, (close-ish, but warmer). 

 

Rush hour on Lake Sunapee – they actually built a road…

 

                      Rush hour in Bermuda – that’s Bertie on the right

 

 

 I popped back to London in April and May. Just for laughs, and to see my mother, 89, and still driving, cooking, running errands and the Liberal Party single-handed. I  arrived back home to find we were leaving again for Jay’s 55^th class reunion at his prep school, Andover. In July, we travelled to Los Angeles, for a wedding and a trip up the coast to Oregon. The wedding was like something from an American film - outdoor ceremony, followed by dancing under the stars and a terrific firework show (it being July 4^th).  Having persuaded Jay that we really didn’t need to buy Hearst Castle, we drove north to Big Sur, a place we had visited over a quarter of a century ago. We came across Nepenthe, a restaurant where we’d eaten, and Jay remarked chummily to the maitre d’ “We had a reservation here 28 years ago.” Without missing a beat the man replied: “So you finally showed up, did you?” Nice to know they remembered us…

And here we are, still waiting for a table...

Onward to visit more friends in the Napa Valley, California’s famous wine-growing area. Don and Nina live in the middle of a vineyard (or so it appeared to us), and generously shepherded us around to wonderful art collections and a funny little place in a garage which sold hand pressed (or something) olive oils and vinegars. They recommended a small but charming hotel for our next night. It was perched on a cliff near Montecito, and the views were stunning. I wish I could say the same for the foghorn out in the bay. It blared every three minutes all night long, but failed to stun me. Jay snored peacefully through it. Finally, in desperation, I found my recording of some waves (supposed to help me relax) and listened to the sound of a fake ocean until I finally fell asleep. We are still speaking to Don and Nina…just.

A day later, we were in Oregon, having checked out the California redwoods on the way. Here’s a picture of Jay holding up one of the trees - a mere sapling by comparison with some of its older relatives.

 

On the Oregon coast, I had to restrain Jay again (I should travel with handcuffs, really) from riding up and down their enormous sand dunes on a tiny tractor known as an ATV (all terrain vehicle)The tiny speck on the right is how Jay saw himself, but he settled, after I threatened to damage his other knee,  for a ride in a kind of land rover, driven by a former marine. That was terrifying enough.

 

We got back in one piece, thank goodness, and Jay started planning his next trip, to Quebec City, where he’d been thousands of years ago. This time, Fred and I accompanied him, while Bertie stayed in New Hampshire, relaxing after a strenuous vacation with his friends in North Carolina. Quebec was delightful, now designated a World Heritage site, so that the old town can’t be changed. The Quebecois were celebrating their 400^th anniversary (it’s one of the oldest cities in North America), and the streets were full of people dressed in 17^th century clothes. We saw one family, dressed in their finery, eating pizza in a very 21^st century café. A magnificent Native American headdress in a shop window caught Jay’s eye, but I persuaded him that it might lead to comment in downtown New Hampshire. As for the (real) bear skin with savage teeth, I pointed out that our dog Dougal would probably have a heart attack if forced to cohabit with it.

Autumn saw the boys, Fred and Bertie, head off to college. Fred went back to the University of Connecticut, where he is now starring in the Formula one racing club, where they build a racing car and then race it against other university teams. He’s also the tallest member of the Korean club which he joined (he says) to practise the language, but I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that there are lots of interesting Korean girls there.

Bertie went cheerfully off to enormous Boston University, having decided in favour of that instead of the very rural University of Vermont. He was all set to study neuroscience, but phoned me on the first day of term to ask if it would be OK if he took astronomy instead. Apparently he decided that he’d always hated chemistry, and realised there would be much too much of it if he wanted to be a brain surgeon. 

 And Jay and I were off again. This time to England for the wedding of my oldest friends’ daughter. It was another perfect wedding - small country church, smashing marquee with dancing. The bridegroom was on crutches, with a broken leg. Jay was delighted to compare notes on the various sporting activities which accounted for their war wounds. I think he felt his injury put him in with the “in” crowd (or whatever they’re called these days). This wedding ended in fireworks, too - must be a trend.

 I have been trying to write in my spare time and leisure moments, and had a story published in the San Antonio Review. I also won a local poetry contest, much to my surprise, since this was the first poem I’d written since I was a love-struck 16-year-old.

And so back to the beginning. Jay had his whole knee replaced in November, a week before Thanksgiving, and now, having sorted out all his current business affairs (yes, he’s still working) he’s staring moodily out at a magnificent view of falling snow and wondering how soon he’ll be able to go out on a snowmobile again. As if….. Luckily, Christmas will cheer him up, since we’ll be hosting all the children and grandchildren over the holidays (Not all at once! I’m good but not that good!)

Here’s wishing you a very Merry Christmas, and a year to remember for all the right reasons in 2010.

 

 

Published Fiction - Making Peace

This was published in the Rio Grande Review, a University of Texas literary journal 

It was a lovely day for a walk, and Alice was trying to enjoy it. She wished Arthur could be here to enjoy it with her; he’d always looked forward to the spring, but he’d been gone these twelve years and more. She missed the way he used to call her Alice Blue. He’d called her that because she’d always liked the song. She still hummed it sometimes: “In my sweet little Alice blue gown...” 
Alice had become used to living alone. Mostly, she quite liked it, although sometimes the house seemed too quiet. Still, at the age of eighty-three, she knew that each day was a blessing, and she tried to be grateful for every minute. Some days were easier than others. Today, even putting on her wool coat took a real effort; Alice wasn’t sure why, exactly. But she had worn that coat for years, no matter what the weather. The coat would see her out, she was sure. 
Right now, she was focusing on the way ahead of her, making sure she didn’t trip on an uneven paving stone. Her heart seemed to be beating rather harder than usual, and she was starting to perspire. Take it easy, old dear, she told herself, and stopped for a minute, to get her breath back. A light breeze blew some of the cherry blossom off the trees toward her, and cooled her faded cheeks as she continued her slow but resolute steps. She was making her way to the new postbox on the corner of Clarence Road. Why they’d moved it from Acacia Avenue, she had no idea. All she knew was that it was further away from her house now.
Walking didn’t come as easily as it once had. When she and Arthur had been courting, they’d thought nothing of climbing Shooter’s Hill with a picnic, which they would eat at the top, while they surveyed the London skyline. Alice recalled the smooth flat rock where she and Arthur had been sitting, looking at the view, when he’d first kissed her cheek. She blinked a tear away, remembering. 
She hadn’t expected him to die when he did. She had taken for granted, when they were young, that they’d both live forever. That was before the war, of course, and the bombs that fell during the Blitz. Arthur had joined the navy, and had spent much of the war on the convoys that escorted the bigger ships across the Atlantic and through the North Sea. He didn’t talk about it much, but he’d survived, that was the main thing.
Alice had always said that she’d follow him to the ends of the earth. Not that they’d traveled far, when it came right down to it. After he came back from the war, Arthur said he’d seen as much of foreign lands as anyone could want to see. So, for twenty-odd years, they’d taken their summer holidays on the south coast, and sometimes in the Lake District, until Arthur had fallen ill.
Even then, Alice had decided that if she didn’t live forever, she’d still live for a long time in good health. After all, her parents had lived well into their eighties. And she was still healthy, really, she supposed, apart from the old ticker, which acted up a bit every so often. The doctors wouldn’t operate, because of her advanced age. They told her to keep taking the pills, but mostly, she didn’t bother. Anyway, she still had time for what she needed to do.
She wanted to tie up loose ends. She didn’t like leaving things undone. So, a couple of weeks ago, she’d made a special visit to her daughter, Mandy, taking the bus all the way to Ashford and back by herself. She wanted Mandy to know that she was doing a fine job of raising her children. Alice hadn’t been sure, to start with, what sort of a mother Mandy would make. She’d always been so flighty when she was young. But her kids, Terry and Sheila, had turned out great, though Alice didn’t see much of them anymore. After all, teenagers always had so many other things to do. But they’d been at home the day she’d visited, and even sat down to have a cup of tea and piece of cake with her and Mandy. Alice felt a warm feeling in her chest as she thought about that day.
Today, it was warmer out than she’d expected. Alice paused for a minute to catch her breath again. A greengrocer’s van drove by, trailing a cloud of exhaust fumes. “Australian apples – good on ya”, it said on the side of the van. Alice wasn’t sure what “good on ya” meant, but she thought Ruby would know.
Her old school friend Ruby had moved to Australia a long time ago, but they’d kept up. Ruby wrote regularly, still inviting Alice to visit, as she had for the last forty years. Only last week, Alice had written back again to explain that it was still too far to come, though she would always treasure the oldest friend she had. And she had written to her wartime friend, Maggie, who was Canadian. They had met in the ATS, driving ambulances around London after the bombing. Maggie had come all the way from Canada, to help the war effort. Five boys, Maggie had, all grown up, now. How on earth had she managed with five? 
Alice had barely coped with her one boy. He’d been a lovely little lad, John, always smiling, always trying to please his mum. And then he’d gone away to college, which was only right, because he was brainy. He’d studied rocks – geology they called it. The family used to tease him about being a know-it-all. But he really did know a lot, thought Alice. Still, it had never been the same after college. He’d met that stuck-up girl, Isabella. Alice had always known that it was the girl who’d been ambitious. It was obvious to Alice from the first that she was out to snare John. And she’d succeeded. Alice had tried to warn John that Isabella wasn’t right for him, but it made no difference, of course. Perhaps she should have kept her own counsel, because that’s when John had really started to become a stranger. Alice had never liked Isabella, and thought she was a bit of a gold-digger. Well, diamond-digger really. She smiled wryly at her own joke. That was what John did for a living. He was paid to look for diamonds for the largest diamond company in Africa. It was an awfully long way to go, so far from his home and family. If it hadn’t been for Isabella, he might have taken that job he was offered with the oil company in Scotland. That was far enough, Alice thought, but not as far as Africa. Still, Isabella had decided that diamonds sounded more posh than oil, and so they’d gone to live abroad, instead of staying close to his roots. He’s never asked me to visit, Alice reflected. Probably because of Isabella. 
And now she’d written one last letter. After sealing the envelope, she had hidden it carefully in a side pocket of her ancient black handbag, so as not to mislay it. It was addressed to a post office box in Africa, and Alice wondered, as she stopped again to lean against the carefully clipped hedge of Mrs. Wilkins’ garden, whether they had the same sort of post offices in Africa as here. She thought they probably did. And maybe they had boxes on a post at the end of the drive, like those American ones she’d seen in the pictures. 

She worried too much, that’s what Arthur had always said, when she wondered why John didn’t write. Arthur kept saying that youngsters today had no idea how to write any more, and it wasn’t that John didn’t love her. Alice wasn’t so sure. And she wondered why this letter of hers had been so hard to write. It wasn’t as though she was upset with John, or even Isabella, come to that. Well, not any more. Not after all these years. He was her son, when all was said and done. It would be silly to hold a grudge for so long. It was simply that…
She paused again for one more rest before she reached the corner. She used to make this walk in five minutes. Funny, how slow she’d become. A bench stood nearby, one the local council had failed to remove when they instituted the big clean up of the neighborhood. That’s when they’d moved the pillar box, too, from Acacia Avenue to Clarence Road. She sank gratefully onto the bench, and gripped her handbag a little harder, pulling it in towards her chest, making sure she still had the letter.
It was time to make amends now – to say she was sorry for everything she’d said. The letter was here in her bag. She was going to post it today.
Alice closed her eyes, letting the spring sun play on her face. Her eyes fluttered open a few minutes later to see a young man walking towards her. It was hard to see his face because the sun was in her eyes. He had red hair, like Arthur’s. She’d always liked a redhead.
“Mind if I sit here?” he said.
“Help yourself, ducks,” Alice murmured. She was feeling a bit drowsy, truth be told. 
“Taking a walk then?” the young man asked. His voice sounded oddly familiar.
“Going to post a letter.” 
“You look done in. Would you like me to take it? The postbox is just over there.” He pointed to the corner of Acacia Avenue.
Alice frowned. She squinted at the corner, and sure enough, there was the pillar box. 
“I thought they’d moved it,” said Alice. Maybe she was getting forgetful.
“So, shall I post it for you?” he said, rising from the bench.
“That would be kind.”
Alice fumbled with her bag, which released a smell of the extra strong peppermints that she favored as she opened it. She took out the letter, and handed it to the young man. She watched him as he walked away, rolling slightly as he did so, like a sailor. He turned as he reached the letter box, before dropping the letter into it. Now he was on his way back. Alice felt a little flutter in her chest. He seemed like a nice young man, but you could never tell these days.
“That’s done,” he said, and sat down on the bench next to her. 
Alice closed her eyes again. She felt a cool hand close over her own warm one, but she didn’t feel nervous. Nothing to worry about, now. The letter was safely on its way. And she could be going on hers.
As though he’d heard her thought, the young man spoke again.
“Time to get going, my lovely,” he said, then leaned across and kissed Alice gently on the cheek.
 Alice felt a warm glow on the spot where he’d kissed her. 
“I’ll see you soon, Alice Blue.”
Alice’s eyes flew open, but the sun was too bright and everything looked hazy. She closed them again.
“Arthur?” she whispered. 
The sun seemed to be glowing, suddenly hot, through her eyelids. Her head fell forward. Her bag dropped to the ground. 

THE END

Overlooked by publishers - Fiction (mostly)

The Outfit

by

Gabi Coatsworth


It had been at least thirty years since Jim Saunders had last worn the outfit. Well, it wasn’t exactly the same outfit, obviously, because he’d mislaid the original years ago. But this one was a faithful replica, and as he thought about how he would look in it, a slow smile spread across his features. He stared at himself in the mirror, and remembered.
The last time, two girls had been involved. They had been so trusting, innocent really. And he had experienced not one shred of remorse afterwards. In fact he had bragged about it to his brother, George. 
“They had no idea what I was going to do,” he told him. “If I do say so myself, I fooled them completely.”
 “Come on now,” said George, draining his second bottle of beer. “You’re not telling me that they didn’t even suspect?”
“Swear to God, not a clue,” Jim said. 
“Thing is you won’t be able to keep fooling them,” George continued, reaching for another handful of peanuts.
“Sure I will.” Hesitation was apparent in Jim’s voice.
And of course, George had been right. The next time Jim had tried to hoodwink the girls, the older one, Annette, sophisticated beyond her years, looked him straight in the eye as he lifted her onto his lap.
“You’re not really Santa, are you?” she asked, with an accusatory stare. “You’re my daddy.”

Thirty years later, Jim was ready to try again. Actually, it was his wife Jean who had encouraged him. He had been feeling grouchy, as he always did with the approach of Christmas. The tree they had ordered was too big for the stand they had used for years. The only string of Christmas lights that was working was the one he hated, the multicolored one that blinked on and off all the time. He hadn’t been able to find any icicles to hang on the tree. 
“I’ve had it with this tree. Christmas shouldn’t be so complicated. I don’t know why I bother,” Jim groused as he carried the box of ornaments into the living room from the attic. Jean gave him a shrewd glance.
“You know,” she remarked, “I think one of the reasons you don’t really enjoy Christmas is that you keep hoping it will be the same as it used to be when the girls were little.”
“Nonsense,” he snapped, and headed into the kitchen for something to drink. 
Returning into the living room, where Jean was now hanging ornaments on the tree, he handed her a glass of Cabernet and sank heavily into the leather recliner by the fire. He balanced his glass on the arm of the chair.
“It’s always some psychological thing with you, Jean,” he said. “I enjoy Christmas, of course I do. By the way, that silver ornament needs to go higher up. It looks wrong there.”
Jean persevered.
“Well, this Christmas should really be fun – We have the girls coming over. So Annette and Nick will be coming with the children. And Heather with her fiancé.”
Jim tried to enthuse.
“Sure, it’ll be great. I’m looking forward to it, honestly.”
Jean let the subject drop.

A few days later, walking down the High Street, Jean’s eye was caught by a brightly coloured window display in one of the local stores. Santa Suits – one size fits all, she read. Heading into the shop, she took a box from the stack near the door. The contents promised to include a jacket, trousers, belt, hat, beard and even some kind of fake boots that would fit over the wearer’s own shoes. She opened the box and took out the scarlet pants, lifting them up to see how much room there would be in the waist. After considering the pants for a few moments, Jean decided she would take a chance that they’d fit. After all, if Jim didn’t like the suit, she could always bring it back for a refund.

Early on Christmas morning, Jim crept off to the kitchen to make Jean a cup of cocoa, while she pretended she was still asleep. He had been bringing her a cup of cocoa in bed every Christmas Day for years. While he was banging about in the kitchen, she took out the suit and laid it on the bed. When he came back into the room, he stared at it, speechless. Putting down the cup of cocoa, he sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand over the jacket. Then he picked up the Santa hat and tried it on.
“Ho, Ho, Ho,” he chuckled, giving Jean a distinctly un-Santa-like kiss.

Annette and her husband Nick arrived around three o’clock, towing Natalie, aged three, and the baby. 
“Grandpa,” Natalie shouted the minute she was inside the house, “Pick me up! Make me swing around!”
Jim laughed and bent down to help Natalie take off her coat. 
“Okay, here we go,” He swung Natalie around, then gave her a hug before returning her to the floor.
“Hey, Grandpa, what are we going to do now?” Jim shot Jean an enquiring look as Natalie hugged him around the knees. Jean indicated the tree surrounded by presents, with a sideways nod of her head.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Jim extricated himself. “Let’s look over here, shall we?”
Hand in hand, they walked over to the tree.

Shortly after, Heather and her fiancé arrived. Jean served hors d’oeuvres and drinks, while Jim and Natalie handed round gifts from under the tree. Soon Natalie was happily playing with a new doll.
Jim drew Jean aside.
“I think now’s the time,” he said. “I’m going to get changed in the downstairs bathroom, so don’t let anyone come in. By the way, do you have a cushion I could use for padding?”
“Are you sure you’ll need…” she paused. “Here you are, darling.” She grabbed the smallest cushion she could see. “Sure you can manage?”
“Piece of cake. See you at the front door in about five minutes.”
Jean returned to the living room, and passed round a tray of canapés. Every so often, she would look towards the front door, but no-one appeared. Smiling brightly at her daughters, she excused herself and hurried towards the bathroom.
A series of muffled curses greeted her as she neared the door. She knocked on it. Sudden silence, then Jim hissed:
“Jean, is that you?”
“Yes. What’s the hold-up?”
“Goddamn suit! I don’t know why they design them like this. They used to be much better. This is some foreign rubbish, I bet.” Jim sounded a bit breathless.
“Shh, they’ll hear you,” Jean was speaking in a stage whisper. “Do you want a hand?”
“Come in for God’s sake. Look at this. I can’t put these stupid boot things on.”
Jean opened the door, took one look at Jim and stifled a laugh. He was trying in vain to bend over.
“I think perhaps you’re meant to put them on before you put the cushion under your jacket,” she offered. “Why don’t you sit on the toilet lid and I’ll help you with them.”
The curly white beard which covered the lower two thirds of Jim’s face was thankfully stifling some of his further comments. Glaring at her balefully, he did as he was told, while Jean sorted out his footwear.
“There, I think that should do it,” she said, straightening up. “Sure you can cope now?”
Jim stood up and looked at himself in the mirror over the washbasin. He tugged at the beard, which had slipped around under one ear. Finally, more or less satisfied with his appearance, he gave Jean a ticklish kiss on the cheek.
“This used to be so much easier, didn’t it?” he grumbled, as he sneaked out of the back door.

In the living room, the grandchildren were getting fractious as the afternoon wore on. As she walked back in, Jean winked at Annette whose apprehensive look was quickly replaced by a smile of relief.
A bold knocking came at the door.
“I wonder who could be calling on us today?” said Jean. She looked at Heather. “You weren’t expecting anyone, were you?”
Heather shook her head, and pulled her camera out of her handbag.
“Hey, Natalie, did you invite someone over without telling us?”
“No, Grandma, really.” Natalie was looking a bit anxious.
“We’d better see who it is then. Come on.” Jean walked over to the front door, followed by Natalie and Annette, who was holding her hand.
As the door opened, a large red object with a top covered in white curls suddenly burst into life.
“Ho, Ho, Ho,” it roared. “It’s me. Santa Claus,” Santa added helpfully.
Natalie stared at him, delighted and then appalled. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and ducked behind her mother’s skirt. Annette bent down, laughing.
“Don’t be scared, sweetie. It’s only Santa Claus. Do come in, Santa,” she added.
Santa Claus was over the threshold and dropping a sack on the floor before Natalie could quite believe it.
“What’s your name, little girl?” he asked.
“I’m Natalie.” She looked for confirmation to her mother.
“Delighted to meet you. I think I was at your house last night, wasn’t I?”
“Oh yes! You brought me a My Pony set and lots of other stuff.” Now Natalie was beginning to enjoy herself. “But why are you here?”
“Come and sit down with me and I‘ll tell you.” Santa sat in Grandpa’s favorite chair, and pulled Natalie onto his lap. “The reindeer and I were on our way home to the North Pole, and Rudolph stared to complain that he was hungry. So I was wondering whether you might by any chance have a carrot or two I could give him?”
Natalie looked hopefully at Jean.
“Do we Grandma?”
“I’m sure I can find some.” So much for the roasted carrots she had been planning to serve with the turkey.
Jean returned a few minutes later, to see Santa reaching into his sack.
“Since you are being so kind as to give me some carrots for Rudolph, maybe I can find a little something in here for you, young lady.”
He pulled out a package and handed it to Natalie. 
“And here’s something for your little brother, too.” Natalie wasn’t interested. She was busy tearing off the wrapping, to reveal a pink tutu with matching tights.
“A ballet dress,” she breathed, clutching it to her chest. “Thank you, Santa.”
“Well,” said Santa, sounding regretful, “This has been very nice, but I’m afraid I must get going. Mrs. Claus will be wondering where I am.”
He stood up.
“May I have a hug, young Natalie?” he asked, scooping her up.
Natalie obliged, wrinkling her nose a bit as she landed among the white curls of Santa’s beard.
Santa put her down, and turned to wave, before the door closed behind him.
“I wonder where Rudolph and the other reindeer are?” asked Natalie. 
“Oh, I expect they’re out there in the woods, looking for something else to eat,” said Jean.
“Can I see?”
“Of course. Stand up here on this chair. I’ll hold you.”
Natalie frowned in concentration as she peered through the glass. It was twilight now, and there were shadows among the trees.
“I think….I think I see them, Grandmama.” Natalie pointed into the sky.
“I do believe you’re right, darling,” said Jean, kissing the top of her granddaughter’s head.
“Grandpa, can you see them?” Jim, looking flushed with exertion, was striding back into the room.
“See what, sweetheart?”
“Santa’s sleigh and the reindeer.”
“Darn. You don’t mean to say I missed them? Just my luck. Come here and tell me all about it.”
“Well, Rudolph was feeling hungry…”
THE END

December 11, 2008

Dear Friends and Family,

It’s that Ho Ho time of year again, and, like everyone else in this great country of ours, we are hanging on by the seat of our pants and waiting to see what happens next.

Who could have guessed, when we planned our trips for the year, that they would take on a dreamlike quality to them as we look back? In March, Jay and I took Fred and Bertie to Costa Rica for 8 days. My daughter Helenka had recommended it, and knowing how interested she is in eco-tourism as well as comfort tourism, we set off with no misgivings. It wasn’t until we were halfway to our first hotel (some 3 ½ agonising hours from the airport by switchback road) that it occurred to me to wonder what the frequent yellow hearts, painted on the road, were. “Those? We were cheerfully informed when we reached our destination, “They commemorate people who’ve died in accidents on that spot. After a day or two we could see why the number was so high. Costa Ricans love their cell phones, and being a talented bunch have almost perfected the art of sending text messages as they ride their bicycles…Almost.

Costa Rica provided thermal waters and iguanas who wanted to share our breakfast, and wonderful people who chased them off for us. Then there was the zip-lining – a hair-raising activity in which they put you into what appears to be a flimsy harness (just like the parachute ones, they assured us, but without the parachute…and set free to fly along an even flimsier cable across ravines up to 600 feet deep. Apparently the view is fantastic as you cross. I have no idea, since I had my eyes shut the whole way and hard not to scream.  

Fred starts out...

It was a relief to be back in New Hampshire hosting Jay’s 50th Yale reunion. Not the whole thing of course, just a mini reunion of five other Yalies and their various spouses, who spent three days with us, eating, drinking and generally behaving as though they were still undergraduates. By the end of it, I fear they were wondering how on earth they had survived four years of this sort of thing when they were students. Sic transit gloria should be the Yale motto.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Yalies at play

Just when I thought it might be safe to relax a bit, we had 14 complete strangers to dinner in New Hampshire. We had agreed to this in a mad moment at a Christmas party last year (what was it in that mulled wine?). It was in aid of a local charity for land conservation, so let’s hope it raised enough money to cover our outlay.

A week later, Jay decided to take me and his daughter Amanda, partner Barb and their two children to a baseball game at Fenway Park – the legendary stadium of the Boston Red Sox team. Jay is a die-hard Yankee fan, and he had been warned not to wear any insignia of his team, in case he incited the local crowd to riot. He had scoured the internet for tickets for this game. Tickets for Fenway Park are always expensive, because the stadium is small and ancient, so he gulped, paid five times the price for the tickets, and off we went. Most of us went. As Jay was climbing the stairs to our seats (for $125 each they were right at the top of the stadium), he tripped and landed on his wrist, crushing it a number of interesting ways. He hadn’t damaged that one for about a year, so he was more or less due for a disaster. So he never saw the game and didn’t even see his seat, never mind sit in it.

I was devastated, of course, since it had been my life’s dream to see a baseball game sitting in the boiling sun and eating nasty hot dogs, but that’s life. I must say that four hours in the emergency room was almost as much fun, though. So I left for London the same night.

I’d been planning to do that anyway, to see my mother, now 88 and still going strong. She’s President of her local Liberal Democrat Policy committee, and keeps the rest of the committee on their toes. August brought less glamorous visits to prospective colleges for Bertie, our youngest. For those of you apt to lose track of time (me too), Bertie is now nearly 18, and will be going to college next Fall. His teachers seem to think he’ll be able to find a place at a good college, and maybe the competition won’t be so steep next year, because of the economic situation. Fred’s already at the University of Connecticut, and getting wonderful grades. In his spare time he designs amazing things on his computer, and is looking forward to snowmobiling this winter. Jay is thinking of going up to Canada by snowmobile from our house in NH. It’s true that we’re only three hours by road from Montreal, but I fear he’s being a bit optimistic. Being a super supportive wife, I have promised to give him a sandwich and a thermos of coffee if he’s really determined to go.

We saved the best for last, this year. In September we embarked on a three week odyssey to London, Turkey and Greece. We loved Istanbul, and also travelled to Cappadocia, an amazing region of natural rock formations that look like wizard’s hats but are the size of three and four story houses. In fact, some of them are inhabited, and we stayed in a fascinating cave hotel that had been carved out of the rock long ago for people to live in. For short people to live in. We were travelling with friends, and the men in the group were all over 6 feet tall, so by the end of our stay they were walking around looking dazed after a number of encounters with the low ceilings. I think it was the low ceilings.    

 

                                                          View from our cave bedroom

Sadly, I let Jay loose in some of the Turkish shops. A mistake, of course, since we came home to find the two carpets and artisanal (read: astronomically expensive) pottery waiting for us. Not to mention all the other souvenirs, which resulted in us having to buy an extra bag to carry all the booty. We arrived in Greece after a one week cruise on a four-masted ship, having visited Rhodes, Santorini and Mykonos on the way. Even the names of those islands sound wonderful, don’t they?

Santorini was where Jay left his mark. The port is located at the bottom of a very high cliff, and there are two ways of getting up and down: the funicular railway and donkeys. I don’t even need to tell you which one he chose. The donkey handlers chose the largest donkey and Jay sprang lithely up onto it. Then he seemed to have second thoughts, but it was too late, the donkeys were off. I followed behind so I had a great view of a donkey’s rear all the way down. I need say no more.

We saw Athens at its best, in the early October sun. Jay and I even visited Delphi, to see whether the oracle had anything to say. (She didn’t.)

We returned to election fever. You probably know who I voted for. Fred voted for the first time, since he and Bertie now have American passports in addition to their British ones. Fred had to stand in a queue for nearly two hours to vote, such was the enthusiasm at college. My son Adam voted for the first time, too. So I was feeling that at last the Democrats in the family would outnumber the Republican. You can imagine how stunned I was to find that Jay had actually voted for the right (non-republican) candidate. Who says that you can’t teach an old dog… On the other hand, I thought the rugs and souvenirs would be enough shopping for Jay this year, but he’s threatening to buy 40 acres of land further up the lake in New Hampshire. No, I have no idea why…something about a fun project?

We’re looking forward to a family Christmas in New Hampshire, and wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Healthy and Happy New Year.

P.S. I had a couple of short stories published this year. They’re on this blog if you’d like to read them. 

Published Fiction - Farewell Finally

CONNECTICUT MUSE WINTER ESSAY WINNER - Theme: Life in the Nutmeg State

Farewell, Finally
by Gabi Coatsworth of Fairfield, CT

Raffles, the gentleman thief, had been fairly unobtrusive until he started breaking into our home, unannounced, in the early hours of the morning. He would come stealing through the cat-flap and head straight for our dog Dougal’s bowl. Apparently approving of the contents he would finish them, then sashay over to the cat’s bowl and eat that food, too. The birdseed stored in the mudroom was just dessert.
We were no fools. We knew how to deal with raccoons like Raffles. We battened down the hatches, shut the cat flap, closed the garage doors, and prepared to repel all boarders. For awhile, Raffles was discouraged. But evidently he pined for Dougal’s premium dog food. So he started spying on us, waiting for his chance.
For our part, we did what all guards are apt to do when things are quiet – we became careless. It was the little slips that Raffles was waiting for. Perhaps a garage door not checked before sleep. Possibly a cat flap left open in a moment of recklessness. And so, one evening, we returned to our darkened house from a delightful dinner at a local hostelry to find Raffles, staring at us insolently from the breakfast nook at the far side of the kitchen. The kitchen had sliding doors that led out to the deck. My better half was determined to get the best of this opponent. Wielding a sturdy broom, he advanced upon Raffles, and adroitly opened the sliding door while attempting to sweep our visitor through it and onto the deck. But Raffles was not to be ordered about. Ignoring the open door, he made a dash for the relative safety of the pots of bougainvillea and lavender, which were overwintering inside. Finding no sanctuary there, Raffles made a super-raccoon effort, pulled himself together, and ran between our legs to make it out through the cat-flap unscathed.
We needed new tactics. Friends suggested we leave the garage lights on and play loud music to scare Raffles away. Personally, I think he actually liked the Classic Rock station. A few days later, Better Half cracked, when, only moments after leaving the house for work, he staggered in from the garage trailing the contents of yesterday’s garbage bag, and with an oath, swore that either Raffles went, or he did.
I telephoned a man in Litchfield County, who promised to bring over a Have-A-Heart trap, which would catch Raffles without hurting him. Litchfield Man arrived a couple of days later, and set up the trap in the garage, next to the garbage cans. He baited it with Gourmet Raccoon Food. 
“Irresistible to discerning raccoons,” he assured me. He covered the cage with black plastic, so as to disguise it from the marauder, and set it carefully down next to the garbage cans. 
“Call me when you catch it,” were his parting words.
I called him the next day. The garbage collector had taken the trap away with the garbage.
Litchfield Man returned two days later with another trap. His smile was a trifle strained I thought, but he set up the new trap, identical to the last one, except that, this time, I added a large label to the top: Do Not Remove!
Feeling that I had done all I could reasonably be expected to do, I left town for a few days to visit my mother. On my return, Younger Son looked at me accusingly as he told me that the trap had worked. I was intrigued. The cage looked different somehow, but I couldn’t see anything inside. 
“It was the cat that got trapped,” he explained. “I let it out this morning.”
I apologized to the cat. This was all too much trouble. Raffles seemed to intuit my craven thoughts. And next morning our garbage was strewn all over the garage again.
We were having a party at our house the next day. I couldn’t let Raffles spoil that. But I didn’t have nerve to summon LM again. So I reset the trap myself. It was easy, really, once I had found out how to get my arm back when it got trapped. I removed the dried-up remains of Gourmet Raccoon Food, and decided that perhaps Raffles might enjoy something less Gourmet Raccoon, and more Working Raccoon in taste, like peanut butter. I covered the trap with a black garbage bag, went back inside, and waited.
It worked.
I called Litchfield Man immediately, and with pride in my voice, recounted at some length how I had reset the trap and caught Raffles on my first try with peanut butter. What should I do now? A short pause ensued.
“Litchfield Man is away for the weekend, this is the answering service. I’ll have him call you.”
I must say that LM was very nice about it when he called back from somewhere in New England. He sympathized with the fact that I didn’t really want Raffles ricocheting around the garage in his humane trap all night. When I told him that Raffles had eaten the black plastic covering, LM suggested I take an old towel, cover the cage, and carry it into the garden. Putting on Better Half’s thickest working gloves (I felt he ought to contribute to this project somehow), I did as instructed. I left Raffles, resentful but resigned, to sleep peacefully until the next day. A couple of hours later I thought I’d check on him just to make sure he was OK.
He’d eaten the towel.
Litchfield Man came on Monday and drove Raffles away, and, though I was relieved to see him go, I felt a bit sad, too. Until I heard LM’s parting words.
“Call me when his friends come over,” he said cheerily.
I don’t think I will. Instead, I’m simply going to leave a pot of peanut butter outside the garage every night. That’ll take care of Raffles’ friends.

Christmas 2007 - at last

It’s that time again. Some thing has gone wrong with the system, because it is still November and I am starting to write the infamous Christmas newsletter. I believe that, when last I wrote, we were dealing with the flood in our lovely bedroom in New Hampshire. This bedroom always has water views – somehow we didn’t really want the water we were viewing to be coming through the ceiling in a torrent. Jay insists that this only happened because I wanted a tower on the side of the house which resulted in an odd roofline, water seepage etc). This may be true, but I remember telling him at the time that building a tower would be less expensive than a divorce.

Snow in Fairfield - December 2007

and in New Hampshire...

March and April passed relatively uneventfully. I kept up my contributions to the coffers of Broadway producers by going to about five plays, ranging from World War I dramas to musicals, and Jay started limping. Not much of a hobby if you ask me, but it takes all sorts. By early May his limp was so bad that he decided to let the local sawbones fiddle around with his knee, and from then on limped with crutches. Only for a couple of days, though, he wants me to say.

Fearing that I would have to spend the rest of the month fetching things that he’s left upstairs, or making him cups of coffee, I decided to go to Europe, so see the battlefields of France and Flanders. This was actually my mother’s idea. As a veteran of WW2, she is one of the members of her wartime corps who is still mobile and with it mentally. So, when they were planning to celebrate their 100^th anniversary, they asked her to come along to add a bit of class to the whole thing. I simply stowed away on board, as it were. We visited Ypres, scene of horrific World War I fighting, then spent three days in a crumbling but charming chateau in Normandy, following the trail of the 101^st Airborne and other D-Day heroes, something my mother swears she would never have done in real life. She always waited for the armed forces to follow her.

June arrived, as it does, and with it the first of the visitors to Mere Cottage, our stately manse in New Hampshire. While other people look for the return of the swallow, we keep a weather eye out for the greater (or sometimes lesser) crested summer visitor, and then we know that the summer hols are here. We had visitors from California, Arizona, Connecticut, Texas and London.



Greater Crested visitor with Jay





Fred and Bert, determined to escape from all these grown-ups, spent several months working at Jay’s Golf Club.

And it wasn’t anything sissy like caddying or polishing golf clubs. No, they were up shortly after five every day, to work from six until two, when they would return to the family fold, eat whatever wasn’t nailed down and crash wordlessly to the ground. This was the result of hours spent behind lawn mowers (walking, sometimes driving), fishing snapping turtle eggs (the turtles were snapping, not the eggs...) out of the sand traps (bunkers to my British readers), and weeding, fertilising and so on. I have never managed to get them to do this sort of work in our garden, but to his credit, Fred, on walking onto the front lawn in Fairfield, kicked idly at it with his toe, before saying, helpfully: “Nasty looking thatch you’ve got there. You’ll have to do something about it.” But before I could secure their services, they left for England, to visit their Dad, as they do every summer. Some people, and I mention no names, will go to any lengths to avoid taking care of the lawn.

By September, I’d had enough of trying to look after the lawn myself, and departed for South Africa with Jay in tow. As I was saying, some people will go to any lengths...As a matter of fact, Jay almost didn’t get to South Africa. As we walked up to the check-in desk for South African Airways in London, Jay asked me whether I’d got my South African visa. I know his wacky sense of humour, so I told him I’d had it arranged months before. The check in clerk took one look at Jay’s passport and asked him if he had another one. It seems the South African government requires one whole clean page in a passport before they’ll let you into the country. So we had to go back into London, stay overnight and get new pages stuck into Jay’s passport at the American Embassy next day. (No, sir, we cannot take a spare page out of your wife’s passport and stick it in yours....) We got to South Africa eventually, and met friends – old college roommates and new friends of friends.

Friends old...

Friends new...

Friends newest...

We had the most wonderful time, visiting Capetown, then a private game reserve in Botswana, another private reserve in Kruger National Park, then to Johannesburg and home. Our new definition of luxury is a room with three course dinners served on the deck as the giraffes wander by...

As a last fling, we decided to take an elephant safari (riding them, not shooting them...). These are rather controversial, because people believe that elephants shouldn’t be trained for such frivolous ends. But since our elephants had been rescued from possible death in Zimbabwe, where the country no longer has the resources to feed them, and they were already trained, we bravely clambered aboard with our elephant keepers. We got the elephants we deserved, of course. Mine stopped every five minutes to eat something, and Jay’s was large and wouldn’t do what it was told...

You may be wondering why there are so few photos of our trip in this letter. That’s because there are so few photos of our trip, period (full stop). In a moment of enthusiasm, Jay had bought a new video camera the day before he left for London en route for Berlin (still working!) and South Africa. As he went out of the door he suggested that I get Fred to tell me how the camera worked, so that I could teach Jay. Naturally I didn’t have time to do that, so the result is that we have quite a lot of film of Jay’s thumbs or knees, with a voiceover which is saying “Where the @#*! are the animals? I can’t see any animals.” We had a still camera with us, but Jay had left the charger for it back in New Hampshire, so once we had taken eight photos, we had used up all the power, and were in the middle of nowhere, with no hope of finding batteries. Ah, well, we are relying on the kindness of strangers friends, actually) who have promised us copies of their photos, so that we can prove that we were only inches away from lions, rhinos and the rest of the cast of The Lion King.

Back home for the Autumn, which had kindly waited for our return before producing one of the most gorgeous displays of colour we’ve had for several years. Locals predicted a hard winter as a result, and here we are, in mid-December, with snow falling all over the place. Being New Hampshire people for voting purposes, we went to see John McCain at our local town hall, and we’re hoping to catch some of the other candidates as they rush around looking for our vote. Jay is being rather coy about his choice, but then he has to choose from an all-male selection. I, as a registered independent (of course) am spoiled for choice, but my hairdresser tells me it should be a Clinton/Richardson ticket, and he’s got friends in Washington, so who knows?

We’re hoping for a lovely Christmas season. We’ll be in New Hampshire, surrounded by all that snow, and our children and grandchildren have promised to visit (sequentially, I hope). My mother is here from London, my sister is coming for the New Year, and we’re all well, especially Jay, who has been seeing a personal trainer in between sports injuries (some connection there...?).

Have a very Merry Christmas

and a Wonderful New Year!