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Rita Daly, 1917-2016, Rest in Peace

Wednesday, April 6th, 2016

My mother-in-law passed away a few days ago after a long and debilitating illness. My wife wrote a fine obituary in memory of her mother, but her sister deemed it unsuitable to publish in her local newspaper. Consequently I am posting it here:

Mrs. Rita Daly passed away on March 31st, 2016 at age 99, following a long struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. Rita was a loving wife and mother and is survived by: daughters Eileen Curtin of Anniston and Theresa James of Atlanta; grandchildren: Peter, Elizabeth, Susan, Jenny, Maureen, Kathy, Michael and Kenny, and 13 great grandchildren. She is preceded in death by husband Edward A. Daly, son Edward A. Daly Jr. and sibling Arvie Charland. Grateful thanks to her two wonderful caregivers: Kim and Barbara.

Born in Holyoke, Massachusetts of French Canadian immigrants, Rita was a healthy and active woman all of her life up until her 90’s. She grew up and raised her family in Washington DC. She and her husband retired to Florida in the 1970’s and travelled around the world. One of her memorable trips involved flying one way on Concorde and returning to the USA on the QE2.

After her husband’s passing in 1989, she became a volunteer for the Catholic Church in Boca Raton, Florida before moving to Anniston in 2004. Rita will be remembered for her adventurous spirit, love of family and devotion to her husband whom she will be buried next to at the Washington National Cemetery on the outskirts of Washington DC.

A few years ago I wrote a little piece about Rita to celebrate her birthday and it is reprised below:

HAPPY 90^TH BIRTHDAY TO MY MOTHER-IN-LAW

I’ve known my mother-in-law for nearly 15 years and we have never had a cross word. Honest! Cross my heart! Several differences of opinion have occurred over a variety of topics, but these were probably the result of our language barrier. It’s also because she has an accent and I don’t.

So anyway (on of her favorite phrases,) I remember conducting her on a guided tour of 12^th century castles in my homeland, South Wales, and she kindly pointed out that they had miniature ones in Canada which were much cleaner and far more accessible. It was no contest really.

We then moved onto the Cotswolds which is one of the most picturesque areas in England. It was nearing lunchtime and we headed for a local hostelry to partake in a beverage or two interspersed by questionable English cuisine. Toad-in-the-hole was available on the menu followed by a generous portion of spotted dick. I don’t recall what delicacies my mother-in-law decided upon, but she looked down in the dumps.

I asked her whether she was enjoying herself because she didn’t look very happy. She told me in no uncertain terms that you didn’t have to be hooting and hollering to have a good time. I replied that there was a happy medium for one’s actions, and she gently admonished me by saying that it seemed to be a favorite saying of mine. From that day forward she taught me how to be more tolerant of people, particularly when I was in her company.

When I met her for the first time on home soil, she remarked that her daughter always seemed to marry men who were follicly challenged and I was no exception. Nevertheless she welcomed me into the Daly clan with open arms and I can honestly say that of the two mother-in-laws I have experienced in my married life, she is, without a shadow of a doubt, the best bar none.

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Thanksgiving to New Year’s Eve

Sunday, February 7th, 2016

I know I should be writing something topical about the two teams playing for the Super Bowl in 3 days time, or commenting on the bile emitting from Donald Trump’s mouth, aided and abetted by another loon, Sarah Palin. But that’s the beauty of having one’s own blog, and I can make the rules as I wish. So allow me to take you back in time to last November.
We usually spend Thanksgiving in England visiting relatives because if you fly standby as we do, most Americans stay home for the big holiday which gives us a better chance of securing seats on the plane. We were indeed fortunate to board the plane since we competing with a hoard of standby passengers eager to sample the delights that London has to offer.
We stayed at the Holiday Inn, Farnborough which is lagging slightly behind the new century, but nevertheless provided a fabulous British cooked breakfast. It was probably the best cooked breakfast experience I’ve encountered in a hotel/bed & breakfast in the past twenty years.
We spent a day at Milestones in Basingstoke, Hampshire with my son and two grandchildren. Milestones is a unique concept. It’s a museum depicted the 1930s and upwards with several exhibits and artefacts reliving a bygone era.
We visited a pub in the evening, the Waverley Arms, which offered a pint of Bollocks. Unfortunately there was none available which may have been my good fortune. Not to worry, we late dined at a very good Indian restaurant in Farnham, and the absence of a pint of bollocks made the meal far more appetizing.
Our trip was a short one, and it wasn’t long before we were sitting at Heathrow Airport anxiously waiting for our names to be called from the standby list. Flying standby can be frustrating, stressful and irritating all rolled into one enigma, and this trip was no exception.
We tried two days running without success, and we were forced to retreat to The Heathrow Hilton. This was some consolation for not be able to board a plane home, and was only available because my wife travels on business around the world building up a cacophony of points. We had little enthusiasm for travelling up to London to visit tourist attractions we had seen countless times, so we decided to do our version of the “Yoko and John sit-in.”
An executive room at Heathrow Hilton provided a splendid shower and we dined on complimentary heavy hors d’oeuvres which softened the blow of being bumped twice off our plane home. Not much to watch on the TV except for Great Britain winning the Davis Cup for the first time since 1936. Three times through Airport security works a charm and we finally secured our flying wings home.
Christmas was rather uneventful, and in a blink of an eye we were tentatively driving in torrential rain with friends towards Savannah; making our annual New Year’s Eve pilgrimage. Savannah is an ideal city to welcome in the new year. It’s a walking city dripping in history with a friendly and hospitable Southern charm.
Molly Macpherson’s is a Scottish style pub which serves a wonderful bowl of mussels the flavor of which is further enhanced by a pint of Bellhaven ale. We reserved a table at the Boar’s Head for New Year’s Eve. My friend is always anxious to know the waiter or waitress’s name, and upon request she informed us her name was Brandy. That triggered the song in my head, and I made a feeble attempt at singing it. Thanks to my android I was reminded the song was a hit for “Looking Glass” in 1972. I know this sounds like meaningless trivia but wait for the payoff.
We left the restaurant and made our way to City Market where a live band “High Velocity” were helping party revelers to greet the New Year with a bang. No sooner had we joined the crowd at the Market the vocalist announced their next song: “We would like to take you back a few years and play a song that was a hit for Looking Glass in 1972: Brandy!!!” Had we entered the Twilight Zone?

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It’s Over and My Grandkids have gone back too!

Monday, November 2nd, 2015

The best team in the Rugby World Cup deservedly won through in the end. New Zealand defeated their arch rivals Australia 37-17 with Dan Carter picking up man of the match. But there’s the dilemma for me. Carter won the MoM award for his goal kicking performance and not for his pivotal role as fly half. Every team in the tournament now plays the same style: crash, bang, wallop!!!

Most of the players are stretched across the field facing each other in rugby league style, and it’s all about the gain line. What happened to the dummy, side step or scissors movement? Line outs and scrums have been considerably reduced to side shows which isn’t a bad thing, but I don’t enjoy the game in the same way I used to.

Yes, Saturday’s game was a great exhibition of the modern style game, and everyone of the All Blacks display great handling skills which places them above the opposition. However size really matters in rugby now, and most of the three quarters are 6′ 4′ and 17 stone plus. What was significant in this World Cup was the fact that the four semi-finalists were Northern Hemisphere teams: New Zealand, Australia, South Africa, and Argentina. Wales can match these teams in terms of size and bulk, but they do tend to make crucial errors at inopportune times. When was the last time you saw a Welsh hooker running down the wing apart from Wind Street on a Saturday night?

Meanwhile, my daughter and her family flew over for a visit for 10 days. We rented a mini van and drove down to the Magic Kingdom in Orlando from Atlanta. It’s a 8 hour road trip including stops, but it’s a straight shot down I75. Experiencing Disney through the eyes of my 5 year old granddaughter and 2 year old grandson was truly magical and the long journey was well worth it. However, a DVD player in the mini-van was an essential item for entertaining the adults and children on board.

For anyone contemplating a trip to the Disney theme parks, take advantage of the “fast pass system” which allows you to” jump the queue” on some of the rides. I will never forget my grandson shouting continuously “Mickey Mouse, Mickey Mouse, Mickey Mouse” as we made our way around the Park. It was hot and crowded for a Monday in late October, and copious amounts of bottled water were consumed.

At the end of an eventful day the grandkids were understandably beginning to wane, and my wife and I grabbed the opportunity to ride Space Mountain and Thunder Mountain. Well Disney World brings the kid out in everyone!

We returned to Atlanta and visited one of its main tourist attractions, Georgia Aquarium. My grandson took full advantage of the wide open spaces and ran amok screeching ” Goldfish! Goldfish! Goldfish” having been cooped up in mini-van for 8 hours the previous day.

Unfortunately they had to fly back to Blighty the night before and missed Halloween. Not to be out done, my granddaughter looking pretty as a picture in her Elsa dress, and aided and abetted by her brother dressed as “The Old Man of the Sea,” arranged for her own trick or treat at our front door. Priceless.

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A Flying Visit to Blighty

Friday, May 15th, 2015

I was in England last week which proved very eventful. On Sunday, the Cambridges’ named their new baby girl Charlotte Elizabeth Diana which covers all bases. I came across a picture in one of the tabloids where a “Queen look a like” was changing the new arrival’s nappy. Priceless!

I barely survived the cattle truck which Delta Airline laughingly calls “Economy.” Delta is certainly economic with its space for passengers, time spent by flight attendants looking after passengers who also just happen to be paying customers, and very economic with the quality of food tossed at passengers.

I furtively negotiated my way through passport control and customs, and took a shuttle to pick up my rental car. Luckily it was a Bank Holiday and the roads were lightly trafficked, and my first destination was only an hour away. I spent the rest of the day with my son and two of my grandchildren which was the main reason for my visit.

The following day I headed south west to visit with my daughter and two more grandchildren. The drive down to Devon from Aldershot on the A303 was very pleasant. There were swathes of patches of yellow fields mingling with their green counterparts, and as the sun was breaking through the leaden skies. Stone Henge appeared on the landscape. I’ve always claimed the best view of Stone Henge is driving along the A303. Stone Henge loses its mystique when viewed close up; rather like Gloria Swanson in “Sunset Boulevard.”

I was listening to the radio in the car when news broke that one of my football heroes, Jimmy Greaves, had suffered a massive stroke at the age of 75. He is arguably the greatest goal scorer of all time when you examine his goals to matches ratio. All his goals were scored in the cauldron of the top flight of English and fleetingly Italian football. Forty four goals in 57 appearances for England is a far superior strike rate compared to Bobby Charlton, Lineker and Rooney. I wish you a speedy recovery Jim.

I was very fortunate to spend two days of quality time with my grandchildren before heading back to reunite with my son and grand daughter. Aldershot is the home of the British Army the numbers of which have been drastically reduced in recent years. The Gurkha regiment based in Nepal was also a victim of Government cuts, but the actress Joanna Lumley campaigned successfully to have the British Government take care of ex Gurkha soldiers and their families. Little did she realize that hundreds of Nepalese would be housed in bed and breakfast guest houses which forced them onto the streets of Aldershot during the day. They aimlessly roam the streets until they can return to their accommodation. A number of Nepal restaurants has sprung up around the town to take advantage of the Gurkhas’ nomadic existence.

Thursday was time for the people to cast their votes in the General Election. The Polls were predicting a hung Parliament with the possibility of Labour forming a coalition with the SNPs. Ed Miliband, leader of the Labor Party had produced an ill-conceived “Tablet of Stone” (literally) comprising his Party’s six pledges should they win the election.

I spent an entertaining night in my hotel room watching and listening avidly has the election results began to roll in. The political interviewers on British TV are for more savage on politicians than their American counterparts and I had really missed the cut and thrust of a British Election night.

The Conservatives surprised everyone including themselves by winning 330 seats and an outright majority. The Liberal Democrats who had formed a coalition Government with the Tories for the past five years were obliterated. Conversely the SNP (Scottish Nationals) won an unprecedented 58 seats re-igniting calls for independence for Scotland. Hello, didn’t they have a Referendum last September where 55% of the Scots voted against independence?

The following day I flew back to Atlanta, but not before I heard three Party Leaders, Ed Miliband (Labour,) Nick Clegg ( Liberal Democrats,) and Nigel Farge (UKIP) had resigned. Each in turn had been hapless, opportunist and fantasized to no avail. The British people had spoken.

Cheers mate.

Posted in Current Affairs, Family, Politics, Travel | No Comments »

The Fender Cut

Monday, October 27th, 2014

I began worrying about losing my hair in my mid teens. It was only natural. My mum’s maiden name was Fender and she had four brothers; Alec, George, Sam and Cyril all of whom were follically challenged. Alec, the eldest, had spent a fortune on hair restorer, but was only marginally rewarded with a few more strands of hair than his brothers. Needless to say my maternal grandfather, Alexander David, was as bald as a coot and it’s only fitting that I followed the hair loss having been named after my grandfather.

It was probably one of the few times in her life that my mum told me a white lie. She assured me there was no need to worry since I resembled my dad who possessed a fine head of hair. So did his brothers Sid and to a lesser extent Phil. What she conveniently forgot to tell me was the hair genes invariably came from the mother’s side!!!

However, there are exceptions to the rule, so Shaun please note. My Uncle George’s son Desmond is the spitting image of his dad bearing the identical bald pate and demeanor, so what happened to his mum’s genes? My son has been convinced he was losing his hair since his teens, and to counteract it he cuts his hair very short; presumably to prepare himself for the inevitable hairless years ahead.

I now confine myself to the standard short back and sides for the hair that has survived nature’s evil trick on 25% of the world’s male population. But once I mentioned to my wife I was contemplating shaving my head in the fashion of Michael Jordan for example. She simply replied: “No way! It only looks good on black men.” I threw Yul Brynner and Tele Savalas into the equation as white males who adopted the style, and she dismissed them as perfect examples of why white men should not shave their head.

According to Medem Medical Library website male pattern baldness affects roughly 40 million men in the USA. I knew I shouldn’t have emigrated to the States. For all they know hair loss could be contagious. I’m joking people. Approximately 25% of men begin balding by age 30; two-thirds begin balding by age 60, so I was somewhere in the middle.

There is a 4 in 7 chance of receiving the baldness gene. It was previously believed that baldness was inherited from the maternal grandfather. While there is some basis for this belief, both parents contribute to their offspring’s likelihood of hair loss. So basically they don’t have a clue and sorry Mum for doubting you.

The nearest I got to having the billiard ball look was by accident. I told the hairdresser to use mark 6 on the clippers for the back and sides and mark 2 on the top to erase the wispy bits. She wasn’t really paying attention and transposed the numbers leaving me dumb struck when I retrieved my glasses and looked in the mirror. I wore a baseball cap for the next six weeks, and never removed it even at bedtime or take a shower!

Speaking of hairdressers, it always irks me to pay the same price for a haircut as a man with a full head of hair. They can cut my hair in two minutes while a male with a full mane can take 20-30 minutes. Furthermore, it never fails to amaze me why successive hairdressers make a “dog’s dinner” of my haircut. They only have to take care of the back, sides and sideburns, but invariably I sometimes look like I’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards. They then have the temerity to ask if I intend leaving a tip.

May I conclude by expressing my surprise for managing to write 600 words on baldness. The topic was quite hair-raising (I’m sorry,) and I was relieved to get it off my chest. I don’t have many hairs on my chest either. What I don’t understand about human hair is why it stops growing on the top of your head, but conversely begins sprouting profusely from one’s nose an ears. Let me know if you have an explanation.

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I never wore The Red and Black

Monday, September 8th, 2014

Many, many moons ago I attended Gwyrosydd Elementary (Junior) School on the outskirts of Swansea. Built in the 1950s it is your typical single storey, red brick, glass dominated, functional school of that era. I was reasonably good at the 3″Rs” and usually finished in the top six of the class for weekly tests and term exams. Unfortunately this hint of some brain matter placed me at a disadvantage when it came to playing sports. Not me personally, but some of the educationally challenged boys in the class assumed the stance that academics and sports don’t mix; not in their playground or football field anyway.

I always yearned to play for the school football team wearing the red shirt and black shorts on a chilly Saturday morning. Stuart Morgan, Brian Collins and Terry John were stars of the team, but their constellations didn’t shine too brightly in the classroom. Stuart Morgan in particular resented anyone who did well in the weekly test. He always appeared to have a permanent snarl on his face, or maybe it was a leer.

At the age of 11 years old, I was not very good at football. My dad had been an outstanding player and left footed. I convinced myself that I too was left footed. In reality I was naturally right footed and my left leg was used mainly used to stand on while I swung the right. It was about this time I developed a painful veruca on the base of my left foot which gave me an excuse to tell the world I could no longer kick with my left foot, and I would have to reinvent myself as a right footed player.

Unfortunately, I still imagined myself as a fleet footed left winger flying down the touchline and pinging hundreds of crosses into the goal mouth for our centre forward to head the ball into the back of the net. Of course It’s very difficult to provide a stream of crosses from the left wing when you can’t kick the side of a barn door with your left foot.

On a Friday afternoon Mr. Williams, the teacher in charge of the football team, would enter our class room with a pile of red jerseys and distribute them to the boys lucky enough to be picked for the match on Saturday morning. I believe I was once picked as a reserve in mufti. In other words I would not be adorning the red and black standing on the side lines. Being a reserve had no status as there were no substitutes allowed in those days. It was merely an honorary title andI may have had the chance to rub shoulders with the red and black gladiators, and perhaps run on the field with the magic sponge.

I didn’t believe the boys in the team were much better than me save for Stuart Morgan, Brian Collins or maybe Terry John. Stuart Morgan later signed as a young professional for West Ham United, but never played for the first team languishing in the lower leagues for most of his career. They were not bigger than me, but far more aggressive as I recall. Maybe I should have learned to snarl or leer at people or drop the odd expletive.

A few years later, it gave me great pleasure to overtake my red and black nemesis in the home straight of a cross country race. I could hear him screaming at me to slow down since he didn’t take kindly to being humiliated by a kid who passed his eleven plus and had no business exceling at sports.

Today I saw a photograph of my four year old grand daughter on Facebook about to embark on her first day at school wearing black patent shoes, frilly white ankle socks and looking very chic in her red and black uniform. It is some consolation knowing that somebody in my family got to wear the red and black.

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The Ballet Recital

Thursday, August 28th, 2014

My daughter suggested I write a post about this incident, and therefore without further ado I dedicate the following lines to her. Maestro please…….

My four year old grand daughter was performing in a ballet recital. We had tickets for the show which was held in a compact rural theatre, and ran for approximately two hours. My grand daughter’s involvement comprised five minutes on stage because several ballet classes of various ages were represented, but like good troopers we stayed until the bitter end. Poor little mites; they all looked very cute in their tutus, ballerina tights and enough make up to put Joan Collins in the shade. But just as well we weren’t judging them on talent.

It all began very civilized. Accompanied by my stepson and his wife we embraced our positions which left me sitting in the inner most seat of the row immediately next to a brick wall. It could have comprised another material or compound, but in the scheme of things the composition of the wall was irrelevant. It merely represented an obstacle to my subsequent actions.

Amidst a plethora of squealing the show began with a series of groups of little girls treading the boards attempting to remember their allegro from their arabesque. It was all very sweet and melancholy until I needed to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately I am of an age where bathroom breaks are necessary more frequently than I care to remember.

Luckily, according to the programme, there would be an interval where dinosaurs like myself could avail themselves of the facilities. I was nearing the abyss where crossing my legs and stamping my feet were having little effect on my unfortunate predicament. Reciting the alphabet backwards sometimes helped in these uncompromising situations, but my mental faculties were zooming in on a very active bladder which was about to explode.

Finally the interval arrived and I quickly rose from my seat with every intent on heading for the nearest rest room. To my horror Tom, Dick and Harry and their family ensembles rose as one blocking the central aisle to the exit doors. The people sitting in my row weren’t aware of my plight and were in no hurry to leave their seats.

There was only one thing I could do. I would have to climb over the wall. This wasn’t just a wall; a four foot steel fence was perched on top. Stepping on the three foot wall was easy, so straddling the fence couldn’t be that difficult. Could it? Okay, I hitched one leg and my torso onto the top of fence, but my trailing foot was trapped between two railings. I was frozen in time, and my aging joints were beginning to seize up and I was losing any trace of flexibility.

I suddenly yanked my foot out from the railing, and in doing so went crashing unceremoniously over the top of the fence landing in an undignified heap on the floor. Unfortunately when I hit the ground the momentum threw me back against the fence and I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder.

The adrenalin was flowing like a flooded Chattahoochee River and coupled with my humiliation, I ignored the pain and bounced quickly up off the floor, not daring to look back at a packed house, and made a bee line for the exit door and the rest room.

A few minutes later, I bumped into my wife in the foyer and she furtively asked if I was okay. I replied that my shoulder was very sore, but it didn’t hurt half as much as my dignity! She then mischievously asked: “Was that an attempt at a pirouette, a western roll or a Fosby flop?” I certainly didn’t score many marks for presentation or content, but I gather the entertainment value for a captive audience was priceless.

Posted in Absurdity, Family, Welsh humor | No Comments »

Granny and Grampa Grabbed by the Fuzz

Tuesday, May 27th, 2014

Not too long ago my wife and I decided to spend a day watching the Air Show at Peachtree DeKalb Airport in Atlanta. It’s a relatively short car ride from home, so we packed a cooler with a few beers, sandwiches and bottles of water to stave off dehydration in the midday sun.

We paid the $10 parking fee and meandered towards the spectator area which was festooned with temporary stalls selling cheap knick knacks of the variety that had some loose connection with aviation. Little children were clamoring to have their names metallically stamped on World War 2 style dog tags. Their brothers or sisters were tottering around carrying a ball of candy floss perilously balanced on a fragile looking stick.

I pulled the cooler behind me that housed our precious provisions while trying desperately to catch up with my wife who was carrying the folding chairs and other miscellaneous items required to establish a base camp. She was fiendishly scanning the spectator area in an attempt to locate the optimum spot from which to view the forthcoming air show.

We settled for an uncompromising spot on a piece of warm tarmac surrounded by young families where dental braces appeared to be the fashion statement of the day. We made ourselves as comfortable as possible, and prepared to break open a couple of beers to begin the day in a civilized fashion.

However, my wife looked around the increasing throng of humanity, and acutely observed that nobody was drinking beverages of an alcoholic nature. She did a reconnaissance mission of the area, and spoke to a lady hosting the local radio station’s stall.

She duly returned to our vantage point, and reported there were no signs barring the consumption of alcohol. The local radio station lady said several other people had asked her whether alcohol was allowed, but she didn’t know. She gave my wife a couple of Styrofoam cups which she suggested would be less conspicuous than bottles of beer.

My wife duly poured the beer into our cups, broke out the sandwiches and crisps, and we laid back in our folding chairs ready to be entertained by those magnificent men in their flying machines.

Thirty minutes had elapsed and we had been overawed by the breath taking skills of pilots executing death defying acrobatics in a variety of single wing aircraft and bi-planes. I was just about to take another sip of my beer when we were unceremoniously surrounded by four burly cops armed to the teeth with pistols, jack boots and walkie talkies. I’m being kind when I described them as burly. They were indeed fat to the point where they were bursting out of their uniforms, and I can understand the analogy of comparing police to pigs when I’m subjected to their uncivilized behavior.

My wife and I were trapped in our low lying folding chairs looking up at our invaders. The one with the stripes snorted: “Is that beer in your cups?’ “Huh yes…” I replied. “Do you have more beer in that cooler?” Now if I wanted to be a smart ass and spend the rest of the day in jail I would have replied: “Yes; would you like one?” But my better half courteously replied: “Yes, but there are no signs prohibiting the consumption of alcohol.”

One of the other invaders pompously said: “It’s a County Ordnance which prohibits the consumption of alcohol in public events of this nature.” Another smart ass comment came to mind (Sorry Officer, I left my dog eared copy of the County Ordnances in the back pocket of my speedos which are hanging up to dry at home.) I was holding the cup to my mouth as an act of defiance when PC Plod ordered us to toss the beer out of the cups (not on the floor,) take the cooler back to our car, and as he was in a benevolent mood, we may be allowed to return providing we wagged our tails between our legs.

She who must be obeyed does not like confrontations, and apologized for our misdemeanor while I wisely kept my mouth shut, but could not prevent steam emanating from my ears. PC Plod further informed us that they had received a complaint from one of our fellow spectators who maintained they could smell alcohol over the overwhelming fumes of jet fuel. Again it was not the time or place to point out to the officer the absurdity of his statement.

We packed up our belongings like good citizens, and headed for the friendly confines of the 57th Fighter Squadron, a local hostelry situated on the edge of the airport. We were able to watch the remainder of the Air Show drinking capricious amounts of wine and beer without further interference from the local constabulary. We had contemplated setting up camp there earlier, but decided we would have a better view from within the airport. We live and learn don’t we?

Postscript: Following our outrageous treatment at the hands of over officious lawmen, we bought a canoe which we intend to take out on a lake far from prying eyes where we can drink our beer in peace. Watch out for frogmen bearing handcuffs.

Posted in Absurdity, Atlanta, Family, Food & Drink | No Comments »

A Trip for the Ages when Bunny Foo Foo went AWOL

Monday, April 14th, 2014

I thought this was a good topic for a blog, but I’m not sure whether I should it present is as a travel log or reminiscences from times gone by. I’ve decided to ramble and see where it takes me.

I recently spent a delightful two weeks back home in the UK and for once the weather gods were very kind to me. I often tell my American friends that you rarely witness a cloudless blue sky in the British Isles, but those weather gods were determined to make me a liar. Pennard Golf Club had never looked more spectacular. The fairways were shimmering under an early spring radiant blue sky with not a breath of wind to disturb the circling seagulls or meandering sheep. I can’t imagine another golf hole like the seventh where you tee off facing the ocean 200 feet below a magnificent cliff top. On the right hand side of the fairway lays the ruins of Pennard Castle which dates back to the 12^th Century and is sufficient to blow the mind of an American golfer seeking to play true links golf.

Meanwhile I popped into the Gower Golf Club a few miles down the road. When I was town planner I had a hand in recommending that a local farmer convert his dairy farm into a golf course. The gruff but affable owner Mr. Jenkins came to see me in the planning department, and told me in no uncertain terms that “the bottom had dropped out” of dairy farming and the Ministry of Agriculture had advised him to contact his local planning department for ideas on alternative uses for his land.

He initially scoffed at my idea of a golf course, but within a week he returned to the office and admitted it had possibilities, and lo and behold within eighteen months the concept was a reality. I never thought for one moment that a dairy farmer with no experience of golf would obtain planning permission, hire a respected golf architect, Donald Steel, to design a golf layout from his cow pastures, and make a success of it. Sadly Mr. Jenkins passed away a few years ago, but the golf club continues to thrive in the hands of his son and daughter.

Food played a prominent part in my trip. I stayed at my brother’s in Cardiff for two nights and he kindly prepared two delightful Welsh breakfasts of lava bread, cockles, bacon and eggs. Superb cuisine! A few days later I had dinner with some old friends of mine in the King Arthur Hotel, Reynoldston, Gower. I was determined to continue the Welsh theme and ordered trout in a cockle sauce. It was truly exquisite ably supported by a roaring log fire in a convivial pub atmosphere and washed down with a pint of Reverend James.

In the second week of my journey I left the friendly confines of Wales and traveled over the border into England to visit with my son, daughter, their respective partners, and my dear grandchildren. My son lives near to a couple restaurants, Italian and Indian, and the Italian is particularly good. I have visited the Indian a couple of times now, but the jury is still out. Having dined out on the plethora of Indian restaurants in my home town of Swansea since the age of 23, I can be highly critical of Indian restaurants.

When in Rome do as the Romans do; when in Britain eat fish and chips. The Rockfish in Dartmouth is a tad more than a fish and chips shop. It can justifiably be called a seafood restaurant. We ordered monkfish, lemon sole and the traditional cod; all of which were delicious. We had the choice of breaded or batter on our fish and everyone was delighted with their meal. Oh, and the chips were crispy and dry. My favorite chip and shop was Covelli’s in Mumbles, but I received the shocking news that they had closed their doors. The Rockfish is now firmly ensconced as my number one location for fish and chips.

There were other culinary moments along the way. Rossi’s opposite the Liberty Stadium in Swansea has a good reputation for fish and chips and I chose plaice which I found to be a little greasy. I popped into the King’s Head in Treboeth the previous day for lunch which was and old stamping ground of my dad’s, and chose the bangers and mash which unfortunately was served with congealed gravy. Enough said! I had dinner with my brother and niece (who I hadn’t seen in 16 years) in the Traveller’s Rest on Caerphilly Mountain. I can’t remember what I ordered, but it tasted good.

Another fine tradition peculiar to the British is the Sunday roast lunch and carvery served in countless establishments around the country. My daughter took us to Ye Olde Smokey House, a 17^th Century pub just outside Paignton and the roast beef, rich gravy and wine were exquisite. My American wife has grown accustomed over the years to a carvery and was a little disappointed with her Yorkshire pudding. Well there’s no pleasing some people.

Another goal of my trip was to reconnect with friends I hadn’t seen for many years. I stayed a couple of nights with Rob and Anne and I don’t believe I have been so well looked after since my mum passed away. Rob was supposed to join my friend Paul and I for a round of golf at Royal Porthcawl but pulled out with car trouble. My brother also declined the invitation but generously loaned me his clubs. Royal Porthcawl is one of the best link courses in the British Isles and looked idyllic bathed in sunshine early in March. The Senior British Open is being held there in July which confirms its status as one of the prestigious golf courses in the country.

Following a couple pints and a sandwich in the quaint clubhouse, Paul and I made a mad dash for the Blue Anchor in Aberthaw which is a thatched roof 14^th Century hostelry in the Vale of Glamorgan. The building suffered a serious fire nearly 10 years but they did an excellent job in remodeling it losing nothing of its original ambience. My last port of call on the old friend’s front was reuniting with Sam who I hadn’t seen since I emigrated in 1996. We met in the New Inn in Penllargaer and he gave me a great big bear hug. He hadn’t changed a bit which is more than can be said for me!

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A Swansea Jack-Dad’s 100th Birthday

Wednesday, January 29th, 2014

If he had lived, my dad (Jack James) would have celebrated his 100th birthday on February 10th. I’m publishing this tribute to him earlier because I will be on vacation on his birthday. He died in 1994 and his twilight years fell victim to that terrible disease-Alzheimer’s. My brother delivered the following eulogy at his funeral which is a fitting tribute to the life of a true Swansea Jack:
It was only when we moved back to Wales, to Cardiff, about 16 years ago that I first heard the expression “Swansea Jack” and I suppose that’s what Dad was, a real “Swansea Jack”. Born in Dyfatty St, not far from the centre of Swansea Town, I don’t suppose he ever imagined that not only would he and his brothers and sisters go to Dyfatty School, but so would his future wife, her brothers and sisters, and both of his sons.

Later, David and I both went to Penlan School and I know that I often pointed out that on the Swansea Schools Football Shield which frequently sat in the Trophy Case in Penal, there were several smaller shields showing that Dyfatty School had won the trophy a number of times when Dad would have been playing for the soccer team.
(Ironically, I also knew that on a night in 1942,Dad had stood on a hill overlooking Dynasty School watching German bombers drop incendiary bombs on the school)
Last week, after Dad’s condition really worsened, one of the nurses said “Jack is a real fighter”. And looking back, I can see that he was. He fought back against unemployment in the 1930s by going to London to train as a painter and decorator.
He fought in World War II, in the Royal Air Force. (Leading Air Craftsman, 2nd Tactical Air Force.) After the war he fought against a lack of formal education by going to night school to study welding and mathematics, and he became a highly skilled welder meeting a very high standard required by the American contractors who were building the new oil refinery at Llandarcy. Every time I saw the huge cooling towers I was reminded of Dad.

But he also fought for justice for people. He was for many years a shop steward in the Amalgamated Union of Engineering Workers, I’ve got his badge here, and I’m sure that his willingness to speak on behalf of other people, to represent his fellow workers didn’t help him personally, but he never shirked the responsibility.
But, he and my mother also fought to make sure that David and I got the education that he hadn’t. It never seemed to bother him that neither David nor I inherited his skill with his hands, but he made sure that we used our brains (which we did get from him) the best we could.
Dad was a great sportsman – cricket, football he loved them both. Dad gave me a tremendous sense of fair play. Though I wasn’t very sporting, he taught me to take the ups and downs without moaning.
He was an excellent darts player and a formidable doubles player with his father Phil. His darts prowess had a strange consequence. When David was about 8, his school teacher asked the class if either of their parents had any notable achievement. The teacher went round the class and eventually got to David who said that his mother wasn’t famous for anything, but his father was – he’d been in every single pub in Swansea. I’m not sure if the teacher was impressed, but I’m certain my mother wasn’t when David went home to tell her!

Dad didn’t leave much, but as our uncle Cyril said, you probably couldn’t find a single person who had a bad word to say about him. He was generous, and brave. He was fair. He was a Swansea Jack.
There are many other things I could say but time doesn’t permit; his last years were tough, for him, for his brothers and sisters, for all of us, but he was a fighter to the end. In the book of proverbs it says:
“Listen, my son, to your father’s instruction and do not forsake your mother’s teaching. They will be a garland to grace your head and a chain to adorn your neck”
David and I can endorse that today

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