Stanford

Life is. There are components that bring us to a point where we are. I doubt if I can express the impact of all such trivial encounters.
Work has always given me substance within those I come upon. In my teenage years, horse farms gave me gas money for hard work well done. Whatever you do there is always someone older and wiser. That encompassed most everyone in my youth in varying degrees of magnitude. At fifteen or sixteen I did not give much outward credence to the older set but held such thoughts close to my chest. At Brown Valley Farms, Stanford was much older than his years, all of which encompassed the menial tasks I was performing without deliberation. Mucking stalls and hauling hay posed no social redemption or redeeming value. Stanford was steadfast and diligent. He was always there and dealt with each task in a serious manner. My teenage frivolity gave him many moments to peer over his glasses and shake his head in distaste. My cigarette smoking was a concern for him but then I had never witnessed a barn fire, but everything around you had a low flashpoint. Stanford always had a pouch of Red Man to chew. Though the spitting was gross he assured me that his accuracy would squelch the spark of my cigarette in the haymow. Good sense told me I should listen so he rolled me a chew and I slid it in-between my lower lip and gum. Wow, the burning lasted two days after a few seconds of the test. After that, he chuckled each time he rolled a cud, motioned an offer to me, and I shuddered. He probably cracked a grin when he was alone with a chew.
One point of distinction was a medical problem with his left eye and a flesh-colored patch that covered the better part of his face. I did not question the cause, as that is just the way he was. One hot summer day we were working to clear bales of hay from the field. I was shocked to see blood coming from under his patch. It was probably the first time I touched him but I grabbed his shoulder and jabbed at that area of my face. He pulled out his red handkerchief, held it to his face, and walked back to the barn. Later we acted like nothing happened but it had. The next day I asked about his family. He had a sister in Ohio but he had not seen her since -- well he didn’t remember the last time. A few weeks later his old car wouldn’t start so I drove him home after the jump didn’t work. It was a one-room shack on a dirt road outside of Lakeville. The summer was winding down and in a few weeks, I was going to begin my junior year of high school. The hay was high in the barn and I told Stanford I was thinking about playing football so with practice and games I would only be around on weekends to help with the chores. With his grin and a nod, I knew it was okay. Most of what I said gave him exhilaration to either his past or things that should have been for him. That week, it may have been a Wednesday but Stanford was not at work. On Friday the boss asked if I had seen him. This was scary as Stanford was always there. I finished our work and left early, drove to that shack, and pounded desperately on the door. Forever passed but he opened the door to say he should be back on Monday.

Hadrian’s Wall

My life has seen many periods of transition. One such time was about sixteen years ago when I reached out to an old friend to break the cadence of my course. We got involved with a group of school teachers in a community theatre group. I lent my skills for some technical aspects of lighting and sound. Performing or production was very inappropriate for my nature. The group was looking toward their spring break and one put together a package to London for eight days in the theatre district. I signed on for the good airfare but England had more to offer than London. With an infant Internet, I located a Viking Festival in the northern city of York which put me within the proximity of Hadrian’s Wall. My Latin teachings put that two-thousand-year-old Wall at the extent of civilization as the Romans knew it and an effort to keep out the barbarians. Kind of where I wanted to be.
Upon arrival at Heathrow, the right-hand drive rental car adapted quickly with York as the next stop. Online reservations for a B&B worked out well within the fortified walls of the ancient city. Jőrvik to the ruling Vikings in the eighth and ninth centuries, York was having a week-long celebration. We took part in the Feast of the Jarl at the thirteenth century Merchant Adventurer’s Hall. Hoisting a Goblet of Mead and a “Wassail, Drinkhail” with the local business people, it was extraordinary to be the only tourists for a feast of medieval cuisine.
After two days in York, we moved on to see the remnants of the earlier conquerors at Hadrian’s Wall. The journey north through the barren coal mining region was as chilling as the February weather. After two centuries Roman’s 118-kilometer structure was woven neatly into the countryside. Not the magnitude of China’s Great Wall or as foreboding but Emperor Hadrian left an indelible mark on this landscape. Like many historic elements of our world, the need to experience it had been accomplished.
Friends were awaiting us in London but a brief stop for genealogy research and a visit to Cambridge broke the long drive back. Where most of our group scheduled eight plays in seven days, we settled for Miss Saigon and Carmen. This was entirely adequate for my taste. Keeping with our historic mode, the Victoria and Albert Museum was a good choice. Yet the British Museum displayed the pillage that this Empire made on the antiquities of the world during their reign and conquests.

Maria 101

I sadly lost an old girlfriend on Sunday. Mrs. Spezia was 101 years old. I had known her all my life. She was a great Leonardite. My sister married her son. Her daughter was my age and there was a little adolescent flirtation; that’s just because it was in a small town where eligibility had a level of entrapment since earlier times.
Mrs. Spezia had a full life, being widowed only four years ago. She and her husband were not far removed from their Italian immigrant parents. Her man farmed for cash crops of potatoes, corn, and pigs. She managed the household.
I may have been ten when Mr. Spezia was very ill and his potato crop was near rotting in the field. The call for help came and the whole village showed up that Saturday to reap the harvest.
Another recall was while wandering about their barnyard. I stopped dead in my tracks with the electric fence across both chins. It kept the pigs contained but left me falling forward into a smelly sludge that sent me home for a shower and change of clothes.
The fondest moment was at my nephew Mike's wedding in Lake Tahoe in 2006. At 99, as the only grandparent, she had taken her first airplane ride and was feeling wonderful. At the wedding reception, she and I were left alone at a table when everyone was dancing. I got up, bowed, and asked her to dance. She beamed beyond my expectations. I pushed her walker out of the way and escorted her to the dance floor. By the second song, the rest of the party stood watching us dance. Never could a gentleman be so pleased as to have thrilled a lady so much. She exclaimed she had not been on the dance floor in thirty years. I had seen her twice since and received a fond hug, kiss, and renewed thoughts of our night on the dance floor. Simple efforts can mean so much at the proper time.