Maybe it was Monday or just one of those days when you do what you want to do -- because. It was a good productive day at the office. I good friend stopped by to discuss a project. Another buddy called to tell of his lover's quarrel. I secured my visa for China so it was good to go on Saturday for ten days. A girlfriend gave me a pass on seeing her tonight. My daughter had good tidings to talk about.
I could go home and throw together some dinner but it was after seven. The local Gus O’Connor’s had not seen me for a while. After a couple Boddington ales and a bowl of mussels, I was feeling at ease. Contentment was not coming easily because I neglected to mention a phone call from my business partner in Germany. Klaus is dealing with some paranoia that I refuse to get wrapped up in. Such efforts I can find within myself. After dinner, I was toying with sampling some good Irish whiskey but I drove home. A Cuban Cigar came to mind. 
A good friend from Germany had sent a Cohiba, La Habana Cuba cigar along with other indulgent paraphernalia for my birthday last year. I quit smoking twenty-six years ago. Why should I think of that now? I found a box of matches from my Turkish Hotel Armada, reopened the birthday present, and sat on the backdoor stoop. Gosh, how I relished those seductive fumes. It was a personification of freedom. I could not permit my addictive character for a chance to inhale but the ghastly aroma was levitating. Sure I had to spit the damned saliva. I thought of uncorking a vintage Lafite Rothschild. Better yet, a bottle of Jack Daniels had been undisturbed in my cupboard for some years so I filled a glass of Waterford.
Was there the same taste for freedom at fourteen when I first took a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from my Dad? Not exactly but I remember sitting on the railroad tracks finding an exhilaration of just being a guy. Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.
In October 1962, a surly crew of sailors was stopped short of dropping off our Marines and vehicles at Morehead City, North Carolina. The USS York County LST1175 had been ordered to return to Norfolk, Virginia. 
An LST is a Tank Landing Ship renown for such assaults as the beaches at Normandy and Guadalcanal in World War II. A flat bottom ship with bow doors that open to deploy tanks and trucks ashore filled with Marines. Our amphibious fleet had been on maneuvers in the Mediterranean since May. I was still reeling from the enchantment of Europe but most of the crew had been looking forward to being home. Rumors abound in a military world where little outside information is received. When our diverted ship arrived at the docks of Little Creek, a fleet of supply trucks lined the pier. This could be an indication of some serious deployment. Common sense pointed to the fact that we were battle-ready with our complement of armament. They announced that Section One (of three) Liberty Crew would be allowed to go ashore until seven AM the next day. All others remaining aboard were required to carry stores from the waiting trucks. Given the luck of the draw, fourteen others and I in our Engineering crew decided it was better to play than work. At nineteen years of age, I laid no claim to maturity when a sailor’s mentality took over. In two overloaded taxis, we headed 
for The Strip, a string of sailor-class bars not far from the base. It was about seven in the evening when I broke the first rack of eight-ball pool and vowed to make a full night of it. It was not unlike me to toil all night to repair components in my realm as Interior Communication Electrician so why not give this parting shot a good try. We kept the pool tables filled and the beer or rum and coke flowing. At midnight they quite serving alcohol and half of our crew were fading. The Mole came to me and said he and six others were getting a room at the motel next door but needed us to roust them so we could all return to the ship in the morning. As a token of his submission, he handed me his duffle bag with a fifth of 151 proof Ron Rico Rum. I took the bottle to the restroom where I placed it conveniently in the ceiling tiles. Alerted, my dedicated Salts and we spiked our fountain cokes all night long. The conflict of our adventure was that the bars started serving again at seven AM and our ship was to get underway at that time. Priorities in order, I got our compliment of crew members from the motel; called for a round of beer; and summoned two taxis. That seven AM beer was ceremonial, not tasty. By half-past seven the taxis were awaiting us. In the lead taxi, we approached the end of The Strip. I signaled for one more stop and another round of beer. Satisfied, our crew of fourteen arrived at the pier; an enraged Chief Petty Officer Combs stood at the top of the gangplank shaking his fist, and we all stumbled aboard. Under normal circumstances, we would have been written up as AWOL. 
The Chief and others were just happy to have us aboard since without a complete Engineering crew the ship could not get underway. Within minutes we were off to the Caribbean. By the next day, we had recovered. Russian ships were encountered; battle plans were discussed, but fourteen sailors had a bond of irresponsibility that yielded a grin amongst us for the next three months at sea enforcing Kennedy’s Cuban Blockade.
My travels have sometimes left a child behind to hear of my adventure after the fact. In 1996, I thought to put the dazzle in the eyes of my daughter with her own involvement. As a single parent and with her at eleven years old, I would need a little help. My nephew, her favorite cousin, would give her a companion. Quintessential in my mind was to bring a lady friend to help my daughter to the WC and share a little parenting. One thought was that England would be comforting without language problems and other such confusion. Next, I needed a theme to promote their interest and convince my brother and his wife along with my ex-wife that their children would find security in my good hands. The Legend of King Arthur's theme should encompass that. An initial meeting with the kids drew excitement for the travel but my extended talk about King Arthur lost their attention after a few minutes. None the less, my plan was executed within three weeks and the four of us flew to England.
Oxfordshire was our base and a rental car left us without restrictions. The area was famous for thatch roof houses that numbered 111 by the kid’s count after our second day. We had a small hotel in Faringdon that was close to the massive hill that displayed the Chalk Horse. It was not until Stonehenge that the kids caught on to the marvel of it all. After that came Salisbury Cathedral and the wonderment of Avebury. Bath was a good lesson on Roman occupation with their thermal reservoirs and aqueducts. Their fun was when we returned to get to our car. I had parked within the double yellow lines and it was towed away. An hour to find out what happened and a sixty pound fine gave way to laughter on our way back to the hotel.
Our Quest was about to begin. Glastonbury gave the kids little inspiration as the ruins had little to say. Tintagel was much more magnificent with its seaside setting. To venture on to Land’s End was grandiose in itself but not to our youthful counterparts. Lacking their enthusiasm we returned to our Inn at Faringdon. Dining at the Haunch of Venison, I told the innkeeper we may go to London in the morrow. He said you may find an Englishman there.
None the less, I bought rail tickets for the journey. Neither of the children had been on a train. Upon arrival at the central terminal in London, we sought another first, to take the Underground to Big Bend and hear it chime. From there, “Let’s grab a taxi” for another maiden voyage to Buckingham Palace. There was an assembly of onlookers for an occasion we were not sure of but we could spare a few minutes. Soon passed exiting limos; one 
was a shielded Princess Margaret but next more regal than any – Nelson Mandela. He sat high and waved pointedly to all in his wake. We were all very touched by his presence, more so than any royal figure before or after him. At that, a Double-decker bus awaited us for a trip to the Tower of London. Given that place at another point in time, Nelson would have been in shackles where the gems of South Africa would bejewel some crown. To further exhaust our day we caught a taxi to Windsor Castle. Beyond those walls and gardens was our distant relative Princess Di. By the time we returned to our Portwell House in Faringdon we had to carry the children and tuck them into bed.
Wales was within our reach and its stretch of the English language seemed like a good lesson for the price of a day. Reaching the Welsh border was a landmark for our tour yet our rental car fizzled on the first curve of a rural road. The contact and rescue cost us a few hours waiting by the side of the road watching dairy cows. It was not such a bad break. Our rescuer, the rental car bloke, got us back to the hotel with an entertaining demure and arranged for a new vehicle to follow. 
The next day was slow to get rolling but I had another mission. Years before, maybe twenty or more, my first trip to England led me by Bodiam Castle to the southwest of London. With its fairy tale motif, I thought my daughter would love it. A long day’s journey brought us there with a few hours of daylight remaining. Rushed, I took Katrina to the top of one of the majestic towers above the expansive moat. There I pointed to the ducks swimming below. 
With a massive twenty pence curled in my index finger, I cut it loose with a wild throw. Quack-quack echoed from below as the victim flapped across the murky water. Katrina swatted at the air between us to shame my deed and our laugh echoed all around.
The day was about to end when I asked the kids if they had enough of all this history and culture. An innocent grin came forth. An area guide showed a beach resort within an hours drive. The yeah’s were very resounding at such a thought. We all needed two days poolside and some beach combing. Given such a choice at eleven, I would have opted to frolic than have a history lesson.
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.
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.
A good friend from Germany had sent a Cohiba, La Habana Cuba cigar along with other indulgent paraphernalia for my birthday last year. I quit smoking twenty-six years ago. Why should I think of that now? I found a box of matches from my Turkish Hotel Armada, reopened the birthday present, and sat on the backdoor stoop. Gosh, how I relished those seductive fumes. It was a personification of freedom. I could not permit my addictive character for a chance to inhale but the ghastly aroma was levitating. Sure I had to spit the damned saliva. I thought of uncorking a vintage Lafite Rothschild. Better yet, a bottle of Jack Daniels had been undisturbed in my cupboard for some years so I filled a glass of Waterford.
