Have you ever been in that space……when your reading tastes have transported you to a ‘remembering’ time.....when you are not looking for new ways to tickle your pysche……but instead have set out to revisit good times that still have a hold on you?
For me there were no better times than the family adventure Roma and I wrote about in the book we called A Year to Remember……that time spent in Winchester, England, where we had gone so I could write a novel.
A few days ago I took that paperback off the self to confirm a bit of forgotten information. By this morning I had reread, and relived, the entire story.
It was that bit of unplanned impulse that has me wanting to share the mood it had created. But how? This blog does not deal in book-length posts. So instead I settled for this……a sketchy beginning to our story that morphs into an equally sketchy conclusion……with room in-between for a year’s worth of remembered adventures.
With that……IN THE BEGINNING.......Chapter One of A Year to Remember.
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You have heard of, perhaps even seen, the famous inscription on the Statute of Liberty….the one that implores the world to send us “your huddled masses.”
Sadly, in today’s world of immigration squabbles we are not as universally welcoming as those words might indicate. Yet it remains a noble statement of intent, worthy of our admiration. For many of us the mental image of those “huddled masses” arriving at our shores remains as powerful as ever.
True, in 1972 England still had its immigration welcome mat out for members of its once-great Commonwealth. But on that August morning our forlorn troop of traveling Yanks, which so closely resembled a “huddled mass,” was apparently a more serious test for the starched and stern Custom Agents who greeted us at London's Heathrow Airport.
To be sure, we were a uniformly disheveled bunch….rumpled, tired, and grumpy, some even barefoot….thoroughly intimidated by the chaos of what claimed to be the busiest airport in the world.
In the coldly-efficient eyes of the clerk standing behind the Customs counter we must have looked like a trans-Atlantic reincarnation of Jed Clampett’s hillbilly clan….resembling “displaced persons” more than tourists.
To further complicate things, it took only a few seconds to realize that the fast-moving “Tourist Arrival” lines would not accommodate the likes of us. We claimed to be “Long Stay” candidates. Though the British Consulate in Portland had mentioned that distinction, they had not explained how it would impact our encounter with the “Customs people.” We were about to find out.
The first Long-Stay clerk we talked to never did seem to grasp what we were about, or why Gil was standing there in the dimly-lit room wearing his very-dark sunglasses, the only unbroken pair he had.
In the clerk’s eyes the six of us must have looked for all the world like Third World refugees, asking for permission to stay in his country for an “extended period” of time. As near as he could tell we had no jobs, no idea of where we would live, nothing but a desire to locate somewhere in England.
To illustrate our good intentions we showed the clerk the Application for Indefinite Stay permit provided to us by the Portland consulate. Moments later things were further complicated when Gil explained that we planned to stay for twelve months. That had the poor fellow scratching his head, trying to make sense of our request to use an Indefinite Stay permit to cover such a well-defined, very-definite period of time.
There was nothing for the poor fellow to do but to retreat to the back office for a discussion with the higher-ups. Fortunately for us his supervisor was an older fellow, perhaps used to dealing with young and foolish Yanks.
When he stepped out to join the conversation he calmly began by explaining that an Indefinite Stay permit would not allow any of us to hold a job. How did we intent to support ourselves? There would be six mouths to feed, with absolutely no expectation of help from the English welfare system. He emphasized that fact more than once.
At that point Gil produced our Cashier’s Check, at substantial amount that confirmed we could fund our stay. Thankfully the Consulate had warned us to be prepared for that necessity.
With our passports and Cashier’s Check in hand….the most precious of our possessions….the supervisor returned to his office. For the next ten or fifteen minutes we would be waiting….the six of us, the last remaining travelers in the Long-Stay service area.
We sat huddled in a corner, wondering if the ever-efficient English bureaucracy would allow us to stay in their country, or put us on a plane back to New York. There we waited....tired, hungry, and out of sorts….growing more impatient by the minute.
Finally, wonder of wonders. When the pair of Customs officers, the clerk and his supervisor, returned the older man was actually smiling. Perhaps against his better judgment we had simply worn down his resistance.
Stepping to the counter he stamped our three passports with an authorization for a ninety-day stay, then gave us a form to complete once we had a permanent residence….requesting permission for a longer stay. By then we were too relieved to argue with his semi-suitable offer.
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Without realizing how fortunate we were, we had won the right to find a home somewhere in England……though we had no idea where……and settle into a year of sometimes unbelievable highs and lows.
How would you do that? How would you create your own Year to Remember. Where would you even start?
Then, a year later it was time to be going home. There were bound to be highs and lows involved in that process too……but it had to be done. With that, on to……THE END.
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After three weeks in Ireland we were on the ferry back to Fishguard....returning for a last visit to Winchester. More importantly it would be the first step toward “going home,” returning to where our travels had begun. We had seen so much, done so much, and made so many friends. Now all that was coming to an end.
We had circled Scotland, and traveled England....south to north, east and west, and back again. We had spent a few days getting a sense of Wales. Now, after three weeks spent seeing part, not all, of Ireland it was time to be leaving
There would be two last nights at a Harestock B & B....savoring again the ancient downtown heart of Winchester and saying our goodbyes. It was hard to leave those good friends. Thankfully the fates would allow us to see them on our return trips to England. Later, when the Morgans emigrated to Calgary, Canada they would come to visit us in Oregon.
Meanwhile, there was a last bit of business to take care of. For those who believe in signs, or perhaps hexes, the first miles in our Ford Estate Wagon might have been a hint of ongoing troubles. Yet once the necessary repairs had been made, months before in Aberfeldy, Scotland, it had never again let us down.
Through Scotland, England, France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Switzerland, Wales, and Ireland our trusty wagon had done everything we asked of it. In the end, when the car dealer John Berry recommended gave us half of what we had paid for it ten months earlier, we took his money, boarded the train for Heathrow Airport and our flight to Washington, DC.
Brother Roger met us at Dulles Airport, driving our Chevy Suburban, the only car he had that would carry all of us and our luggage. Back at his Malvern, Pennsylvania home we were surprised to find that Gil’s parents, Morse and Dorothy, had flown east to make our return a family gathering.
They had rented a large house just off the beach in Atlantic City. There, the whole crew....Roger’s family of four, the six of us, and our parents would gather for a three-day family reunion.
Within an hour or two of reaching Roger’s home we were in need of a few items from the local supermarket. No problem. It was just down the road. Gil would drive to the store. His father offered to join him.
Minutes later, when the two of them started off down the street to the store, they were suddenly caught up in a startling “welcome home” moment. Morse’s excited yell must have been heard a block or two away....when Gil pulled the Suburban out of the driveway and started off down the left side of the street, heading straight toward the on-coming traffic. Apparently, learning to drive on the right side of the road would take some practice.
Having Gil’s parents on hand provided another unexpected advantage. We were fresh off the plane, and Amy’s distinctive British accent was still intact, heard by one and all. That would not be the case by the time we reached Oregon. By then her accent was nowhere to be heard. It had vanished in a matter of days. Today, more than fifty years after the fact, we must play the cassette tapes we had sent home from England to recapture the sound of our “English” Amy.
Finally it was time to be on the road one last time. Ten days later, after a long cross-country drive in a vehicle that had room for the kids to stretch out, we were back in Oregon, visiting again with family and glad to be home.
Oh yes....regarding that other piece of unfinished business....Gil’s novel, the one that had sent us half-way around the world for him to write. After sitting for forty years in a manilla envelope on a closet shelf, Forever Starts Now finally appeared on Amazon in paperback and Kindle formats on June 20, 2014. As it turned out, seeing the world, making new friends, and learning about our family’s roots had all been accomplished quicker than putting his story into print..
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As you can tell, this bit of self-indulgence has been a matter of following good memories where they lead us. Don’t be afraid to follow your own. I recommend it.
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