You know, the coldest I think I've ever been was on top a horse on Carson Mesa. It's amazing how you can have an 1100 pound massive beast between your legs and the damn things don't give off one bit of heat. It was 32 degrees below zero with a pretty strong wind, so I really can't blame my horse. Must have been the rider.
I guess second, was up on the Russian River. I'd hitchhiked in the rain and gotten terribly drenched. Everything was wet through, clothes, sleeping bag, the trees, the earth. There wasn't anywhere to hide from it, though nothing could be seen on such a night. All things melted to one pervasive blackness. In fact, the brightest, warmest, moment was hummin' "Gimme Shelter"..."it's just a shot away".
But the coldest was walking back from Richmond on the Kew Bridge. It was actually one of the few sunny days that February. Spirits were bright all 'round me, like they say. Standing on that ancient stone bridge looking west you see the island that splits the Thames, down by the Ferry Lane. It blocks your view of home.
Cold is sure what you feel. All about strangers, they don't know you - don't want to. Things are familiar, but it’s not your land. And you can't go home... whatcha gonna do?. .standing on that bridge. Exile, refugee, immigrant – I always bow my hello to an oriental just in case.
Home showed up at my door on Welseley Road the next day. California stood there just like we were at the Sunshine Apartments! What a day it would be!
Now, as you might imagine I was rather poor. My entire assets were: 100 weight of potatoes, 2 imperial quarts of cooking oil, 1 case of Campbell's vegetable soup, (all minus one months consumption), beautiful Gibson B-25 flat top, 2 Hohner Marine Bands D and G, ruck-sack with miscellaneous dirty clothes and about 20 quid. If nothing else Ross's presence would be a dietary delight!
If this was a fairy tale we'd talk of the time, long ago, before McDonald’s in Windsor, a time before the Hard Rock Café, a time so very, very, very distant when people traveled the streets of London looking for Soul Food, a strange curious yellow vegetable type thing boiled to mush in English fashion served with butter - even a time before iced drinks! But I'll leave myself starving for this chapter. I was anyway...for home.
In truth, of course truth, I was often invited to Shannon Close to eat by the folks that adopted me..they even found a Canadian who knew of peanut butter. And I once, in appreciation, used my quids and purchased minced steak which I fried to their disbelief. But my 6 stone body could use a few more pebbles and Ross was a beautiful sight.
Ross though had other notions for this reunion day..or at least a different schedule of events. Despite my obvious desire to eat, even mushy peas, he determined that a celebration of our "Americanism" was in order. And so began the search for things American, like Coca Cola for instance.
...and American Whisky.
Now in those days of the British brain drain (a device I never saw but have occasionally wished for as obviously superior to self-surgical lobotomies by .44), and the mid-Atlantic man (which I still believe was an anthropologic hoax, sort of a Piltdown man thing); things “American” were only a step above brutish simianism in the minds of the English. That position, the lowest possible and still somewhat human culture, was shared equally and totally naively by the Welsh and Australians.
So the search along the High Streets and Roads, was a “treasure hunt” of sorts. And treasure we found! A gigantic, humungous, multi-quart(American) bottle of “Old Grand Dad”. Exhausted by this arduous adventure, we determined to retire to my flat on Welseley Road for an exhilarating afternoon of Cribbage. Good clean fun.
Old Grand Dad chased by Coke is sneaky stuff. A quart each of that over the course of a couple hours and its hard to get the little tiny pegs in the little tiny holes. Luckily we didn't have female companionship. I’m sure Ross could not have been taking advantage of me. Forgot to mention Ross too was a ‘hundred twenty pounder. Both of us over six feet, our profiles were unremarkable.
Anyway, we’d noticed that the sun had set. Noticing the sun at all in London in the Winter is actually unusual. Sort of a leap of faith, that it will rise ever. Daylight doesn’t last long and can be easily missed.
At last, it was time for that long awaited dinner. But Ross suggested we should get a “before dinner” drink. A coup-de-grace? Ross is not a “simple” fellow, so we couldn’t drop-in on a local pub, no, he knew a place up on Finchley-Frog(nal)Road. Definitely a hike from Chiswick.
In those days, I wore a sort of lumberman’s coat, a heavy green plaid and massive lumberman’s boots, steel toes and all. This outfit turned out to benefit us exceedingly.
How we got to Finchley to this day I’ve no idea. But as we entered the Pub, we were instantly greeted, “Canadians!” came the hollered hello, by a couple of geezers reminiscing their days at Stanstead. Many double Canadians kept our attention to ...well I can’t remember what they were talking about, I think World War II fighter aircraft. Spits and Hurricanes and brave Canadians.
In case you think we perpetrated this ruse, just for drinks; we did protest our south American lineage, I think. But to no avail, they needed Canadians. We were "'em".
Finally, reaching that point of alcohol poisoning, that point were the mystery of the Trinity is revealed as the one being dissembles to mind, spirit, and body. My body, which could not be felt said, "gotta eat." My spirit said, "the flesh is weak." My mind could not be found.
We tore ourselves from the grasp of their past, and floated down the streets of London. Spotting a small one room restaurant of some oriental nature we availed ourselves of a table.
This restaurant seemed peculiar. It had dainty little handleless tea cups, and enormous, super large serving spoons all shiny and silvery. A tiny sugar bowl and a pot of green tea graced the center of rather large white linen covered round tables. The chairs were those half backed lacquered things that seemed just to small for the occasion.
I poured the tea. In the cups, on the table, in my lap to my great surprise and delight. Ross with childlike wonder spotted those silvery shovels and his smile as he grabbed one and tried to get sugar from that tiny, tiny sugar bowl. "whoops..." as the sugar bowl impacted the wall that was within field goal distance. Lucky for Ross there was sufficient sugar on the spoon for his tea. Unlucky for me that I seemed to be on the floor. Seems these were trick chairs, or something, 'cause mine just kept leaning more and more sideways 'till gravity took over. Apparently, though Ross' attempts to stir his tea with the shovel were equally less than satisfactory.
I commented to the matron on the beauty of her outfit. From my vantage point the golden dragons on that oh so vibrant red Chinese silk seemed, well, shimmering, nearly alive. Orientals are so amazingly polite, and considerate. She asked, if I needed help getting off the floor, and would my friend and I like assistance in finding the door to her establishment. I thanked her and suggested that if she just pointed the direction we could probably find it, there being only two doors, the kitchen and the entrance.
It was all for the best. I don't think I was hungry anymore.
Ross concluded that since we had been so lucky this evening, we should continue the streak. We had heard there were gambling clubs in Kensington and I had never been gambling...so off to Kensington!
Gambling clubs must use casting counselors. At the door of each of them is the ugliest, meanest, tuxedoed person of great stature. Other than some minor variation in giganticism, they are all the same. After looking at several of them, we chose to attempt entry where the Goliath of Goliaths stood guard.
"Member, are you a member, sir?" he barked. How it came to pass that "Sierra Madre" flashed through my...flashed through, I don't know. "Member?, Member?, I don't need no stinking Member. Got my own! Want to see it?" This seemed to irritate the Monster, like flame. First, he recoiled, then lunged to extinguish. I thankfully have no further memory of this encounter but know we escaped physically unscathed.
London, at the time, was a rather unusual capital city. It was not, at least anywhere I could find, a twenty-four hour town. This included public transport as well as of most importance the Pubs. The Green Line or District Line station was open at Baron's Court but our stop on the tube, Gunnersbury, was closed. In other words, we could get on the train but couldn't get off. Or to paraphrase a wiser person, "you can't get there from here". It was one of those perplexing thoughts; What happens to folks who do get on the train but can't get off?
Walk! Most people who live in cities, even large ones, haven't a clue as to how small they really are. The whole peninsula that keeps San Francisco afloat is only 2 miles across. London City considers itself "the square mile", 640 acres, not even a spot in a Kansas wheat field. Beyond the City are the suburbs, Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick along the High Road to the roundabout at Hounslow. From the core of the British Empire to Chiswick about 5 miles, 10 to the netherworld of Hounslow and drop of the earth. It's a small world, after all.
Interestingly, I heard once that ancient London ended up this way because the elevator didn't show up for a couple thousand years, and it sort of expanded horizontally, though compressed. Well, I thought it was interesting. It always brought to mind the image of a large woman well expanded but compressed into a small chair, bulging at points. We had a two mile walk.
We stumbled through Hammersmith. As we entered Chiswick, I noticed a small car following us. And heard of all things a bicycle bell, but there wasn't a bike to be seen.
Turnham Green is triangular in shape with the point towards London Town. Welseley Road is at the point continuing the hypotenuse. Mathematical logic was not with us that evening…or there would be no story. We determined to take a short-cut across the park.
The English are a diabolical people…prone to devising methods of torture so humorous as to be considered practical jokes. The history of the Tower of London is a prime example. The traps laying in wait for us in Turnham Green would prove my point
Walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh, walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh, walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh. Progress across the green was slow and painful. Apparently to catch unsuspecting drunk Americans, the English had placed anchor chain at ankle height along the paths and flower gardens. Crossing these chains without pain was impossible, ouch, asphalt, uhhh, flower garden
Then Ross saw it,….The church in the center of the Green. “I want to see God,” he declared
A short flight of granite steps led to two massive oaken doors with gigantic round iron knockers about 18” in diameter and a good inch and a quarter thick. Black, thick and massive. I heard the thunder as the plaintive wail reverberated off the homes about the green. “I want to see God.”
With each pleading I could see the light…the light of another bunch of folks waking to the cry and thunder, Ba-BOOM, “I want to see GOD!"
I convinced Ross that it was well past God’s working hours. Perhaps we should come back in the morning? Or telephone and request an appointment with the Divine? With tears in his eyes he accepted the fact that God just wasn’t home.
We continued on our way. Walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh, walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh, walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh.
Somehow, we managed to actually be on the “path” and entered a wooded area of the Green. Lions, and Tigers and Bobbies pounced on us from behind trees. From the left, from the right…there was no escape.
Confronted by the real Mutt and Jeff in uniform, I cracked up. Mutt said to me “What’s the idea of pounding on the church doors?” Without hesitation my hand went up, my finger pointed…”It was him, not me!"
Ross extended his arms, wrists together, “Take me away, I did it. There is no God.” Then fell back against a tree.
As Jeff approached him Ross declared, “You can’t touch me, I’m an American, I’ve got Gees.” “Gees?” Jeff asked. “Take me away,” as the arms extended. “I have American dollars” as the arms retracted. “I’m so guilty, take me away.” The arms extended.
It seemed a life time. Mutt asked me, “Where you boy’s staying?” I pointed at our place about 300 yards away. “Think you can get him home?” I had to seriously ponder this. ”Yes”, I finally acquiesced.
We got to the road still followed by that little Morris with the bicycle bell. We entered our gate..…”Screw the pigs!” echoed from the buildings.
Phil looked up from his bed as we entered. “Shhhhh”, with finger to lips. A bright comical expression in his Welsh eyes, he giggled. Another story? Maybe, we’ll see God yet?