Jambalaya

  It may seem strange for a recipe for this great southern dish to be created by an expatriate Englishman. The recipe came about largely out of frustration. Many years ago, I could not seem to find a cookbook recipe which sounded as if it would taste like the dishes I had enjoyed when working in the Carolinas. So, I set out to try and build a recipe using the ingredients I had detected when eating a dish of Jambalaya. Along the way, I got a little help from watching Justin Wilson on TV.
 MEAT BASE
  It seems best to use three or more meat or fish ingredients as a base, although I see no reason why this could not also be made into a vegetarian recipe. For this version, I chose chicken, sausage and bacon.

SEASONINGS:

1Tbsp Worcester Sauce, 1Tbsp Parsley-chopped, 1Tbsp Cilantro- chopped, 1/2 Tsp Cayenne Pepper, 1Tsp Creole File, 1/2Tsp Ground Cumin, 1Tsp White Pepper, 1Tsp Salt, 1/2 Tsp Red Pepper Flks, Juice of 1 lime, Black Pepper and Louisiana Hot Sauce to taste.

 INGREDIENTS :                                                                 

2 Tbsp Olive Oil                                         
2 Tbsp Butter                                            
4 Half Breasts of Chicken                         
4 Andouille Sausages                                 
1/2 Lb Thick Cut Bacon                            
2 Large Onions - chopped                         
6 Green Onions - chopped                         
10 Cloves Garlic - chopped                       
1 Green Bell Pepper - chopped                  
2 Sticks Celery (with leaves) - chopped     
1/2 Lb Mushrooms - sliced                         
2 Cups Dry White Wine                             
2 Cups Chicken or Beef Stock                   
2 1/2 Cups Long Grain Rice - cooked
1 14 Oz Can Stewed Tomatoes - not drained
1 Small Can Sliced Black Olives - drained
1 Can Black Eyed Peas - drained
1 Small Can Lima Beans - drained
1 Small Can Red Kidney Beans - drained
1 Can Okra - drained, or use fresh okra

DIRECTIONS:
Heat a large pot and add olive oil. Cut the sausages into 1/4 inch slices and brown on both sides in the pot. Then remove and set aside in a dish. Add the chicken and lightly brown on all sides. Remove from pot, cut into bite sized pieces, and add to sausage in the dish to collect the accumulated juices. Cut bacon into bite sized pieces and add to pot. When bacon is crisp, remove to dry on a paper towel. Add butter to pot, then add chopped onion and garlic. Cook, stirring occasionally. When onions turn transparent, add green pepper and celery and continue to cook for 5 minutes, stirring. Add wine and deglaze pot. Add stock, tomatoes, mushrooms, black eyed peas, olives, lima and kidney beans and okra. Add chicken and sausage and accumulated juices to pot, bring to a boil, then simmer for about 20 to 30 minutes, covered. Add rice and all the seasonings except the hot sauce and adjust the taste. Add bacon and green onions. At this point, if the mixture is becoming too firm, add water or, better still, more wine. Also at this point, maybe add some more wine anyway!
Note:- If using seafood, it should be added at this point., and continue when seafood is cooked.
  Finally, add the Louisian hot sauce to set the ATF (Appropriate Thermalitude Factor).
  It is best to let the Jambalaya sit, covered, for up to an hour at this point. This allows the rice to soak up all the flavors and gives you time for a drink before dinner.
Now......Enjoy!!

NOTE:-When I was updating this recipe recently, it occurred to me that, when setting the ATF, the accuracy achieved is, in itself, also partially dependent on  the current setting of the RVR ( Relevant Vocabularitude Ratiometer). It is important to keep this in mind.

Tuscan Soup

  Have you ever been to the Olive Garden Restaurant and had their Zuppa Toscana?. This is one of our favorite soups, basically a potato soup with Italian sausage. We asked for the recipe and were told that it may be on their website, but we could not find it. So, I set about trying to create my version of it. After several  tries and a couple of different versions, this is what I came up with and we think this version is pretty close to the original. 
  INGREDIENTS
2 Tbs Olive Oil
1/2 Large Onion, chopped small
1 lb Italian Sausage, skin removed, cut into small bite size
1/2 lb Bacon, cut into 1/2 inch pieces
8 Medium Potatoes, skin on, cut into 1/8 inch thick, bite size
1/2 Tsp Crushed Red Pepper
1/2 Head of Kale, chopped
2 Qts Chicken Stock
1/2 Pint Heavy Cream
1/2 Tsp Thyme Leaves
1/2 Tsp Herbes de Provence
1 Tsp Worcester Sauce
1 Tsp Garlic Powder
1 Tsp Salt
1 Tsp Black Pepper
1/2 Tsp White Pepper

  DIRECTIONS
   In a large saucepan, add olive oil and bring to medium heat. Add sausages and brown all over. Remove with a slotted spoon and reserve in a bowl. Add bacon to pan and cook, stirring. Add onions and crushed red pepper and stir to avoid burning.When onions are translucent, add chicken stock and bring to a boil. Add half the potatoes and bring to a simmer. Add all the seasoning items and continue to simmer for 20 minutes or until potatoes begin to crumble. Add the sausages and the remaining potatoes and simmer for barely 20 minutes. Add kale after about 10 minutes. Add cream and stir. Adjust seasoning and serve.

Those Bloody Kids!

   A few evenings ago, I was watching TV on the history channel and they mentioned the fact that, during World War 2 around 1941, British commandos used to raid German installations on the coast of France armed with crossbows. These were used until the enemy started firing at them. Since the gunfire ruined the previous silence of the operation, the commandos then switched to using their Sten sub-machine guns. But the crossbows intrigued me, and still do. 
   During World War 2, we lived in the country about 20 miles west of London. Most of the large country houses around us had been taken over by the government and had become army camps. We were always in and out of these camps. During one visit, I asked about the crossbows and was shown one, and became even more intrigued. I had a pretty good workshop with all the woodworking tools and even a small metal working lathe. So, I thought I would have a go at making one. After several days of designing and building, I had a prototype. But , it took a very long time to get a working model and it did not work too well.  Winter was upon us, and we had quite a bit of snow, so I set about building a half scale crossbow, mostly out of wood,  for shooting high velocity, super accurate snowballs. This was a great success. We  practiced shooting and, pretty soon, we could hit anything at up to 20 yards or so. One day,  we were out in the lane outside my parents house and we saw the vicar cycling down the lane on his tall bicycle on his way to the church. He always wore a very tall black hat, rather like an opera hat with rounded corners. I have never seen another hat like it. I loaded a 2 inch snowball and, as the vicar came abeam our position, I fired...... and his hat flew off his head. That amazed me!  We threw ourselves down in the deep snow to hide and silence our laughter until he retrieved his hat and cycled on. We were absolutely soaked when we got up. But, it was worth it.
   We also had a lot of fun with the mini crossbow on the local golf course. This was a long course on a large area of land between two villages. There were very few houses around it so we could walk all over the golf course away from the fairways without being seen by many people. There was one section where the fairway ran uphill and the green was just over the crest of the rise. To the left of the fairway was an large area of tall grass and gorse bushes which rose above the fairway and had a small bowl at its highest point. We could lie in the bowl and see the whole fairway and the green to our left, without being seen. We had found that the crossbow was excellent for firing golf balls and had a pretty good range. When we saw a foursome shooting up the hill, we started firing balls at the green on a low trajectory. There were no golf carts in those days, so it took the foursome a while to walk the length of  the fairway. You could not see the green itself from the fairway, only the flag. When they got to the crest, instead of seeing their four balls on the green, there were probably a dozen or more. We had plenty of ammunition.  We heard murmerings like "those bloody kids must be around here somewhere" Yes, indeed! 
   Thinking about this made me chuckle to myself and got me thinking about other pranks we used to pull at that age. Another weapon we used was a slingshot or catapult as we called them in England. They were easy to make and fitted in your pocket . We became very proficient in using them and spent hours at target practice.
   One Sunday, we were in the field adjacent to Clock House Farm, about half a mile from my house. This was a very imposing red brick building with a small clock tower above the front door. The farmer himself seemed to be a miserable old devil who never smiled and certainly did not like small boys. I often used to wonder if he had ever been one himself. Adjacent to the hedge running along the edge of the field was a large barn and we noticed this day that the barn door was open and the farmer was loading a small four wheeled, rubber tired wagon to which his little horse was harnessed. This was a nice friendly little horse and we quite often made a fuss of him when he was loose in the field. Little boys tend to notice strange things and we had commented before that this horse was extremely well endowed for his size and his penis always seemed to be " in the down position". It was on this day and we were discussing the idea that, if we fired a small rock  and hit him in the apendage, what would it do apart from make his eyes water?  The horse was fairly close to the hedge so, we took aim through the hedge and both fired at the same time. One or both of us must have hit him because he let out a loud whinnie and reared up on his hind legs then accelerated to a gallop down the hill towards the farm gate. He roared out into the road, oblivious of any traffic and galloped up the hill toward the next village. The tailgate of the wagon was down, so things were flying all over the place. The farmer came out of the barn looking totally perplexed and went running after him. The horse and wagon were now out of sight but we could hear car horns in the distance so he was probably causing some problems somewhere. A few minutes later, we heard the clopping of hooves and back came the little guy, still on full throttle, down the hill. The farmer tried to stop him but he was having none of that and roared through the gate and up the hill to the farm.  He came to a halt at the water trough where he proceeded to drink water by the gallon. We never did notice if his eyes were watering,  but we had our question answered. There would be no use in reloading the wagon, the little chap was done for the day.
   The field on the other side of Clock House Farm had a stream running through the center of it. The stream was only a little over a foot wide and a few inches deep but was fairly fast flowing. We often used to play in this stream and would sometimes narrow it down with mud to increase the rate of flow or we would create a waterfall. One Sunday afternoon, we had diverted the stream slightly while we built a waterfall in the main stream. Then, we let the stream flow over the waterfall and we were very pleased with the result. So, we built the waterfall up, using sticks to hold back the mud. Now, we had a dam about 2 feet tall. We built a sluiceway to one side of the dam to  limit the level of the water.  It was now beginning to get dark, so  we left it and went home. The following weekend, we went back to the stream and found the dam to be intact and the sluiceway still working. We were really excited by our engineering feat. Behind the dam, the stream had now become a small lake running the whole length of the field and about 20 feet wide in places. As we were congratuating ourselves, we were suddenly joined by Stan, the village bully and his elder brother, commonly known as the village idiot. We learned a lot of new words and found out that the stream flows past the back of their house, one of about a dozen council houses about half a mile away. Apparently, the swollen stream had flooded the kitchens of these houses. While still cursing,  Stan and his brother quickly demolished the dam. We decided to take off before they found another use for their plentiful muscles. As they cleared the dam, the sudden rush of all the entrapped water poured over the banks of the stream and formed a temporary lake in the farmyard across the road.
  We never could make out why a dozen or so families had allowed their houses to become partially flooded without investigating the cause.
   Another item we found which made an excellent plaything were the little rubber tubes filled with gasoline which were used for filling cigaret lighters. These were about 2 inches long and a little over half an inch in diameter. They had a small nipple at one end and you were supposed to poke a pin through the nipple to make a hole. Then you could squeeze the liquid into the lighter. We found that when you made a hole in the nipple, you could light the gasoline with a match. Then, if you squeezed the tube, a long flame would shoot out. We thought that if you lit the tube and then fired the tube with a catapult or crossbow, you would have a sort of Molotov cocktail. The only problem was that it didn't work. When it hit the target, the flame went out. We were playing with one of these one day when standing at the crossroads near my house. I accidentally dropped the burning tube and it fell in the road and the whole tube caught fire. When the gasoline had burned off, it had caused about a four inch circle of the tar to burn. So, there was a little fire in the crossroads. We were thinking that, if we left this, it would burn for hours. So we did, and we went and hid in the hedge to see how drivers would handle it. Some car drivers drove over it without even noticing it. We just hoped their cars did not blow up a few minutes later. Most drivers squeezed between the fire and the verge. Nobody bothered to get out to investigate what the fire was. They could easily have stamped on it to put it out. I guess they were too busy. Then a double deck bus came up the road. He was too big to get between the fire and the verge, so he drove the bus right up on the verge to avoid the little fire. Then, along came the village policeman riding  his tall bicycle and wearing his tall helmet. He stopped and dismounted and studied the situation. He rubbed his chin for a bit, then removed his helmet, scratched his head and put his helmet back on. Then he got back on his bike and pedalled off towards his house. He was probably going home for lunch or going to call a fire engine. After about half an hour, we figured we had seen enough. So we walked over, stamped on the flames to put them out, and also went to lunch.
   Talking of buses, another silly story comes to mind. One day, after school, Stephen and I were sitting upstairs on a No 442 bus at the railway station waiting for it to take us home. We were sharing a bag of cherries and they were good. Normally, we would flick the pips  at people between ouur forefinger and thumb. But, we decided against that this day. Sitting in front of us was a very nice elderly gentleman who was always very polite and nicely mannered. He was wearing a very nice gray bowler hat with a hard, turned up brim. This brim looked just the place for our cherry pips. So, I gently sneaked one into the back of the brim, and he didn't seem to notice. Then, Stephen tried the same and it worked fine. By the time we had finished all the cherries, there must have been 30 pips in his brim. The other people sitting around could see what was going on. Some were smiling, some gave disapproving looks.When we got to Granville Avenue, he got up and went downstairs to  get off. We were looking down out of the window and we saw him get off. He met a well dressed elderly lady who was waiting to get on the bus. In typical polite fashion, he greeted her and tipped his hat to her, and showered her with cherry pips. There was a lot of confusion and embarassment and, as the bus pulled away, he glared up at  our smiling faces in the window.... and then smiled. As I said, he was a nice gentleman.
   Well, I think that's enough trivia  for now. For some reason, if something makes me think of one of these stories, it usually leads to an avalanche of others. This had better be the end of this one.

You Have To Fight For It

  This is a story about Megan Sawyer. You may not have heard of her but, I can assure you, she is just about the sweetest young lady who ever walked the face of this planet. Of course, I may be just a teeny bit biased because she is also my granddaughter.

  Megan was born on December 30th, 1997 and she began life as a typical very healthy baby, very active, extremely alert. In the summer of 1999, her mother, Vanessa, had told us that Megan seemed to have been drinking excessive amounts of liquid over a period of several days.. My wife, Joy, advised her to take Megan to the doctor and have her checked for diabetes. So, her father, Doug, took her to the doctor. Later, he called to say that the doctor had confirmed that Megan  did indeed have Type 1 diabetes. She was then transferred straight to the hospital where she spent several days while they gathered all the vital statistics and prepared her for the ordeals to come. That was the beginning of a long story, a story of how diabetes can affect one young life.

  This news about the diabetes caused the Sawyer family to shift gears and enter a new phase in life. Doug and Vanessa had to go back to school to learn about caring for a daughter with Type 1 diabetes. A lot had to be learned. Her blood sugar had to be taken every few hours around the clock, insulin values computed and shots given to correct the blood sugar . This became the schedule for the foreseeable future until one day when a cure for Type1 diabetes will be found.

  Vanessa linked up with the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) and became a very active participant in the South Sound chapter. Megan learned to cope with her new regimen in very short order and it became a new feature in her life.

  Vanessa used to talk at fundraisers to banks and other companies and would frequently take Megan with her. For her part, Megan liked to participate also and, at 5 or 6 years old, she would get up and say a few words. Pretty soon, the few words grew and grew and before long she would, if allowed, give a whole speech.

  JDRF also organizes the South Sound Walk To Cure Diabetes, a yearly event in May. This is a five mile walk, now held in downtown Tacoma and is a major fundraiser for the cause. A team called Megan's Mighty Marchers was formed to take part in the event and raise money for diabetes research. The MMM team of members has now grown over the years to be a larger body of people and for several years in a row, it had been the team to raise the second largest amount of money of all the teams. Megan had a lot to do with all of this. In the early days, she was pushed in her stroller around the course of the event. Nowadays, she and her friends form a considerable component of  the walkers. For a couple of years, she was also an Ambassador for the Walk.

  When Megan was three years old, she was typically having 5, 6 or more insulin shots a day. She asked her Mum to show her how to do the shots. Then, she began giving herself the shots. She did not then know how to calculate the size of the shots, but that would come in another couple of years. She was then showing that she wanted to do it all for herself......she was fighting for it.
 She does not have to give herself shots any more as she now has an insulin pump fitted. The location of this pump  on her body has to be changed every three days but, naturally, she can do this herself. After each time she eats, she calculates the amount of insulin required to cover the food and drink, checks the value with Mom, dials in the value, presses a button and in goes the insulin
  She goes to a diabetes camp every year at Camp Leo. Here, all the diabetic children and young adults get together to play, learn and compare notes. The spirit of camaraderie is tremendous. It seems they are all lit by the same flame and they all benefit from it. They are all in the same fight.

  I think that the fact that Megan has diabetes may make her even more competitive. She gets very upset with herself if her grades slip at all. She also competes in just about every sport. Whether it be track, soccer, basketball, softball, lacrosse, she is in them all and she is good at them all. She is also an awesome skier, water skier and swimmer. Recently, she competed in the Middle School District Track Meet. She is a very fast sprinter but there was one girl, a good friend of hers, who she could just not seem to beat in the 100 meters sprint. She went into Route 16 Running and Walking and had some coaching advice from Miguel Galeana and Alexa Martin. Apparently, the next day at the track before the race, the renewed determination could be seen in her eyes. Time for the race, and she blasted out of the starting blocks and down the straight to win the event. She had again fought for it.

  It seems that what had been the handicap of the diabetes has become the pendulum that drives her very mechanism. Like a pendulum in a clock, it provides the energy which makes her tick. It all happens in her subconscious but I see it as the driving force within her.
  The fact that she has one more hurdle to cross, one more hill to climb than her compatriots seems to make her fight extra hard for everything.
  We began to realize early on that Megan was a fighter and she has maintained that attitude all of her young life. She will not let the diabetes hold her back.

  How many times have we heard someone say "Why did God let this happen to me?" This question must have been answered in thousands of pulpits around the world, and yet I have never heard a convincing answer.
  I believe the story of Megan can provide an answer, even if not the only one. As I have said, Megan is a fighter. She may be a fighter naturally but I am sure that the diabetes has strengthened this urge. It has made her more competitive and it has also made her a winner, a guaranteed winner. So, in answer to the question "Why did He allow this to happen to me?", she could say "So that I can be an example to others, so that I can become a champion".

  To return to the subject of diabetes, there will also be an answer. In time, the cure will come. There are now many, many people fighting to find it and there are also now many champions. It is just a question of time.  The fight goes on.

  Postscript:- Megan is now 15 and continues her life as normal. She now is going to Camp Leo as a counselor and so will now pass on to other youngsters the knowledge she has gained in managing Type 1 diabetes. As I said, the fight goes on.
 
 

What is the Word?

   I have always been a keen reader and, a couple of times, I have almost committed to writing a book. I enjoy writing but I also like finishing what I write, so no book from me in the foreseeable future.
  I also harbor the thought that, as much as I enjoy reading, I sometimes think that I should be doing something more productive or taking exercise rather than just sitting with a book. When I am reading, I try to maintain a variety in what I read. I like to read history books covering the last hundred years mainly. I also like novels which are historic, or partly technical or political. Also novels which are romantic or involving some sort of intrigue. Lastly, I like books about some technical issues, including cooking, or travel.

  Every now and again, I take stock of what I have been reading during the last year or so, to ensure that I am maintaining a balance in subject matter. Taking stock is what I am doing at this moment.

   I find my reading habits have changed slightly of late, mainly in regard to favorite authors. Tom Clancy, for example has been one of my favorites for many years. Every new title of his I would buy without reading reviews. Nowadays, I don't even pick up his books when I see a new one. So, what happened? Well, when an author begins to put on the cover of a new book "By Jerrold Nutterbuck with Liliana Dullsworthy", I get very suspicious. However good an author Ms Dullsworthy may be, she cannot utilize Mr Nutterbucks brain. Thus, there is a considerable loss of continuity involved. Increasing quantity seems always to decrease quality in this respect. Beware, another favorite of mine, James Patterson. The effect of such an enormous change on an author's writing style would be rather like finding out that my favorite brand of pate de foie gras is now made from the entrails of Chinese chickens and is available mainly through Walmart. Simple statement, catastrophic effect!

  My two most consistent favorite authors both come from the UK. They are Jack Higgins and Ken Follett. I was first attracted to them by their novels about World War 2. Their writing style reminded me strongly of the late, great author Nevil Shute. I believe I have read all of his books, and there were a lot of them. These two authors have continued to write about spies or international intrigue. Ken Follett has also ventured into writing a major historical epic, "Pillars of the Earth" and a successor "World Without End", The former is a great history book as well as a novel, the latter I have not yet read. He has also written the first book of a promised trilogy "Fall of Giants", which covers the fortunes and misfortunes of five families in different countries during World War 1 and subsequent years. This book is in my "to read" pile. 

  I have never been caught up in the Harry Potter scenario and have not wanted to read any of the books or see the movies. To me, they were kids stuff. However, recently, my daughter convinced me to read " Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone", the first book of the series. I was absolutely astounded. It was like reading a firework display.......a blue and yellow flash here, a red and green blast over there. Everything was happening at the same time. Wow! What a brain J K Rowling must have. Her writing style just sucks you in and I could not put the book down. So, now, I have six more books on the "to read" pile. But, before I go on to book 2, I have interjected a re-issue of an old Jack Higgins novel.

  Another first for me this year has been to read a just released first novel by a new author. This was Alexa Martin's debut novel "Girl Wonder". This is a Young Adult novel and thus I would not normally have read it except that Alexa is a very good friend of ours and is also our "adopted granddaughter". I had been wanting to read it because I particularly like her writing style. The book arrived in a package on May 3rd, the day of release. I opened it and started reading and I found it was like a burst of morning sunshine coming over the eastern skyline, a real pleasure to read. I look forward to reading more from her.

  During the last year, I have read a trilogy by the late Swedish author Stieg Larsson. These books are titled "The Girl Who Played With Fire", "The Girl Who...............", etc and they are three of the most interesting novels I have ever read. He has an extremely easy going and exciting writing style that makes reading so enjoyable. What a pity he died so young. If you are into good, well written, fast moving crime fiction, these are for you.

  A subject which has kept my interest for many, many years now has been the revelation of the development and use of cipher technology in international relations from the late 1930's to beyond the Cold War period after World War 2. I must have over 20 books on this subject. I know this sounds boring but, I worked in this sphere when I was in the British Army in my twenties and I have been interested in it ever since. I have read two new books on this subject in the last few months. They keep popping out of the formerly secret cocoon as new papers are released from secrecy each year.
  
  I have read two travel related books in the last year. The first one was a so far unpublished book by a so far unknown author about renovating an old house in the hills along the French/Italian border.  The other was Frances Mayes "Under the Tuscan Sun". This covers the same sort of subject in nearby Tuscany. So they both cover an interest of mine in an area which I love and the second adds another great interest of mine, French/Italian cooking. Both of them a great read.

  So, what do I do to keep up with the events of the modern world? One thing is certain, you cannot do this successfully by reading the average newspaper or listening to and watching major network TV and radio.
  Time for digression. When we first came to the United States over 43 years ago, most people used to ask us "What do you like most about the USA?" We used to reply truthfully that we like almost everything. But, nobody ever asked us how far the "almost" stretched. So, I started asking people "Why don't you ask us what we don't like?". Most people would look shocked that there was actually something we did not like. If they then asked what it was, I used to tell them "I think the news media has to be amongst the worst in the world". Some of them then looked even more shocked and yet many agreed with me. In the 43 intervening years, not much has changed. The media has got worse and the rest of the world is trying to keep up with the worsening. I do not see much chance of any improvement when the media management is so hopelessly biassed and they employ correspondents who seem to be encouraged to use inaccurate, similarly biassed reporting methods. The end result is that "news" now has a smattering of truth trying vainly to stay afloat in a morass of liberalese gallstones.
 It matters not in which direction the biass is applied. Whether it be to the left or right, whether it be towards Iran or Israel, whether it be towards sweet cream or unsalted butter does not matter one iota. Regardless of direction, one undisputed fact stands proud. This is that, if the truth becomes biassed, it is then no longer the truth.   Hopefully, some day in the not too distant future, some of the news moguls will realize this.
  Well, now that I have let my hobby horse loose to canter a couple of  laps around the paddock, I think its time to change the subject. So what do I do to keep up with what is going on? I choose my TV and radio stations very carefully and ignore the major newspapers almost entirely.

  The foregoing describes what I do in tracking the written word. I  endeavor to ensure that what I read covers most of the facets of my interests and of the world at large. So, it depends on which book I pick up on which day to let me know for that day.......What is the word?

Uncle Stanley

  My father was known in the family as "Pop", as I am known today. But, to the outer family and many other young people, he was known as "Uncle Stanley". As I think I have mentioned in a previous blog, he had a somewhat outrageous sense of humor. He used this sense of humor particularly to amuse the children. This story is about that part of Uncle Stanley.
  The story starts when I was only four years old, so I am relying mainly on the memory of other people for this period. During the first few years I was on this planet, we went on our family summer vacation to Boscombe, on the south coast of England, near Bournemouth. We used to stay at a small hotel along the waterfront. This one year, on our first night at the hotel, my parents had put my sister and I to bed and were going to bed themselves. My mother was already in bed and my father was turning the light off at the switch by the bedroom door. Then, without warning, he yelled "yippee" and took a flying leap from the door onto the bed, which promptly collapsed as two legs of the metal frame folded up. They thus had to sleep on a bed with a 20 degree list to starboard. The next morning, after breakfast, we were ordered to leave by the management. They had heard the crash in the night. So, we spent the first day of our vacation walking the streets with our bags like a family of refugees, looking for another hotel room in this overbooked town.
  My father loved children and they loved him as he was always playing with them on the beach. On the last morning of our vacation, he apparently used to come to the beach shortly before lunch dressed in a business suit and tie, black shoes and a bowler hat. He would then walk around saying goodbye to all the kids and their parents and then walk into the sea and keep on going until his hat floated off his head and he disappeared, until he popped up somewhere else. This apparently became a ritual. Each year, the kids waited for it. This was typical of Uncle Stanley.
  Pop, as I always called him, was at his most devilish, when food was being served with guests at the house, either family or close friends. My mother was grateful at least for this last part, he normally did not behave like this when comparative strangers were eating with us.  Pop was a master at carving meat. Whatever the animal or the particular joint, he carved it beautifully. He always used to carve at the head of the table, and then the plates were passed around. Oftentimes, some people would have seconds. So, Pop would stand up and say "would you like another slice of beef, Grandma?" If Grandma said "yes", he would then carve a slice very quickly, before her plate was passed, and then he would flick the slice with the end of the carving blade so that it flew across the table onto her plate, or so he hoped. He became quite good at this and sometimes hit the target. Grandma also had a hell of a sense of humor and always laughed at his antics.
  He was at his wildest when serving desserts. If there was some sort of non solid pudding or something in a bowl, he used to love to demonstrate his prowess at spinning the bowl between his fingertps through 360 degrees vertically. My mother would try to stop him but, the more she tried, the more determined he became. He was very good at it and I can only remember one occasion when a rice pudding was spread along the length of the table. I remember one particular time when, amongst the desserts being served was a large bowl of orange jelly. He said "Who would like some jelly?" He got some replies so he then said "Well, would everyone like some jelly" He then picked up a large serving spoon and slapped it into the top of the jelly as hard as he could. The bowl disgorged its contents in all directions, so it seemed like everyone was going to get some. My mother was not at all pleased, she had not wanted any jelly. 
  My mother used to invite people to tea on Sundays. These used to be quite formal events with one or two different types of sandwich, with the crusts cut off, of course, scones with clotted cream and jam, fruit cake or rock cakes and some sort of cream cake. The tea was poured by mother out of a big silver teapot. The cups and saucers and the sandwiches were wheeled in on a tea trolley and the cakes on a portable cake stand. While all this was being brought in, Pop would get in on the act and might bring in a plate of muddy potatoes straight out of the garden and maybe a few  small lumps of coal on a plate and just put them on the trolley without saying a word, until my mother saw them. She had a lot to put up with.
  With so much food in front of them at these teas, people seemed to eat quite generously. If someone had an empty plate, Pop would frequently say "Can I pass you a scone Mrs G?" If Mrs G  said "Yes", he would say "here, catch!", then quickly throw one at her. If my mother criticized him for this behavior, he would look all hurt and sulky.
  Pop had watched some comedians remove the tablecloth from a totally set table without spilling or breaking anything. He was convinced he could do this and he explained to me how it was possible. All you had to do was give the tablecloth a sharp pull and continue the pull at the same speed until the whole cloth had cleared the table. But, he had never done it, yet.  Frequently, as we were ending a meal with guests present, he would stand up, move his chair back out of the way, grab two handfulls of tablecloth and announce that nobody should move and he was going to remove the tablecloth. Of course, all of us kids would egg him on but Mum would plead "No, Stanley, no, please no." Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, he never did it. But, it would have been interesting to see what would have happened if he had done.
  Another thing Pop used to love doing was to dress up for the kids. Sometimes, if the family was ready to go out and maybe already seated in the car, he would suddenly appear in the most ridiculous outfit. My mother would have to get out of the car and go back in the house to stop him going like that. Other times, he would appear in such an outfit just as guests were arriving for lunch. He particularly loved dressing up as a priest, by wearing a white dress shirt back to front with a dark blue sweater, also back to front. He would also part his hair in the middle. He really looked the part.
  Pop also enjoyed spinning tales with the young children. He had a set of fictitious characters around which he would spin the tales. There was Og Noble, Harry Fanackapan, Squadron Leader Farnes Barnes, Fred Bloggs, Sam Lonk and others.  I remember hearing him talking to my nephew and niece, Tim and Caroline about these characters and what they had been up to. He also used to show the children how to dig holes and then move these holes around the garden. Sometimes, I would see Pop and Tim, struggling between them to lift a very large hole out of the ground and put it into the wheelbarrow to carry it up to the house. Or, I might see all three of them walking up from the bottom of the garden with their arms outstretched as they each carried their own pretend hole. If they had too many holes, they used to lean some of them against the garage wall until they needed them. I wouldn't be at all surprised to hear that some of these spare holes are still there unless somebody else has found a use for them.
  Pop seemed to go through life without a care in the world and always was in a good mood. I know he really enjoyed life and he made life fun for all those around him. I am enraged when I think that a man who was such a pleasure to everyone should pass away in such an unfortunate and disagreeable manner. He died having become almost a vegetable for a few years after a stroke caused by being beaten and kicked by a team of burglars who broke into the family home. I think he was cheated out of an honorable end to a great life. He was, I believe, 84 years old when he left us.
 
 
 
 

Who Dropped the Lemon?

 To me, the most satisfying drink in the world is the Martini. But, on a hot day, I am also partial to the tang of a good Margarita. There is a relative newcomer in town called a Lemon Drop, and this sort of falls between the two of them. It has a wonderful caustic sharpness which seems to make the whole world pukker around you. I think it should have been called the Pukka Pounce. Here  is how you assemble a posse of them.

  INGREDIENTS
3 oz Lemonade (make sure its a good one)
1.5 oz Citrus Vodka
1/2 oz Triple Sec

  Wet the rim of a martini glass with lemon juice and dip top of glass in fine sugar. Put all ingredients into a shaker with ice and shake at least 63 times. Pour into glass.

  Cheers!!! Stand by to be pukkered.

Sarum

  Sarum is one of the earliest known settlements in England, dating back to at least 3000BC. It is about 80 miles west-south-west of London. It was originally built on the flat top of a mound on top of a hill as a fort protecting trade routes on the River Avon. Around 500BC, the fortifications were strengthened by double ditches all round. The Romans arrived about 60AD.  Around 550AD, the Saxons came and a castle was built on the hill. The Saxons were followed by the Normans and King Henry the First ordered a cathedral to be built atop the hill. In 1219AD, it was decided to move the cathedral to the base of the hill to avoid the extreme weather on the hill. A year later, the move was started block by block to the confluence of two rivers about two miles to the south. When the new cathedral was built, a lofty 400 foot  spire was added to the tower. The town built around the new cathedral was named Salisbury, the name it bears today. The settlement on the hiltop was then called Old Sarum, a name which it also bears today. Henry the Eighth eventually demolished the castle.
  In 1961AD, a 20 year young Irish girl named Alice Josephine Doran arrived in Salisbury. She was a comely wench and soon became employed as a receptionist at the White Hart Hotel near the cathedral.
  In 1962AD, a 29 year old Englishman named Stanley Anthony Smith arrived in Salisbury and sought shelter at the White Hart Hotel. He strode up to the reception desk and asked if he could have a room. "No, we're completely full" said the comely wench to the young Englishman.
  NOW, THAT REALLY PISSED ME OFF!! It is a tourist town but early April is definitely not the tourist season.
  So, I wandered across to the bar, licking my wound as I went. I ordered a pint of Worthington E, definitely the world's most immaculate beer. I asked Laurie, the lovely old barmaid, if it was normal for the hotel to be full at this time of year. "Hotel full? Nonsense! Who told you that? That young thing over there?" she exclaimed, pointing out of the rear service window, through which I could see the comely wench sitting behind the reception desk. Then she said "Don't worry, in a few minutes, she'll be going to lunch and Miss Smithers takes over. She'll find you a room" A few minutes later, the decidedly uncomely Miss Smithers did indeed give me a room.
  After I finshed work, I returned to the hotel around 5.30 and the comely wench was sitting at the reception desk. I asked her for my key and the expression on her face told a story. Now, it was somebody else's turn to be pissed off.
  Following the initial face off, I talked to the comely wench, who I by then knew answered to the name of Joy, as often as I could and we really became quite friendly. A few days later, I asked her out for a drink and we went to the Old Castle Inn, a pub across the road from the original fort at Old Sarum. While there, we got to know each other quite well but, then she said we had to drink up as she had to be back at the hotel by 10.15. I asked why and she told me her boy friend was going to call then!!! She wasn't out of ammunition yet!
  A couple of days went by and then one afternoon, we went to the beach near Bournemouth and had a nice time and then back to Salisbury to have dinner at the Haunch of Venison. It was still very nice in those days and we enjoyed ourselves. I had found a key. She liked good food and wine and nice places to eat. A few days later, we went to the Pheasant Inn at Winterslow, a glorious place to eat then. This became our favorite.  We now had achieved a truce and began dating steadily. We were married eight months later.
  Those first dinners at the Pheasant took place 49 years ago this month, but then again, that's another story.

                              The aforesaid comely wench.

Return to Pandemia

This is a time of year when various illnesses and diseases tend to reappear seemingly as if they were on command. The recurrence of such diseases has baffled experts for generations but they continue to study some of these afflictions particularly where the symptoms remain identical year after year. One such disease was first seen about 25 years ago in Seattle, WA and then began appearing in major population centers up and down the west coast. In recent years, it has spread inland and then across the whole country. This disease has been studied by medical experts and has been identified as Nordstromsalis Meavisitiae. It is exhibited as a compulsion based syndrome centered on a nervous disorder.
  This disease is almost entirely limited to occurrence in females and can be observed possibly as early as during the onset of puberty. Once it has established itself in the bloodstream, it could well last a lifetime. My own daughter has been afflicted with this disease for several years now. Currently, there is no known cure on the horizon although studies are in progress. The initial symptoms are a sudden inability to sleep more than just a few hours per night. This is quickly followed by a compulsion to visit any of the shrines where the patient comes to believe that the source of her compulsion lies. (Note that, in this thesis, I describe the person suffering from this disease as the patient even though she may, at that point, be a long way from realizing that there is, in fact, anything wrong with her at all.)
   It appears to be in these shrines that the major mental torment is created. Once this happens, there follows an urge to touch and feel everything in the shrine. This is, in turn, followed by the syndrome to "see what's available for grabs" or SWAG. This phase could take many hours since it involves various disciplines such as trying on followed by parading in front of several mirrors or maybe moving an object so that it stands alone and then viewing it from every conceivable angle. This eventually leads to the patient amassing a large collection of swag, which is then taken to the exit and assembled by the custodians of the shrine into silver-gray bags each emboldened with the name of the shrine in large letters. A collection of a dozen or so of these bags may then be taken proudly to be placed in the trunk of the car of the patient. Upon leaving the shrine, patients are believed to be overcome by a tremendous feeling of satisfaction and achievement. Alas, this feeling is later seen to be relatively short lived.
  It should be pointed out that the patient has by now probably not been home since she left at dawn. She will typically arrive home in time to prepare a late meal for her family. Such patients are usually recognizable by the fact that, on arrival home for some reason, they may back their car in toward the garage door. This, in itself, is a relatively complicated maneuver for many women but, nevertheless, where there is a will there is a way. When they carry in the first load of swag, they will leave the trunk or rear door open for subsequent unloading trips every few minutes. This process may take quite a while.
  While unloading and showing off her booty to the family, the patient may well be overcome by another compulsion to explain what each item would have cost when compared with the unlikely event that she had bought it before the current event at the shrine had started.
   Once the demonstration phase is completed, a break may be allowed for eating but, before the table is cleared, the "try on" phase will be entered. This affects not only the patient but the husband and children too, also grandma and grandpa, nobody escapes this ritual. This phase also leads to the generation of the first batch of swag to be taken back to the shrine for refund or exchange. These items are then reloaded into the silver-gray bags and taken out to the car, where the trunk is still open.
  The initial visit to the shrine is usually followed by more loss of sleep and much tossing and turning. During these gyrations, another form of compulsion occurs. This is a color comparison phase, in which the patient feels compelled to revisit the shrine to get a similar item of swag but in another color. This may be repeated for several items. Usually at this stage also, patients start comparing notes with other patients and plans are then made for one or more group visits to the shrine. This leads also to group therapy sessions, sometimes held at the local Starbucks spa and wellness center. These therapy sessions, however, may tend to spread the disease  rather than provide any form of a cure.
  One thing is known about the recurrent epidemics of this disease. That is that the overall time the epidemic lasts is limited to about two weeks or so. This is determined by the fact that the shrine will determine a few specific days during  which the main therapy sessions must be conducted. After this period, patients are on their own to arrange their therapy.
  As part of the analysis to back up the study of a cure, experts have tried to see what actual damage is caused to the patient on visits to the shrine. The major significant damage seems to be the considerable loss of dollaritic greenstuff from the primary purse. It has been proved that, under normal conditions, this loss may take many years to make up.
  However, there is some therapeutic advantage to be gained during the initial transaction by using a medium of Double Ended, Bartering Intensive Technology or DEBIT card. If, following the use of such a card, an item of swag is rejected by the recipient family, the item may be bartered back to the shrine for a limited number of days. This then makes the loss of the greenstuff temporary and will considerably shorten the make up period.
   The epidemic as it stands has not reached the level of possible pandemic proportions as predicted by some.  Also, no known cases of this disease have been reported outside of the United States. But, the epidemic continues to spread regardless. 
   Clearly, some of the more severe critics see this whole scenario as a rucking tipoff (as defined in the phraseology of Anglo Saxon rhyming slang.)  Others are more lenient and view it as a modern form of blood letting as was exercised by Egyptian doctors around 1000BC. Whether either of these views is accurate or not is unclear but, what is clear is that this mysterious affliction will be with us for a long time regardless of whatever modern medicine may achieve in seeking a cure.

Me and David

  Freddie and Stanley Smith were brothers born at the tail end of the nineteenth century. They also had another brother who was killed in the British Army in World War 1. The two remaining brothers were very close and each had an identical, somewhat outrageous sense of humor.

  Freddie had three sons, Peter, Derek, then a gap, then David. Of the two elder sons, Peter was a little more serious but they each had an identical, somewhat outrageous sense of humor. Unfortunately. both Peter and Derek were killed in World War 2, Peter in the Royal Air Force, Derek in the Royal Navy.

  Stanley had a daughter, Barbara, then a gap, then me. Barbara
 lives in England. She has a very keen sense of humor, sometimes somewhat outrageous. 
  David is a few months younger than me. Strangely enough, we each have an identical, somewhat outrageous sense of humor. We have always been great friends. This story is about a part of that friendship....the friendship of me and David.

  Unfortunately, for much of our lives, David and I have lived far apart. At the present time, he lives in northern Scotland and I live in California. But, we talk to each other every few weeks. As I have said above, we each seem to have an identical sense of humor.  One thing is certain. Over the last seventy years or so, whenever we are together, someone is in trouble.
  My first recollection of the two of us getting into trouble was in 1939, so we were sevenish. Our two families were on holiday together at Trimingham, on the east coast of England. We were staying at a private hotel which I believe was called "Highlawns". The hotel probably had about 30 to 40 guests and was situated in very nice grounds with lawns and a tennis court. It was a short walk from a beautiful beach down a narrow path. We had a very good time there and it was on this holiday that I learned to swim.
  On the lawn behind the hotel was a large summer house, a wood and glass structure. It had a main room with chairs, a table and a couch. In front of the double doors was a sizable covered porch. The whole thing was mounted on what looked like a miniature, circular railroad track, and it ran on this track on many small wheels. Thus, it could be rotated to face or avoid the sun. It ran on the track so smoothly that even two small, seven year old boys could push it around. Herein lay the problem. David and I had already been balled out by the hotel manager for pushing it.  Despite this, one day, we decided to get it going. Some of the hotel guests were seated on the lawn when we got it moving and several of them began to laugh. Hearing the laughter, we pushed even harder and we had it going at quite a clip before we realized that the hotel chef, Big Fat Lucy we had christened her, had been taking a nap inside when the rotation started. Now, she was trying to get her bulky frame upright and out of the door so she could call for help from her rotating cocoon. At this point, the hotel manager came rushing out, screaming at us to stop it. But, there was no way two small, seven year olds were going to stop this juggernaut. It was running so smoothly, it looked to us like it would run for hours. Then, the manager saw Lucy inside and I'll swear a smile crossed her face. Some of the guests stopped it and a very giddy Lucy came out ready to kill us. But, we were no longer in evidence. As far as I can remember, David and I were sent to bed right after tea.

  It was a beautiful sunny, summer day in England, they do happen occasionally. Eight or so adults are seated at tea on one of the terraced lawns in front of 25 Green Lane, Northwood, where David lived. David and I, the two 8 or 9 year olds, had finished our tea and had been excused. We had therefore disappeared. Some time later, the two young boys are seen struggling across the garden, carrying between them a large green painted object. As they come past the tea table, it can be seen that the large object is, in fact, one of the shed doors. Nobody said a word as the two boys struggled on, looking neither left nor right as they carried their load around the end of the house and out of sight. David and I then put the door down and congratulated each other on a job well done. But, we could not work out why nobody had said anything. We had imagined it would be treated with both  anger and amusement, but nothing ........??  It turned out a long time later that they were all at bursting point, trying not to laugh and therefore encourage us to do more. Why had we taken the door off? Who knows?  But, at that age, reasons are irrelevant. The explanation probably was that, while playing in the shed, we came across a screwdriver and a step ladder and we wanted to put them to good use. So, we unscrewed the door from its hinges. Logical enough.  

  I think I was about 9 or 10 when Auntie Ida and David came to tea one day. At tea, the two mothers were discussing the property behind our house. It had been a beautiful private golf course but, during the war, had been put to agricultural use and now cows grazed upon it. They commented that what had once been a picturesque tee just beyond our fence was now covered in "cow pancakes".
  "No, no" said David "those aren't pancakes, that's SHIT". He pronounced the last word loudly so that it sounded like some literary gem.
  Auntie Ida looked horrified while my mother's face took on an almost smug look, obviously thankful that her precious son had not uttered this obscenity.
  "David, how dare you talk like that" she exclaimed "where did you learn that word?" David flicked his thumb in my direction and said "he told me".
  The two mothers interchanged expressions, I believe my mother wished she could dissolve into the upholstery. 
  As soon as they left, I was put to bed. "Your father is going to hear about this".
  It was many years later before I found out that the grown ups had a lot of laughter over this incident.

  Page forward sixty or so years.

  A few years ago, David and his wife Betty were visiting from Scotland and were staying with their son Adrian and his wife Debs who live in Bellevue, WA. They were all staying for the weekend in a village of beachside houses and cabins near Eastsound on Orcas Island when Joy and I went to see them. 
  David and I had a standard method of greeting for many years when we had not seen each other for a while. That is, we march toward each other at a fast pace and in step. When about five feet apart, we snap to a halt and salute........  Hup - 2 - 3 -4 - 5 - Down. Precision is of the essence. We did just that on the day on Orcas. Then, while the two wives sat and talked, David and I walked along the beach and through the village for an hour or so, talking and doing our usual thing. Quite what our usual thing was that day I cannot remember, but we did it anyway. 
  We were told later that two ladies had reported to the office that they had seen two gentlemen behaving strangely in the village. When we heard this, we realized that the two ladies were obviously mistaken. What they had seen was not two gentlemen behaving strangely but two Brits behaving normally. An understandable mistake. 
  
  More than sixty years of friendship lie between the antics of the mischievous seven year olds  and the strange behavior of the seventy year olds. In the intervening years are a myriad of other stories and many more not remembered. Most of them are not easily relatable, as are the tales of juvenile mischief, and some are often just remarks or quips made at the time. But all are products of two lifelong friends, each with an identical, somewhat outrageous sense of humor. I know I am selfish to say this but, in my own mind, I really hope that there will be quite a few more years to the story of me and David.                  
 

"Two gentlemen behaving strangely??"

What Don't I Know?

   When someone asks me what I like to do for fun,  it would be easy just to say that I love to read, go sailing or do woodwork but I also think that sounds relatively uninteresting. It would be much more fun to hear about some of the other than normal things people like to do like hunting tarantula with a black light and scissors ( I had a friend who actually did this). So, I started thinking about things that I do which may be unusual. One thing that leaps to mind is that I am never bored if left alone with my own mind. It often has entertained me for hours. I am not sure whether this is unusual or not since I have no idea how other peoples' minds work.  As a child, I was quite surprised at the things I did within my mind. I began to wonder if these things were normal. Can eveybody do this, or is it just me? I did not know how to answer this question so I just kept the subject to myself.
   I have always been blessed with a very active and inventive mind. This certainly helped in my career as an engineer. I also have a memory which is more than just partially photographic. These, I believe, are the main ingredients in what I describe below. 

   I have always loved music, all music from all but the top extremes of opera to all but the extremities of modern popular music. In between is much of opera, classical music, military music, show music,old time and modern jazz to rock and roll and all the constantly changing spectrum of the modern scene in music.
  I cannot read music, nor play an instrument, I certainly cannot sing and I know nothing about the technicalities of music. Yet, since a child, I have known the names and the appearance of and the sounds made by all the individual instruments of the symphony orchestra. Ever since early schooldays, I constantly had music running through my head. During my early teen years, I developed an intense interest in show music both from the Broadway and London stage and the big Hollywood musicals of those days. I read up on the lives of Jerome Kern, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Richard Rodgers and others. I listened intently to the orchestrations of their music by the big bands and orchestras of the day. When I was not actually listening to music, these orchestrations used to run through my head and I began to find myself mentally changing some of them and then running them back through my mind. I started designing new orchestrations in my mind.
  I discovered about this time that I could mentally track multiple instruments at the same time and I could "hear" them individually. I could also track multiple melodies and variations on them. I might design an arrangement wherein the strings would play the main melody while the brass were playing some variation  on that melody and all this was loud and clear within my mind. Then, I might go in and make changes until I was happy with the result.
  These tricks I was playing within my mind were what had worried me about the normality of what I was going on inside my head. I began to wonder whether the things that I did in my mind were perfectly normal and maybe everybody could do them or was there something wrong with me and was I stretching something to bursting point. It could well be that any brain can do this but most people just do not choose to do it unless they have some specific interest in mind. This whole subject really worried me for a long time.
  As an aid to what I was doing, I began to carry an orchestra around in my head. Different arrangements required different sounds. For a particular arrangement, I might need to add another woodwind or maybe a couple of violas so, over a period of time, the orchestra grew to 74 pieces. I knew how many of each instrument there were and where all the sections of the orchestra were seated for a concert. When I was alone in the house, I used to stand and conduct the orchestra while it played my latest arrangement. One day, I think I must have been  about nine or ten, I was doing just this when my mother walked into the room, I had not heard her come back from the shops. She asked what I thought I was doing, so I told her and, since I was obviously entering a losing streak, I told her about how I could orchestrate music in my head.  My mother was apparently quite an accomplished musician although I had never heard her play. But, I must admit, her response that day totally deflated me. She said I was talking utter nonsense as I knew nothing about music. End of discussion! She had a very definitive way of ending a conversation.
   I took this very badly and began to have thoughts about the fact that I might be going crazy. I stopped even thinking about music for quite some time. But, it eventually crept back in. A few years after this, I told my best friend about the way my mind worked. He also had a passionate interest in show music and modern jazz and, in our college days, we spent many hours together listening to the likes of Stan Kenton and Shorty Rogers. He said that he certainly could not do what I had described and had never heard of it before, but he found it very interesting. I have never discussed this with anyone else, until now.

   When I started to work for a living, this whole scenario began to be phased out, probably because my mind was too busy. But, in my head, the music is still there and, sometimes, such as when I am driving alone for a long period, I may think up a new arrangement.
   I sometimes wonder what I don't know about this. Do other people do this? Can other people do this? Is it important? Is it stupid? Does anybody care? Am I crazy?? I don't know and I'm not sure I really want to know now. But, one thing I do know is that this capability gave me many hours of pleasure in my younger years.

   Another thing my mind likes to do is design things. This, of course, should be inherent in an engineer and I was  much less worried about the normality of things in this context. I have always particularly liked designing houses. I did the original design on the house my sister and her family lived in while the children were growing up. My design was given to an architect who rehashed the whole thing but the basic floorplan remained essentially the same. There were also three or four features that I thought were innovative and these were incorporated into the house. The architect later told me that he had also included some of them in later designs.
   I find that, if I am sitting in somebody's house and not much is going on, I may start to redesign parts of the house in my mind. Of course, I never mention this as most people don't want their house redesigned.
   I have, however, spent many hours sitting in the family room of my daughter's house while she and my wife were at Costco or somewhere. Over the months and years, I have developed a complete detailed redesign of one section of their house. For example, the downstairs bedroom becomes a suite with its own bathroom and walk-in closet. The family room is lengthened and windows are added to look out onto the side yard. Double glass doors then lead out of the family room into a new lobby from which the bedroom suite is accessed, rather than from the hall as it is now. This access also has a double door feature such that the bathroom may be entered from the lobby or the suite depending on whether the suite is in use. The  lobby also gives access to the new deck which wraps around the house to the existing rear deck. The whole thing is in my mind as a package.
   As I have said above, I have a photographic memory in many respects. This design package also exists in my memory as a series of sketches of all the new elements, furnished and painted, not just in white, but as I imagine them. If only I could stick a USB cable in my ear and download it all to a printer, I'd have it made. Incidentally, I have never discussed this design with the family so it might come as a shock to them if and when they read this.

   Of course, some of the same questions apply here as with the music. Do other people do this? Can other people..............Does any of it matter? Once again, I don't know. Maybe I would like to know. Maybe,........... but then........
  Regardless, this is the way my mind works and, personally, I like it. I think I'll keep it.
  
  

Gazpacho

I first went to Spain in 1951 and, on that first visit, I discovered gazpacho, the most delicious cold soup to eat on a hot day. Joy and I also honeymooned in Spain and, while there, we learned how to make gazpacho, and we have been making it for the last 48 years.  
  The Spanish often add gelatin to gazpacho and I prefer it that way. When the gelatin is set, you break the soup up with a fork before serving. We learned this simpler recipe fairly recently and the taste is not that much different from the original. If you are allergic to clams, there is a product made by V8 which is all vegetable. It comes in the same size jars.
   INGREDIENTS
1 64 oz jar of Clamato Tomato Cocktail
1 Red Pepper cored, seeded and diced
1 Yellow Pepper cored, seeded and diced
1 Orange Pepper cored, seede and diced
2 Apples peeled, cored and diced
4 Medium Tomatoes diced
1 English Cucumber peeled and diced
1/4 Canteloupe peeled and diced
1 Large Onion diced
Juice of 3 Lemons
1/2 Tsp Worcestershire Sauce
1/4 Tsp Ground Ginger
1 Tsp Salt
Black Pepper to taste
White Pepper to taste

DIRECTIONS
   You need a jar large enough that the Clamato fills it to no more than three quarters. Add to the bowl the whole jar of Clamato. Add all the ingredients, stirring well as you go. Adjust the taste. Put it in the refrigerator. That's it folks!!

   
  

BANG!

  Recently, I was giving some thought to doing a blog on what I found it fun to do. Somewhere along the line, my mind got sidetracked into thinking about fun things I used to like to do in school or college days.
  One thing that imediately came to mind was something that started when I was at high school  and continued, with varying levels of activity, until my last year in college. My high school was Haileybury College in England, an expensive boys boarding school. One of the subjects new to  me at Haileybury was chemistry. In this class, I developed an interest in explosives, not in a destructive frame of mind but to investigate the means to  create, for instance, an exploding toilet seat.
  So, I needed an impact explosive. Such an explosive was potassium iodide, an easy to make, relatively stable yet powerful explosive. When I first made this, I mixed the chemicals in a jar in the lab and sneaked the jar out of the lab in my pocket. Back in the common room, I put the mixture through a filter paper and was left with about two teaspoons of wet brown powder. When this dried, it would be my explosive. Other boys in the common room watched with interest but one classics student, Tubby H, jeered "That won't explode, it looks like a pile of s..t." So, I put the filter paper  with the little pile on the floor and invited him to step on it. Of course, I did not know if it would explode or not when it was this wet. Tubby continued to jeer, so I again told him to step on it if he really believed nothing would happen. Now, of course, he had to. So he did. What followed was a very much bigger explosion than I had ever expected and it echoed around the school quadrangle through the open windows. The lower half of Tubby disappeared in a cloud of reddish-brown smoke. His foot was propelled upward by the blast so fast that his knee almost hit his chin. He was left standing on one leg, red faced and looking a little like a constipated flamingo. "Well" I said " that was a success." I don't think Tubby agreed with me. 
  Now that I knew I could make the explosive, I could think about the exploding toilet seat but, it had to be worthy of Monty Python's Flying Circus.....a lofty ambition. One of the good things about potassium iodide was that you could paint it on something while it was still wet and, when it dried, that object was then covered in an impact explosive.
  One Sunday in the summer, my mother had invited some people to tea. Before they arrived, I painted the bump feet under the seat of the downstairs toilet with a thick coat of the wet brown paste and put the seat down very carefully.
  We were all seated in the living room enjoying our tea and then Mae, a somewhat ample lady, excused herself and left the room, closing the door behind her. At this point, I went behind the couch and pretended to look for something in the bookcase. I knew I would not be able to keep a straight face if we heard the explosion. A minute or so later, there was a double Bang-bang as she obviously squatted assymetrically. Nobody said a word, maybe they did not hear while they were all talking. When Mae came back into the room, she didn't say a word either.  Well, you wouldn't would you?  She looked visibly  shaken and probably did not say anything for an hour or more. Chalk up another success. 
  I found many other uses for potassium iodide. One was painting a thin film on the underside of the bases of wine glasses, after the table was set. Then, as each person took a drink and put his wine glass down again, there was a sharp crack. Very good conversation starter..."static electricity, its been very dry today." Also at school, it was fun to simply scatter drops of the wet powder everywhere, on tables, on desks, on the floor,etc. This produces a whole cacophony of cracks and pops whatever you do. Painting door handles was another favorite, but that can get moderately painful.
  One explosive device I made I called a land mine. This idea was based on the large cylindrical devices that German bombers used to drop in rural areas of England during WW2. I made it from a thin metal can about five inches in diameter and ten inches high. These were sold during the war containing dried milk. They had very tight fitting lids with a twist on feature. I drilled a hole in the base and fitted a model airplane sparkplug in it. A battery, an ignition switch and a coil of wire completed the kit. To arm the device, I put just a few or up to a handful of crystals of calcium carbide in the can and just a little water. Then, I screwed the lid on tight. The can now became full of acetylene gas and was armed.
  Next door to my parents lived Mrs S, her son, one dog and about eighty rabbits. The son was a maniac around guns. The fruit and vegetables we grew were constantly full of lead pellets or small bullets. So, they owed us. Mrs S had a stud bunny, I believed she called him Basil. One day, while Mrs S was out, my cousin and I went into the next door property and buried a powerful land mine under the straw by the edge of Basil's pen. Then we trailed the wire back to our fence. Basil seemed to like his new hump and proceeded to lie on it. When Mrs S came home, we could see her at the kitchen sink looking out of the window. That is when I pressed the switch. There was a loud woomf and Basil took his first flying lesson. Mrs S looked horrified as she observed Basil's inability to remain airborne. We rapidly reeled in the wire and can and left the area. At this point, I felt very sorry for Basil, but I went back to check on him a while later and he was running around, apparently fine.
  The land mine was a partial success but nowhere near as much fun as potassium iodide.
  There are  many more stories on this subject but I'll leave it there for another day. Then, maybe I'll tell you how we kept the residents of a sleepy English village awake for most of a night by mysterious loud explosions going off every fifteen minutes. When we thought we had got all the fun out of it, we decided to quit and go to bed. But, we couldn't sleep, those bloody bangs kept going for another four hours.
 

My First Parachute Jump

  I was, I believe, ten years old and we were three years into World War 2. My father worked for the Ministry of Aircraft Production in Millbank, London. He went to work each day by bus and then train and he dressed in the proper manner in a dark suit, with optional but minimal pinstripe, white shirt, dark tie, black shoes and a Bowler hat. On days when rain was a possibility, most days, he carried what I think was called a businessman's umbrella. This was indeed a magnificent device. It had a considerably larger diameter than a regular umbrella and had a beautifully carved wooden handle and a long stainless steel shaft coming out of the handle. This was the shaft of the intricate folding framework of the umbrella. On the end of the shaft was a fairly sharp steel point, about 4 or 5 inches long. Thus, it could become a  weapon.
  As I said, we were three years into the war so, in the previous two years, I had watched the Spitfires and Messerschmidts dog fighting overhead and had listened to the rattle of the machine guns and several times had seen pilots descending by parachute. I remember thinking, at the time, what a wonderful sense of freedom that must feel, floating down to the ground. Then, I thought of Dad's umbrella or, Pop's parachute. What a great idea! Looking back on this now, I am ashamed of myself. I knew how to calculate the area within a circle but, I guess I wasn't too good on relativity. At that time, I thought... well, the umbrella is not as big as a parachute but I am not as big as a pilot so, I'll give it a go.
  My bedroom was above the kitchen and the house has very high ceilings so, my window should be high enough above the ground for the umbrella, oops...parachute, to work properly. One day when rain was not forecast and mother had gone to the store, I got out the umbrella, carefully opened it up to check it was in good working order and closed  it again. Perfect.
  I climbed on the window sill, opened the window, opened my parachute, raised it high above my head, took a deep breath, and jumped.........
  As far as I can remember, after what seemed like an eternally long half second, the ground stopped coming up. Then, I put it in perpective and realized that I had stopped going down. So, I looked around. I was sitting on the ground in a sort of loosely assembled heap. My hands were still on the ends of my arms. My legs looked like they would be sort of straight if I could stretch them out. And, nothing hurt except my bum. The parachute looked relatively undamaged (but, remember, I said I wasn't that much good on relativity in those days).
  Then,I turned and looked toward the house and I noticed the damage. Two of my fathers tomato plants were demolished. I know he probably had forty eight more but, these two were the important ones. I needed a plan before he came home. In the meantime, I worked for about an hour in the garage and had the umbrella looking almost as good as new.
  When my father came home, this time by train and then bus, he came in and followed his usual ritual. After kissing my mother, he went upstairs, changed  into something more comfortable, had a wash and came back downstairs. If all was well with the world, I would then hear the chink of glasses as he would pour out a gin and French for himself and a gin and Italian for mother. Tonight, all  was well...so far.  But, it was dark outside. So, I thought I would be OK until Saturday morning.
  When my father came home the next evening, the ritual was going fine but then, no chinking. Instead "Tony, come here right now. Your father needs to talk to you". To cut a long story short, I tried to say that I had seen a fox chasing a rabbit the day before on the terrace. But, that story was less succesful than the parachute.
  Strangely enough, that was also my last parachute jump. And I have never mentioned this to a soul....until now.
 

Lawns

  Englishmen certainly love their lawns. Each small fenced in green swath throughout the English countryside seems to be a statement to the world by the owner that he belongs. Quite what to is less certain.
  When an Englishman buys or builds a house in the UK, his first job is not to see where his kids will go to school or to buy new bedroom furniture. No, he plants a lawn. He then nurtures it through rain, wind and frost until it reaches its full verdant fruition. Then, and only then, he is ready to show it to the world. So, he tells his wife to invite relatives, friends and neighbors on Sunday afternoon to come and drink tea and see the lawn. Imagine the feelings of the invited, waiting anxiously for the weekend so they can come and drink tea and watch the grass grow. Unbearable exhilaration.
  My parents had a nice lawn at the back of the house. They called it the tennis court despite the fact that, in the sixty years leading up to the last time I was at that house, not a single ball had been hit over the net. The probable  reason was that they had never put a net on it. However, for many years, all the uncles ,aunts, grandparents, cousins, etc used to play endless needle matches of croquet on this lawn. These often went on until after dark.
  My mother did not invite people to drink tea and see the lawn.You see, my father did not lay the lawn himself, so the lawn did not count.  My mother did invite people to tea on Sundays. But, this was to drink tea and eat raspberries and cream. You could sit on the lawn to drink your tea and eat your raspberries, but you were not supposed to actually look at the grass because, as I say, it didn't count.
  As a slight digression, mother went out of her way to supply the neighborhood with raspberries. As far as I can remember, she had planted more than twenty rows of them with about twenty plants in each row. So, this was something of an overkill. Raspberries have always been my very favorite fruit so, I was not about to complain.
She also had 600 show roses, complete overkill, but she won all kinds of ribbons and silver cups and even had a rose named after her.
  As a further digression, all of our garden was formally landscaped except for about a quarter acre in one corner which was covered in rough but nice grass with trees on it. It had been suggested that she plant some assorted species of daffodil in random circles all over the grass and cut the grass short between the circles. So, she marked out the circles and hand planted 3000 (yes, three Thousand) daffodils in them. The current owners of the house have made the landscaping in this area more formal including a new section of gravel driveway leading to a second entrance. But, they never could work out why all these bloody daffodils keep coming up, including in the driveway.
  Now, where was I? ...Oh, yes.....lawns.
  My Uncle Arthur had a really beautiful lawn. Shortly after World War 2, he built a wonderful house on 2 or 3 acres of land and he put virtually the whole area down to grass with flower beds and shrubs around the perimeter. So, he had about 2 acres of the most beautiful, completely flat lawn. Next to him on the east side,the neighbor had built a similar size house and also surrounded it with a beautiful, level lawn. A few years later the guy  who bought the land on the other side also built a fabulous house and surrounded it with an incredible lawn and perfectly manicured shrubbery. This latter gentleman was indeed proud of his verdant creation.
  About the worst enemy to any Englishmen is the mole. This is a small animal, about the size of a mouse and covered in a shiny black fur coat and it's almost completely blind. They live by eating earthworms and they live underground. If  you see a mole above ground,  he will not run away presumably because he can't see where to run. So, he just hunkers down till the danger passes. Of course, he doesn't have to hunker very far as his legs are only about half an inch long. Underground, they dig tunnels very fast and, every few feet, they push the excavated dirt upwards through the surface to form a mound about 12 inches in diameter and 6  to 8 inches tall. A row of these molehills can thus ruin the look of an Englishman's  gem.
  Uncle Arthur  had moles in his lawn and he got rid of them in the usual way. That is, he bought some calcium carbide, sometimes called Miner's Lamp, dropped a few crystals down the hole under the molehill, followed by a cup of water, and then trod some dirt in the hole. The acetylene gas released by the crystals then wafted through the tunnels and killed all the mole colony. Easy!
  The lawn of the gentleman next door also was attacked by moles.  The calcium carbide method was not satisfactory to him for some reason. He bought 5 gallons of kerosene, put a funnel in the nearest molehill, and poured all the kerosene down the hole. About 20 minutes later, he was dissatisfied  with the lack of activity, although we do not know what he had expected to happen. So, he lit a match and threw it in the funnel, whereupon there was the most horrendous explosion and it seemed like the whole 2 acre green carpet took to the air. It rained dirt for hundreds of yards around. When the dust settled, what had been his lawn was now criss-crossed with a latticework of little trenches about 3 inches wide and 6 inches deep. He was not pleased! To add insult to injury, he didn't even have the dirt to fill in the trenches. He had donated that to the neighborhood.
  Apparently, it took Uncle Arthur hours to stop laughing!
  By the way, I forgot to tell you, the English tend to name their houses rather than give them numbers. Uncle Arthur named his.....You've got it!..."The Lawns".
  So, now you have a little background on Englishmen and their lawns. Personally, I am not really into lawns. Hedges are more fun.