RANDOM PHOTO AND A QUOTE AND A RAMBLE

 

“Swim your own path”

 ~Author Unknown ~

One from my archives, the stone fish was part of a fountain taken in a village when we were on vacation in 2015. We were in the UK not too far from the village where I lived when I met Gregg. 

And here goes a 'bit' of a ramble, some of which I may be repeating so apologies in advance. 

For ten years I was a total village girl, driving my old rusty bucket of a grey mini along the country lanes, which were barely wide enough to get one car down, and yes, it was two-way traffic. If you came across an oncoming car, you invariably had to back up several feet, sometimes several yards, to the nearest farmer's gate, edge in somehow as tightly as you could, and allow the car to pass. Sometimes and this is no exaggeration, there was perhaps only two inches between you and the other car, if that. A friendly wave and a ‘thank you love’ would follow. 

An added note since I started this post, is that you had to be very careful of those 'hedgerows', as there were very often old stone walls underneath them totally obscured. Many a car driven by people who don't know the countryside, have had some nasty scrapes and scratches on their vehicles because of them. 

Anyhow, I found myself backing up maybe a couple of times on each journey, so I got quite good at it. I never waited for the other car, just did it automatically, as my Dad had showed me to do. He was always the reverser and when he was teaching me how to drive, figured it was good practice for me. 

I loved village life, it fit me like an old glove. There was a village pub where my sister and I would occasionally go with our parents. Children usually sat in the garden weather permitting, where there were tables and chairs and play areas. If it was rainy then you didn't go. As I got older I would join my friends and we would have a good old natter and enjoy a shandy or a pop. 

My memories of this pub, built right next to the village church. (The first brick on the old church was placed in Circa1400 when the west tower was built, the remainder in Circa 1450, its chapel Circa 1520. The Chancel was restored in 1874.) As for the pub, there was an old fireplace with a roaring fire crackling in the wintertime, the farmer drinking his pint and his two sheep dogs lying in front of the fireplace, sometimes a tail getting too close and farmer’s foot gently moving tail and occasionally putting out embers on singed fur with said foot. They were a regular sight, as were all the other locals and my Dad knew many of them. It was his regular pub.

The place had those old, low-beamed ceilings I like, and white-washed walls with horizontal black beams crossing the vertical ones, holding them all together. I was always told that the pub was built before the village church, as it was customary to have an establishment where the workers could come and have refreshment and food after a hard day's work, not always the case I suppose. Here you can see the history of their beginnings, and also a few old pubs at this link.

I worked in the nearby town of Torquay at the local government's solicitors (lawyers) offices, and then moved up the road for a higher paycheck working for a child psychiatrist for a few years, and then for yet another higher paycheck having heard from a friend that I should apply for her job as she was leaving, and I worked in the local hospital administration offices. 

When I was 15 my Dad had retired from the police and that's how we ended up in Devon. We had been vacationing there since I was 8 years old, twice a year.  Moving to Devon was like going back home.  We loved being not too far from the seaside and didn't mind the extra dampness in the air.

About six months after we had moved, Dad was contacted by an old friend who lived in the town we had just moved from. This solicitor (lawyer) friend of my Dad, was on his way to Torquay and knew Dad wasn’t too far away. There were a lot of 'retirees' but very few fully retired. The friend was going to set up his own practice and asked Dad to join him. His career in law enforcement had given him connections even in this area, and further afield. In their beginnings they needed extra help as there was only one young girl who did their typing, and the practice became very busy.  

One evening when I was almost 18, Dad asked me if I would like to earn some extra pocket money.  This would involve typing up notes which were hand-written on sheets of lined paper clipped together. They were done by people who were getting divorced, and ladies were their main clientele. 

Dad and I had a long talk and he warned me beforehand that what I would be typing could on occasion be horrendous, did I still want to take the job on? There were often hospital reports regarding spousal abuse. I could try it for a while and quit if I felt it was too much. I said yes because I again was looking for that extra pocket money. My friends and I were saving up for a skiing holiday in Austria for the following wintertime, definitely an incentive and at first, little thought of what I was typing. My brain was able to compartmentalize, and my fingers flew.

However, many of these stories were very, very sad and quite horrid and they did begin to affect me. I empathized continuously, and I grew up! I typed steadily for almost five years, working in the day and then coming home and working in the evenings for two or three hours, often on the weekends. I would give myself some time off to have an evening out with my friends. I never spoke of the work as it was obviously confidential.  After this had gone on for over two years, I remember saying to Mum that I was never, ever, ever going to get married. I became very, very wary and overly cautious but I knew a lot about life, thanks to my Dad's offer of extra work. Gregg said years later maybe your Dad was trying to prepare you for life. He did, that's for sure, except that I was already overly cautious and skeptical, and now extra suspicious. I kept telling those who asked, as most of my friends were either engaged or married by that time, that I was quite happy being a spinster for the rest of my life, and that was the truth. Yes, we still used the word spinster in those days, even as young as I was. And that's when I met Gregg and off to America I went! I surprised some to say the least.

Moving to Washington DC was a bit of a shock, my head was spinning for a long time. I will never forget that first trip from the airport at night, on a busy multi-laned freeway, the flashing lights from a never ending line of headlights, from cars that seemed to me to be as big as tanks. And here I am all these years later, having moved when Gregg was in the navy, many times, but now back within a stone's throw of Washington DC again. Forks in the road right?

I didn't expect this post to turn into such a ramble, but my brain is rambling more and more these days. (Maybe it's this darned cough and cold. Gregg and I have been stuck in the house for a while. Between hacking coughs and sniffles, throwing bed clothes off because we are too hot, then bringing a blanket out of winter storage because of waking up too darned cold, we are now starting to feel a tad better. We have also started talking about the old days.) 

I started this blog originally for our son, and it is still for him, but I am glad to share it with my blogging friends now, so thank you if you have stuck with me this far. 

 I came from a family who were ‘all-about-life’ story tellers. It was their entertainment, the old stories. Not only them but get-togethers where family and friends who came over for a pot of tea and nibbles, and the conversation invariably rolled around where almost to the person, they told their own life stories. And then there were the sing-songs when Dad would get on the piano. This was long before all this amazing technology that we have now, and was very much part of my growing up years. 

I still remember many of the tales from Mum and Dad when they were young, and even their friends, not all were rosy. There was, however, one dear lady, Mrs. Bissell, who was my honorary ‘aunty’. She loved us and we loved her. She had just returned from visiting her brother. She hadn’t seen him in ten years. He had emigrated to Australia and lived in the outback. I was enthralled with tales of kangaroos and cockatoos, and other brightly colored birds and flowers, and all the many splendid sights she saw.  

So, I put these things down to give our son an idea of what his parents have done in their lives. Even the most mundane things from my own parents, are treasured memories now, and I know Gregg feels the same way about his. I'm thinking son will feel the same about these one day.

If you would like to share snippets of yours, I would love to read them. Obviously no pressure and I certainly don’t expect it unless you want to.

Ramble over with!

Thanks for visiting and I hope 

your day is a great one.