Peek in the Past--The Grand Canyon and Later Conversion

At one point in our travels, East to West across America (click HERE for last month's post), my friend Pauline and I reached the Grand Canyon, and had to decide whether to take the Greyhound bus to Los Angeles (our final destination) via Las Vegas or Salt Lake City. For some reason, although I knew nothing about the place, I had a sudden desire to see Salt Lake City. We tossed a coin. Pauline won. We went to Las Vegas, and I forgot about Salt Lake.

I mentioned last month, that Pauline and I investigated different religions on our travels. I always felt each time that something was missing, and gradually became disillusioned with the whole concept of a “right church.” I was also unhappy about the way many of my peers lived. It felt like there was an ugly darkness and little direction in anyone’s life. Immorality, drinking, smoking, drugs—they all seemed alien to me. I could not believe that was how life should be.

So you can imagine my reaction to Las Vegas and its nightlife. Not good. We were both glad to climb on board another Greyhound bus the next day and head west.


Once in LA, I found a secretarial job working at Western and Southern Insurance on Wilshire Boulevard. I was there ten months and then decided it was time to return home to England—not just for a visit, but for good. My job involved more than straightforward shorthand and typing, so it meant I had to stay another four weeks to train the replacement secretary.

The young lady hired to replace me happened to be Mormon, and that began the most amazing four weeks of my life. I later came to believe this was the purpose for my whole trip across North America. When I heard Carolyn's religion, I was fairly interested. Her faith was a new one to me, and to be honest, I thought it would be just another concept for the “been there, done that” list.



However, I found satisfying answers to my countless questions, and spent the remaining evenings and weekends with Carolyn and her friends and family, talking mainly about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I eventually listened to missionary discussions crammed into little over a week. There wasn’t time to read much of the Book of Mormon at that point, but I had such a strong logical and spiritual conversion that I knew I needed to be baptized as soon as possible.

Nothing went smoothly. The worst obstacle happened when I came home from work one night and fell down the apartment building stairs, wrenching my ankle so badly I fainted for the first time ever. I was supposed to be at Carolyn’s apartment for the missionary discussion on baptism an hour later. Some friends saw me fall and carried me home. I thought I’d broken my ankle, the pain was that bad, and actually called Carolyn to cancel the appointment as I couldn’t even walk to the bus stop. She came and collected me anyway, and the evening was wonderful. The following weekend Elders Van Dyke and Abelhouzen baptized me. Two days later, I returned to England to a disbelieving family who took me to dinner and wanted to treat me to champagne. That was tricky.

I later discovered that Carolyn had been in the middle of a BYU English degree before she arrived in LA looking for a job. She felt impressed to leave her studies and work for a while, and live near her parents’ home in Van Nuys. She later returned to BYU and completed her degree, but always felt the purpose of taking that break was to meet me. I am forever grateful she followed those promptings of the spirit.

I had faith, and an embryonic testimony, but did not have instant knowledge. Friends held a farewell party in the Los Angeles apartment, and several young Irish men of dwindling Catholic faith were there. When they heard of my baptism, they ridiculed me, and taunted with questions I had no idea how to answer. But somehow, I instinctively knew the stuff they threw at me was false doctrine. All I could do was state my gut feelings and walk away. I quickly realized I needed to study a whole lot more if people were going to do that to me. I could not deny the burning confirmation I kept receiving that this Church did indeed contain the truth for which I had searched. However, it was a surprise to discover I would need to defend my beliefs from that moment on.

These days, my testimony of the Gospel of Jesus Christ has deep roots. It is the reason behind everything I do—especially my writing.

Peek in the Past—Beyond the Big D.C.

(Continued from Peek in the Past—The Journey Begins)

One of my new friends in our Maryland apartment was Pauline Stevens, a young lady from London, England. She had fiery bronze hair and a great sense of humor. After a few months working in Washington D.C., we were both tired of the humid summer heat and began dreaming of the west coast.

So we planned a long trip across the States and began saving pay checks for Greyhound bus tickets to our first destination—Nashville, Tennessee.

That first leg of our journey across the Roanoke Mountains in early October 1963 was awe inspiring. We couldn’t get enough of magnificent views and stunning autumn colors. And Nashville was such a cool place. It didn’t take long to find work. There were no secretarial jobs available, so we turned our hands to serving in a restaurant—a first for both of us. That was fun. Hours were long and hard, but we saved enough for the next bus tickets to Dallas, Texas, arriving there at the end of October.

Fortunately, there were more office vacancies in Dallas, and we both found jobs with a Temp agency. As soon as we had enough money for tickets, we moved on to Colorado Springs via a night in Wichita, Kansas at the home of strangers—a generous Baptist family.

During our travels, we discussed religion and attended different churches. Pauline was a lapsed Catholic, and I was raised without religion, but had a great curiosity about God. When I was eight, I went—by myself—to a local Church one Sunday, just to see what went on. My dad gave me a thrupenny bit (three English pennies—like 3 cents) , and said, “You’ll need this for the collection.” I had no clue what that meant until half way through the service a plate was passed around. Everyone around me placed ten shilling notes, or even one pound, or five pound notes on the pile. I kept my tiny, bronze thrupenny bit tight in my fist, and ducked my head, embarrassed. I didn’t understand the service and couldn’t see past all the winter coats and fancy hats. No-one spoke to me afterward so I never went back.

Fast forward to 1963. It was now November 22nd, just one week after we’d left Dallas, and we had jobs washing pots and pans in a Colorado Springs YWCA. I was standing at this large stone sink, washing a huge stew pan, listening to a portable radio, when we heard the never-to-be-forgotten news of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. There was a little old lady drying pans with us, and we all broke into tears, hardly able to believe such an impossible thing could happen. The world seemed to take a down turn after that. I was glad to be out of Dallas.

On our days off, Pauline and I explored Colorado Springs and the surrounding mountain retreats. I think we were the only people bussing and walking everywhere. It took us forever to get around, but we had a great time. Pikes Peak and the Garden of the Gods were top favorites. That Christmas, we were the only two residents left in the YMCA, and calling home was a must, despite the cost. What was another day’s work compared to chatting with family.

By mid-January, we’d saved enough to travel on to the Grand Canyon—and a new twist in my story. But you’ll have to wait another month to find out what happened next :-)

Peek in the Past – The Journey Begins

Boarding the ship Sylvania in Liverpool at the age of twenty-one, and heading for America, was more of an emotional upheaval than I ever anticipated. Watching my family standing on the quayside, waving, slowly shrinking as the ship pulled further and further away, brought on such a mixture of excitement, sadness, fear, and panic that I was tempted to jump overboard and swim back to land.

I had the promise of a secretarial job in Washington D.C., and temporary accommodation in a downtown hostel, but supposing something went wrong? What was I thinking? I didn’t know a soul in America. Was I crazy? Why this urge to exchange my comfortable life for travel, anyway?

It would be over eighteen months before I had answers to these questions.

Gradually, as land disappeared and the mood of everyone on board lightened, my adventurous self overcame my faint-hearted self and the journey became easier to bear. I soon realized how very little I understood about life, about people and their countless differences. Many of those passengers attached themselves so firmly in my mind that some would end up in my stories in years far ahead.

Passing the Statue of Liberty and finally setting foot in the USA all felt as though it were happening in a dream. But it was real, and things were looking up. I even had a couple of new friends—two girls in the same boat (pun intended), heading for the same Washington D.C. hostel.

To cut a long story short at this point, things didn’t turn out quite as expected. Do they ever? The job didn’t materialize; the hostel was awful (no air-conditioning in sweltering heat); and money was running short. What to do. What to do?

In determined British Bulldog fashion, six of us who came through the same agency (Pauline, Pat, Liz, Shiela, Judy, and I), got together, rented an apartment in Maryland, and found ourselves new jobs in the city. And this was just the beginning of my great adventure.

Tune in for more next month and read where two of us moved to next. Nope, it wasn’t Australia :-)

Peek in the Past—USA, Here I Come—Almost!

Although they may not sound like much to do with writing, the work and travel years of my life were influential, contributing much to material I would use later in books.

My initial secretarial jobs are still vivid memories. I worked first for ICI Pharmaceuticals near Alderley Edge, Cheshire in their Medical Services Department. Talk about throwing myself in the deep end. Medical terminology in shorthand was not taught at secretarial college. Getting that right, took mental scrambling and practice. And patience from the various doctors who dictated. One of them specialized in tropical diseases. Try writing Neurocysticercosis in shorthand and later remembering what in the world your hieroglyphics meant.

It was many miles from home to ICI, and there was no bus. If I couldn't catch a ride, I  cycled for at least an hour through winding country lanes. I’d progressed to owning a sports bike in those days. The Snowball imaginings from childhood were replaced with new daydreams—about a young man who also cycled to ICI and worked in the research labs. Unfortunately for me, he always overtook, zooming past (his hobby was speed racing) with no more than a “Good morning!” floating back on the breeze.

Next, came a receptionist job in a (now demolished) hotel at Milford-on-Sea near Bournemouth, Hampshire. That place was a joy, situated as it was, right across the road from the cliffs and beach. With the New Forest within cycling distance, I wandered the countryside on my days off, soaking in the sea air; loving the views, the wild forest ponies, the green smells, and the melancholy cry of gulls. I was something of a loner back then. Not so anymore. At least, not when it comes to travel. These days, I’m a weekday keyboard loner.

There was so much to see in Hampshire: beaches, castles, the Isle of Wight, the New Forest, rivers, a motor museum, The Downs, cathedrals and abbeys . . . I’m beginning to sound like a tourist guide. But best of all, Hampshire was the birth place of Jane Austen, and Charles Dickens, two of my literary heroes. I actually share the same birthday as Dickens--well, day and month at least :-)

By strange coincidence, I recently recorded something about Dickens for one of Seth Adam Smith’s YouTube videos, which can be heard by clicking HERE.

Nice timing, Seth. Thanks! (I promise, he knew nothing about this Writing Fortress post when he asked me to narrate.)

Back to the past. After leaving Milford-on-Sea and returning to my home in Hale, I worked for a while in a tiny office up many floors in a Victorian building in Manchester. That, I did not like.  I’ve never been a city person. It was like going from sunshine to thunder. I can still smell carbolic floor-wash from the stuffy, closed-in office with its grim sash window that let in way too much traffic noise. I blame subsequent allergies on that archaic building.

So yes, after ten gloomy months, I was glad to see the ocean again. On a ship. Heading for America.

More when it's my turn to blog again, first Saturday in July.

Peek in the Past--Yay for Pitman's!

We lived in Hale, Cheshire,  England for the rest of my years at home. Gradually, as I grew through teenage years filled with school activities (homework, sports, and exams), childhood dreaming gave way to more adult activities like dating, going to secretarial college, and job hunting.

I have to admit, grammar school was a happy time for me. I didn’t want it to end, but at the same time, couldn’t help feeling excited at the freedom ahead , and getting away from rules and regulations (or so I thought).
 

The first thing I did was join a drama club. It seemed like a natural progression from creating stories to actually living them. My acting wasn’t very good, and I had trouble learning lines, and projecting my voice, and keeping a straight face; but apart from that I really enjoyed myself. I was in several shows, either backstage or onstage, and learned more about life during that time than any previous year.

My mind opened to areas I’d never before considered. Unfortunately, not all of them were good. I learned about different lifestyles, viewpoints, ethics, and behaviors. I also learned not to judge, not to drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes, and not to believe everything at face value.

This maturing process continued long after leaving the drama club, and laid the foundation for some core beliefs that eventually brought religion into my life—a story for another post.

Secretarial college in Manchester was not my idea of fun. Book keeping was part of the curriculum, and since mathematics in any form froze my brain, I was always bottom of that class. Learning to type on those heavy old manual typewriters was another pain. But I’m grateful for the experience. It for sure came in handy when I began serious writing much later.

My saving grace was Pitman’s shorthand. At that I excelled. Those cunning little shapes caught my imagination and I soon learned to write them fast. The only problem was translating them back—an important skill if anyone was ever going to hire me. I doubted that pages of squiggles would impress, no matter how fast I wrote them, if I couldn’t type them back equally fast. It all came together, eventually.

And so I became a secretary, ready to explore the world. America was as far as I got, but more about that another day.

Peek in the Past - The Old Prison Site

Another place from childhood memories of Knutsford, Cheshire, was the old Prison Site. This place conjured up the strangest imaginings in my young mind. I wasn’t old enough to understand the full extent of man’s suffering when freedom had gone, and all that was left was the monotony of four walls and memories of better times, but still, the old place had a feel to it that was creepy, yet compelling.

I often cycled over there on my black bike (a second-hand but repainted birthday gift from my parents), riding up and down the bumpy hills worn into uneven paths by years of feet taking a short cut to town.

The ground, which was about the size of two soccer fields, had been known locally as the “Prison Site” for so long that the words were more a title than a phrase, and the meaning forgotten—similar to the way Brits call a vacuum cleaner a Hoover, with no thought to the real meaning.

This aerial photograph of the prison dates from about 1930 before it was demolished. The four-storey prison was built in 1853 to hold a hundred women. It was known as the 'House of Correction' in 1860, when it held 273 prisoners, with a capacity for 700, according to Joan Leach in her book Behind Prison Walls. And David Woodley, in his book, Knutsford Prison: The Inside Story, says, “Over the years, as well as local criminals, debtors and offenders against the Game and Bastardy Laws, Knutsford Prison housed disaffected Chartists and those awaiting transportation. From 1886, until it was taken over by the Home Office as an Army detention barrack in 1915, nine executions took place on its scaffold.”

When we lived nearby, the old prison had long been knocked to the ground, leaving heaps of brick and rubble over which grass and weeds grew in wild abundance. No one ever questioned why the debris wasn’t removed. It stayed there until after we moved home when I was twelve, and provided secret caverns big enough for my hand to insert small treasures, buttons, and a bright-but-broken Christmas ornaments. I always closed the hole containing my secret booty with a brick marked with chalk.

Sometimes, the contents would disappear by the time I next visited my hole, and that’s when I invented stories about prisoners still in dungeons below the ground, who took my gifts to perk up their days. Of course, they were always innocent prisoners, wrongly captured for crimes uncommitted, and there was always a fair maiden (me) waiting for the right moment to rescue the rugged hero. Actually, my heroes all looked like Cornel Wilde, an actor in a movie I saw with my mother. He was a trapeze artist in the 1952 version of The Greatest Show on Earth.

That was the first movie I ever watched, and it marked the beginning of an enchantment with the silver screen and all things connected. In England, trips to the cinema were called “going to the pictures.” As I grew older, I added stage musicals, concerts, and pantomimes, and invariably became so absorbed in the tale that the end always came too soon and it was a shock to find the world around me hadn’t changed.

By the way, in more recent years, the old Prison Site became the home of Booths Supermarket, and I understand there are reports of paranormal activity by local residents. Oh, for the time to write more. There has to be a good story in there, somewhere.

Back in two weeks. Oh, and if you'd like to read the latest review of Famous Family Nights, hop on over to author Sherry Ann Miller's blog by clicking HERE. Her first sentence says, "Famous Family Nights . . . is one of the best books I've ever read on Family Home Evenings." Thank you, Sherry Ann, you made my day. And I have to add, all credit for it being that good goes to the 91 participants who sent in their fascinating stories. Hats off to them all.

Famous Family Nights Winner – and Peek in the Past - Over the Garden Wall

Congratulations to Derisada, the winner of Famous Family Nights! Derisada, please send me a message by clicking on my website contact page HERE. I’ll pop a signed copy of the book in the mail as soon as I know your mailing address.

Many thanks to everyone who entered comments for this give-away. I read every entry and wish you could all receive a prize. May all your family nights be happy!

My last post on this blog ("The Bottomless Pond" for those who forgot already or never saw it), can be found by clicking HERE. Today’s flashback is to the same era. I know that sounds prehistoric, but it’s vividly current in my head :-) So here we go . . .

There was an old brick wall at the end of our garden (yard) in Knutsford, Cheshire, England. It was, of course, a magic wall leading to the mysterious world beyond. The top layer was weather-worn and crumbly, with several loose bricks. A few falls, scrapes, and scratches eventually taught me to take care when tripping along the top from one corner of our garden to the other. To me, it was a lookout post on my castle parapet.

When giant dogs or a handsome prince approached (or one of several boys on whom I had a crush), I jumped back down to the safety of our veggie patch, taking my giddy heart into the blackcurrant bush for refuge.

On the other side of that wall, the road curved in majestic sweep, and its surface was as smooth as stainless steel. It was my favorite place to roller skate. But I could only use it when no enemy was in sight.

When all was quiet, I tossed my skates over the other side, and scrambled after them, dropping from a great height onto the grassy ledge between tall beech trees. I clipped the skates to my shoe bottoms and turned into a skating champ.

I swooshed round that bend on one leg, on two legs, arabesque style, squatting, jumping, or flying backwards. Oh, for the confidence of youth. These days, the best I can do is stand on one leg while brushing my teeth.

More in two weeks. Tata for now.

PS
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Peek in the Past - The Bottomless Pond

There were many places in and around our home in Knutsford, Cheshire, for a child to wander. And wander I did. In those days, it never entered my head there might be danger lurking. Besides, I had my super-charged horse, right? On days when I felt like exploring beyond our street, my old bike became Snowball (see previous post) and together we were either invincible, or invisible. Sometimes both.

I tied rope to the handlebars and pretended it was reins - hanging onto the rope instead of the handles. Until one day, the front wheel hit a rock and I flew off, landing on bare knees. Oh, the agony for weeks. It didn’t stop me from doing it again, though. It’s not funny how some children have to learn the hard way. Now, when I see someone riding a bike no-hands, I cringe for them.

A favorite haunt was several narrow lanes away, past the field, past my little country school, out through the village and down the never-ending hill to neatly hedged farmland. That hill was a dream to ride down, and a nightmare to ride up. Near the hill’s end was a field with a bottomless pond. Adults warned that children drowned in its creepy depths. Maybe that's why I was always alone there.

That pond was dark mystery; home to weird water creatures; a place where fish talked, horses drank, and I never dared paddle.

I still recall the sweet smell, though. Today, if I walk past a field of wheat stubble with its earthy grass scent, memories of that English field and the scary pond come flooding back. In those days, when more farming was done by hand, even the stooks (swathes of cut grain stalks) were fuel for the imagination. They looked like wigwams to me, and made good homes for pretend Indian mice. And the haunting shrill of plump-bellied Skylarks added a tuneful backdrop to my fantasies.

One time, I lay on my stomach and reached out with an empty jam jar from my saddlebag for a dollop of floating frogspawn, rescuing it from the jaws of the Loch Ness Monster’s daughter.

Thinking about it now, ominous shapes beneath the murky water were probably shadows of passing clouds. But to me, Miss Nessy was down there and she had an alarming appetite.

So I scooped as much slippery frogspawn as I could reach, into the jar, covered it with a once-white handkerchief and secured this with a rubber band, then set it upright in my saddlebag—which wouldn’t buckle up. Precarious, really.

I wobbled back up that hill with my slimy treasure, being extra careful to avoid bumps in the road, and sneaked my booty down cold stone steps into the cellar below our house. Growing tadpoles was great fun, especially when they turned into frogs. But more about that another day. I must return to 2009 and do some writing.

PS
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Peek in the Past - Watling Street and Old Aggie's Wisdom Tooth

In my last post, I mentioned a scary incident where one of my stories diverted family attention from disaster. More about this adventure today.

In 1950s England there were no motorways (freeways), and little old English roads wandered here and there through villages and towns in whimsical fashion. And still do, by the way. However, ancient Roman Roads connected larger cities with straight/ish lines. Most Roman Roads now have new roads built over them, such as the A5.

The A5 is a major road in the UK. It was also the first Roman built road in England hence the name Roman Road. It runs for about 260 miles from London to Holyhead, Wales, following in part a section of the Roman route which the Anglo-Saxons name Watling Street.

Although the A5 was an improvement on minor roads, in the 1950s it had many bends, bridges, and narrow places. It was on one of these winding, tight roads that our family drama took place. I still remember details to this day.

My Mum and Dad were in the front seats, with Dad driving. I was in the back, sandwiched between my twin siblings (no seat belts in UK then), telling them a story. I was about 8 and they were 5½. We were returning home from a visit to our aunt and uncle who lived in Watford, Hertfordshire.

My story had reached a gripping moment (Minny the Tooth Fairy, who lived in old Aggie’s wisdom tooth, was about to be slaughtered by the dentist), when both my parents gasped and my Dad let out a scary yell. And nope, they weren’t engrossed by my zany tale. The horror was on the road ahead.

We had crossed a narrow bridge and were about to round a blind bend. I looked up and saw a massive lorry (truck) coming at us, using most of the road. By some miracle, Dad managed to flip the wheel and take us up the embankment, teetering along the edge before lurching back onto the road the other side of the fiercely hooting lorry.

Fortunately, because they were still living in my fairy tale, the twins didn’t panic. They were low enough in the seat to miss the drama, and simply poked me to carry on with the story. I’m sure my voice must have trembled. I can’t remember how Minny escaped from Aggie's tooth because my brain still clings to reruns of the near crash.

Looking back, and knowing what I now know about angels, I think one must have been helping us that day. Come to think of it, I've had more than a few narrow escapes on British roads. Another incident much later in life was equally frightening. But more about that another day. And yes, it was writing related :-)

PS
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Peek in the Past - Igloos, Tigers, and Friendly Giants

Today, I’d like to delve into childhood some more—when time seemed to last forever, and responsibilities consisted of remembering to feed my rabbit in the hutch I built from boxes; take Gyp the dog for walks; and collect runner beans from the garden for mum to cook for dinner. And the sun always shone. Well, maybe not. England isn’t known for sunny days. But in my memory, there was plenty of sunshine. Imagination can work a magic of its own no matter what.

Snowball (see last post) often left the attic and followed wherever I went - on foot, bike, or roller skates - my invisible friend was all the protection I needed back then. These days, I’d be worried sick if my granddaughters wandered alone.
A favorite place for make-believe was across the road from our Victorian semi in Knutsford. There was a large field occupied by an ancient carthorse, and beyond the field, down an embankment was the railway line. When I walked the length of the field and climbed a fence at the far end, I could jump onto the embankment and edge my way along the top until I came to a gap in the shrubs. Once through, I slithered halfway down the steep slope to the next ledge. There, Snowball and I stretched out on the grass and watched for trains.

It was a quiet place until a steam train clattered past. The occasional bumblebee droned and drooled over pollen in scattered wild flowers, and spectacular clouds formed igloos, tigers, and friendly giants overhead. It was the perfect spot for my fairy people who lived among the matted roots. Their adventures occupied space in my mind for many years.

One story eventually popped out at a traumatic family moment. More about that in my next post. I have to gather photographs for Famous Family Nights right now.

PS
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