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 – 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.

The Stranger She Married

Review by Rachel Rager

I am amazed at how the act of reading helps me as a writer. When I read well written books, I want to be a better writer and I try to incorporate new writing techniques. I think it was Nicholas Sparks who said that the best way to be a better writer is to read, read, read!
I’ve heard of Donna Hatch’s book, The Stranger She Married, for at least a year now and am just barely getting around to reading it. I am so sorry it has taken me so long! I really missed out on a great story for a very long time! Donna Hatch is not only a gifted writer but a master storyteller. Her story is full of adventure, intrigue and deception! What better elements are there for a romance book? (I loved this book and am very excited to finally own it!)

When her parents and only brother die within weeks of each other, Alicia and her younger sister are left in the hands of an uncle who has brought them all to financial and social ruin. Desperate to save her family from debtor's prison, Alicia vows to marry the first wealthy man to propose. She meets the dashing Lord Amesbury, and her heart whispers that this is the man she is destined to love, but his tainted past may forever stand in their way. Her choices in potential husbands narrow to either a scarred cripple with the heart of a poet, or a handsome rake with a deadly secret.
Cole Amesbury is tormented by his own ghosts, and believes he is beyond redemption, yet he cannot deny his attraction for the girl whose genuine goodness touches the heart he'd thought long dead. He fears the scars in his soul cut so deeply that he may never be able to offer Alicia a love that is true. When yet another bizarre mishap threatens her life, Alicia suspects the seemingly unrelated accidents that have plagued her loved ones are actually a killer's attempt to exterminate every member of her family. Despite the threat looming over her, learning to love the stranger she married may pose the greatest danger to her heart.

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.

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
Feel free to join a Facebook group for Famous Family Nights by clicking HERE.

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
Feel free to join a Facebook group for Famous Family Nights by clicking HERE.