Observations from the Mothership: The Wrap-Up

Final Impressions

Sometimes it's funny how things work out.  I always intended to write up a list of final observations about my trip when all the other posts were finished and I was back home.  Instead I fell behind on posting during the trip because I was either too busy or too tired at the time, then after returning home I was simply too preoccupied by other things.  Thus, while I was actively procrastinating and/or goofing off, someone got the jump on me.  An American tourist named Scott Waters decided to detail the differences he observed between American and English culture while on his 4th visit overseas.  His extremely accurate list has since gone viral; you can (and should) read it here.  I'd like to say Mr. Waters' post will teach me to rest on my laurels and to finish my writing when I should, but you and I both know that's not likely to happen any time soon.  My expertise is in smartassery, not punctuality.

So what are some of my final impressions of the United Kingdom, then?  First of all, I agree with many of Mr. Waters' observations:  shops do close entirely too early, dogs are everywhere (something I loved seeing) and are well-behaved, and the staircases are indeed exceptionally narrow--as in too narrow to navigate with a suitcase beside you; you have to drag it behind or walk sideways to allow adequate room.  Either way it's a hassle.  I also agree with Mr. Waters that facecloths/washcloths seem to be non-existent for some inexplicable reason and that the shower controls are often illogical or confusing (and not standard from hotel to hotel).

I do have some observations of my own, however.  For example, I don't entirely understand the death-defying step-down tubs everywhere.  You climb in and are showering essentially two feet off the ground.  That's a little weird and disconcerting at first, but you get used to it.  The real problem occurs when you then have to climb back out of these raised tubs while still wet and slippery.  I don't understand how there aren't elderly hips breaking all across the country every few minutes as older people attempt to navigate these hygienic death traps and arrive safely on the ground.  Are the British just way the hell more coordinated than I am??  (Those of you who know me well can stop laughing at any time.)

Foreign Tall Bathtub of Death

Continuing with the bathroom theme, I was likewise fascinated by the apparent preponderance of removable sprayers in lieu of fixed shower heads.  This seemed infinitely practical and I wish this were as standard practice here in the states.  The only problem is that when holstered they then tend to spray straight down rather than outwards, so you don't always get very good coverage when standing under them.  Still, this seems a small price to pay for their added flexibility.

Meanwhile, I'm convinced the only reason the British try to keep a "stiff upper lip" is because that's the only way they can cope with the stiff lower ends which must surely result from using loo (toilet) rolls with the overall softness of 36 grit sandpaper.  You'd think this rather indelicate tissue would turn everyone there into (literal) hard asses, though if anything the opposite is true.  But then I suppose even sandpapery loo rolls are preferable to the minuscule squares of paper one gets in a public restroom, which are about as effective as trying to wipe with Post-Its (and only slightly less comfortable).

On the other hand, while British toilet tissue leaves much to be desired, their bath towels are a vast improvement over ours--at least in hotels.  It's not that the towels are appreciably softer, necessarily, but rather that they are simply larger.  I find it ironic that the British people, who are on average notably smaller than the typical American, have bath towels more than ample enough to swathe even the largest person while we usually have to settle for hotel towels the size of Barbie's dish rags.  Go figure.  The abundance of oversized towels was wonderful.  Plus how can you not love a country with a towel-warming rack in nearly every bathroom??  Pure decadence right there.

While we're in the vicinity, another thing I really loved on my trip was the bedding--not to be all lurid, or anything.  Most beds I encountered had nothing but a bottom sheet and a big, fluffy comforter or duvet.  There were no top sheets to mess about with or get tangled up in while you slept.  I actually slept the best I have in months while there.  I'm sure part of that was due to the simple exhaustion of constantly walking everywhere, but just the same there was something truly glorious about sliding in under a thick, cozy coverlet every night and burrowing in for a nice, deep sleep.  Small wonder I found it so difficult to pry myself out of such a warm, pleasant nest every morning.

Another thing I really enjoyed in Britain was using the railway system for all my travels.  The trains rocked.  Even with the assorted stops on each trip, I could get almost anywhere in the country in 2-5 hours by train, with the added bonus of being able to enjoy the scenery instead of stressing out over whether or not I was on the correct road.  Most of the time I was able to snag a table and spread out with my laptop or my puzzle books and whatever snack I'd grabbed along the way.  Even when I couldn't get a table, the regular seats had pull-down trays like on airplanes which served almost as well.  The seats were comfortable and often had nearby outlets I could use for recharging my phone.  Each carriage had a luggage rack for larger bags and an overhead rack for backpacks and such.  Several even had storage for the bicycles people use to travel in town.  Most trains also had random signs exhorting passengers to "always carry water when traveling" as though Britrail thought everyone was going to suddenly disintegrate into a puff of dust if not sufficiently hydrated.  Needless to say, I found those signs pretty humorous.

I thoroughly enjoyed riding the trains during my trip.  Admittedly, I originally thought paying nearly $600 for a 2-week rail pass was a bit steep (never mind my largest expenditure by far), but it was worth every penny.  I'm pretty sure I came out around $100 ahead when all was said and done, but even if I hadn't it would still have been totally worth it just for the convenience and travel flexibility alone, something which came in handy more than once.  I highly recommend rail passes when traveling in Europe.

In addition to the rail pass, I also managed the paper money and £1 coins reasonably well, though I found the other coins to be pretty much pointless unless I needed to use a public bathroom where "spending a penny" now costs more like 30p-50p.  I'm not sure when peeing became such an expensive proposition, but there you go (or not, as the case may be).  I will confess that the newest-minted coins are pretty cool, though, because they can be assembled to show the royal heraldry displayed on the back of the £1 coins.

Thanks for showing me this, Dean!

By the time I headed back to Heathrow, I felt like I could almost pass for a native...in my imaginary world, at any rate.  Aside from the dead giveaway accent, I had my little black rucksack and was able to pack away tea and English breakfasts with the best of them.  Heck, I even mastered the coinage, even if it was just before I had to leave.  The only thing I figured I had left to do to become native would be to invest in a gross of black leggings because I saw those freaking things everywhere.  Skirts, boots, and black leggings:  the British woman's uniform, apparently.

I'm sure I could think of other interesting differences between England and the US, but why bother, really?  Intriguing as many of those differences are, they won't be what sticks with me.  What I'll remember most isn't the differences or even the big touristy sites I saw like Stonehenge or the Globe or the assorted castles I visited--amazing though each was in its own right--but rather getting to know the heartbeat of every town by wandering through the streets and the everyday places one doesn't normally see on tours.

I'll remember how much I loved Aberystwyth; I'll remember the gorgeous flowers everywhere, the sound of the waves lapping the shore of the bay, and the melodious lilt of native Welsh speakers.  I'll remember how even though I enjoyed the bustling streets of London and Edinburgh and all those cities had to offer, it was the peaceful serenity of Wales that made me feel as if I'd finally come home at last, as if I truly belonged there.

Welsh beauty.

I'll remember all the people I met, whether Crrrrrrrrrrraig from the Hard Rock Cafe or Stacey with an E or the lovely couple making their first trip to Edinburgh for an anniversary holiday or Sari the Australian from Perth.  Docents and tour guides can be very informative, but you learn far more about a country by listening to its people and learning from their experiences.

Lastly, I'll remember how the best part of my whole trip was the time I got to spend hanging out with new friends, whether I was being escorted to an event or whether we were simply chatting and laughing together.  No matter how epic or breathtaking a given building is, the human connections we make are far more important and enduring than any structure could ever be.  Besides, memories are always better when you have someone with whom to share them, and so I am especially grateful for every moment I was able to enjoy with friends.

As for final impressions, the only thing really left to say is:  Best. Birthday. Trip. EVER!!!

Observations from the Mothership: The Wrap-Up

Final Impressions

Sometimes it's funny how things work out.  I always intended to write up a list of final observations about my trip when all the other posts were finished and I was back home.  Instead I fell behind on posting during the trip because I was either too busy or too tired at the time, then after returning home I was simply too preoccupied by other things.  Thus, while I was actively procrastinating and/or goofing off, someone got the jump on me.  An American tourist named Scott Waters decided to detail the differences he observed between American and English culture while on his 4th visit overseas.  His extremely accurate list has since gone viral; you can (and should) read it here.  I'd like to say Mr. Waters' post will teach me to rest on my laurels and to finish my writing when I should, but you and I both know that's not likely to happen any time soon.  My expertise is in smartassery, not punctuality.

So what are some of my final impressions of the United Kingdom, then?  First of all, I agree with many of Mr. Waters' observations:  shops do close entirely too early, dogs are everywhere (something I loved seeing) and are well-behaved, and the staircases are indeed exceptionally narrow--as in too narrow to navigate with a suitcase beside you; you have to drag it behind or walk sideways to allow adequate room.  Either way it's a hassle.  I also agree with Mr. Waters that facecloths/washcloths seem to be non-existent for some inexplicable reason and that the shower controls are often illogical or confusing (and not standard from hotel to hotel).

I do have some observations of my own, however.  For example, I don't entirely understand the death-defying step-down tubs everywhere.  You climb in and are showering essentially two feet off the ground.  That's a little weird and disconcerting at first, but you get used to it.  The real problem occurs when you then have to climb back out of these raised tubs while still wet and slippery.  I don't understand how there aren't elderly hips breaking all across the country every few minutes as older people attempt to navigate these hygienic death traps and arrive safely on the ground.  Are the British just way the hell more coordinated than I am??  (Those of you who know me well can stop laughing at any time.)

Foreign Tall Bathtub of Death

Continuing with the bathroom theme, I was likewise fascinated by the apparent preponderance of removable sprayers in lieu of fixed shower heads.  This seemed infinitely practical and I wish this were as standard practice here in the states.  The only problem is that when holstered they then tend to spray straight down rather than outwards, so you don't always get very good coverage when standing under them.  Still, this seems a small price to pay for their added flexibility.

Meanwhile, I'm convinced the only reason the British try to keep a "stiff upper lip" is because that's the only way they can cope with the stiff lower ends which must surely result from using loo (toilet) rolls with the overall softness of 36 grit sandpaper.  You'd think this rather indelicate tissue would turn everyone there into (literal) hard asses, though if anything the opposite is true.  But then I suppose even sandpapery loo rolls are preferable to the minuscule squares of paper one gets in a public restroom, which are about as effective as trying to wipe with Post-Its (and only slightly less comfortable).

On the other hand, while British toilet tissue leaves much to be desired, their bath towels are a vast improvement over ours--at least in hotels.  It's not that the towels are appreciably softer, necessarily, but rather that they are simply larger.  I find it ironic that the British people, who are on average notably smaller than the typical American, have bath towels more than ample enough to swathe even the largest person while we usually have to settle for hotel towels the size of Barbie's dish rags.  Go figure.  The abundance of oversized towels was wonderful.  Plus how can you not love a country with a towel-warming rack in nearly every bathroom??  Pure decadence right there.

While we're in the vicinity, another thing I really loved on my trip was the bedding--not to be all lurid, or anything.  Most beds I encountered had nothing but a bottom sheet and a big, fluffy comforter or duvet.  There were no top sheets to mess about with or get tangled up in while you slept.  I actually slept the best I have in months while there.  I'm sure part of that was due to the simple exhaustion of constantly walking everywhere, but just the same there was something truly glorious about sliding in under a thick, cozy coverlet every night and burrowing in for a nice, deep sleep.  Small wonder I found it so difficult to pry myself out of such a warm, pleasant nest every morning.

Another thing I really enjoyed in Britain was using the railway system for all my travels.  The trains rocked.  Even with the assorted stops on each trip, I could get almost anywhere in the country in 2-5 hours by train, with the added bonus of being able to enjoy the scenery instead of stressing out over whether or not I was on the correct road.  Most of the time I was able to snag a table and spread out with my laptop or my puzzle books and whatever snack I'd grabbed along the way.  Even when I couldn't get a table, the regular seats had pull-down trays like on airplanes which served almost as well.  The seats were comfortable and often had nearby outlets I could use for recharging my phone.  Each carriage had a luggage rack for larger bags and an overhead rack for backpacks and such.  Several even had storage for the bicycles people use to travel in town.  Most trains also had random signs exhorting passengers to "always carry water when traveling" as though Britrail thought everyone was going to suddenly disintegrate into a puff of dust if not sufficiently hydrated.  Needless to say, I found those signs pretty humorous.

I thoroughly enjoyed riding the trains during my trip.  Admittedly, I originally thought paying nearly $600 for a 2-week rail pass was a bit steep (never mind my largest expenditure by far), but it was worth every penny.  I'm pretty sure I came out around $100 ahead when all was said and done, but even if I hadn't it would still have been totally worth it just for the convenience and travel flexibility alone, something which came in handy more than once.  I highly recommend rail passes when traveling in Europe.

In addition to the rail pass, I also managed the paper money and £1 coins reasonably well, though I found the other coins to be pretty much pointless unless I needed to use a public bathroom where "spending a penny" now costs more like 30p-50p.  I'm not sure when peeing became such an expensive proposition, but there you go (or not, as the case may be).  I will confess that the newest-minted coins are pretty cool, though, because they can be assembled to show the royal heraldry displayed on the back of the £1 coins.

Thanks for showing me this, Dean!

By the time I headed back to Heathrow, I felt like I could almost pass for a native...in my imaginary world, at any rate.  Aside from the dead giveaway accent, I had my little black rucksack and was able to pack away tea and English breakfasts with the best of them.  Heck, I even mastered the coinage, even if it was just before I had to leave.  The only thing I figured I had left to do to become native would be to invest in a gross of black leggings because I saw those freaking things everywhere.  Skirts, boots, and black leggings:  the British woman's uniform, apparently.

I'm sure I could think of other interesting differences between England and the US, but why bother, really?  Intriguing as many of those differences are, they won't be what sticks with me.  What I'll remember most isn't the differences or even the big touristy sites I saw like Stonehenge or the Globe or the assorted castles I visited--amazing though each was in its own right--but rather getting to know the heartbeat of every town by wandering through the streets and the everyday places one doesn't normally see on tours.

I'll remember how much I loved Aberystwyth; I'll remember the gorgeous flowers everywhere, the sound of the waves lapping the shore of the bay, and the melodious lilt of native Welsh speakers.  I'll remember how even though I enjoyed the bustling streets of London and Edinburgh and all those cities had to offer, it was the peaceful serenity of Wales that made me feel as if I'd finally come home at last, as if I truly belonged there.

Welsh beauty.

I'll remember all the people I met, whether Crrrrrrrrrrraig from the Hard Rock Cafe or Stacey with an E or the lovely couple making their first trip to Edinburgh for an anniversary holiday or Sari the Australian from Perth.  Docents and tour guides can be very informative, but you learn far more about a country by listening to its people and learning from their experiences.

Lastly, I'll remember how the best part of my whole trip was the time I got to spend hanging out with new friends, whether I was being escorted to an event or whether we were simply chatting and laughing together.  No matter how epic or breathtaking a given building is, the human connections we make are far more important and enduring than any structure could ever be.  Besides, memories are always better when you have someone with whom to share them, and so I am especially grateful for every moment I was able to enjoy with friends.

As for final impressions, the only thing really left to say is:  Best. Birthday. Trip. EVER!!!

Observations from the Mothership: Day 10

The Day I Fell in Love with Aberystwyth

My love affair with Aberystwyth started pretty much as soon as I got off the train and into a taxi yesterday.  The driver was chatty and friendly and we had a nice little talk as I took in everything outside my window from the rolling hills to the flowers everywhere to the store and house fronts.  I loved my quiet, plush little guest room at the top of the ridiculously narrow stairs in Maes-y-Môr and I loved being minutes from the bayside.  It didn't hurt that the weather was gorgeous while I was there, all sunny and a temperate 58°-60° the whole time.

This morning I got up at a slightly more reasonable time (well, for me anyway), dressed, and scarfed down the cinnamon pastries I purchased yesterday.  Then I packed up, stowed my luggage in the guest house's office, and walked down the road to a nearby post office to mail a scarf I'd knitted for a friend whom I'd missed seeing this trip because he had to work.  So after spending some 10 days locked in my suitcase, the scarf was finally set on its way to Thomas via Wales, because that's just how I roll.

As I walked around the town I was again struck by just how beautiful it is.   I loved the cool breeze tearing through my hair, even though it made my feeble locks stand up like a scarecrow's.  I loved listening to the random guy in a Welsh hat sitting on a door stoop playing a tin whistle that could be heard for a half-mile radius.  Both he and the assorted pipers in Edinburgh really made me miss hearing Celtic music all the time as I did when the Girlie was Irish dancing.  I love that Celtic music can go from being heartbreakingly plaintive and melancholy one minute to a wildly happy tour de force driven by the upbeat, dancing chords.

The Promenade

During my long hike uphill towards the National Library of Wales, I passed several quintessentially European streets and buildings; I particularly enjoyed seeing all the signage rendered bilingually in both English and Welsh.  I also loved listening to the lyrical lilt of Welsh accents all around me, though I was surprised by how many straight English accents were present--I even heard a couple Americans--which I'd have expected more from a bigger and busier port city such as Cardiff.  Still, Aberystwyth is a university town, so I suppose that accounts for much of the diversity and I did pass several students strolling towards town as I walked.

Wales, where vowels need not apply.

About halfway to the Library I stopped on the sidewalk to catch my breath and turned around to see an amazing view of the town from where I stood.  Next to me was a house swathed in flowerbeds and on the other side was a stone retaining wall out of which some little purple buds were straining to grow.  The weather was just cool enough to make the exertion enjoyable and as the wind continued whipping through my hair I thought again how easily I could live here for the rest of my life.

Flowers, flowers, everywhere.

Such a beautiful and vibrant color.

Eventually I crested the hill on which the National Library of Wales, home to the archives, stands.  I wandered down a walk and through some dense foliage to come upon a library-like building, but was confused by the lack of obvious entryway.  I walked around the building till I found a sign that suggested maybe it was some older part of the university, perhaps a former dormitory or something.  Whoops.  So I wound my way back out and continued up the road where I met a young man and stopped him to ask for directions.  Turns out I hadn't walked quite far enough up the street, which became patently obvious when I cleared some trees and saw the majestic library building perched atop a hill overlooking the valley below like some sort of ancient fortress.  And, interestingly enough, it was.  A tunnel under the library was used during WWII to store valuable documents and artwork--including Shakespearian manuscripts, drawings by da Vinci, and Magna Carta--to keep them safe from bombings.  Funny how my links to Magna Carta seem to follow me everywhere over here. Across the street from the library was a little vantage point from which you could look down into the valley and see the bay stretching out just beyond it.   The view was absolutely gorgeous and I never wanted to leave.

The National Library of Wales

Aberystwyth from the National Library.

The sign is made of Welsh slate.

After ogling the countryside for a few minutes I crossed the road and headed into the formidable-looking library where I was registered as a reader and given a card (complete with a red-faced picture of me from hiking up the hill) good for three years.  The best part is this not only gives me access to the archives and allows me to request materials in person, it also allows me to access the online archival records from anywhere, even home in the U.S.  Score!

I never did actually access any paper records, but I spent several happy hours glued to a monitor looking up assorted ancestors.  While once again I didn't find as much as I would have liked about specific ancestors, I was able to unearth much more about the family's history in general and about how some relatives interacted with others, inheritance records, etc., all of which was very interesting.  Plus just having the ability to continue researching from home and/or order films to be sent here is pretty spiffy, so I counted it as a good day--and not the least because I realized again how much I've missed doing this sort of research in a quiet library surrounded by computer records and books and fellow researchers.

When it was getting near closing time for the library, I returned to the lockers to collect my things, stopping in the gift shop on my way out to purchase a couple of books on Welsh history and genealogy.  I'd hoped to visit the castle in town before reclaiming my luggage, but all the cabs I called were booked for the afternoon and my feet were getting too tired to walk the entire way to the castle so instead I trekked over to the nearby university's student union and bought a hoodie with the school logo.  Not quite as good as a permanent home here, but what can you do?

On my way back down towards town I managed to catch a bus going heading out from the library.  I spent most of the ride down to the bay holding onto a rail next to my seat to keep it from banging and rattling loudly and incessantly.  When I got off the bus I went down to the bay one last time and walked out onto the pier, thinking I would sit at the end and dunk my beleaguered feet in the waters of the Irish Sea before leaving town.  Some boys had ditched their school clothes and rucksacks along the upper levels of the pier and were swimming in the bay.  They scurried back up the pier when they saw me as though I were some otherworldly creature from whom they needed to hide; maybe to them I was.  At the end of the pier a couple of men were fishing, though I can't imagine they were having much luck with the boys churning up the water nearby.  I decided not to sit down because the pier was a metal gridwork covered in rust and algae and looked more than a little skanky, so instead I knelt down and reached my hand into the water so I could still get some Irish Sea on me.  I have no idea when or where I acquired this sudden need to touch every body of water I encounter; perhaps it's some ancient ancestor calling down to me through the ages and insisting I touch the waters of my homeland and thus become a part of it again, closing the ancestral circle as it were.  Who knows?   I'm still glad I did it.

Aberystwyth's Promenade and Cardigan Bay from the pier.

After fondling Cardigan Bay I walked from the Promenade to the guest house to acquire my luggage, walked to the train station, and grabbed a snack before traveling to my next stop.  As I walked I found it difficult to believe that I had been in Edinburgh only a week ago; it seems more like a month because time has been flying by so quickly.  My time left in Great Britain is rapidly dwindling and that breaks my heart because I so love it here.  I want to stay forever.

The train to Cardiff via Shrewsbury was delayed, so at the suggestion of a ticketing agent I instead hopped on a train to Birmingham International (the stop I should have taken the other day) because it also stopped at Shrewsbur where I needed to change trains.  I have to say I love this rail pass...I thought it was overly expensive when I purchased it, but it's been the best money I've spent the whole trip because it allows me to jump on any train at any time without getting a ticket or reservation in advance as long as I'm traveling within the dates listed on the pass.  This had made traveling much easier the couple of times trains have been delayed or missed or when I'm running later than anticipated and thus have the luxury of simply catching a later train.  Plus trains are a great way to meet people and to see the countryside and without having to stress over cars or driving on a different side of the road.  As far as I'm concerned, America needs a rail system like this--especially a high speed rail system--because Amtrak doesn't even come close.  It has fewer stops and is poorly maintained in my opinion.  Besides, how cool is it that several of the train carriages have a place specially made to store bicycles for those traveling between cities?

On the train to Shrewsbury the ubiquitous trolley went down the aisles to offer passengers snacks and drinks.  As always, I giggled a little to myself when it passed because I couldn't stop thinking of the trolley on the Hogwarts Express.  Not unlike that trolley lady, this one made me smile when she called me "Lovey" and thanked me as she handed me my change after I purchased some popcorn and water from her.  An hour or so later I arrived in Shrewsbury and changed trains, but not before nodding silently to the spirit of Brother Cadfael as I waited on the platform.

When I arrived in Cardiff I tried to take a taxi to my hotel but was basically kicked out of the vehicle when I gave the driver the hotel address; he pointed and told me it was a five minutes' walk "that way."  Well, all righty, then.  So I grabbed my stuff back out of the taxi and hoofed it in the direction he'd pointed.  I got turned around a bit in the dark, drizzly, and unfamiliar city but made it to the hotel in maybe 10 minutes' time.  The room was nice and comfortable and had a really cool luggage rack built into the wall over which the television was mounted.  I was reminded of my choir tour through Prague and Austria nearly 20 years ago, for which the tour company had booked our lodgings so that we started out in cheap, crappy hotels which got progressively better as we moved through our itinerary till we ended in a relatively swanky room in Munich the night before flying home, presumably so we'd leave on a happy note and review the company accordingly, having long-since forgotten the spartan rooms and brick-like beds of our Prague hotel.  I didn't intentionally book my hotels to follow that pattern, but that's certainly how it's been working out thus far...and I'm okay with that.

Now that's a creative use of space.

Tired after the long day, I ordered room service instead of going out for dinner and then messed about on the internet instead of writing like a good little blogger.  I went to bed in the wee hours of the morning after passing out face-first on my laptop while sitting at the desk.  I probably woke up with a waffle pattern on my face from the little squares of the keyboard, but fortunately I was too tired to notice if I had.  Time here is evaporating far too quickly!!

Observations from the Mothership: Day 10

The Day I Fell in Love with Aberystwyth

My love affair with Aberystwyth started pretty much as soon as I got off the train and into a taxi yesterday.  The driver was chatty and friendly and we had a nice little talk as I took in everything outside my window from the rolling hills to the flowers everywhere to the store and house fronts.  I loved my quiet, plush little guest room at the top of the ridiculously narrow stairs in Maes-y-Môr and I loved being minutes from the bayside.  It didn't hurt that the weather was gorgeous while I was there, all sunny and a temperate 58°-60° the whole time.

This morning I got up at a slightly more reasonable time (well, for me anyway), dressed, and scarfed down the cinnamon pastries I purchased yesterday.  Then I packed up, stowed my luggage in the guest house's office, and walked down the road to a nearby post office to mail a scarf I'd knitted for a friend whom I'd missed seeing this trip because he had to work.  So after spending some 10 days locked in my suitcase, the scarf was finally set on its way to Thomas via Wales, because that's just how I roll.

As I walked around the town I was again struck by just how beautiful it is.   I loved the cool breeze tearing through my hair, even though it made my feeble locks stand up like a scarecrow's.  I loved listening to the random guy in a Welsh hat sitting on a door stoop playing a tin whistle that could be heard for a half-mile radius.  Both he and the assorted pipers in Edinburgh really made me miss hearing Celtic music all the time as I did when the Girlie was Irish dancing.  I love that Celtic music can go from being heartbreakingly plaintive and melancholy one minute to a wildly happy tour de force driven by the upbeat, dancing chords.

The Promenade

During my long hike uphill towards the National Library of Wales, I passed several quintessentially European streets and buildings; I particularly enjoyed seeing all the signage rendered bilingually in both English and Welsh.  I also loved listening to the lyrical lilt of Welsh accents all around me, though I was surprised by how many straight English accents were present--I even heard a couple Americans--which I'd have expected more from a bigger and busier port city such as Cardiff.  Still, Aberystwyth is a university town, so I suppose that accounts for much of the diversity and I did pass several students strolling towards town as I walked.

Wales, where vowels need not apply.

About halfway to the Library I stopped on the sidewalk to catch my breath and turned around to see an amazing view of the town from where I stood.  Next to me was a house swathed in flowerbeds and on the other side was a stone retaining wall out of which some little purple buds were straining to grow.  The weather was just cool enough to make the exertion enjoyable and as the wind continued whipping through my hair I thought again how easily I could live here for the rest of my life.

Flowers, flowers, everywhere.

Such a beautiful and vibrant color.

Eventually I crested the hill on which the National Library of Wales, home to the archives, stands.  I wandered down a walk and through some dense foliage to come upon a library-like building, but was confused by the lack of obvious entryway.  I walked around the building till I found a sign that suggested maybe it was some older part of the university, perhaps a former dormitory or something.  Whoops.  So I wound my way back out and continued up the road where I met a young man and stopped him to ask for directions.  Turns out I hadn't walked quite far enough up the street, which became patently obvious when I cleared some trees and saw the majestic library building perched atop a hill overlooking the valley below like some sort of ancient fortress.  And, interestingly enough, it was.  A tunnel under the library was used during WWII to store valuable documents and artwork--including Shakespearian manuscripts, drawings by da Vinci, and Magna Carta--to keep them safe from bombings.  Funny how my links to Magna Carta seem to follow me everywhere over here. Across the street from the library was a little vantage point from which you could look down into the valley and see the bay stretching out just beyond it.   The view was absolutely gorgeous and I never wanted to leave.

The National Library of Wales

Aberystwyth from the National Library.

The sign is made of Welsh slate.

After ogling the countryside for a few minutes I crossed the road and headed into the formidable-looking library where I was registered as a reader and given a card (complete with a red-faced picture of me from hiking up the hill) good for three years.  The best part is this not only gives me access to the archives and allows me to request materials in person, it also allows me to access the online archival records from anywhere, even home in the U.S.  Score!

I never did actually access any paper records, but I spent several happy hours glued to a monitor looking up assorted ancestors.  While once again I didn't find as much as I would have liked about specific ancestors, I was able to unearth much more about the family's history in general and about how some relatives interacted with others, inheritance records, etc., all of which was very interesting.  Plus just having the ability to continue researching from home and/or order films to be sent here is pretty spiffy, so I counted it as a good day--and not the least because I realized again how much I've missed doing this sort of research in a quiet library surrounded by computer records and books and fellow researchers.

When it was getting near closing time for the library, I returned to the lockers to collect my things, stopping in the gift shop on my way out to purchase a couple of books on Welsh history and genealogy.  I'd hoped to visit the castle in town before reclaiming my luggage, but all the cabs I called were booked for the afternoon and my feet were getting too tired to walk the entire way to the castle so instead I trekked over to the nearby university's student union and bought a hoodie with the school logo.  Not quite as good as a permanent home here, but what can you do?

On my way back down towards town I managed to catch a bus going heading out from the library.  I spent most of the ride down to the bay holding onto a rail next to my seat to keep it from banging and rattling loudly and incessantly.  When I got off the bus I went down to the bay one last time and walked out onto the pier, thinking I would sit at the end and dunk my beleaguered feet in the waters of the Irish Sea before leaving town.  Some boys had ditched their school clothes and rucksacks along the upper levels of the pier and were swimming in the bay.  They scurried back up the pier when they saw me as though I were some otherworldly creature from whom they needed to hide; maybe to them I was.  At the end of the pier a couple of men were fishing, though I can't imagine they were having much luck with the boys churning up the water nearby.  I decided not to sit down because the pier was a metal gridwork covered in rust and algae and looked more than a little skanky, so instead I knelt down and reached my hand into the water so I could still get some Irish Sea on me.  I have no idea when or where I acquired this sudden need to touch every body of water I encounter; perhaps it's some ancient ancestor calling down to me through the ages and insisting I touch the waters of my homeland and thus become a part of it again, closing the ancestral circle as it were.  Who knows?   I'm still glad I did it.

Aberystwyth's Promenade and Cardigan Bay from the pier.

After fondling Cardigan Bay I walked from the Promenade to the guest house to acquire my luggage, walked to the train station, and grabbed a snack before traveling to my next stop.  As I walked I found it difficult to believe that I had been in Edinburgh only a week ago; it seems more like a month because time has been flying by so quickly.  My time left in Great Britain is rapidly dwindling and that breaks my heart because I so love it here.  I want to stay forever.

The train to Cardiff via Shrewsbury was delayed, so at the suggestion of a ticketing agent I instead hopped on a train to Birmingham International (the stop I should have taken the other day) because it also stopped at Shrewsbur where I needed to change trains.  I have to say I love this rail pass...I thought it was overly expensive when I purchased it, but it's been the best money I've spent the whole trip because it allows me to jump on any train at any time without getting a ticket or reservation in advance as long as I'm traveling within the dates listed on the pass.  This had made traveling much easier the couple of times trains have been delayed or missed or when I'm running later than anticipated and thus have the luxury of simply catching a later train.  Plus trains are a great way to meet people and to see the countryside and without having to stress over cars or driving on a different side of the road.  As far as I'm concerned, America needs a rail system like this--especially a high speed rail system--because Amtrak doesn't even come close.  It has fewer stops and is poorly maintained in my opinion.  Besides, how cool is it that several of the train carriages have a place specially made to store bicycles for those traveling between cities?

On the train to Shrewsbury the ubiquitous trolley went down the aisles to offer passengers snacks and drinks.  As always, I giggled a little to myself when it passed because I couldn't stop thinking of the trolley on the Hogwarts Express.  Not unlike that trolley lady, this one made me smile when she called me "Lovey" and thanked me as she handed me my change after I purchased some popcorn and water from her.  An hour or so later I arrived in Shrewsbury and changed trains, but not before nodding silently to the spirit of Brother Cadfael as I waited on the platform.

When I arrived in Cardiff I tried to take a taxi to my hotel but was basically kicked out of the vehicle when I gave the driver the hotel address; he pointed and told me it was a five minutes' walk "that way."  Well, all righty, then.  So I grabbed my stuff back out of the taxi and hoofed it in the direction he'd pointed.  I got turned around a bit in the dark, drizzly, and unfamiliar city but made it to the hotel in maybe 10 minutes' time.  The room was nice and comfortable and had a really cool luggage rack built into the wall over which the television was mounted.  I was reminded of my choir tour through Prague and Austria nearly 20 years ago, for which the tour company had booked our lodgings so that we started out in cheap, crappy hotels which got progressively better as we moved through our itinerary till we ended in a relatively swanky room in Munich the night before flying home, presumably so we'd leave on a happy note and review the company accordingly, having long-since forgotten the spartan rooms and brick-like beds of our Prague hotel.  I didn't intentionally book my hotels to follow that pattern, but that's certainly how it's been working out thus far...and I'm okay with that.

Now that's a creative use of space.

Tired after the long day, I ordered room service instead of going out for dinner and then messed about on the internet instead of writing like a good little blogger.  I went to bed in the wee hours of the morning after passing out face-first on my laptop while sitting at the desk.  I probably woke up with a waffle pattern on my face from the little squares of the keyboard, but fortunately I was too tired to notice if I had.  Time here is evaporating far too quickly!!

Observations from the Mothership: Day 9

The Day I Came Home to Wales

As is becoming par for the course on this trip, I got a later start in the morning than I intended.  Who knew that walking several miles every day could so wipe a person out?  All I can say is I damn well better have lost some weight by the time I get home after all this walking.

Anyway, I slogged back to the rail station in the morning and hopped the next train going to Aberystwyth.  As always, I very much enjoyed watching the countryside passing by outside my window.  I have also really been enjoying listening to the accents change as I travel from place to place; it's almost like listening to one of those YouTube videos in which someone demonstrates all of the possible dialects of a given country, only live and in person.

Wales!  Out my train window!!

I arrived in Aberystwyth around 3 pm and took a taxi to my "self-catered guest house," which basically just means "bed and breakfast" minus the breakfast. There was a communal kitchen (and laundry!) for guests to use, but no meals were provided.  I checked into my room, which was at the top of two flights of stairs, and schlepped my carry-on up the very narrow staircase.  Frankly, it's a wonder I didn't trip and kill myself given my natural Clouseau-like coordination.  And what exactly is the deal with all the tiny British stairways?  Is it a nationwide plot to prevent people from accumulating too much junk since they can't get any of it up the stairs?  Inquiring minds want to know.

When my host had showed me all the amenities, she left me alone to enjoy the peace and comfort of a room which included a big, soft, plush bed and a comfy chair placed under a skylight.  After making myself at home, I took a nice long, steamy, refreshing shower; next I sat down and used a pair of tweezers to drain all the blisters on my feet and toes, thus relieving the pressure so I could approximate walking like a sober person once again.  After dressing and gingerly tying the foot prisons back onto my feet, I went down to the bayside to enjoy the view.  Aberystwyth (which means "mouth of the river Ystwyth") is situated midway down the west coast of Wales on Cardigan Bay, just off the Irish Sea.  The seafront was a mere 5 minutes walk from my guest house.  I wanted to go down to the shore and walk in the water like I had in the English Chanel but was afraid to get sand in my freshly-pierced blisters so instead I opted for a walk along the Promenade as the sun was setting.  The view was absolutely gorgeous; it took my breath away.  Off to the right you could just make out the electric cliff railway atop Constitution Hill, while on the left you could see the piers and several restaurants and guest houses down the Promenade.

Cardigan Bay at sunset.

See what happens when you walk two marathons in 9 days while wearing new shoes?

I stayed for quite some time, enjoying the cool breeze off the bay and watching the gulls sweep down as they called overhead.  There were some kids fishing off one of the piers and a couple surfing in the waves.  I saw an older couple holding hands while sitting on a bench overlooking the beach; they looked so sweet together and I couldn't help thinking what a lovely place this would be to retire.

Surfers on Cardigan Bay

After an hour or so I limped back to my guest house, Maes-Y-Môr, and sat in the kitchen searching on my phone for a good place to have dinner.  While there, some guy wandered in, presumably another guest, looked at me and asked, "All right, then?"  I nodded and replied in kind, but couldn't help thinking the whole time of Ron Weasley asking that of Harry Potter at the end of the first movie and smirking just a little.  We had a brief chat in which he gave me several suggestions for good local places to eat, then he was off.  I found directions for one of the places he'd suggested, an Italian place, and headed off in that direction.  When I got there I was told they wouldn't have a table for an hour, so I left my name and just wandered up and down the streets in the dusky evening light, entranced by the flowers everywhere, the old buildings and the quaint, cozy feel of the place.  My feet were killing me, but I kept walking around enjoying the sights because the town was just so lovely.  I felt like I'd come home.

Planter of flowers near the restaurant.

Eventually I arrived back at the restaurant and though a few minutes early was shown in.  I thought it was weird to be eating Italian food my first night in Wales, but as I was tired and didn't really know what constitutes traditional Welsh food, I figured what the hell.  I ordered chicken fettucine (which wasn't bad, though the chicken was overdone), a salad, and some cheesy garlic bread that turned out to be a pizza and therefore way more than I had planned on eating.  On the plus side, it was extremely thin--almost like a cheesy garlic crȇpe--and I ate over half of it.  Best of all, I was seated at a table facing directly opposite the open door so I got to watch people walking past while enjoying the brisk breeze coming in down the stairs and see the flowers just outside the restaurant.

Mmmmmmm...pizza crȇpe....

After dinner I stopped at a small convenience store and purchased a couple bottles of water and a couple cinnamon-roll-ish pastries for breakfast, then walked back to my room where I proofed and corrected my most recent blog post before falling asleep in the chair while in the middle of proofing the previous post.  I woke around two am, closed the laptop and crawled into the super-cushy, cozy, comfy bed and thoroughly passed out, sleeping the peaceful, all-encompassing sleep of the dead.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 9

The Day I Came Home to Wales

As is becoming par for the course on this trip, I got a later start in the morning than I intended.  Who knew that walking several miles every day could so wipe a person out?  All I can say is I damn well better have lost some weight by the time I get home after all this walking.

Anyway, I slogged back to the rail station in the morning and hopped the next train going to Aberystwyth.  As always, I very much enjoyed watching the countryside passing by outside my window.  I have also really been enjoying listening to the accents change as I travel from place to place; it's almost like listening to one of those YouTube videos in which someone demonstrates all of the possible dialects of a given country, only live and in person.

Wales!  Out my train window!!

I arrived in Aberystwyth around 3 pm and took a taxi to my "self-catered guest house," which basically just means "bed and breakfast" minus the breakfast. There was a communal kitchen (and laundry!) for guests to use, but no meals were provided.  I checked into my room, which was at the top of two flights of stairs, and schlepped my carry-on up the very narrow staircase.  Frankly, it's a wonder I didn't trip and kill myself given my natural Clouseau-like coordination.  And what exactly is the deal with all the tiny British stairways?  Is it a nationwide plot to prevent people from accumulating too much junk since they can't get any of it up the stairs?  Inquiring minds want to know.

When my host had showed me all the amenities, she left me alone to enjoy the peace and comfort of a room which included a big, soft, plush bed and a comfy chair placed under a skylight.  After making myself at home, I took a nice long, steamy, refreshing shower; next I sat down and used a pair of tweezers to drain all the blisters on my feet and toes, thus relieving the pressure so I could approximate walking like a sober person once again.  After dressing and gingerly tying the foot prisons back onto my feet, I went down to the bayside to enjoy the view.  Aberystwyth (which means "mouth of the river Ystwyth") is situated midway down the west coast of Wales on Cardigan Bay, just off the Irish Sea.  The seafront was a mere 5 minutes walk from my guest house.  I wanted to go down to the shore and walk in the water like I had in the English Chanel but was afraid to get sand in my freshly-pierced blisters so instead I opted for a walk along the Promenade as the sun was setting.  The view was absolutely gorgeous; it took my breath away.  Off to the right you could just make out the electric cliff railway atop Constitution Hill, while on the left you could see the piers and several restaurants and guest houses down the Promenade.

Cardigan Bay at sunset.

See what happens when you walk two marathons in 9 days while wearing new shoes?

I stayed for quite some time, enjoying the cool breeze off the bay and watching the gulls sweep down as they called overhead.  There were some kids fishing off one of the piers and a couple surfing in the waves.  I saw an older couple holding hands while sitting on a bench overlooking the beach; they looked so sweet together and I couldn't help thinking what a lovely place this would be to retire.

Surfers on Cardigan Bay

After an hour or so I limped back to my guest house, Maes-Y-Môr, and sat in the kitchen searching on my phone for a good place to have dinner.  While there, some guy wandered in, presumably another guest, looked at me and asked, "All right, then?"  I nodded and replied in kind, but couldn't help thinking the whole time of Ron Weasley asking that of Harry Potter at the end of the first movie and smirking just a little.  We had a brief chat in which he gave me several suggestions for good local places to eat, then he was off.  I found directions for one of the places he'd suggested, an Italian place, and headed off in that direction.  When I got there I was told they wouldn't have a table for an hour, so I left my name and just wandered up and down the streets in the dusky evening light, entranced by the flowers everywhere, the old buildings and the quaint, cozy feel of the place.  My feet were killing me, but I kept walking around enjoying the sights because the town was just so lovely.  I felt like I'd come home.

Planter of flowers near the restaurant.

Eventually I arrived back at the restaurant and though a few minutes early was shown in.  I thought it was weird to be eating Italian food my first night in Wales, but as I was tired and didn't really know what constitutes traditional Welsh food, I figured what the hell.  I ordered chicken fettucine (which wasn't bad, though the chicken was overdone), a salad, and some cheesy garlic bread that turned out to be a pizza and therefore way more than I had planned on eating.  On the plus side, it was extremely thin--almost like a cheesy garlic crȇpe--and I ate over half of it.  Best of all, I was seated at a table facing directly opposite the open door so I got to watch people walking past while enjoying the brisk breeze coming in down the stairs and see the flowers just outside the restaurant.

Mmmmmmm...pizza crȇpe....

After dinner I stopped at a small convenience store and purchased a couple bottles of water and a couple cinnamon-roll-ish pastries for breakfast, then walked back to my room where I proofed and corrected my most recent blog post before falling asleep in the chair while in the middle of proofing the previous post.  I woke around two am, closed the laptop and crawled into the super-cushy, cozy, comfy bed and thoroughly passed out, sleeping the peaceful, all-encompassing sleep of the dead.

Remembering Mom

For most people April 14th is primarily about finishing the taxes they spent all of Spring trying to avoid.  For me, however, April 14th is slightly more significant than just attempting to fly under Uncle Sam's radar. That's because my mother passed away one year ago today.  Her death was not completely unexpected; she'd had Parkinson's with dementia for several years, the onset of which began with Alzheimer-like symptoms shortly before my father died.  Still, it's not every day one has to say that final goodbye to a parent.

Mom's high school graduation photo (Class of 1950).

To be honest, the week after Mom died was a bit of a blur involving three trips to the Indianapolis airport in 2 days and a 16-hour road trip through four states on a different day.  I flew up the day before the funeral then had to go back to the airport the next day both to pick up my daughter as well as to return her to school later that same day once the services concluded so she could finish completing assignments due before the end of the semester.  The day after the service I drove to Tennessee with my brother and niece for my mom's interment.  The hubs met me there.  Afterwards, I threw my stuff from my brother's vehicle into our van and we drove off in opposite directions.  All told, I think I personally drove around 10 hours or more that day.

What I remember most about the funeral is not that it was very small because Mom's few remaining relatives were on the West Coast, or that her mouth/face somehow didn't look quite right (in spite of how many people tried to tell me she "looks really good" in a misguided attempt to comfort me), or even how exhausted I was afterwards.  What I remember most is the flowers.  And the Statler Brothers.

Nasal is as nasal does.

When we were growing up, my mother loved to listen to the Statler Brothers.  Personally I found them far too nasal and "country" for my taste, but then I wasn't in control of the record player.  So we heard the Statler Brothers.  A lot.  I'd mostly forgotten about it till my brother mentioned that he wanted to play a couple of their songs during the service (one of which was the "Captain Kangaroo" song), the titles of which he did not remember.   We ended up pillaging Google in an effort to locate the relevant songs and then drove to Lafayette to search several stores for one of the two CDs in the Statler Brother canon on which were recorded both songs.  We were so proud of ourselves for successfully completing this quest that we failed to listen very carefully to the lyrics of said songs beyond identifying them as the correct selections.  While everyone was settling in and quieting down before the service, a loudspeaker came on and "Flowers on the Wall" began to play.  The tune was quiet and mellow included lyrics like "smoking cigarettes (well, she did) and watching Captain Kangaroo."  Next some last-minute substitute minister came up to do the "service," which consisted mostly of his speaking in religious generalities and reading my mother's obituary because of course he'd never met her and so had no clue who she was.  As a result, the service was short and largely impersonal.  Afterwards, while everyone was still sniffling, the loudspeaker started playing the second selection:  "Whatever Happened to Randolph Scott."  Everyone sat there quietly grieving until a random Statler brother, who had been singing about movie ratings up to that point, suddenly blurted out that "the screen is filled with SEX."  Didn't see that coming.  It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.  Immediately I was reminded of the Mary Tyler Moore show and the funeral of Chuckles the Clown, during which Mary was trying desperately (and largely unsuccessfully) not to laugh.  On the one hand, my mother likely would have been annoyed by not receiving what she might consider a sufficient degree of gravitas and despondency on our parts; on the other hand, she told me many times that I should wear bright colors to her funeral instead of black and should be happy because she was in Heaven.  I suppose stifling snorts of wildly inappropriate laughter counts as a form of "happiness."   Meanwhile, a friend from high school who I'd not seen in 20+ years came to the funeral and sat right behind me; she was giggling gleefully because the unexpected musical selections sounded like something her own family would do at a funeral.

Chuckles is a NAME, not a COMMAND.  Sheesh.

I also remember the flowers, or at least the significance of the flowers.  My mother was obsessed with flowers her entire life.  She absolutely loved them.  There were always potted plants in our house and she was especially proud of the giant, 6 ft tall lilac bushes that lined one side of our front yard when I was a kid.  Naturally, we had flowers on Mom's casket, and a few people (mostly people my brother knew) sent arrangements.  I only took one arrangement home afterwards since it had to survive the trip from Indy back to Georgia.  I still have it (and it's even still alive, though it could stand repotting).  When we got to the cemetery, there was a funeral spray by the graveside.  My brother thought this was overkill since Mom had already had flowers at the service and couldn't understand why I would have bothered.  But flowers were her thing.  They just were.  When Mom moved to Tennessee one of the first things I bought her was a book about the local flowers and trees and bushes.  As far as I was concerned, she wouldn't be happy unless she were surrounded by flowers at all times.  Besides, it seemed so sad and lonely not to have something at the graveside other than the wilting casket flowers that had come down with Mom in the hearse.   Before we left TN after the interment I pulled a few flowers out of the spray and put them in the little brass vase by Mom's and Dad's headstone, after which I put the rest of the spray in the van to take home.  Once there I salvaged what I could, putting them in a container of my own.  For the next week whenever I went into the kitchen the entire room would smell of flowers...of Mom.  In the mail on the day we got back was a flyer from Teleflora to remind me to order Mother's Day flowers.  What Teleflora didn't realize is that I had already gotten some Mother's day flowers.  They were just a little early.

Because you can never have too many flowers.  Yes, even then.

My mother was, in many ways, a contradiction in terms.   She would boil canned vegetables until they were so limp and lifeless that Viagra couldn't have helped them.   She frequently murdered broccoli and cauliflower and eggplant, the pungent smell of which would hover throughout the house for hours at a time like a gaseous cloud of acid rain.  It has taken me years to learn to appreciate (or even eat) most vegetables and the smell of a couple varieties being cooked will still make me gag.  Our meat was often dry or overcooked and I have lost count of the number of meals she served which consisted only of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and hotdogs.  A chef Mom was not.  Yet every week without fail she would make 4 loaves of the most delicious homemade bread you ever tasted.  I would regularly beg her to make one of those loaves into cinnamon bread, which she occasionally did and which would have me dancing in anticipation.  When I was little she'd let me help knead the dough and would give me a small handful of my own to work, which I would then get to put into a little pot pie tin and bake.  I always loved having my own little loaf of bread!  I couldn't wait to slather it in butter when it was still too hot to eat and would scarf it down anyway, oblivious to the melting butter dripping down my chin or to the burned spots on my tongue.  Rarely a week went by without some form of pie or cake or cookie sitting on the table.   I even got my recipe for snickerdoodles from my mother.  True, I've tweaked the recipe a little over the years, but she is the person who first introduced me to the joy of cookie goodness that is the 'dood.

Mmmmmm...snickerdoodles...

Mom was not an educated woman; in fact, she frequently told me how much she sucked at schoolwork.  This is not really an exaggeration; I've seen the report cards.  She grew up on a farm in Montana and went to a tiny school in the area. Sometimes Mom seemed to move slower (she once got fired from a job for being too slow) or to be just a little slower on the uptake than others.  I've sometimes wondered if maybe this was partly the result of having been born with her umbilical cord around her neck; I'm told that if her grandmother had not been there at the birth, she likely would have died of asphyxiation.  And yet, my mother is the one who instilled my love of reading.  She read countless books to me when I was little and used to argue about my bedtime, always capitulating to allow me an extra half hour to read in bed.   Mom never went anywhere without a book by her side.  True, many of them were Harlequin Romances (about which I ragged her endlessly), but she loved learning the history and geography that was peripherally present in them and dreamed of being a world traveler one day (she longed to visit Australia), never mind dreaming of getting lots of good sex, apparently.  I can remember watching my mother sit reading for hours at a time with a cup of coffee at one hand and a glass of ice cubes (which she chewed) at the other.  She would come back from every trip to the library with a new stack of books to read.  She may not have always been the brightest crayon in the box but she had a passion for at least trying to learn new things (any time she read something she didn't understand she'd run to look it up in the dictionary or would look up unfamiliar places in the atlas) and she always supported my academic pursuits, even though she rarely understood them.

True story.

My mother could also be very passive-aggressive.  She was very shy growing up and never handled conflicts well even as an adult.  So she tended to make her feelings known through sneaky, passive-aggressive ways.  When I was in high school I did a lot of theater and Mom absolutely despised driving.  Picking me up every afternoon from rehearsal when the buses were no longer running used to piss her off because it cramped her reading and soap opera time.  Often when I'd call her to pick me up (back in the days of the pay phone, long before anyone had ever heard the words "cellular phone"), she'd answer "Well, what if I don't want to??" and only halfway (or less) be kidding.  So I'd usually call her bluff by answering that I'd just walk home instead, which would invariably flip her out because she was forever convinced that someone was going to jump out of the cornfield and molest me.  She was incredibly paranoid that one or both of us would be raped at any given moment.  She even dreamed about it sometimes (she had very vivid dreams her entire life).  Years later, before she moved back to Indy, I used to take her out to lunch every week and to do her grocery shopping or run errands.  One day I told her that I was going to have to stop doing the weekly lunch and maybe do monthly instead because neither my health nor my wallet could afford it any longer.  I thought she had taken the news well till we got back in the car, at which point she informed me that she'd "noticed I was getting fat but had decided not to say anything because she 'knew' I'd figure it out eventually."  This was Mom-Code for "I'm pissed that you've decided to stop spoiling me and treating me like the princess I want to be," something she'd never dare say to my face (or anyone else's).

While Mom could be a major pain in the ass sometimes, she was also very loving in her own way.  Mom and Dad felt bad that they couldn't afford to help me pay for college so when Mom used to write to me every week she'd often stash a $5 or $10 bill in each envelope.  Sometimes those few dollars were the difference between whether I ate that day or not, though I doubt she knew that.  Mom also made sure that both my brother and I knew we were adopted even before we were old enough to know what "adoption" really meant.  I grew up knowing that I was chosen.  True, I also knew that it was largely because I had red hair (she was obsessed with redheads too) and "had a cold" so she "felt sorry for me."  Still, I never doubted that she picked me because she wanted me nor that she always loved me.  Every year on our birthdays she would make us whatever we wanted for dinner and the cake of our choice.  Because I am me, my cake was often something non-traditional like a pie or strawberry shortcake.  In fact, even after I left home she always had some strawberries put up in the freezer just for me which she'd defrost whenever I came home.  She tried hard to make us feel special, particularly since there was rarely any extra money floating around.  She also liked to torture us with our presents.  Since she didn't have much to give, she tried to make it last by wrapping something like a cheap little necklace in 15 different boxes, individually wrapped one inside the other so that you had to dig through them like Matryoshka dolls to find the prize.  Or she'd fill a box with tissue paper and you'd search the whole thing only to discover she'd taped the necklace to the side of the box or wrapped a $10 bill in one of the sheets of tissue paper you'd just tried to throw away.  One year for Christmas she bought me a pack of socks (which I doubtless needed, not that anyone wants socks for Christmas).  So to make it more interesting, she wrapped each sock individually.  I can remember going into the living room Christmas morning and thinking Santa had left the mother lode, only to discover that 10 of my gifts consisted of a single sock.  You can imagine my disappointment over "Santa's" sadism.  Mom also frequently put gag gifts in our stockings, so I suppose that at least some of my quirky humor comes from her (which is also presumably why I used to tell her that her name--Lorraine LaRue--sounded like a stripper name).

I'd like to say that my mother was a perfect mom, but she wasn't.  Who is, really?  (Other than me, of course.)  But Mom did a lot more right than she did wrong (which is more than I can say for a lot of people) and she was brave enough to give someone else's child a home and all the love she had to offer.  For good or for ill, much of who I am today is because of her...and I am grateful.

I miss you, Mom.