Category: Reminiscing..nences…ish…

Once upon a vacation, I found myself in a hotel in Portugal with a girl. That was OK, we went there together. Excellent hotel, excellent staff. Crap patrons. The place was full of Brits. And not good ones. These were stereotypical bad tourists: Food tasted funny, beer was cold, nobody spoke English…you get the picture. Embarrassing. Well. Neither girly nor I wanted to be stuck in a place full of embarrasing Brits, particularly as she was Scottish, therefore genetically superior to Britus Erectus. Ha.

When we arrived the travel rep gathered us together, gave us all the excursion and ticket prices, and let us get on with it. This was, by the way, the wettest February in 40 years, and cheap because it was off-season. Well. I figured that for the price of the ‘jeep safari’ we could rent a car for three days and get the hell away from our nations’ best. So we did. We were on the South coast. Day one, we went East to the region’s capital, Faro, home to the largest worm sculpture in the world, and a one way traffic system that has arrows pointing both directions. Day two, West to Capo Di St. Christophe, westernmost point of mainland Europe and home to the fortress school of Henry the Navigator. We dined on lobster and pork chops at the foot of the cliff, Atlantic waves crashing against the windows. Day three, it got interesting.

We drove North to the Montfichet Mountains, home to 95% of the worlds’ cork forests. Passing through three feet of mud, watching a cab and driver literally sink into the ground, we passed the Dallas Circus. And this was without the aid of recreational drugs, of which I have never been a fan, so I think this actually happened. The peak of the mountain, when we got there, was shrouded in cloud: Not much of a view. On the way back down, a jeep darted across the switchback mountain road in front of us. I recognised a bleach-blonde head as it disappeared into the bushes. It was one of a dozen Brits from the hotel, holding on for dear life as the open-top vehicle bounced into the ditch and away. I looked at her. She looked at me. We laughed. It did not need to be said: “F*%& it, it’s a rental”. With a jerk of the wheel, we were in their tyre tracks and bouncing along behind them, pretending to wipe sweat from our air-conditioned faces as theirs dripped rain. They were not happy. Neither was the jeep driver, who correctly surmised that we were taking the piss. Professional pride deeply wounded, he tried to lose us. Not easy in a forest. We kept up easily. So he went off trail, much to our amusement, less so to his passengers, who were nearly bounced out of the jeep many times. I will recall to my dying day the face of a homeowner we passed. He was wearily pushing a wheelbarrow full of something from bottom to top of his homestead. He was probably used to seeing the jeep. He was not expecting to see two idiots in a road-based rental laughing like hyenas as they bounced between trees, through ditches and across jumps. I swear, I saw a grin the size of Portugal flash across his face before we flashed past with a wave and a smile.

The jeep driver finally found places I was not prepared to follow, and we parted company at the next road. Girly and I made or way back to the hotel an hour before the bedraggled Brits came back to the hotel and made straight for the bar, still bitterly complaining about the weather, the food, the beer and that nobody had learned to speak English while they were gone. We grinned, ordered two doubles and overtipped the waiter with a hearty “Obrigada!” His wink and a grin spoke volumes. That was a good day.

And don’t even ask about the Portugese for ‘detour’, driving through cabbage fields, waving at a cruiser full of gun-carrying cops as you pass them the wrong way on a one-way street, a supermarket full of octopus or the swingers from hell. It was a long week.

I remember…a wedding. It was a good wedding. An enjoyable one. One where I took my children before they were old enough to drink, smoke, or tell me to do anything physically impossible with myself.

At this event, son Paul was encouraged by friends and family to show us his best Michael Jackson. He did, and it was good. Very, very good. His natural shyness (If you don’t know he is shy, you don’t know Paul) was overcome by the several beers he still thinks I don’t know about and he moon-danced his way into many hearts that day, earning a standing ovation from many. He was a fan when it wasn’t a crime to like Mr. Jackson, and he did it very well. I was proud. Always have been but don’t tell him I said so. Shh.

At the same event, daughter Lisa was ready to Rock ‘n Roll. Or rather, Dirty Dance. That was the film of the summer and everybody loved it. As soon as the words “I’ve had the Time of my Life’ rolled across the floor 100 people leaped to their feet, and Lisa pulled me along for the ride. We went through all the moves very well and were getting some positive noises from the nearby tables, right up until the point in the song where Baby does the dip. Lisa says I was out. I say she was. I had been drinking, but that is irrelevant, as a parent I am always right. She dipped. I didn’t. She launched herself backwards across two tables full of drinks, skidded across the floor and disappeared under an elderly relatives seat. I stood there with outstretched hand, waiting for the spin. I remember saying “What did you do that for?” In hindsight, it may not have been the best thing to say. Lisa, love her, recovered gracefully. After several stammered apologies and a round of replacement drinks, everything returned to normality and the event continued. But I will always remember the look in Lisas’ eye. She never asked me to dance again, and I am glad.

Young girls with eyes like potatoes, indeed.

In my twenties I lived with my family at the top of a steep hill, roughly 400-500 feet long. Narrow street, cars parked both sides of the road, tight packed snow turning to ice on a 35 degree slope. Perfect.

Driven by nothing more than adrenalin, my friends Alan and Steve and I decided to stage our own Winter Olympics. We started with plastic sheeting as a communal vehicle, moving in ever faster circles, bouncing off cars with our heads and hands all the way to the bottom, pinball fashion. Ouch. It was funny if it was not YOUR head that hit.

The kids came out to see what the noise was. We were rolling around in tears of laughter. The kids naturally wanted some of this action, so they joined in with whatever they could find: Oil drum and garbage can lids, planks, grocery bags and chopping boards, washing up bowls…then the neighbours joined in. Their table was never the same again, but the legs gave some purchase and a semblance of steering, and it could hold four. By this time, there were more than a dozen of us and climbing. Neighbours from further down the hill were coming out of their houses and instead of getting angry, laughed and joined in with whatever they could grab. Winter wonderland. Magical.

My wife drew the line when I started dismantling the stove. I reasoned that the enamelled side panel would go faster than anything. While arguing and laughing about this, we turned in time to see Alan head down the hill on a three wheel kiddies tricycle. That was one of the bravest things I ever saw and one of the weirdest noises I ever heard… part laugh, part Ninja and part Gibbering Idiot. He somehow made the bottom of the hill and glided gracefully to a halt. A little stick Alan stood up, bowed, waved, turned, and went home. Pedalling. He brought it back the next day, which was good because the owner came looking for it. The bike was about 8 inches high. Alan is 6’2″

That was one of many, many good days.

September 6, 1981

My mom’s birthday. My twin girls, Donna and Dawn, are scheduled for their first day at school. Mom is heavily pregnant. Her waters broke later that day and she gave birth on the 7th. No way were these girls missing day one: Mom needed a break!

There is snow on the ground and the twins are up to their 4 year old hips in it. Great to play in, but no way can they walk the mile to school through it. Enter Carl, who at that time was a little bit buff.

One on each shoulder, we three travelers slogged through the snow, laughing and singing all the way there. And back. That was the first time I heard the phrase ‘snow day’. Bugger.

I am for some reason reminded of an event shortly after my daughter Vicky was born. I was 18, she was three months old. We took her to the doctors during the day for an examination. She was off colour, had a temperature and could not swallow easily. The doctor told us it was just a cold. Gave us an aspirin and told us to go home. We did.

Around 6pm that night, she stopped breathing. And went blue. I ran to a neighbours’ phone and called an ambulance. My feet didn’t touch the ground. When I got back, my wife had taken the not recommended step of flipping her upside down and bouncing her, nothing else having worked (this was her fifth, she knew her way around kids). A horrible sound heralded the returning breath and wide eyed panic of the terrified baby. The parents were not much better, it has to be said.

When the ambulance arrived, they took one look and tubed her on the spot before putting her and the mother into the ambulance and heading off with sirens. Only one passenger allowed: I ran to the hospital, 4 miles away. I found my baby in an oxygen tent. She had an abscess on her epiglottis which blocked her throat. The doctor, somehow, missed it. Bouncing the upside down baby actually saved her life by popping that sucker right back up out of her throat. The prompt tubing by the ambulance crew stopped it flopping back.

The doctors lanced it, baby stayed there for three days until the antibiotics killed the infection and she could come home.

That was the first time I helped save a family life. It was not the last.

In my home town, growing up, it often seemed that everything was black, including the kids, laundry drying on the line, buildings and the school dinners. I think that last one was more about the way they had of cooking, leading to the standing joke: “What’s for dinner?” “‘Something grey”. Speaking of colour…

There were four skin colours in my childhood. Coal black, loofer pink, mud grey and blood red. I cannot tell you how many black or yellow faces were in my school. We weren’t counting. If you could stand up after a Watneys Party Pack (8 pints of beer in one can), outrun the school in the annual marathon (I came ninth) or take down a teacher during rugby practice, you were a hero regardless of who your parents were. I liked that world. I still live there. Join me.

Typing away here and the old Beach Boys song came on the radio. Reminded me of when I was 16 and went to a party. The two girls hosting it were non-identical twins. Both incredibly hot but my favourite (yep, U) was Karen. Divorced dad was away for the evening so as you expect, all the teens gathered at their house. Lots of beer later, we all got asked to leave before the dad returned. Me being so polite, I headed off down the driveway until I realised I was alone. My buddies were lining up to kiss the girls goodnight. Naturally, I did a military style about face (approximately 1440 degrees) and headed back.

By the time I got to the door I was passing my buddies in the driveway. But I was on a mission! I kept walking. My timing was imperfect. I reached the door in time for it to be closed in my face by the laughing girls. Ha! As if that would stop me! The door was plate glass. I walked straight into and through it. With a huge crunch I found myself in the kitchen demanding a kiss from each of the twins. Oh dear.

There was much yelling and threatening of life and naturally the imminent return of the father did not help. Suffice to say, I got my kiss from both of them before I left, punching the air and to cheers from my waiting buddies. I walked home on air that night. And returned the next day to apologise to the father and take the hit for the broken door.