Three Cross Bog

Part 05

After struggling to wade out to the fallen deer, Gramp secured the rope around Buck’s body and began to pull his way to solid ground.

“Nice deer, Willard,” said a voice.

“That it is Ben,” said Gramp, stopping halfway between the deer and the shore.

“Nice deer your Gramp has, boy,” said Ben Morrison.

“It’s his,” said Willard looking at Ron.

“Old Buck. Fancy that,” was Ben’s response.

“Got it hisself,” Gramp said.

“That so, boy?” Morrison asked turning to Ron.

Speechless, Ron could only return an awkward gawk.

“Well, he aint claimed so, Willard! So if it ain’t his and it ain’t yours, then by God it must be mine. Ain’t that right boy?”

“Morrison, we don’t want no truck with you,” Gramp said.

“You got truck with me, Willard! Me and my brother,” said Morrison, raising his own shotgun to shoulder level.

“You’ve got to give a man half a break,” pleaded the old hunter.

“You’ve had yours,” said Ben, aiming at Gramp, “and you won’t get no second chance neither.”

Gramp Willard heard the explosion and saw the flesh leap off Morrison’s chest: the blood and bone exposed. Morrison’s right arm was lying fourteen feet away from his body. The lower right half of his face was missing; the bloody tongue flopping out between the remaining exposed teeth. Gramp saw Ron, who still had two fingers on both triggers lying on his back.

“Ron! Ron!” yelled Gramp, struggling to pull himself up the bank. “Ron,” said the grandfather, kneeling beside the boy.

“Is he… is he dead?” the youth whimpered.

“He is.” said Willard, holding Ron’s head.

“I… I killed him, Gramp. I killed him. I killed him…”

“You did right. It was right,” said the old deer slayer, taking the shotgun from Ron’s hands. “You did right.”

Gramp and Ron pulled Old Buck out from the bog and strung him up. The deer had to be dressed out. First however, the took the remains of Ben Morrison’s body down into the bog. Gramp tied the dismembered arm to the body and weighed them down with semi flat stones. He pushed the body into the mud. Down, under the surface, gone.

***

She handed him a glass of wine. It was red. Hearty Burgundy. He didn’t want to drink it. Wine and beer didn’t mix in his system. He drank.

“It’s good,” he said.

“I like it,” she said. “What would you like to hear?”

“Anything, he replied.

She put several records on the stereo, walked to the couch and sat beside him.

“You’re a quiet guy.”

“I’m a good listener,” he said.

“Sometimes you have to do more than listen.”

“I know,” he said.

As she kissed him, she slid her hand along the inside of his thigh. His legs felt numb. He had to piss. He was nauseated. His head was starting to throb.

“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked, breaking away.

“Through there, second door on the left.”

When he returned, he saw her sitting on the couch. She was naked. She was holding her glass of wine. She smiled. He was drunk. He slumped into the space beside her. He wanted it. For sure. Damn wine and beer!

“Well, aren’t you going to do anything?” she demanded.

He didn’t do anything. He didn’t say anything. He saw the bog mud.

***

Ron helped hang Old Buck from a rafter in Gramp’s barn. It was a prize deer. A legendary deer that hung in a dark, dank, empty stall. Gramp, unlike he had planned, never told anyone about the deer. No. The very next day after their return, Gramp butchered Old Buck without so much as a word.

***

Ron sat back in his black leather swivel chair and looked at his books. He thought he could hear them speaking. He thought one of the authors said something about hay bags, but he wasn’t sure. They were all talking at once; it was impossible to understand. He was still drunk. He begged them to be silent. The clamor continued. He took a novel from the shelf. The rest of the works became silent. He loved his books.

End

Three Cross Bog

Part 04

Ron thought he heard a noise. He looked upstream, hearing a snap and a splish. Then he heard a larger more human sound. Something was moving toward him and it was moving quickly. It jumped. It was Old Buck. Ron could barely see Gramp, who was running along the stream, following Buck’s trail. Ron knew this was his time; that he wouldn’t get a second chance. He shouldered his gun, pointing it upstream. He held his breath. Old Buck was sixty yards away. Ron started to lead him. He had two fingers on the two triggers. You don’t get a second chance. He exhaled quickly and drew in another breath. Old Buck jumped again. The deer easily cleared a fallen tree. Ron closed his eyes, holding them tight.

He pulled both triggers of his twelve gauge double barrel Knickerbocker.

After opening his eyes, he picked himself up. The blast had knocked him flat. He reloaded instantly. He ran down the ridge.

“Gut shot him,” yelled Gramp as he grabbed Ron’s arm and pointed to the blood on the ground. They followed the trail of blood up over the ridge. They stood at the edge of the bog. Old Buck was there. He had gotten twenty feet out into it and was caught up to his chest, bearing a large splattered patch of red. They watched as Buck fought the bog.

“Ain’t he something,” said the veteran deerslayer.

Ron watched the deer kick and flounder.

“Lad, give him one more.”

Ron saw Buck throw his head back.

“Be a man. He’s yours.”

“Gramp! Gramp… I…”

“Shoot him! It’s cruel not to!”

“Gramp…”

“Shoot!” Yelled Gramp.

“I can’t,” said the boy.

As Gramp shouldered his single shot, Ron turned away. Ron heard the noise from the blast echo off the far bank of the bog. When he turned back around he saw Old Buck slumped forward. Moitionless.

“Here,” Willard said after removing a coil of rope from his belt. “Tie this end on that oak over there.” The old hunter took off his jacket and started down into the bod Ron saw the old man was already up to his knees in the mire.

***

“Do you come in here often?” he asked.

“No. Do you?”

“Not much anymore,” he said.

“It’s an alright place, I suppose,” She said.

“Not bad,” he added.

Ron refilled his glass and held the pitcher suspended over the table’s center. She replied by sliding her glass toward him. After filling the glass he set down the empty pitcher.

“Beer is publican’t piss,” she said. “Give me a hearty Burgundy. Do you like wine?”

A member in good standing of the Dithryambic Players and Layers Association,” he said.

“What?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Sometimes I like a glass of Port after dinner but usually I prefer Chablis.”

“Another pitcher?” asked the waitress who had approached the table.

“Would you like to go somewhere else?” asked the woman.

Ron looked at her. He looked at the waitress. He thought. “I guess we won’t have anymore beer, thank you.” he said to the waitress who snatched up the pitcher.

“Ready?” asked the woman.

“Lead the way,” Ron said. He stood. His legs were a little unsteady but he didn’t stagger.

“Let’s take my car,” she said, walking across the parking lot.

“Okay,” he replied.

“It’s the green Vette over here,” she said.

“Did you have any place in mind?” Ron asked after entering the car.

“Not really? How about R.A.’s?”

“Sounds fine,” he said.

Ron thought he could buy her a few rounds at R.A.’s. Suggest they hop over to the Bum Steer or to where? Anywhere. Sure, talk about books. Anything. He was flexible. Everything was smooth. Right? It’s work. In the car. He’d ask her up to his place. He had it made. What could go wrong?

“Look,” she said, “let’s go over to my apartment. Ive got some wine and I’m tired of crowds. Okay?”

“You’re driving,” he said.

Three Cross Bog

Part 03

Walking behind the old man through a thicket of briers, Ron was snagged and scratched by the sharp needles. He wondered if he’d done right, agreeing to hunt with Gramp. He wanted it for sure, but…

“Don’t dawdle, boy,” Gramp said, using a hushed voice. “I ain’t going to hold back this here prickly all day.”

Emerging from the thicket, the youngster saw they had entered a low, open area, marking the fringe of territory familiar to him. Running down the center of the clearing, a small stream wound its way through. The bareness of some sapling white poplars reminded him of the forthcoming winter. He flet the coldness blow past his outer garments and reach his raw flesh. He shivered. They walked along the water for three quarters of a mile. They were headed northwest. Headed for the bog. They moved slowly and moved in silence. The terrain began to make a change and a small ridge was running parallel to their path on the left. On the right, a steep bank pushed its way up into existence, carrying the forest trees high up into the air and away from them. Gramp led Ron away from the brook and up onto the small ridge, separating the stream from the bog. The elder huntsman led him to a spot where the scrub oak was low and thick.

“Boy,” Gramp said, barely whispering. “This here’s your stand.”

“Where are you going to be?” Ron asked.

“I’ll work my way back upstream. After Old Buck passes me by, I’ll jump in behind. He’ll know it too. Won’t pay you no heed, but be on your toes because he won’t be strolling along. Remember, give him about two feet of lead, shoulder high and both barrels boy, both barrels. You won’t get no second chance. No second chance.”

“Gramp I don’t think I…”

“Hush up! Just follow what ol’ Gramp Willard tells you. If you gut shoot him, follow the blood. Probably be up under the scrubs. If he heads out into the bog, don’t follow him. Just let him go boy, cause nothing can save him then.”

Ron watched the aged woodsman walk down the ridge and toward the campsite. He saw that Gramp didn’t travel along the stream as they had just done. He saw the seasoned deer hunter carry his ten gauge shotgun, a single shot, with both hands in the firing position. Gramp stopped several times and listened to the woods. Ron listened too. He heard nothing, and soon Gramp was out of sight.

***

“Two dollars,” said the barmaid after setting down the pitcher.

Ron handed her a five dollar bill.

“Out of five,” she said.

She set three crumpled bills on the table, turned and left, weaving her way around the tables. She was married.

After pouring himself a glass of beer, he looked at the pictures on the wall next to him. Ed had pictures on every wall. They were pictures of his patrons His customers. The photos were taken during the Saint Patrick’s Day bash, at which gallons and gallons of green beer flowed from Ed’s taps. Rons suspected Ed had the pictures taken during the bash because it was one of the few times that a large number of females were in his establishment.

Ron had attended the bash one year. It was amazing. He never thought this small bar could accommodate so many people. Bodies. Moving. Wrestling. Everyone crowding, pushing, laughing, drinking, swearing and enjoying. There were those who had had too much sparkling green beer and as a result were bent over vomiting on the red carpet. There were those whose faculties had been obliterated; they were lying on the floor. They were trampled on. They swam in vomit. It was fun.

It wasn’t until he’d finished his beer that he noticed, three tables away, a woman sitting alone. Apparently she was alone. What was she doing here? There was only one glass on the table. She must be alone. She looked at him. He looked into his beer glass. Was she looking at him? Ron wasn’t sure.

He thought he should approach her. Why not? He could offer to buy her some drinks. Sure! She was probably only after free booze. Maybe not. He could talk to her about art or theater. He knew about theater. Or film. He’d seen all the latest ones. Or writing. Maybe she wrote? Probably a secretary. Maybe not. Books. He could certainly talk about books. Everyone read didn’t they? He knew about books. What else? What else was there? What else did he know? He was flexible. He could…

“Hello in there!”

“Huh?” he said, looking up.

“Where have you been? She asked, laughing slightly. Oh, just thinking,” he said. It was her. She was sitting at his table.

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

Three Cross Bog

Part 02

Ron swung around his black leather swivel chair to face his books, lining the entire length of his white windowless wall in his small studio apartment. His books. His possessions. The possessions that possessed him. He respected, no, revered his books.

He often thought that each book spoke to him. That as he entered his apartment they would start speaking, first one, then another until all their voices blended into a frightful racket. He would beg them to be still, but the clamor would continue till he took one from the shelf. That was the only way he could silence their noise. He loved his books.

The voices spoke to him and he listened, heard. He was not afraid to listen, really fearful. He knew the words could not hurt him because, because they were words. Abstract beings. Abstractions of abstractions.

As he set down a novel, he thought he heard a character yell, “Stop the world! Stop the world!” It was only words.

Rising, Ron walked to his bathroom sink and opened the medicine cabinet. He was going for his toothbrush and paste. Pepsodent. A tune flashed through his mind. How did it go? Yes, that was it:

You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent…”

Damn! Those jingles really do work he thought.

After flossing, he removed the shirt he was wearing and put on a lighter, double-knit short sleeved one. It was hot. Tucson, Arizona can be very hot in July. Extremely hot. His swamp cooler, an evaporative air cooling system offered him little relief and, after walking the entire span of his room, he picked up a set of keys from the walnut coffee table. His books were silent for now. They knew better. He was going out.

Closing the door behind him, Ron Powers let warm, dry night air into his lungs. Waiting in dispassionate silence at the curb below, the yellow 66 Volks was his second favorite possession. Theirs was a good relationship he thought as he walked down the stairs toward the car. No Question. Yup, he knew what turned her on.

“Don’t I baby,” he said.

He patted her on the roof and got behind the wheel. Lighting a cigarette he started the car and pulled out into the street. On his way. Moving. He hadn’t decided where to go, but that didn’t matter. He just had to be outdoors. Motoring. He needed air and relief from roast room. He drove.

He turned right onto Speedway Boulevard. Heading East. Traveling down the ugliest street in America. At least a former Mayor of Tucson had planted that label on Speedway. Ron liked the noise, the clutter, the traffic. Everyone had their own ideas about repulsiveness he guessed.

Reaching Swan Avenue he decided to turn right and truck on down to Twenty-second Street and Ed’s College Bar. Ed’s was a place to relax, to drink a few beers, to shoot a few games of pool or to listen to the music coming from the jukebox. Ed’s was not a place to meet women. In fact, the only women in Ed’s were the barmaid, who for some reason were all married. Why was that? Ron didn’t know.

Passing through the doorway of the bar, Ron remembered Ed was fairly liberal and hardly ever had a bouncer at the door to certify the age of his customers. Sure came in handy when Ron wasn’t old enough to legally drink. Ron liked liberals. No bouncer sat in the doorway.

After adjusting his eyes to the dimly lit and smoke filled main room, Ron saw the U-shaped bar in front of him. All the seats around it were occupied and Ed himself worked busily, taking and serving orders. Ron found an empty round table for two near the left rear wall. Several large globs of water formed a half-moon shape on the table top. Small bits of paper were piled up in one corner. Leftovers from a label peeler. The ashtray was full. He thought he saw lipstick on some stubby filters. Don’t tell me this place has gone kinky he mused to himself.

He removed his package of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket. He sat there tapping one end of his cigarette against the table top, he’d managed to find one semi-dry spot, and waited for the barmaid to notice him.

Fast service was not an attribute of Ed’s College Bar and he’d almost finished his smoke when the waitress approached. She removed a small square napkin from her tray, placed it on the table and, while leaning over, slid it directly in front of him. Naturally, the paper coaster had instantly turned into a sponge, soaking up the residue liquids.

“Beer?” She asked as she straightened herself up.

“Draft,” he replied.

“Pitcher?” she asked, re-stacking her napkins into a neat little pile.

“Ah… no. Well… Yes. Sure, why not?” he said.

“Light?” she asked, turning to leave.

“Dark,” he said, calling to her as she left.

Three Cross Bog

I mentioned on an earlier post about a story that has come into my possession. I am going to present my uncle’s work here. I don’t know if it was ever published anywhere else, but I think it is fair to put it here at this point. I have actually had some other story parts that have been inspired by reading this work. I may reference parts of this story in some of my upcoming work. Until then, the story in parts:

Part 1

One and a half miles southeast of Three Cross Bog, a small campsite was neatly tucked against the side of a knoll. A lean-to made from pine boughs had been lashed between two sturdy tree trunks. There were numerous gaps in the roof, offering little protection from the bitter New England weather. The cool, crisp air flowed easily through the crude structure with its open sides. The floor was bare except for the figure of a boy, who was curled up inside a sleeping bag made from old green Army blankets fastened together with huge safety pins. A man stood twelve feet in front the shelter. An old man. He was white haired and sported a bushy porcupine mustache, all but covering his lower lip. He had a slender figure for a man, almost five feet tall.

Stooping over their rekindled campfire, a frying pan in his left hand, Gramp Willard saw young Ron Powers wipe sleep from his eyes.

“Better shake a leg and get out of that bedroll,” the old man said. “We’ve a full day of hunt in front of us. Food’s up.”

“Coming,” said the youngster.

Ron pulled on and laced up his calf length boots that he’d retrieved from the bottom of his sleeping bag, slipped on his baggy brown hunting jacket and shucked off his blankets. The boy picked up his double barrel shotgun, a twelve gauge Knickerbocker, and opened the breech to inspect the bright brass shell ends. Convinced his gun was loaded, he closed the weapon with a sharp snap. The fledgling hunter tucked the butt of the shotgun under his arm. He tried out the carrying method Gramp had recently taught him and felt the rounded walnut gun stock fit comfortably beneath his limb.

While watching the boy handle the gun, the elder huntsman recalled his own first experiences with arms and his own associated sensations of fear and excitement. Most of all, Willard recalled his sense of power. His potency.

“Boy, the true mark of a hunter,” the veteran woodsman said, stopping to pause, “a man eats only what he can kill and he kills only what he needs to eat… and boy…”

“Yes sir,” said the youthful pupil, watching his grandfather toy with the spatula in the skillet.

“You can’t shoot no egg.”

They both laughed.

“Gramp,” said Ron, crossing to the campfire, “if we’re here to hunt partridge, why didn’t you bring Peppersauce with us? She’s a good bird dog.”

“Well,” said the senior hunter, leaving the frypan sputtering over the fire and walking to his worn wicker knapsack, “she’d had been no good on this hunt.” Gramp rummaged quickly through his pack. “Here lad,” said the ancient poacher, tossing Ron a box of shells.

“Buckshot! Deer?! We’re going to hunt deer? Out of season? Gramp…”

“Hush up,” the old man snapped.

“But ~”

“No buts! I wouldn’t tramp narry a step for any ordinary stag. No siree. We’re out there to get us a might special deer. Mighty special.”

“Not Old Buck,” the youth quizzed.

“Straight on the mark,” came Willard’s reply.

“Gramp,” said Ron.

The old timer crouched and removed the heated breakfast from over the red heat and said, “Bring your mess over and shove some of these eggs down ya.”

“Gramp. Gramp, nobody’s seen that deer in better than two years. They say a hunter over in Groveland got him.”

“That’s right. That’s right, lad. Even had a proper write up in the Gazzette. Picture and all. Group of businessmen standing ’round congratulating each other. Cut it out to save it. Have to chuckle every time I see it.” The shrewd deerstalker laughed and said, “Move your plate ni closer. I don’t want to slop no fat on the fire.”

“But Gramp, if that was…”

“Damnation! Sometimes I suspect your mother’s raising a tree stump instead of a boy! I wouldn’t have brought you out here if I wasn’t sure that Buck still runs right through here and up past Three Cross Bog.”

“Certain,” the youngster asked.

“Certain,” came the reply.

“Why haven’t you bagged him before now,” Ron persisted.

“Wasn’t time. It just wasn’t time, boy.”

Squatting and sitting precariously on a small wood pile, Ron cut into the egg yolk, oozing out from under the fork’s pressure. He lifted the steaming mouthful and had his first taste of nourishment.

“Three Cross Bog,” the boy inquired.

“A mile or so off to the left’s the cranberry bog. I’ve a stand picked out for you. A place where you can wait for Buck to come to you. Runs right by there. Easiest way for him to skirt that fathomless pit. Heed me, now. That bog’s swallowed up three grown men and I don’t want no fourth. You just stay in your spot. Are you listening, lad?”

“Yes sir,” said the younger Powers.

“Certain,” the elderly woodsman asked.

“Certain,” came the response.

Both sat eating slowly in silence.

“Why,” asked Ron, after downing his last bite, “didn’t you say Old Buck was still alive? You could have told me.”

“You know the Morrisons,” the old man questioned.

“They live over on Parish Road? The house that sits way back off the road?”

“Aya,” Willard said. “The old man. Ben,” he continued while looking intently at Ron. “Crazy. Crazy, blind Irish bastard. Been after my tail for… for years. Blames me for his brother. We were hunting deer. Buck. He jumped a doe and winged a hind quarter. Fool. Fool followed her into the bog. Couldn’t do nothing. No rope. Was nothing of either when we got back. Out of sight. Sank right out of sight.”

“And he blames you,” Ron uttered.

“Deserted him,” Willard snapped. “Hell! I went for help boy, help! Was nothing there when…” The old man stopped suddenly and looked into the deep, dark woods. He seemed to be straining, straining to hear every sound, to see every bit of movement. Turning away from Ron and focusing his eyes on a spot far from their encampment, Gramp studied the slight movement. It was nothing. He looked back at the boy and said softly, “Morrison’s a hunter. A patient hunter. I suspect he knows that Buck’s still alive. Figures one day Gramp would go back into the woods. Back to the bog”

The young hunter had been as still as a granite monument marking some historical event. He was learning to become a good listener.

“Old Buck,” the veteran deerstalker said, “He’s your prize. One that’ll set these folks around here on end. They’ll take notice of ya.”

Ron looked sheepishly down into his dented tin plate and nervously stirred one small morsel of burnt bacon with the tines of his fork.

Bogged

I find myself in an odd spot. I’ve got in my possession a story. It’s not generally my kind of story. A short story that was written by my uncle. My uncle passed away back in 2014 (side note – I didn’t realize it had been that long. It certainly doesn’t seem to be that far back). I’d like to do something with the story but I don’t know if I can.

I have no honest idea if the story was published when he wrote it or not. It’s all on typewritten pages dated from back in 1981. I think he might have used the old school copyright trick of making 2 copies and mailing them to himself. Way back before e-mail and internet I seem to recall this was a method of proving copyright by way of having an official government date and time stamp (from the post office cancelling the mail) on your sealed envelope. This was a way of not going through the cost of doing the paperwork to get your work through the actual copyright office.

At the time of the initial clean up of what remained of my uncle’s worldly possessions a number of things were boxed and put in the car with a “sort this out later” label. My mom found this in a box of things that she found in the basement. It was likely missed during the ‘sort this out’ phase and this is clearly “later”. She opened the envelope and found two copies of the story. I got one today.

I read the story. It’s clear and well written. It clocks in around 3,000 words. I think I understand where my uncle was going with it, but I am not 100% certain. I think with some rework it would be a story that could be sold today, or perhaps even the start of a series of short stories. There is potential.

Thing is – it’s not mine. I have no idea what the legality of any of this is. I don’t know if the story was submitted before. I don’t know if he published it himself (he did run a small press at one point). I don’t think I could successfully search up this story if it ever was published.

My thought is to present the story here, perhaps in serialized form a few hundred words at a time. Maybe I’ll then write some other stuff based on this short story… I’m not sure. I’m going to run the idea past a few people before I really do anything with it.

Hopefully that will mean some new fiction here soon?

Birthday Time

There are times when I think that I should be posting more here than I do. I probably should. Thing is, when given the option I’m all in for family stuff. My kiddo is only going to be this age once and I’m not going to miss it.

Yesterday it was party time! She’s going to be 12 years old this week so we took a group of friends out for a day of party fun. Off to see the new movie Trolls first. Wasn’t my first choice for the weekend – but all the girls really wanted to go. Having been in the packed theater I suspect a certain Marvel movie will have serious competition for top spot of the weekend. I also have to say the cloud character has a part in the film that totally cracked me up.

After the movie it was off to the local game cafe for an entire afternoon of friendly competition and super fun table top games!

partytime2016

IF you’re in our area the Game Table Cafe is a worthy place to hang out. The girls all but destroyed their supply of chocolate chip cookies and took all the cold soda from the counter fridge. We played “MEOW” as a starter (right up their alley) and then ran through a bunch of other fun games. I think there may have been a “Connect 4” tournament that came out of the whole thing, but I’m not sure. I was beaten soundly in round one by one of the girls and couldn’t get back into a game!

After hours of games and fun invaded the pizza shop at the end of plaza for pizza and fries. Don’t think that growing boys have a monopoly on eating big. Those girls left the pizza trays spinning!

After the pizza there were a couple of gifts, but that wasn’t the focus of the day. We all went and had fun together. It was a great time. Totally worth every missed deadline and every missed post here.

Death and Perspective

I’m trying to put the second family death in as many months into perspective. My father in law passed away in May and now my Grandmother has passed away. It’s easy to get caught up in negative feelings. I struggle with trying to see good things when people die.

As I gave it more thought, at the age of 97 my grandmother had been around for a whole lot of stuff. Born at the end of World War 1, her formative years were right through the heart of prohibition and the great depression. She was a bride around World War II and her husband a soldier. Her children became the famous baby boomer generation. She saw the Korean war, Elvis, the civil rights movement, Beatlemania, and the rise of television. Her children were the age of the soldiers of Vietnam. Watergate, the “just say no” campaign aimed at her grandchildren, and the death of her husband. The cold war – from the start all the way to the fall of the Berlin wall and more. Going to the moon, shuttle disasters – all of them – and the start of the privatization of the space race.

In all that time, through all those things and so much more is a pretty amazing journey. In the end, she was still my grandmother. I remember sitting in the squeaky kitchen chairs but being fine with that because they had swiveling seats. The grandfather clock in the dining room and the drawer full of toys in the breezeway. Good memories.

One of my favorites came later in life when I was an adult. We were having a chat around the kitchen table and the old fashioned kettle had reached temperature. I jumped up to grab it right away and she said, “Oh just let it go. It’s the only one that whistles at me any more.” She had a few of my most favorite jokes.

I love her and I will miss her.

My favorite picture with my grandmother.

My favorite picture with my grandmother.

Last Full Day

During any normal week at home Friday is a day of celebration. Ready for the weekend and fun. Friday for us was our last full day in London so we weren’t nearly as excited about it as we normally would be. Saturday meant we’d be back on the plane and headed home. What to do on our last full day?

Tower

The Tower of London of course.

We got there early but decided not to race to see the crown jewels. We instead turned up Mint Street and got away from the early crowd. There were lots of educational displays that we had all to ourselves. Really interesting stuff. Once we’d been there for a bit we turned and headed back into the moat area to join up with a Yeoman Tour. If you’re there – take the Yeoman Tour. These guys are fascinating. While we were on the tour our guide told us that one of the former prisoners at the tower was a certain William Penn. I raised a little cheer (Pennsylvania and all that). The guide noticed me and called me out on it. “Just remember, that famous Pennsylvania man was English… and a criminal!” Everyone had a good laugh. Then he continued, “Where are my Australians?” A few folks raised there hands. He pointed one out and yelled to him, “You sir! Go and give that poor American some counseling on what it means to have a criminal background!” It was a really funny bit in the middle of a tour packed with crazy amounts of information.

The crown jewels had a massive line. We worked our way in and got to shuffle past the display. It was impressive. When we got out the line was massive. It was really good to go right from the tour to the jewels. Then it was off to see the famous ravens. The ravens have gotten quite used to being close to people.

Ravens

We got some great pictures here. It was a really good tour. Totally necessary to see if you’re in London. That took about half of our day. We grabbed some lunch at a Pret and then headed for a lot more photos. It was time to ride the London Eye.

Eye

What a massive wheel. The supports were crazy big.

EyeSupport

It was a long wait in line… to get tickets so we could go wait in line. That was the most difficult part of the whole thing – it was very crowded. It took a long time to get on. It was also a bit odd that they didn’t stop the wheel when it was time for you to get on. It just keeps slowly turning and you have to hop on as it goes past. That’s one of those little details I somehow doubt would ever work here in the states. It was a great view as expected. The whole ride was smooth and stable.

And somehow, suddenly it was Friday night. We’d had an entire week.

We cleaned up and packed up our room Friday night. We were up and out the door at 5 am on Saturday and headed back home. It was a grueling travel day, but nothing went wrong and I was thankful for that.

Going on this trip was just fantastic. We built memories that will last a lifetime. We saw things and did things together. We took a ton of pictures – despite only being able to post a handful of them here. I can only hope we can scrape together our pennies and save up for another grand adventure.

This must be Thursday…

Thursday of the big London trip we had plans for smaller, off the beaten path type things. We were planning on heading to the Royal College of Physicians to see a special exhibit on John Dee. After we’d finished with that we were headed off to the Silver Vaults. We decided that since one particular wizard was the origin of this trip idea that we’d stop along the way at King’s Cross rail station to see a particular platform where one might head off to a wizard’s school.

The “platform” isn’t really a platform anymore. They’ve moved it up to the concourse area next to a gift shop. There’s a line and a professional photographer. You can still snap your own picture for free – but you’ve got to wait through the line. I’m glad we got to stop here, but it was disappointing to see what the “magical platform” had become.

Not even an arch.

Not even an arch.

We decided it would be easier to grab a taxi to the exhibit. We didn’t have a clear understanding of what that meant from King’s Cross station. There was of course a line to get a taxi. There’s a line for everything.

We made it to the college and headed in. The exhibit itself was neat and quiet. There was a lot of cool stuff on display. There was a short film that we got to sit and watch. We found out they have a Twitter. I had to check it out despite doing my best to stay away from Twitter. You should check out some of the cool things there too.

Exhibit

One of the neat things the folks at the college did was set up a doodle contest (of sorts). One of the things Dee was known for was writing notes, annotating and doodling in his library collection. There were postcards out that one could doodle on and submit to their monthly contest. The kiddo and I both whipped one up to enter.

Doodler

I particularly enjoyed the painting. It’s significantly larger than I thought it would be. I love that they’ve discovered part of the painting had been painted over to cover up certain aspects due to the offended sensibilities of the Victorians.

Painting

Once we’ve had our fill of the exhibit we headed off to the underground again and found our way over to the Silver Vaults. We stopped along the way in a little sandwich shop for a fantastic lunch. I know I sound like a bit of a broken record, but once we got away from the main tourist stuff we just had such an amazing time. It’s the little things – quiet lunches, finding our way along a new street – that really made this trip so excellent. We passed through private security to get in and headed down to the vault level. NO pictures were allowed. We spent a great deal of time wandering and staring at really expensive silver. A lot of it. One of the shop keepers said it was the world’s largest collection of silver under a single roof. We talked to a handful of the shop keepers. There’s all sorts of history and interesting stuff going on down there. We even got recommendations for other ‘out of the way’ places we should go and visit.

Unfortunately we were all but done in again. Lots of walking, constantly being on the go was starting to take its toll on us. We made every effort to avoid rush hour on the subway and headed back to the hotel. It was difficult to believe we were down to our last day already!