Down at the beach

Punta del Este, November 2010

Down at the beach

We’re all equal, the same;

Fat ones and thin ones

The bald and the vain.

The backdrop is blue

And the water azure,

The laughter of children

Bad temper can cure.

The waves thunder in

And then leave with a sigh ...

Water’s great breath

Gives us all such delight.

The rich and the poor,

The strong and the weak,

Get even amounts of

Sun, sand, waves and heat.

The great equalizer

All made by one God

At the beach we’re all equal

As He planned that we should.

Pita Bread

         

         I’m writing this new YA book about a sultan and decided on the spur of the moment yesterday, to do a little research and hands on experience.  So I roped Carlos in (and being the newly wed hubby he said “of course dear, I’d be happy to help.")

Home-made pita bread!  What fun, flour flying everywhere, the blind leading the blind, where each of us wanted to be the leader, yet neither totally prepared to take the fall.

 Recipe in hand, accompanied by ample instructions and pictures, we set about deciphering the language of yeast, cooking stones and kneading versus punching.  We were in hysterics.  It was something like an episode of Laurel & Hardy, with Carlos reading the instructions and me doing the work (perhaps that’s where the mistake was?).

“Put on a surface and kee the dog for ten minutes or till you’re tired,” he reads.

“Kee the dog?” I'm laughing out of control and so is he, (but Laurel & Hardy didn't laugh, did they?)

“Yes! Yes, that’s what is says here.”

“Where are my damn glasses?” Under the flour, of course.  “I still can’t see Carlos, where? Everything’s fuzzy.” Of course, flour all over my glasses as well.

“Here, it says dog,” flour on the recipe now, still can’t read.

“Dough!  OK, that sounds like ‘doe’ as in “Doe, a Deer …” ah forget it, it doesn’t make sense, you don’t sing.” We laugh.

“Yes, yes, like I said, dog-h,” and he tacks on an 'h' to make be happy.

We alternately knead the dough, and push and punch the dog-h, but I tell you what … there was some really, really good pita bread as a result.

Carlos made a bowl of dipping oil with herbs in it … Mmmm.  What a little feast, cup of tea anyone?

Fortnight in Corfu 2

Chapter 2

Over Corfu Sea

“But I want the story to go on!” said David with a pout as I put ny notebook down.

We laughed.  Nothing else had happened after the Easy Jet Airbus cut down through the thick clouds as it banked into Corfu.

“I see raindrops,” Dave announced, peering through the window at the now grey mass outside.

Gone were the puffy happy white fields of clouds we’d seen at 37 thousand feet, being replaced by these ominous rain-filled dirty sheets.

Ravenously the shutter of his camera clicked and clicked as we clawed out of the cloud, hovering now a few miles above the electric green ocean and the island of Corfu.

Everywhere little white houses with red roofs dotted along the shore and up the hills.  Interspersed was the odd hotel, large and ungainly, gashing ugly slashes across the pretty green hillside.

Slower, ever slower we glided over the sea towards the runway which we couldn’t yet see.

“We’re over Mouse Island now,” said Katia.  But it must’ve slipped under the right wing because we never saw it.

“OK, OK we need land now,” said Dave with a tiny hint of anxiety as still the water below rose faster and faster to greet the underbelly of the plane.

With a sudden crackle, the overhead speaker burst into life,

“Brace!  Brace!  This is an emergency!  Brace!  Brace!” Commanded the captain.

Gasps and screams filled the air as we all tucked our heads into our knees.

Katia, grabbed our hands and started to speak in rapid Greek.

“Oh my God we’re going to crash!” I yelled.

“No, No!” said David, “we’re going to be fine.”  He craned his neck to snap a couple more pictures through the window, as if to prove that everything was all right, but through the din I heard him muttering, “Shit … water … close …” and he braced again.

Screaming, wailing, crying, howling noises filled the cabin, coupled with the bitter smell of feces and vomit.  The steward on the overhead speakers attempted to calm the crowd hysteria.

Nano seconds crawled like grey months of winter and the crescendo of panic grew as the passengers fed off one another.

“Remain in your seats!” yelled the steward, “maintain the brace position.  This is only a precautionary measure”

“I don’t think so,” said Katia in English now, “I never heard the under carriage come down.”

“Damn,” said David and I together – but there was no laughter this time.

“Prepare for emergency landing! Brace! Brace!” Ordered the captain and in a split second an eerie silence filled the stinking air, dread and body fluids mixing.

From somewhere in the back, a soft, calming tenor voice began, “Our Father who are in Heaven …” and one by one, from the muffled confines of their laps, strangers became one as they prayed aloud, awaiting the inevitable.

It was a surreal moment when, with a rubbery, bouncy squish the great AirBus touched down on Corfu soil.

Still clicking away, David looked over at us both and grinned, “Kalimera! Welcome to Greece.  I’ve never been happier to see a runway.  I wonder what adventures are in store for us?”

Fortnight in Corfu 1

  

Chapter 1

Clouds over Italy

So much happens up here at 37K feet!

“There must be a story in these” said David, pointing at the layer of billowing, pillow-clouds below.

Acres upon acres of great white clusters of cotton wool, packed tightly together giving the impression that if anyone should open the door of the plane and free fall out onto them they would cushion our fall like a child’s bouncy castle, all puffy and comfy.

So we decide to give it a try and grabbing our jackets, we head for the door of the plane.

All of the flight attendants have gathered in the back of the plane to have breakfast together.  The one facing us is asleep. Two others are chattering while nibbling brown bread sandwiches.  The fourth is reading Hello Magazine.

The pilot’s door is securely locked, so there’s no one to stop us.  Katia says she’ll meet us below in a taxi.

With a wink and a nod, Dave pulls the giant handle of the Airbus’s door and with the other releases the lever and SWOOSH it’s open!

Freezing cold air blasts in and racing below the clouds beckon. 

Somewhere a shrill alarm siren sound and is followed by a shout,

“Hey!  You can’t do that!” as the sandwich-eating attendants come belting down the aisle.

“Sorry!  Just did,” I call as the wind snatches my words, my hair and me, and with a pounding heart, we jump.

We’re racing down, human bullets, laughing like mute hyenas, the icy wind piercing our cheeks and eyeballs.  Don’t care.

Huge, tall plumes of wispy clouds push upwards from the mass below as if reaching out to catch us, to buffer our fall.

“Look!” David points … a great pig-shaped mass on his left, which looks like it’s chasing a herd of headless chickens.  Further along, there’s a Cinderella Castle mass of clouds and then through a gap,

“The Alps!” he yells, silent but I can read his lips and follow his pointing finger again.

Spiky and white they jut up through the soft cushion of cloud, crisp with a fresh mantle of snow. White on white, one soft, puffy and ever changing; the other hard, angular and unmoving.

Tears of cold and amazement are torn from the corners of our eyes, making little icicles, which snap off.

We’re headed for the chessboard mass of cloud below and with a thumb up, David releases my hand and curling into a tight ball, falls fast and furious into B-6, canon ball style and disappears.

I’ve opted for swallow dive, arms spread wide, slowing down my fall.

With a gentle FRUMP, I’m caught by A-5 which feels like a giant feather cushion on a trapeze net.

“Amazing!” yells David as he rolls towards me.

“Awesome!  Who’d a thunk it?” I say, laughing and bouncing; feeling like Tigger and Tinker Bell rolled into one.

Gently we come to a stop in a crease between A-5 and B-6, laughing, sides aching, cheeks smarting.

“I told you it would work!” we say in the same breath and collapse in a paroxysm of identical laughter.

With a great creak and a groan, the crease in the chessboard cloud wrenches open and ejected unceremoniously, we’re falling again.

I grab David’s hand in panic and like two side-by-side X’s we’re slowing down enough to lean into the fall and steer towards the nearest peak of a snow-topped Alp.

He grins at me and twirling a finger he makes an old-fashioned water-skiing signal, telling me to turn over.

With a twist we’re now facing the sky just in time to land FRUMP! on our butts in the soft powder-snow.

“Yee-Haw!” he yells as we begin to slip, slide and plummet downwards. 

What a magic carpet ride!  Whizzing past rocks and crevasses we are cradled in a long valley of snow, speeding out of control yet completely oblivious of any danger.

Adrenalin is an amazing thing, even at 37K feet, staring at the clouds through the window of the plane, I get a rush.  Watching David take pictures of the magnificent Alps while Katia snoozes, I revel in my adventure that might have been.

“Amazing,” says David looking over.

“Awesome,” I reply and in the same breath we say,

“It could work, couldn’t it?”

@ 37K feet.

Puffy, billowing pillows

Pouchy, couchy blobs

Cushions and pouffs

Squishy soft balls

Swirling towers

Fields of cotton

Acres of white

At 37K feet

Swelling and swirling

Dunes of the undulating skyscape

Like anthills and molehills

Clouds decorate the sky.

“Marriage” The Prequel

I guess every wedding has its drama and excitement.  As the bridezilla and author of The Prequel, I have elected to believe that my wedding has more than most.  So there.

Remember the part during the rehearsal where Father Don suggests I have the worse case of ADD he’s ever known?  Well, he may be right but then again, maybe it was just a case of the jitters.  Or having spent the six weeks leading up to my return to Florida sleeping in a different bed almost every night.  Who knows?

Anyway, I digress (again).

Everyone’s accepted, except those who declined. 

My siblings have all decided to come and rent a beautiful villa in Celebration for the celebration.  How clever.

“It’s got seven bedrooms!”

“No it’s not.  It’s got six bedrooms.”

“Seven!”

“Six, I saw the pictures.”

“Seven, I made the booking.”

“Girls, girls, don’t argue, it doesn’t matter anyway,” says my brother (the only male in this pack of effervescent women,) “I’m sleeping on the sofa however many bedrooms there are.”

Then again, maybe we could get Mum to sleep on the sofa, or not.  Nah, bad idea.

I’ve brought Mum back from England with me three weeks before the date.  Except that in the middle I have a Writing Convention, which I booked months ago.  Carlos, God bless him, has volunteered to stand in for the three days I’m away.  I’m sure that’s the LAST time he’s doing that.  Now I did notice a lot of the duct tape has gone missing … Hmmm.

Thank goodness for my daughter who's agreed to help organize the wedding.  She's doing the lion's share of the work!  Anyone want to hire a FANTASTIC wedding/party planner?  Send me an email cathrathbone@gmail.com.  Even my son is roped in to help.  Mum’s “helping” too.  So we go out and shop for a dress and shoes for her.  We go walking round the lake.  We go out to the park, we go out to lunch, we go to the beach, we go ... slower and slower while I get more and more frantic realizing that I’m running out of time.  

Never mind.  I’m only making 100 Canelones.  You know how that goes, right?

Cook 100 pancakes.

Wrap.

Freeze.

Cook meat filling for 100.

Wrap.

Freeze.

Cook spinach and onion filling for 100.

All the while fielding the constant barrage of looping questions.

“What are the Canelones for?”

“The wedding.”

“When is the wedding?”

"October 29th"

“Who’s coming to the wedding?”

And there’s NO MORE ROOM in the freezer.

Never mind.  Carlos (and Mum) have volunteered to fill and roll the Canelones while I’m away.  Hip Hip Hooray.  So I stuff all the extra contents of our tiny freezer into the door shelf, then wedge the spinach into the ice-maker and hope for the best.  Shut it all with a bungee cord and hope Mum doesn’t decide she wants some ice in her drink tomorrow.

I’m back from my (fabulous) Convention, the Canelones are rolled and stuffed and looking amazing.  Carlos to the rescue again.  Until ...

"Knock-Knock."

"Who's there?"

Enter Bell.  

What’s that I hear you say?  I’ll tell you:

Carlos and I sit down for a quiet cuppa, before Mum wakes up, and he's telling me something when all of a sudden I see the right side of his lip stop moving.  I'm staring.  It droops and then his right eye goes saggy as well and he sees me staring.

"Que pasa?" he says as a rivulet of tea dribbles down his chin.

I'm thinking ... stroke?

Mum?  

Doctor.  

Take Mum?  

Hospital?

Leave Mum?

I call the doctor who says “drop everything and come.”

So we go. I leave Mum sleeping, with a note and a prayer that everything'll be fine.

Pretty lady doctor walks in and almost right away diagnoses Carlos with Bell's Palsy, not a stroke.  Phew.  While it’s not a walk in the park, BP is a temporary condition, which paralyzes one side of the face and can last from ten days to six months.  Not fun, not pretty, but not life-threatening.  

Get back and Mum’s standing in the drive.  How long?  We’ll never know.  There’s a chain of notes from her inside – I feel terrible, will this awful guilt ever go away?

I’m getting cancellations.  Hungry friends we’ve counted on are pulling out.

A cousin gets the flu at the same time that her husband slips in the pool while on a cruise. Injury is made worse by dropping a stapler on the throbbing limb – the heavy old fashioned type (stapler that is) – then husband limps off to the pharmacy to get a flu shot while riddled with wife’s germs.

A lovely single friend who's 6'4" and thrilled about Canelones, has had too many parties over too many weekends and can't come.

My younger sister and brother arrive.  Sister’s luggage is lost somewhere between the Canary Islands and Florida.  Luckily the booze is in the hand luggage and she loves shopping.  You know where they go.  

“But your fascinator is in the suitcase,” she cries.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure the bags will appear.”

They do.  Two days later they arrive in Fort Lauderdale (we’re in Orlando, though) and by a fascinating twist of macabre events, the airline returns the next day to take the suitcases away!  No one can trace them.  The number my sister’s been given is only for calling the airline whilst in Spain (fat lot of good that is to someone who’s abroad.)  So she calls her lovely muchacho in Spain, who calls the number.  Guess what?  I finally understand why they make up so many jokes about Gallegos.  The phone number doesn’t work from Spain either.

You think I’m making it up?  Nope.

Arriving in Celebration, we confirm the house does have seven bedrooms, but the “luxury” part seems lost in translation.  Mattresses that have midnight conversations, doors so warped they don’t close, and not a salt cellar or sponge in sight!  Toilet paper?  You’ve got to be kidding me, not even the cardboard cylinder left.  All makes for a great laugh and hilarious storytelling.

And this is only the beginning of the prequel…

Married

On October 29^th I’m marrying my ex-husband and everyone’s here to celebrate. 

We’re staying in a beautiful house in Kissimmee with my three siblings, some of their kids, my mother and my cousin.  My kids are here and my grandson.  At the pinnacle there were 18 of us here. 

“I’ve got the wheels,” shouts my sister, “Let’s go shopping,”

“I’m coming.”

“Wait for me!”

“Oh, oh, oh, can I come too?”

They shop in packs my British family, laughing all the way there and laughing still as they tumble back into the house with a whole lot more stuff and a whole lot less money.

Yesterday is wedding day.  Ah, chaos in full.  We’re all here and we’re all involved.

There’s a little group in the corner, being led by my 26-year-old son, my niece and nephew who’re both under 12, and my brother.  They’re blowing balloons.

“Great job,” I call from the lanai where I’m busy rolling ribbon round the bouquets I’ve just made.

Until I hear the Munchkins singing “We’re off to see the Wizard…”

“What the …?”  It’s no the Munchkins at all.  In fact, the TV is off for once.

It’s THEM.  Their voices are squeaking and distorted.  They’re all sucking helium and singing in elfin voices like Alvin and the Chipmunks.  My 80-year-old mother is watching, horrified yet amused.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, no, no.  Here do you want to try Mum?” says David.

“Oh no!  No thank you I’m far too old for that.”

“Oh but it’s funny, it makes you sing in a prickly voice,” says my niece as her brother begins to sing,

“The wheels on the bus go round, round, round,” they collapse in high-pitched giggles.

Ashton, my one-and-a-half year old grandson is chasing balloons, biting them and trying to pop them like his dog does.  My sisters cook and chat, while my daughter ices one of the cakes.

My ex, soon to be husband-again, is hanging fairy lights (with my brother.)  Three days before the wedding he’s diagnosed with Bells Palsy.  Poor darling, his face is half-paralyzed and lopsided.  He’s so angry he could scream,

“I look like a monster; people will think you’re marrying a monster.”

“I don’t think so.  I bet they feel a whole lot worse for you.  But if you’re that worried, maybe we can get a Phantom of the Opera mask since it’s Halloween and you can get married in the mask!”

We laugh.  You have to laugh, because it’s madness in this house.  I haven't had a drink in 4 1/2 years and I feel I'm in a daze with everything going on!  Poor Mum is in even more of a fizz, she has Alzheimer’s and wanders round asking the same questions over and over and over again.  Makes us want to scream sometimes.  We don't.  We laugh and we love her and scream in silence.

The funniest part of the wedding happens the day before the rehearsal when Carlos and I get a call from the realtor saying we need to be out of our house by Sunday afternoon. 

“What?”  I yelp.  The wedding is on Saturday.  OMG.  I’m ROFLing now.

“Yes, there’s been a misunderstanding with the papers.  No one remembered to notify us.”

We have a pre-wedding packing day and get the house ready to move in less that 12 hours.  I’m pooped.  Everyone’s pooped, but we shut the front door and leave the boxes behind to enjoy the day of our wedding.

Rehearsal is a disaster.  My cousin's plane is late, the airport is jammed and traffic is hell, so I'm the last one to arrive at the church.  Everyone's waiting - but we're laughing non-stop.

"Cath will to pay attention!" cries Father Don, "you've got the worst case of ADD I've ever seen."

I snap to attention just as we're practicing the whole "... in sickness and in health..."

Everyone's howling with laughter, Carlos has promised to care for me "...in sexiness and in health..."  Now THAT'S funny.

Back at the wedding party house it’s raining as I’m putting the flowers out on the deck the morning of the "day".  I’ve already jumped into the pool in my pajamas with my grandson at breakfast, so nothing really matters anymore.

By noon the showers are a going non-stop and someone's doling out pizza slices and salad.

"Where's my ...?"

"I can't see the ..."

"What time are we leaving?"

"Should I wear this one or that one?"

"Ten minutes and we're leaving!"

"Is it the wedding today?"

"I'm not ready yet!"

"She's still in the shower."

"What time are we leaving?"

But by some amazing celestial intervention we're at the church on time, Dad would be so proud.

The wedding is glorious and just before we exchange ‘I do’s,’ the sun pours in through the west-facing windows of the little church and I swear angels fly in on its beams.  My grandson Ashton sees them too and smiles as he follows them flitting about the pretty church.

I’m married and moved and so very, very happy.

Old work day

Remembering the old work days ...

           The TV clicks on at 5.30am shattering the dark hush of a morning that hasn’t yet even been born.

“Good morning, it’s 5.30am on the East Coast and in our breaking story this morning an octogenarian woman is clubbed to death outside her suburbia home while neighbors look on in horror.  We’ll take you to the scene, but first a check on the weather outside your front door.” The screen flickers, then flickers again.

“And now for a check of your local traffic at 5.45am.”

Oh no.

Overslept.

How did that

Happen?

Push covers,

Flip out,

Feet on cold

Tile floor.

I can never figure out quite how I lose those ten minutes in the morning, as I run to the toilet, behind schedule again.

Flush,

Brush,

Rinse and spit.

Splash water on my face;

Throw on

Sneakers,

Grab keys

Rush to the gym

Again.

My I-Pod is playing loud, stirring music in my ears so I don’t have to hear the screaming of the MTV music videos overhead.  I’ll take 70’s classic rock any day over the head-banging stuff of today.  

Push,

Pull,

Grunt and groan;

Sweat till it

Drips down my neck;

Hoist,

Lift,

Trot and stretch;

Drive back,

Get mail

Get going.

The news is still blaring when I walk in the door, still talking about the same old same old.  I’m almost impervious to it.  The weather is doing what the weather is doing – in fact the weather is always going to do exactly what it feels like and I can do nothing about it.  Why do I bother to listen then? 

Peel fruit

Chew, eat

Chug vitamins

Gulp, drip,

Rinse

Run for the shower

Check the clock, time’s whizzing on.  Heck, it doesn’t wait for me.  What’s on the agenda today? In the steaming shower I lather up my hair and brush my teeth while thinking about another morning’s meeting at the office.

I've given up on the news these days and running in the rat race of the old work day.  It's changed my life and I'm so grateful.