Perhaps the Best Little Christmas Ever

When I was a boy of eight we had a very special Christmas at school. I attended a very small three room schoolhouse in rural South Carolina.  Like children everywhere we got excited about Christmas. Every year, on the last day of school before Christmas vacation, we would decorate a Christmas tree and sing carols to celebrate the Christmas season. Each of us would bring something to put on the Christmas tree.

One afternoon on the  day before we decorated the tree my sister and I got off the school bus near twilight at the farm where we lived. After doing our chores we had supper of salmon patties with grits and milk gravy.  It was one of my favorite meals. We, Sissy and I, asked Mama about some Christmas decorations for our tree at school. Mama said, “I don’t think we have anything you can use. But I will look.”

A few minutes later she returned and said, “I’m sorry children, but we don’t have anything for your Christmas tree at school. It has been a very bad year for the farm, and Christmas will be  small this year.”

“But, Mama, what are we going to do?” I lamented.

“Maybe Grandma can help you! Tony there’s a full moon tonight. You can take a flashlight and walk to her house if you want. And you take care of your sister, you hear?”

It was beginning to get very cold as we walked down the red dirt road to Grandma’s house. It was about a mile away. The moon was full and very bright. Wisps of feathery clouds hid some of the millions of stars in the sky.

Soon we were at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Their dog, Black Boy, met us barking with his tail wagging.  I patted him on the head, and his tail wagged faster.  

Grandma hugged us as usual, and we went inside. Grandpa was sitting by the fire in his rocker dozing. I could smell a batch of fresh baked cookies. It made me  almost forget why we were there.

“Grandma,” I said, “Mama said maybe you could help us.”

“We need something to put on the Christmas tree at school,” Sissy said.

“Course I will help you, child! We’ll find something”.

Grandma left the room, and I could hear her looking for something in their bedroom. Soon she came back.

“I thought about what we could make.  I couldn’t find nothing. But, I think we can make something” Grandma said.

“I like to make things!” Sissy said.

Grandma sat in her chair, and Sissy and I gathered around. She pulled a piece of shiny Christmas wrapping paper from her apron.

“A long time ago an old gypsy woman showed me how to make a star out of paper. This paper will make a real pretty one if I can remember how to do it,” Grandma said as she began to fold the pretty paper. She folded the paper several times. When she was finally satisfied with the way it looked she reached into her apron and pulled out a pair of scissors. With a quick snip she cut the paper.

Slowly she unfolded the paper and like magic a beautiful five-pointed star appeared. It sparkled in the firelight.

“Oh, it’s so beautiful, Grandma, just like the star of Bethlehem!” Sissy said, “The star over the baby Jesus in the manger.”

“It is pretty, but we need to get back home before Mama starts to worry about us,”I said, “but could we get a cookie before we leave?”

We had milk and cookies before we left. They were very good, 0the way Grandma’s cookies always were. Sugar cookies, yum..

It was much colder on the walk home. Normally, I would have told Sissy a scary story to scare her, but I didn’t. Maybe I had the Christmas spirit. When we got to our house we saw the first snowflake of winter.  I could tell it was going to be a very good Christmas.

The next day was a special day at school. There would be no reading, writing or arithmetic that day. It was the day before Christmas vacation. Our teacher, Miss Kate Johnson, let the older boys use the school axe to chop down a beautiful cedar tree. They drug it inside the schoolhouse and stood it up for us to decorate. Mrs. Scott, the cook, popped lots of popcorn which we made into garlands to hang on the tree. Some of us boys ate some of the popcorn although we weren’t supposed to. The younger kids made colored chains to put on the tree, too. There were painted pine cones, which the older kids put on the tree, along with some colorful lights. The flashing lights were very pretty. We had almost finished decorating the tree when Miss Johnson asked, “Does anyone have anything for the top of the tree?”

“I do! I do!” screamed little Judy Wideman, jumping up and down. Judy always seemed to want attention.

“Look what I’ve got!” yelled Billy Walker. Billy thought he always had to be first.

“Okay, okay! We’ll vote to see whose ornament we will put on top of the tree. All for Judy’s raise your hand!” said Miss Johnson.

Judy’s ornament was selected. It was a beautiful angel she said her grandmother had bought on a trip to New York City. Judy climbed the ladder that the teacher put beside the tree to place the angel on top of the tree. As she was about to set the angel on the tree it slipped from her hands.   It made a big crash, and tiny pieces of angel went everywhere. Judy cried, but after Miss Johnson hugged her and spoke softly to her she seemwd to be alright. Then Billy got to climb the ladder to place his ornament on top of the tree.  “This is a special Christmas star my father bought in Chicago. It flashes on and off. Watch when I plug it in!” Billy said. But when he plugged it in there was a FLASH of bright light, a loud BANG, and a puff of SMOKE. The lights on the tree went out too. Some of the girls screamed.  The room was dark. There was no light except for what came through the windows from outside. Billy looked angry and said something must have been wrong with the tree’s lights!

Miss Johnson said, “What are we going to do now, children?”

I said, “My little sister has something.”

“What do you have, Sissy?” the teacher wanted to know.

Sissy, who was very shy, said haltingly in a low voice while looking at the floor “It’s just a paper star my grandma made…  It’s not fancy and expensive like Judy’s and Billy’s ornaments.”

“Let’s see it!” Miss Johnson said

Sissy slowly brought the little paper star from behind her back for everyone to see.  Miss Johnson said, “ I think that is exactly what we need. Tony can you place it on the top of our tree?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said as I grabbed the star and climbed quickly to the top of the tree. I used a short piece of thread to tie the star to the tree. As soon as I released the star a curious thing happened. All the lights on the tree came back on with a bright flash.

Miss Johnson and the children said, “O-o-o-o…”  Then, “Wow!” And then they clapped and cheered!  I  remembered what Sissy said the first time she saw it. It was like the star of Bethlehem!  The star over the baby Jesus! What a Christmas present it was! For all of us!

We sang and danced around that tree ‘til time to go home.  I think it was about the best Christmas ever!

                *******************

As many of you know I frequently do the children’s sermon at SPC. The following is one of those sermons which, as usual, is in the form of a story. This is a story of fiction but is very reminiscent of my childhood. I did attend a rural three-room school house and I lived on a farm in rural South Carolina.

Our Visit to RAF Museum, London Sept. 2016

We went to the Royal Air Force Museum today. Claudette and I had to change Underground trains once  to get there. A bit of the ride was above the ground. I think I have a fixation on the lady that makes all the announcements on the train. I think she would like me too. I particularly like the way she says, “Mind the gap.” It was a long half mile from the station to the museum. I don’t like the way the British build sidewalks. They slope toward the curb.

After we entered through the gate we saw some airplanes and a missile on a missile launcher. But, when I spied a Supermarine Spitfire and a Hawker Hurricane on pylons, I knew we were in the right place. Those planes were stalwarts of WWII and the battle of Britain. It was good to compare these two aircraft side by side. I have had difficulty determining the differences between the two, but the shape of the wings is the most discernible difference.

Once inside we bought our tickets. I spoke with the lady at the desk who had difficulty understanding me, and her heavy middle Eastern accent required careful listening on my part. It seems that most of the people in service or clerical jobs in London speak English as a second language. There was a Spitfire painted silver mounted on the wall, which I believe was a reproduction. We entered the display area by climbing some stairs to a balcony overlooking the Milestones of Flight display.

This display is perhaps the creme de la creme of the museum’s displays.There were over a dozen aircraft on display. A reproduction of the first plane to fly across the English Channel hung in a prominent place near the balcony where we stood.  Right beside it was the modern Eurofighter built by a consortium of European countries. We took a stairway down to the exhibit floor. The first thing nearest the stairway was a full scale mock-up of an F-35.  Flown by many NATO nations, it’s the most advanced plane represented. We walked toward one of my favorite aircraft. “Look, Claudette, it’s a Mosquito!” I exclaimed.

“I didn’t know they had them in England, “ she answered.

“Not the insect, the plane. It’s made of plywood, you know!”

“A wooden plane? Built of plywood like our garage storage shelves?”” said she in disbelief.

”Well, sort of, it’s of laminated wood construction. They hired piano  and cabinet makers to build them.”

“Why?” she wanted to know.

“I don’t know, but I would guess it was because metal was in short supply,” I answered.

“Okay.”

“Do you see that silver plane right behind it?”

“Yes, it’s pretty.”

“Yep, some say the P-51 Mustang was the most beautiful fighter plane of WWII,” I said adding, “ It has the same engine as the Mosquito.”

“I don’t understand. It has American markings on it rather than the British bullseye?”  she asked.

“I’m glad you asked that. You see, the British asked the Americans to design them a fighter plane, and the Mustang was what North American Aviation came up with. At first it did not perform well with an Allison engine, but when the engine was replaced with the Rolls Roycè Merlin engine the performance improved dramatically.”

“I guess that is where the Mustang car got its name,” she said.

“Not really. Aviation aficionados would have you believe that, but the horse was the impetus for the name.”

We were wandering around the historic aircraft when Claudette said, “Hey, we’ve seen one of those before!”

“We sure have; at the Beaufort  Marine Corps Air Station.  During one of the air shows we saw a demonstration in which it was flying ground support for marines on the ground. Did you know that the Hawker Harrier first made vertical take-off and landing practical?”

“Okay…” she said sounding rather disinterested. Sometimes she just doesn’t share my interest  in airplanes.  I cannot fathom why.

The aircraft behind us represented perhaps the greatest technological advancement of the Second World War. It was the Messerschmitt Me-262, the Swallow.  It was the first jet aircraft used in combat. It was over 100 mph faster than any Allied fighter plane.

“The Me-262 was the fastest thing in the sky in 1944,”  I told Claudette.  “The two Juno jet engines pushed it to over 500 mph.”

“Haven’t we seen one of these before?” she asked.

“Yes, several.  There is even one in the U.S. Naval Aviation Museum that has a back seat. I thought it was built as a trainer but most likely as a bomber. The back seat would have been for the bombardier.  Hitler wanted the bulk of the planes used as bombers, although they were  better suited for fighter aircraft. After the war many features of this plane were incorporated into modern jet aircraft. Interestingly enough the turbojet engine was patented by an Englishman, Frank Whittle,”  I added.

“If the British invented the jet aircraft engine, why were the Germans so successful in building a jet powered fighter plane?”

“There are a couple of reasons for that. One reason is that although Whittle invented the jet engine in 1930, the Air Ministry did not support the development of his invention. On the other hand, when Hans von Obain built his jet engine in Germany years after Whittle, he received full government support for its development. The British did build a jet fighter, but very near the end of the war. There it is, the Gloster Meteor.”

We saw several more interesting aircraft in the Milestones of Flight exhibit, even a rare Hawker Typhoon. The Napier H-engined fighter was the only one left in existence

We ventured into another hanger by way of a fabric covered walkway.  It was like a tunnel. The first thing you see in the hanger known as the Bomber Room is a huge Avro Lancaster  bomber.  Also included in the collection is the B-24 Liberator, the B-17 Flying Fortress, and the B-25 Mitchell.  There is a huge Avro Vulcan I remembered from a James Bond movie. There were other bombers as well as ancillary equipment.  There were also some WWII fighter planes as. German Bf-109s and a FW-190 were on display. The 190 was the dual cockpit version, which I had not seen before.  There was also a Heinkel-163 which was an early German jet plane.

“I like that sign!” Claudette announced.

“What sign?”

“That one,” she said pointing, “It says Echo, Apha, Tango--EAT!”

“We sat in the shadow of the a giant flying machine of  wars past and enjoyed a cup of tea. Scones and strawberry jam made the rest break complete.

I had a bit of fun with some kids as I was sitting in an open cockpit. I was telling them to watch the rear control surfaces as I operated the stick and rudder pedals. At one point I pushed the stick forward and announced that I was diving toward earth. I abruptly slammed my hands into the dash with a loud bang. The boys jumped with surprise as I announced that I had crashed.

There is a special building for the Battle of Britain. Aircraft, including some which had crashed, as well as displays depicting bombed out buildings were there. Naturally, there were V-1 and V-2  German missiles on display. It was quite moving. There I was able to walk through a giant Short

Sunderland flying boat. The restoration area was accessible, also.  There I saw, among other things, a German twin engine bomber under restoration.

We were at the museum over four hours, and I enjoyed every minute walking rather briskly through the various buildings.  Soon it was time to get back to our apartment in Kensington to get ready for dinner.

First Kill, Thanksgiving Day, 1952

Wikipedia photo

I remember my favorite Thanksgiving Day quite well.  It was when I was eight. I suppose I was an average farm boy in the red clay area of South Carolina. Thanksgiving Day was always a special day for us. It was at the end of the fall and the onset of winter. All the crops had been harvested for the year and most of the winter firewood had been cut. We had moved the wood burning stoves from an out building inside the farmhouse  to heat it for the winter. My chore list now included carrying in firewood after getting home from school every day. If the weather remained cold we would be butchering hogs in a few days.

I woke at daybreak. I was excited. After getting dressed I broke the ice on a bucket of water in the kitchen. There was a small table in the corner of the room with two buckets of water and a wash basin. There was a mirror over the table Daddy used while shaving. With a red and white enameled dipper I splashed some water into the basin and proceeded to wash my face. I used the towel on the hook beside the table to dry my face. Sort of.

In the living room I opened the door of the wood stove which we referred to as a heater and poked the chunk of red oak which  had been burning all night. The coals glowed and I laid some splinters of fat lighter on the coals. They burst into flames. I quickly added some small pieces of dry pine and then some hardwood. By then the the rest of the family; my mom, dad, and sister were up, and the room was much warmer.  The heater was actually sitting in front of a fireplace which had been modified to accept the stove pipe from the heater. To the right of the heater was a closet and Daddy’s chair, where he would sit and read the newspaper or the Bible. Of course, it never got very warm because of the cracks in the floor and walls.

Momma cooked what she referred to as a “sawmill breakfast”. We feasted on grits, eggs, salt cured ham, biscuits, and gravy. There was peach preserves, homemade of course, to have with some of the hot buttered cats head buttermilk biscuits, too. Daddy said I had to bring some more wood to put on the back porch after breakfast. He said I probably wouldn’t be around in the afternoon to do it. I asked him why, but he said to do it because he said so. More times than I would like to admit I had felt my father’s leather strap on my behind, because I did not do as I was told. I asked no more questions and began my task.

The wood pile was near the dog house. Peggy, the little tan and white pointer was there. She was chained to the doghouse. I thought she should have been free but Daddy said, “No!”. She was hungry. I knew Daddy did not feed her much during hunting season. He said dogs hunted better when they were hungry. I had seen him beat her too. He said, “A stick on the behind sent a message to the mind. It works on dogs and small boys”. I didn’t know about dogs, but I knew worked on small boys.  By the time I had carried the wood to the porch and done some more chores it was time for Thanksgiving dinner. Daddy said a long blessing before we got a chance to eat. We never had turkey or goose. At our house it was always a hen, usually the one that ran the slowest. Momma baked the hen and served it with dressing made of leftover cornbread and biscuits with seasonings. We had store-bought  cranberry sauce. I love cranberry sauce. I even like it just like jelly in a buttered biscuit. We had green beans and Irish potatoes and giblet gravy too. I have always been suspicious of those bits of meat  in giblet gravy.  Iced tea was our beverage of choice. Dessert was chocolate cake. My sister and I got to pull the pully bone, and I got the long piece.  I made a wish for a new bicycle, but that wish never came true.

My biggest surprise of my childhood came right after we got up from the table. My father only did three things for fun. He enjoyed listening to baseball games on the radio.  He also enjoyed listening to the Democratic Political convention on radio.  And, he was an avid bird hunter; that is, a bobwhite quail hunter. Bird hunting season in South Carolina began on Thanksgiving Day. Many times I had seen him put on some old leather leggings, his tan hunting jacket, and that old tan cap before picking up that battered old 12 gauge Winchester shotgun.  He would walk out the door and pull out that old brass US Army Military Police whistle to call the bird dog. I usually followed with my toy gun of choice, which was usually a double barrelled pop-gun. But on that day, Thanksgiving Day in 1952, he did something a bit different. Right after the meal he reached into the warmer over the wood cook stove for a couple of baked sweet potatoes and he handed me one.  The potatoes would be our snack if we got hungry.  I stuffed mine in my pocket and followed him into our parents bedroom. He knelt down beside the bed and reached underneath it, then stood up holding a long thin object wrapped in brown paper. He ripped the paper off and held it in front of me and said, “Your momma is against this, but I think you’re old enough. They were having a sale at Planters Hardware, and I got this for you”. I did not know what to say, as I looked at the blue steel barrel and walnut stock. “It’s a 16 gauge single-shot Iver Johnson,” he said. He quickly added, “Whaddya gotta say?”

“T-t-thank-you, Sir,” I stuttered.

“Owning and using a gun is a big responsibility.  It’s a man’s responsibility! And there are a few rules you got to follow.  If you break these rules for any reason, I’ll take away the gun and you’ll never see it again!  Do you understand?”

“Yes,Sir!”

“Never point the gun at anything you are not going to shoot!”

“Never bring a loaded gun into this house!”

“You got that?”

I said, “Yes sir!” and repeated what he said word for word.

“Let’s go kill some pottages,” he said as he led me out of the bedroom.  On the way out the back door my momma hung her head down and I heard her say, “Y’all do be careful’.

As soon as we were out of the house I went over to the dog house and released Peggy. She jumped up and put her feet on my chest. She licked my face. I pushed her away, and she began running around me in a circle. But that all stopped when she heard the sound of that M.P. whistle.

“When can I shoot my gun?” I asked, as we left the back yard and began to walk into a large field that had once been filled with wheat.  

“You gotta load it first. Here, let me help you,” Daddy said.

I pushed the lever behind the hammer to the right and the breech opened. I retrieved a shot shell from my coat pocket and inserted it into the breech.  The breech snapped closed. I put the gun to my shoulder. It was too big for me, but I knew I would grow a bit in the coming years.

Daddy said, “I’m gonna throw this can up into the air for you to shoot at, okay?”

“Wait, I gotta cock it!”

“Okay, tell me when you’re ready.”

I took the gun from my shoulder and pulled the hammer back with my thumb. It was hard and made a loud metallic click when cocked. As I settled the gun stock back into my shoulder I told Daddy to throw the can.  The can flew into the air and I aimed the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The noise was very loud and the recoil of the shotgun hurt my shoulder.

“That tin can is still safe,” said Daddy.

“I know I’ll hit it next time!” I said anxiously.

“Ain’t gonna be a next time. Shotgun shells cost too much money. You’ll get better.”

I loaded another shell into the gun and told myself I could hit a real bird.

We continued to walk across the big field, with Peggy going in front of us walking in large circles with her nose to the ground. The field was about ten acres with trees on three sides. The hardwoods on the edge of the field were no longer crimson and gold. What leaves were left on the trees were dirty brown. About fifteen yards from the edge of the field Peggy froze in mid step. Daddy put his forefinger to his lips and then motioned for me to come forward. In a matter of seconds the sixteen gauge was cocked and against my shoulder. We three inched forward. Then the sound of a hundred wings broke the stillness of the air. Daddy’s big Winchester barked twice.  And I shot too. Many of the quail flew toward the woods. Some did not. Peggy had her nose to the ground and Daddy was saying, “Dead bird, dead bird!”

Peggy displayed her legendary skills as a retriever by bringing my daddy three bobwhite quail. Daddy yelled, “Single bird!”, and Peggy put her nose back to the ground. Peggy and Daddy found two more birds at the edge of the field. These were added to Daddy’s game bag.

Quail have short wings and can fly fast, but not too far. Sometimes they stay together in a covey, and sometimes they scatter. There was tall brush, grass and briars at the edge of the field. Daddy held hi gun over his head and barged right through. One caveat about following my daddy through the woods was never to follow him closely. The briars and brush he pushed out of his way would spring back and hit you. I got scratched up by some tall briars as we left the field and entered the woods. I bled. I showed Daddy my bloody hand but he just said, “It’s skin.  It’ll grow back.”

The covey of birds in the  field became the only ones we would see that day. Daddy decided that I could not return home empty handed. Maybe I needed to validate his gun purchase. I don’t know and did not question. It seemed we would find no more birds. Rabbits were out of the question. We decided that squirrels were to be my target. But we didn’t see any. Daddy said we were probably making so much noise that the squirrels were in hiding. But Daddy spotted a squirrel nest high in a hickory tree.  “Maybe there’s something in it,” Daddy said and added, “ Blow it outta the tree, Son!”

“Okay,” I said. I found a sweet gum sapling and rested the barrel of my gun on a branch to steady my aim. I cocked the gun, took a deep breath, held the gun snugly to my sore shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. Bang! The nest was gone. It disintegrated into thin air. The smell of exploded gunpowder filled the air.

“Well, I’ll be doggone. There was a squirrel in that nest. You got your first kill, Son!” Daddy said with some kind of bravado.

I gingerly picked up the furry gray animal. The feeling of elation eluded me.

We ate our sweet potatoes and got a drink of cold water from a shallow stream. Peggy drank right beside me.  It was near darkness, twilight,  when we emerged from the woods. Momma would have supper on the table by the time we got home.

I slept well that night. I did most of my hunting in my dreams after that Thanksgiving Day, and never killed a wild animal again.

They Called Him The General

I was hard at work at the signmaker's shop on Edgefield Street when the incident occurred.  The big buck I had painted on the banner only needed a few small touches for completion and it would be perfect. The customer, an exhibitor in a local trade show, would be picking up the banner at noon. I was quite proud of my work on the pictorial. As a frustrated artist I lived for those projects which showed my skill with a brush.  Even through the steam of my breath the deer look great! It was a cold morning and I had  little heat in the sign shop. Although I coated my hands with udder balm my hands still cracked in the cold dry air. The udder balm sometimes made my coffee mug hard to hold on to but I managed most of the time. But this one with “KBHR The Voice of the last Frontier” on it was my last surviving mug. Maybe I should stop drinking coffee I thought...nah!.  A short burst from a police siren brought me back to the reality of the moment.

I walked into my office almost stumbling over the small electric heater inside the door. Actually, the office was the only warm spot in the building during the winter. The cement block walls offered little insulation. Through the dirty window, I don’t have a janitorial service, I saw the flashing light of a green and white.  Greenwood, South Carolina, had green and white police cars. After all,the city fathers called it  “The Emerald City”.

The officer was just getting out of his police car and about to address the lawbreaker. I recognized the would be

criminal immediately. It was the General. I did not know his name. I don’t think I ever heard it. He was just known as the General. You would see him all over town, from Connie Maxwell Children's Home to Kinard’s Animal Hospital. A distance of several miles. His vehicle was an old John Deere lawnmower. He rode it everywhere. I don’t think it even had a blade on it. One of Greenwood’s finest was about to arrest him. The policeman was Malcom Quatlebaum. He was a sergeant now. Malcom had played right tackle on the

Greenwood Emeralds football team the year they won the State Championship. When he graduated from high school they had needed big guys on the police force and Mal fit right in.  That was over twenty-five years ago when he joined the force. The General climbed off his machine and stretched to his full height which was about six inches shorter than his height in his youth. The years had left him stooped. He didn't weigh very much either. The stiff breeze wrapped his trousers around his spindly legs. He had his hands stuck down into the pockets of his green U.S. Army uniform coat. It was from the days when the recruiting slogan was: “You’ll look keen in Army green!”. Atop the general's head was what we called the flying saucer hat.  The visored cap was pulled low over his eyes. He had a thin almost gaunt face with white stubble. The General was standing on unsteady legs and slightly weaving. His instability was not due to the cold or the ninety-four years of walking this earth. No, his instability was due to alcohol. Few words were spoken as Sergeant  Quatlebaum  ushered the General into the back of

the police cruiser. The incident was not without onlookers though. I witnessed the incident which I believe was the first arrest for drunk driving a lawnmower in the City of Greenwood. The guys next door were watching too. The building next door was used as rehearsal space by a local band. They were good people although they might have looked a little rough according to my momma.  I could hear them practicing Tuesday and Wednesday. On Thursday they would load up their van and equipment trailer and be on the road for a few days. They played in SC, NC, and GA. There were five or six of them and there were at least three different bands. Some played in each or all of the bands. There was a beach music band, a jazz band and a country music band. I had painted a banner for the Fabulous Expressions, the beach music band, and wanted to paint one for the other bands as well...but that never happened.  Those guys had witnessed the arrest of the General as well. In a few minutes I saw the band’s van and trailer out front. They were loading the General's lawnmower into their trailer. The band members carried the lawnmower home for the General. And who says long-haired hippy types aren't good people!

It had been an interesting morning. And a good one for me. Don’t know about the General. Maybe he was a danger to himself and others driving in that condition. A good thing was he couldn’t lose his driver's license or his vehicle. My customer came in for the deer banner and was overjoyed. I was happy too when he paid in cash. He’s thinking about a sandblasted redwood sign for the front of his business and asked me to do the preliminary drawings. The guys next door were back from delivering the lawnmower  and “Under the Boardwalk” echoed through the shop.

Yep, it was gonna be a good day!

In Praise of Secondhand Smoke

A view of Barcelona from Montjuic

Sometimes one of the best ways to while away some time is with juice of the roasted bean. So there I was sitting in a little cafe mid morning in downtown Barcelona. I was nursing a cafe con leche, the Spanish equivalent of a latte except that a latte is made with espresso. Actually, cafe con leche is a misnomer. The would be the Spanish term. The correct term is cafe amb llet. The Barcelonians are adamant about not being called a Spaniards.  The desk clerk at our hotel made a joke when he gave us the password for WIFI. He said the password was “12345678” so Spanish men would remember it.  I was enjoying my hot beverage while my significant other, AKA wife, was reconnoitering the area to determine which bus to take to Montjuic.

It was a beautiful day on Placa de Braus Monumental. It seems the sun in Spain is brighter or more brilliant than other places in the world. I gazed over the nine tables on the sidewalk under the canopy. There weren't many people there except me and a couple of young folks too much involved with each other than to notice what was going on around them. I was sitting at the middle table facing the bus stop. It was across the street from the shopping mall that had once been a bullring. It mirrored the one in Madrid except the one in Madrid was still used for its intended purpose.  Two young women entered the cafe and sat at the table next to me. Apparently they were shopping as evidenced their packages. They were well dressed and quite attractive. As a connoisseur of feminine pulchritude I took interest.  The woman next to me was a real beauty and dressed to the nines. Her dark hair was pulled back and tied with a silk scarf. She had dark doe eyes, a straight nose and a smile on her lips that could melt the entire continent of Antarctica.  I was so intent in my observation that I took a sip of my cafe amb llet and burned my tongue. What happened next caught me by surprise. From a rather large leather handbag she retrieved a small container.  It blue enamel with a floral pattern. The size and shape was that of an Altoid tin.  Actually, what really surprised me was when she pulled a book of cigarette rolling papers from her bag. I recognized them easily. Once, when I worked at a convenience store next to a clothing outlet, rolling paper sales would skyrocket every time the store would get a shipment of clothing from Central America.I could make a pretty good guess as to what was in the enamelled tin. The beautifully manicured hands expertly fashioned the marijuana cigarette right before my eyes while she carried on a lively conversation with her friend. She was good, but not quite as fast as my grandpa. He could roll a cigarette of Prince Albert pipe tobacco one-handed. Rolling a joint in broad daylight was illegal. One would think.  I have an inquiring mind and wanted to know. So, I asked Mr. Google what the law in Barcelona said about marijuana. Açcording to Google public smoking of cannabis is illegal. This new knowledge surprised me since I was witnessing the law being broken within three feet of my table! As I sat there befuddled and inhaling the secondhand smoke of what Jim Stafford referred to as the wildwood weed, I suddenly realized the location of the cafe. A dozen feet in front of me a policewoman had apprehended a lawbreaker. But not the young lady in the cafe indulging in recreational drug use. The villain was a cyclist pedaling along the sidewalk. Due to my keen interest in the activities in the sidewalk cafe, I had not realized that the cafe was next to the police station.  Before I had a chance to observe more of local law enforcement, Claudette returned and we were off to Montjuic.

As I settled back in my seat I wondered if I had witnessed a preview of things to come back home in beautiful downtown Charleston.

The 14:15 to Barcelona

We arrived at Gare de Lyon about an hour prior to boarding our train for the Spanish city. It would be our first time traveling by TGV train. I was a bit excited about the possibility of traveling by train at the speed of 200 mph. We found our car, or rather coach, in short order and stowed our backpacks before finding our seats. The seats looked comfortable. Our other two bags went in the overhead area. I kept my tablet out as well as a small plastic bag of food we had purchased. The seats were very reminiscent of airliner seats. They were upholstered in fabric color coordinated with the interior of the coach.  I found myself looking for a seatbelt. Claudette allowed me to chose the window seat.   As I was adjusting my seat I felt the train move. These electric trains accelerate rather quickly, with the low frequency whine rapidly increasing to the frequency of a siren. But, of course, the sound is not very loud.

I watched as Paris soon disappeared, and the rural French landscape appeared.  As the landscape sped by, I sad to Claudette, “The TGV trains are considered very  modern, although their basic design is over 50 years old. They were originally designed to be powered by gas turbine engines, but the high price of oil predicated the change to electric power.”  “That must have been when Jimmy Carter was president and we had those long lines at the gas pumps,” she said.

“The French have made quite a few improvements in the power system over the years. One special

train was built to set a speed record for trains. It had special motors, and the voltage was increased for its record run of 357 mph.”  I knew I was impressing her with my knowledge.

“It will only take  only 6 hours and 15 minutes to reach Barcelona from Paris.” Now she was impressing me with her knowledge.

“You remember  the tour guide at Canterbury told us that in the UK people don’t fly to Europe from the UK any more; they prefer the train.” She nodded in agreement and began reading from her cellphone. Soon, she would be deeply involved in a Jack Noble novel.

In each carriage is a video screen indicating stations along the way as well as the speed of the train. Of course the speed was posted in kilometers per hour, but it was easy to convert. (0.621 times kilometers per hour equals miles per hour) We reached 300 kph which is about 187 mph. I could not help but remember another fast train I had seen, the number 999 steam locomotive in the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry. It was the first land vehicle to reach 100 mph. The TGV trains had more than doubled that speed in about 100 years. A specially modified train reached a top speed of 357 mph.

The ride is quite smooth. The seats, though comfortable, could be a bit wider. I’ve never eaten my lunch while traveling at 180 mph on the ground before. The sandwich and fruit purchased at at Gare de Lyon filled the bill, although food is available on the train. The aircraft style tray is quite handy. Each coach has its own restroom about the same size as that of a Boeing 737 airliner. There is little noise inside the coach except for the passengers. A group of four behind us laughed and talked loudly.  Probably on their way to Barcelona. Their constant chatter was either Spanish or Catalan; I couldn’t determine which. Across from us a man was working on a crossword puzzle. He was probably about forty with fairly close cropped hair showing a few streaks of gray. His suit fit his athletic frame well. The pale blue button down collared shirt he wore was open at his throat. Although he was working on the puzzle he seemed to be aware of everything going on around him.  Could he have been a spy? Or maybe some Jason Bourne type? There are some things best left unknown. The lady next to him was about the same age or maybe younger and looked like she had stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her dark brown hair  was pulled back and tied with a silk scarf at the nape of her neck. She had high cheekbones, a straight nose and thin lips with a perpetual smile. Her eyes were hidden by black rimmed sunglasses.  She was reading The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins. I nudged Claudette and pointing said, “Wasn’t that the book we were listening to from Audible?”

She shrugged and remarked, “Yes, the girl telling the story is an alcoholic.” She returned her eyes abruptly back to her book. She did not like being interrupted.  

We settled in for the journey. About midway we had our lunch. We had bought a sandwich on a baguette with ham, cheese and tomato. Butter for spread, no mayo. Claudette didn’t care for the ham, which was like cured bacon uncooked. Bottled water was our beverage of choice for this meal. I liked the sandwich, although baguettes by nature have a tough, crisp crust.

As we neared Barcelona the train made several stops. The man who looked like a spy was asleep, and the fashion plate was still reading. An elderly woman was playing peekaboo with the two year old in the seat in front of her. Stops were fairly close together so the train could not reach top speed between stops.  We disembarked after grabbing our bags and quickly found a cab. Soon we were at our hotel on the most famous street in Barcelona, La Rambla.