The old hag at the castle gate.

If I had seen her anywhere other than at the door leading into a 16th Century castle, would she have looked quite as strange? Was it the back drop of crenellated battlements that gave her a ghost like quality or would she have unnerved me anyway?

Her hair was long and limp, hanging about her face like a nicotine stained net-curtain. It was so greasy I believed I could smell it, although I was several meters away.

Her hands were gnarled and corrugated with veins. They shook as she lit her cigarette. Her nails were  curled and grey like the fossils known as Devils Toenail.  They had not been cut or filed in many years. She was a female Fu Manchu.

She was sitting on the step, this old woman, her head bowed low to concentrate on setting fag to flame. The day was bright and clear and the spring sun warmed my back and yet she still looked icy cold.

I could not slip by and reach the gate unnoticed and so I said "Hello."

She raised her head and her eyes met mine. They were deep set, and dark as a the corner of a grave. She stared at me, not speaking, and I felt that she could read my mind.

Her back was bowed by age, her skeleton ruined by the sucking in of smoke. Her shoulders were hunched high and round and her head seemed to waver on the end of her neck, like a hungry vulcher seeking carrion.

But it was a face that gave me coldest chills. I could not believe that skin of any age could bear so many lines. Every inch in was marked, like inky letters of an unknown language scratched onto ancient parchment. This was no development of character but a sign of advanced and severe decay.

I toured the tower, seeing her out of the corner of my eye at every turn in stairs and behind each heavy  door.

When I emerged into the light of a dazzling afternoon, the old woman had gone.

(Inspired by a woman I saw at Bolsover Castle, Bolsover Derbyshire, England March 24th 2011

http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/daysout/properties/bolsover-castle/

Truth is stranger than fiction.

Today I heard an interesting story and it was from an unexpected source.

As my facebook friends are probably aware, I am reaching the end of a long remodel. My house has been full of workmen for weeks and weeks and weeks.

Usually a tap on the door of the room in which I hole myself up during the day is a huge source of irritation. I dread hearing, "Have you got a minute?" or "Just a couple of really quick questions for you..."

Today there was the usual knock on the door. The painter apologized first and then was off with the inevitable "Sorry to disturb you but.."

 I was answering his inevitable quick question,  when he stopped me in my tracks and said "I have to say, I just love your accent."

Now this in itself is not unusual. As an English woman in America, it happens to me all the time. But the painter (let's call him Nick) is Russian and generally people who speak English as a second language don't hear the difference between accents in the way that other English speakers do.

To further pique my curiosity he added, "You sound just like my, Uncle."
"Your Uncle is English?" I asked.
"No" he shook his head. "Actually it's an interesting story. Have you got a minute?"

I said I had and so he told me this....

During the second world war his Grandfather was gunned down by a German soldier. His grandmother was left to raise seven children, alone in Belarus. In desperation she had to find ways to house, feed and clothe them. It was a huge dilemma and caused her enormous pain. Some of the children spent time in foster homes. She selected families who lived close by so that she could see the children regularly and take them back when times were not as harsh.

She did the best she could but some were sent away. One of Nick's Uncles was sent to military school in Moscow. He was just five years old at the time.

Being away from his family was tough but he received and excellent education and learned to speak English perfectly, with no hint of an accent. He literally sounded like a native.

As he entered adulthood he was singled out by the KGB.  They wanted to send him to London where he would operate as a spy. He would move in elevated circles, live well and at the USSR's expense. A life of glamour and opportunity beckoned.

However, his mother, (Nick's grandmother), had never recovered from the traumas and losses she suffered as a result of the second world war. She was adamant that he should not become involved in espionage because she believed that it could only stir up trouble between countries and lead to more death and despair. She told her son that if accepted the position,  he would be dead to her.

Nick's uncle chose his mother over his country and refused the position offered by the KGB.

As a result his life would never be his own. Rather than having a profession, he labored in a factory. Whenever he traveled he was interrogated about the reasons for his journey. He was even followed and spied upon at times. The KGB could not believe he had turned down the appointment because his mother had begged him to. They assumed he was working for another government and would not leave him alone.

As Nick talked I was captivated. I no longer felt irritation at having been taken away from my own work. I listened as he told the story in his rich, rolling accent. I waited patiently as he searched for the right words. The ones that would accurately convey his uncles triumphs, frustrations and pain.

 "So" he said, shrugging his shoulders and pursing his lips when he had finished. "That is that."
I was stunned. "Wow" I said, for want of a better word. "You really should write all that down."
He laughed "Everybody say that." he replied.

His uncle is living in Portland now. He moved here to join Nick and his family when they were all given refuge status by the USA after facing persecution in the former USSR - But that's a whole different story.

I never ceased to be amazed at the stories of other peoples lives.

 I will keep in contact with Nick long after the painting is done. I would love to meet his Uncle, the one who sounds just like me, and maybe, just maybe, we could get together and write this stranger than fiction story down.

There's always one.

When my son and I arrived at the airport the day before spring break, we got off to a very smooth start. We had printed or boarding cards at home and the airport was surprisingly quiet.

However, we had barely even joined the line at security before a woman began to spoil things for everybody else. At first she was just being obnoxious. She pushed and shoved at every opportunity she got. She forced her way between me and my son even though we'd been talking to each other and were clearly together. She huffed loudly as she bumped her pull along carry on against my leg and whacked my sons back pack out of her way as she tried to get past him. She'd taken me by surprise and I had stepped back and let her go. But my son is 6ft tall and stubborn. He braced his legs and blocked her path.


"Is your gate about to close?" I asked, in case my son was obstructing the path of a genuinely panicked and short on time passenger.
"What?" she snapped
"What time is your flight?"
"What's it to you?"
I shrugged. "I thought you might be late."
"If you are late", she sneered "you should have left earlier."  I rolled my eyes. Just rude after all. So now as she tried to get past my son and he 'innocently' stepped in front of her each time she shoved, I let him carry on. In fact it was quite fun to watch.

The line snaked closer to the carts loaded with  trays and people began to slip out of their coats and unfasten their belts. A tall man with a long white beard and a turban  reminded everyone to take out their computers and remove their shoes. He repeated instructions like a friendly parrot and kept the line moving at a reasonable pace.

The security area was getting busy, so a new line was opened up. The unpleasant woman used the partial change in direction to force her way in front of my son. He turned to say something to her. I touched his arm, "Just let her go."

Suddenly the grumpy woman called 'Hey! You!" The turbaned officer looked up and she then began shouting questions regarding cell phones and cameras. She wanted to know if the machines were safe. The man assured her that they would cause absolutely no damage, but she still insisted she wanted to carry her items through.

"If you know I've got them, how can it make any difference?" she retorted when the officer told her that she was not allowed to do that. "Do I look like I'm carrying a bomb?"

The line behind her began to quiver with a mixture of impatience and interest. These days making a scene going through airport security does not just cause a few raised eyebrows and provoke a chorus of sighs and 'tuts'. It can lead to a full on event.  Was this middle aged woman in a frumpy brown skirt and shapeless sweater about to try something on? We watched as her drama unfolded.

I am sure we all have stories related to incidents involving people who refuse to shuffle along and obey the rules; most of us are prepared to remove clothes, open bags and let strangers pat us down because, in spite of the frustrations, the alternative inconveniences us all. "She's lucky" I whispered to my son "that this is Portland. In Washington or Frankfurt she'd already be pinned to the ground."

The woman was loud and unpleasant. The security guards were patient but firm. I found myself thinking uncharitable thoughts, hoping someone would twist her arm into a half nelson and march her away. The other half of me just hoped that she would put her camera and phone in the tray and get a move on. I wasn't in a hurry but my feet were cold and my jeans were loose. I wanted to reassemble myself and go and get something to eat.

"Do you remember that time in Schipol?" my son whispered.
"Funny." I said "I was just thinking about that."

Once, when traveling back from Europe my children and I were flying through Amsterdam.  As we approached the scanners, sirens sounded and all the people in uniform started shouting to us all to 'Freeze!"

This was unusual so we all instantly obeyed.  The security area looked like a game of Musical Statues. Everyone fell completely silent and remained ridiculously still. People stood with arms out stretched about to retrieve bags, or stayed stooped caught in time as they bent to pull off a shoe. Even young children, sensing that this was not a joke, clamped their little mouths shut and stood like shop mannequins at their rigid parents sides.

The sirens kept blaring and the staff kept shouting "Stay still. Don't move. Stay still. Don't move." Then, just as I was beginning to wonder if we were being filmed for a Candid camera style show, police, wearing helmets and body armor and wielding some very large guns, surged into the area. They stormed the barriers shouting instructions to each other as they ran. I wondered what would happen if I jumped up and down or waved my arms. I wondered, but didn't try it. This was clearly a serious thing.

After a few moments the sound of their shouts and running feet faded completely away. The machines hummed back into life. Bags trundled along on the rollers and disappeared through the rubber flaps.  People strode purposefully through the metal detectors to collect the bags on the other side. No one asked or explained what "all that" had been about. It was just one of those things.

We were not, as it happens, about to be entertained by another big security event. The guards were polite but firm. The woman gave in and flung her electronic items into a tray along with her coat.

But as my son and I sat on the metal benches to put on and retie our shoes, we glanced sideways at each other and smiled.

Grumpy old cow had been singled our for a bag search. She complained loudly as a woman ran a pair of tweezers holding what looked like a wet wipe (what ARE those things?) around every zip, pocket and seam. As we got up to leave, the officer was just beginning to empty the contents of her carry on onto the table. We could still hear her whining as we made our way to our gate.

Shades of grey.

I was in another supermarket, in line behind a woman dressed in turquoise shorts, yellow leather ballet flats and a T-shirt, so dazzlingly white that it had to be brand new. Her necklace was also turquoise; large round stones lying smooth against her dark and slightly peeling skin.

 She stood out from the crowd like an exotic bird in amongst a mass of crows. The steely grey sky had settled low this morning and was leaking heavy drops of rain. The rest of us were wearing coats and boots or shoes, not yet ready to shed our winter camouflage or show the world some skin.

"My body's in shock." She told the cashier. "I've just come back from Hawaii and I can't get over the all this rain. And the sky it's just so grey."

The cashier ran an item over the scanner.

"In Hawaii, where I just was, the sky was bright blue. This is so depressing."


The cashier made a sympathetic but disinterested noise.

"Where are you from?" asked the girl who was packing the groceries.

"Oh I'm from the Portland area." The woman said, rubbing her bare arms. "Lake Oswego originally."

"And you're surprised? That it's raining? In March?" The girl loaded bread and milk into a bag. She sounded innocent enough.

The cashier focused her attention on the contents of my cart. "In shock." she muttered as the chilly woman left. "She ought to have known better." Her line of customers agreed.

"I had a lady in the other day,"said the bag packing girl, joining in.  "She was lovely. She really made me think. Someone else was complaining about the weather and she just said. "I think grey can be quiet soothing."

We all thought about this for a while and I peered out through the window watching the puddles vibrating with each and every splash of rain. People dashed about, heads down, running for the safety of their cars or the awning stretched out above the store.

"She said it was a kind of back drop to everything else." The girl continued. "I guess that's one way of looking at it."

As I drove home, I thought about this. Anything that makes the grey seem less oppressive has to be worth a try.

The more I thought, the more I wondered. Is grey an overly maligned color, too often referred to in derogatory terms?  Grey so often equals drab, dreary, somber or. It describes battle ships, the barrel of a gun, flinty blades and unhealthy skin.

But grey is also the color of rocks that line a beautiful sea shore or the smoke that rises from a warm and welcoming fire. Doves are grey, and so is the graphite running through the center of a newly sharpened pencil. Grey it isn't all bad.

The trees looked different now I saw them against a restful backdrop instead of overshadowed by a glowering sky. The evergreen branches looked so rich I could almost smell them and the patterns in the dark bark of the trunks stood out so clearly, I could feel the roughness of the wood against my fingers tips and across the palms of my hands.

I wonder who the lady was, the one who had referred to grey as 'soothing' and has given me a new perspective. I would thank her if I met her and I will remember her words and use them as a panacea against another rainy day.

And now, do I long really need to see a blue sky that stays around for more than just a single day.............?



Are you kidding?    BRING IT ON.

Unimaginable Pain.

I thought I already knew what I would be writing about today but my original subject matter required a frivolous and flippant tone and I cannot bring myself to write like that in light of everything that has happened during the last thirty plus hours.

The earthquake and resulting tsunami in Japan have captured the worlds attention. I know I am not alone when I find that regardless of what I am doing, my thoughts are constantly turned towards that island in the pacific and the people who live there.

As I write this on Saturday morning, CNN is playing on the TV and I feel numb. It is as if my mind won't allow me to think too deeply, a form of self protection perhaps. I feel sympathy and will be reaching for my credit card to help in some small way, but I simply cannot wrap my head around the enormity of the situation.

On the afternoon of the earthquake, several people I know were working over in Tokyo. Through the marvels of technology, and in spite of the major system breakdowns, messages were posted on facebook,  texts were received and sent.

By evening of day one, the people I know all accounted for. However, a good friend of my husband is still trying to make contact with family and friends who live near to Sendai. With 9,500 people reported missing in the region, we can only hope he has some good news soon.

Yesterday was an inservice day for students in the Beaverton school district so, like many parents, I watched the news unfolding with my son. We sat in silence, full or horror and awe.  We could not believe what we were seeing, as the tidal wave swept across the countryside, poured across poly-tunnels and roadways, gathered up lorries and cars and crushed buildings, creating a bizarre and evil soup of mud and metal and wood.

 I can still barely allow myself to think about the people - the fathers mothers and children -who were inevitably mixed into that heaving broth.  Even thought the image has been replayed many times, the visual impact is no less.

As is often the case, it took one story, one shot captured by reporters on the ground, that will stay with me forever. It is not graphic and not so very different from many posted across the world wide web.

A father and son, surveying the scene. They appear to be standing absolutely still. In shock one can only suppose. Are they looking at a pile of debris that was once their home? Or are they simply trying to get their bearings in a neighborhood that they could once walk through without thinking, and is now as unfamiliar as a landscape on the moon? The boy is clinging to the man and I can't help think that in a world that has literally been shaken to the core, is his father now the only thing he can rely upon to stand steady and firm.


Looking at the photograph I cannot help but wonder about the woman; the wife and mother missing from the scene. I can only hope that she is safe, as we  all hope that other mothers and wives are safe.

The fact that the picture is taken from a distance is poignant. It suggests that the photographer can see and feel their grief and respectfully stands far away.

 The disaster is on a scale larger than most people could ever comprehend, but the tragic consequences will affect people deeply and personally, creating many tiny pockets of unimaginable pain.

Words can't describe the magnitude of the event and we are all left feeling helpless. The footage of the churning water left me speechless but this photograph touched a chord and brought real tears to my eyes.

The sweet old dangerous driver.

There seems to be a theme this week. Another elderly lady in a car park caught my eye.

 I was outside a local store (not the one with the peculiar smell), wandering between the pots of pansies and summer bulbs lined up in the covered area.

A grey Toyota Corolla pulled into a spot close by. Something told me it wasn't going to stop in time and I was right. The worn front tires jolted against the curb then breached the side of the path. The whole vehicle rose up, paused for a moment, like a swing curving upwards through the air, then dropped back into place.

I expected to hear the growling engine to go quiet. The woman inside must surely have realized that she was as far into the space as she could go? But this did not seem to be the case. In fact the driver pressed her foot against the accelerator and the car mounted the sidewalk once more.  People glanced over, looking nervous. A woman with a child stepped back.

But this time when the car came to a halt the engine was turned off. Although two wheels where still in the parking spot and two butted up against a pallet piled high with bags of compost, the owner seemed happy with her parking.

An employee of the store stepped forward. "Er..." he began as the elderly woman pushed the drivers door open wide. She applied more force than was necessary and we all heard the door hitting the side of the vehicle in the next bay. Fortunately the nonchalant driver had she'd clipped a monstrous SUV and had made contact with a mudflap the size of an elephants' ear. If any damage had been incurred it would be to the Corolla.

The lady slowly emerged. Her hair was white as duck down. It floated above her head as if pulled and teased by static.  She was short, dumpy and rosy cheeked. I could picture her baking apple pies.
Steadying herself against the door frame of the car, she reached inside and grabbed a stick. She leant heavily on the cane, trembling with the effort, as she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and straightened her curved back.

The next task was to close the door.  She placed her hand flat against the window and pushed hard.

The door slammed into place but bounced open again. She tried again, applying even even greater force. But the same thing happened. The second time we heard a crunching sound. The sound of metal being squeezed by metal. The old woman was oblivious. She got set to slam the door again.

The employee, who had been watching, leapt forward.

"It's the seat belt," he explained. "It's hanging out the door. The buckle's getting caught."

The cloudy haired lady frowned and flung the seat belt inside. She closed the door, and began to walk away.

"Did you lock it?"

"Oh!" The lady paused mid step. After rummaging through her bag she said she thought perhaps the keys were still inside. The helpful young man re-opened the door. He reached towards the ignition and removed the keys. He then locked the car and handed the fob to its owner.

The pint-sized woman smiled and shuffled off. As she made her way between tables loaded with spring annuals, she caught her bag against a tray of pansies and knocked them to the floor.

The store employee sighed and bent to pick them up. He caught my eye and said, "When is old, too old to do you think?"

I thought about this as the little old lady stood pondering how to enter the store through the door marked 'exit'.

"That car's probably her life line." I said, watching her searching for buttons to press and stamping on the mat -  in the hope of triggering a sensor I supposed.

"I know," The man agreed "But it could also be a death trap."

The exit doors slid open as a couple with a loaded cart came out. Our  lady swung her stick, walked into the store and disappeared.

The young man shook his head and straightened the last of the pansies. "I just hope she takes care." he sighed.

I agreed and carried on my way.

But it left me wondering.  When does 'just old' become too old? And on what criteria must we all decide?

Someones' Grandma.

       I was in a super market this afternoon. It's one I rarely visit. I don't like its lay out and it has a funny smell. The one upside is that it is an outlet for TicketsWest so sometimes I still go in.

     When I do brave the strange aroma and the disappointing range of veg,  I find myself scanning the faces and profiles of the other shoppers. I am searching for one woman in particular. I don't know her name, we only met the once, but I am on the look out all the time.

      About two years ago I was cruising the aisles in the afore mentioned store. It had just been updated and I was hoping to be impressed. Nothing had changed. The produce was still poor quality, the range of   products limited and the smell, if anything,  seemed to be worse.

      I wandered around, leaning wearily on the handle of the shopping cart, looking for things I knew I wouldn't find. In the canned goods aisle I felt a tugging at my coat. I turned, expecting to see a small child who'd mistaken me for its mother, or to discover that my jacket had snagged on a passing basket or shelf. Instead I saw a tiny old woman. She smiled and bowed 'hello'.

        I wasn't sure of the correct etiquette. She was clearly Japanese, but I was English. Should I bow back, and if so, how low? While I was still pondering the question she tugged at my sleeve and pointed to a place above my head. I turned and followed the line of her extended finger. Apparently she wanted me to help her pick up something that was beyond her reach.

       This happens to me all the time. I'm not excessively tall, but I'm above average height. And, unless I'm on an aeroplane,  I tend to make eye contact with strangers and this seems to make me easy to approach.

     I lifted up my arm and rested my hand on a random tin. "This?" I asked. "Or this?" I continued touching items on the shelf she pointed to until, at last, she nodded and her mouth gaped into a smile.

     I handed her the item. There was much bowing and nodding but as I set my shopping trolley into motion, she hung on to my sleeve and pointed down the aisle. She clearly had more shopping to take care of.

     I followed her round the shop for another quarter of an hour. The tip of her conical bamboo hat barely reached my shoulder and her worn, cotton espadrilles made no sound on the linoleum floor. She was swift and efficient. She knew exactly where to go and what she wanted. Her cart was soon full. Mine, on the other hand was empty, so when she indicated with a decisive nod of the head that she was done, I smiled, waved goodbye and hurried off.

     I knew I wasn't going to do my 'big shop' that day, but the store is not so bad that I couldn't stock up on basics like eggs and milk and flour. When I reached the  cash registers, the diminutive shopper had gone.

     I went through the check out, (remembering that another reason I hate this place is that they still offer plastic bags) and set off outside to my car. I dumped the single bag of shopping on the back seat and closed the door. As I stepped back I tripped against something  low and small. I turned round and there she was. She'd popped up out of nowhere, like a leprechaun or gnome.

      The miniature lady  pointed at her chest, then at her shopping and my car. I cocked my head on one side. I thought I knew what she meant, but I needed to be sure.

      She pointed at me again, then mimed gripping a steering wheel and driving. She pointed at the bags of shopping in her heavily loaded cart and mimed staggering under the weight.  I involuntarily glanced at my watch. This expedition had already taken twice as long as it should have done and I had other things to do. She saw that I was having doubts and held her hands out in front of her, palms inwards, just a few inches apart, indicating something short or small. The distance to her home, I guessed.
 "O.K." I said. "Get in."

     Of course, I couldn't day 'no'. This fragile woman, who spoke no English and looked as if she had only recently stepped off the boat, was unlikely to produce an axe or gun. But besides that, stirred something had stirred within me, and I knew just what it was.....

      My grandmother lived until she was ninety seven and she only gave up cycling a few years before that. The roads around the house she had lived in for over seventy years (yes, seventy years, really) grew busy towards the end of her life. She had a few near misses and, I seem to remember, a fall.

      There were two ways into town from where she lived. One took her along main roads and the notoriously busy and narrow Stone Bridge. The second was picturesque and ran along side one of the prettiest embankments in the world. The path by the river was, understandably, the one that she preferred.

      Even so, in spite of the graceful swans gliding by on the fast waters and the flower beds full of colour almost all year round, there was a downside to this route. She had to get over Bedford's landmark suspension bridge and although it wasn't particularly high or very wide, it involved a considerable number of steps.

     Grandma's bike was old and heavy, she was also old and no longer very strong. To get over the bridge she had to ask for assistance. And this is what I thought of when the tiny Asian woman pointed at me, herself and my car.

     The teenagers my grandma asked for help where the sort other people steered away from altogether. In fact my grandfather (who died several years before she did), used to complain about them al the time. He was wary of the glowering youths who gathered on the bridge. He didn't trust them - what with all their chains and leather jackets, their safety pins and ripped up jeans. He eyed them cautiously and suspected they were up to no good.  

     My grandfather warned my grandma to avoid their type entirely. He assumed that one of day soon they would run off with her bike. It was hard to imagine what a group of punk rockers could possibly want with a cast iron, sit up and beg, nineteen forties ladies bicycle, but my grandfather wouldn't have put anything past them.

    My rosy cheeked, white haired grandmother, on the other hand, walked right up to them, smiled sweetly and asked if they might lend a hand. She maintained that if she was polite and kind to them, they would act the same way towards her. It turned out she was right. She never had any trouble from them and they always helped her up the steps and to the other side.

     I thought about all this as my trusting and grateful passenger pointed left and right. She really did live  close by but it would have been a long and difficult journey for a small, elderly woman carrying a heavy load.

When we said goodbye she spent many minutes expressing her gratitude. Her words were in a language I had no knowledge of but the message in her eyes was articulate and easy to understand. I assured her that it had been my pleasure.It was the least that i could do. She was probably someones' grandma, so how could I ever have refused?

Bedford Suspension Bridge. Not huge but difficult to cross if you are an octogenarian carrying a cumbersome bike.

The Stone Bridge back in 1916 (when my grandma was six). It wasn't such a bad bridge to cycle over all the way back then....