Sis July 28th, 1947-March 6th, 2020

"A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost." ~ Marion C. Garretty

   My big sister, Susan Louise Anderson Muntean,  died March 6th. She was a decade older than me, born in 1947 in Williston, North Dakota. We shared the same mom but different fathers. Sis was fine boned and small in body with a blazing spirit, an enormous sense of humor, and a HUGE temper. One did not ever want to get on her bad side because Sis cast a long shadow for a tiny woman.
   These are some of the things I remember about my sister:
I recall our mom saying once, "Susie was the prettiest little girl. Blond hair, big blue eyes, and a sunny smile. She knew it too. She thought she could charm the birds out of the trees." My sister was a classically beautiful blonde, petite with long hair--never shorter than shoulder length--nice legs, and a lovely figure. Men flocked to Sis like bees to honey.

Sis aged 10 with me, 1957.

   With the ten year age difference, my memories are mostly those of a pesky little sister. I remember when I was about four years old, I was fascinated by my sisters' jewelry, perfume, scarves, and lacy slips. There were three of us, with Sharon being four years older than Sis and fourteen years older than me. We had to share a bedroom and whenever I was put to bed for the night and my sisters were out on a date or visiting a friend, I would go through their jewelry boxes, try one their slips, drape their scarves around my neck and spray myself with their perfume--and fall asleep with all the evidence on! I look back now and wonder how on earth they put up with me.
   I turned four in 1961 and it was about that time when skin tight jeans and long, straight hair was all the rage. Sis had a summer job and she bought herself several pairs of new Levis which were nearly too small for her. She managed to work herself into them by lying down on the bed, sucking in her stomach until it nearly touched her back bone, and doing up the buttons. Then she filled the bathtub with steaming hot water, laid down in it with her new Levi's on, and let them soak until they shrunk right to her body. She got out and wore them until they dried. It was a little sister-big sister conspiracy. She bribed me with Tootsie Roll pops not to tell mom, who would've been pissed.

Sis about age fourteen.

   I remember Mom saving the large cardboard cans that frozen orange juice concentrate came in so Susan could roll her hair on them and have board-straight locks. She looked so goofy walking around the house in her chenille bathrobe and fluffy pink slippers with ginormous orange juice cans bobby-pinned to her head!
   Sis hated doing chores. She ran the sink full of scalding hot water, then sat in the living room with a Photplay magazine reading about the stars while the water cooled off. Hours later the water was cold, the dishes were still dirty, and Sis was in trouble. Susan also took turns with our older sister in babysitting me--another chore she didn't like. For awhile on her nights (our mom worked nights cleaning airplanes out at Anchorage Airport, when it was a simple Quonset hut), Susan would either get her date to pay or she would use some of her own money and take me to a place called The Kitty Drop. It was about five blocks from where we lived and it was a place working parents left their kids. I remember it was dark and full of cribs. I was put into a crib and left there to cry myself to sleep until Sis came back for me. When mom found out what was going on, Sis got into deep trouble. From then on when it was her turn to babysit, Susan would take me with her on her nights out, clearly not telling Mom what she was doing. I remember going to a teenage dance place called the Cinnamon Cinder. It was just a dingy hall with folding chairs around the walls and bands playing music. The alcohol-free dance club for teenagers opened in 1962. Owned by KRLA disc jockey Bob Eubanks, the club spawned a TV show, a national chain of teen clubs and a hit record by the same name as the club. A year or so later after Sis got her driving license and Mom managed to buy her an old 1950 brown, cloth-top convertible, Sis would make me up a bed on the back seat with my pillow and a blanket, and we would cruise downtown. I remember the traffic lights changing color, and Sis playing music on the Radio: Sugar Shack by Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs, The Beach Boys singing Surfin' USA, Blue Velvet and Blue on Blue crooned by Bobby Vinton, My Boyfriend's Back by The Angels, Peter Paul & Mary singing Puff the Magic Dragon and Blowin' in the Wind, The Four Seasons demanding in harmony that we "Walk Like a Man, Walk Right In by the Rooftop Singers, Sam Cook telling us all about Havin' a Party, Be My Baby crooned the Ronettes, and Nat King Cole singing Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer.
   I recall too when KENI radio broadcast from the roof of the Bun Drive-in on Northern Lights Blvd. The Varsity Show with Ron Moore as host was all the rage with Anchorage teens. Sis used to plunk me down on a red leather spinning stool inside the Bun at the curved Formica counter, order me a small burger, fries and a Pepsi, and tell me to stay there until she came back. Susan would disappear up the stairs to the roof and dance to the  music. I remember sneaking up and watching her do the Mashed Potato, The Cross Fire and The Pony. Sis was the best dancer there and the prettiest too and the music was fab: The Loco-Motion by Little Eva, Do The Mashed Potatoes by The Fabulous Echoes, and Bony Maroni by Larry Williams. Sis introduced me to Rick and Roll when it was all the new rage. I recall waking up on Halloween morning in 1962 to the radio playing on the bedside table between our beds. As we lie there in the October dark a funny new song debuted: The Monster Mash. We listened fascinated, laughing together at the lyrics. We used to walk everywhere throughout Spenard which was originally a 160 acre homestead of a  man name Joe Spenard. Our tiny home was located 2.3 miles south of the city of Anchorage. Across the street from where we lived was a wall of solid forest that ran seven miles east to the foothills of the Chugach mountains and eleven miles north from Merrill Field air strip, South to Rabbit Creek Road. We used to walk up to the new Caribou Ward's department store on the corner of Spenard Road and Northern Lights Boulevard. Next door was a Woolworth's and it had a cafe inside. A couple times a month either mom or Sis would walk with me to Woolworth's and I would get a cup of Campbell's vegetable soup  and an orange sherbet ice cream cone. I was about two or three at the time. 

Map of Anchorage, Alaska. The yellow highlighted area is Joe Spenard's original homestead site. The turquoise line encompasses everything that was forest when we were children. I not talking about lightly wooded areas but thick forest that stretched seven miles from our home on the corner of 36th Ave, and Arctic Blvd.  and the foothills of the Chugach mountain directly east, and elven miles north form Merrill Field air strip south to Rabbit Creek Road. The light green square under Dimond Blvd, is where the Hideaway Club is located. It was the ONLY thing located on this road when we were kids. The small bright blue dot on 35th Ave where the yellow highlight meets the turquoise line is where we lived. The two large green boxes on the far right are the forested acres where the girl and boy scout camps were located--way out of town!

  One time Sis made Mom so angry she was put on restriction; for three months Susan could not go anywhere, see anyone, or leave the house. She had to do her chores to Mom's satisfaction, babysit me...and work on patience. One morning two months into her sentence, Sis decided she would super clean the kitchen as a last ditch effort to get a reduced sentence. When Mom walked in the door after work, she looked around at the sparkling kitchen and spotless floor as she hung up her coat. When she turned around Sis popped out of the hallway, bent from the waist, head turned cockeyed, hair streaming down and arms hanging loose. She said in a kind of odd, zombie like voice: "Maaaooottthhher, pleeeeeze will you let me out of the house now?" as she swung her arms and shambled sideways towards our mother who, taken by complete surprise, burst out laughing--the one and only time I ever remember hearing our mother laugh until I was nineteen years old. It worked and Sis was sprung from house arrest.
   I recall spying on Sis and her boyfriend Tom when he brought her home from dates and they stood kissing on the porch and how utterly heartbroken Susan was when Tom was drafted and left for Viet Nam. She pledged to wait for him, but it was far better to be gone from our house than caught in it when Mom and our step-father Bill were drinking and fighting, which could be any and all nights of the week and all day on a weekend, and Sis was soon caught up in Spenard night life. I didn't realize until I was a young woman myself, that Sis was fair game for beatings along with our Mom, but not me. For some reason we will never know, Bill wouldn't beat a child. He might grab you up by your ankle, peel off his thin leather belt and whip you all over until you were crying so hard you stuttered for hours afterward, but he saved his fists and steel toed boots for women, which was any female in his house that bled every month.
   As soon as Susan could drive she was gone most of the time. Occasionally when our parents had friends over for a party, Sis would stay and have a beer with them until things got out of hand; then she slipped quietly out the door and was gone, my eyes following, wishing I could go with her instead of being left behind in hell.
   I know some of the things that happened to my lovely sister out late at night roaming the streets of Anchorage at age fourteen, fifteen and sixteen, when she should have been home in bed asleep, had  our home been a happy, loving place. I won't divulge those stories because they are hers--not mine--but I do know they are not pretty. Alaska has always attracted male predators and the ratio has always been eight men to every woman in Anchorage. I recall having to walk the gauntlet of perverts trolling low and slow in their cars, fondling their tackle in anticipation during the endless sunny days of summer when all the neighborhood kids walked a mile and a half to go swimming at Lake Spenard. I remember Sis telling me, "No matter what, you never ever go up to their cars when they call you. Do you understand me?" She would give my skinny little body a good shake to underscore the importance of her words.

Cousin Joanne with Mom, 1970's.

   Sis looked after me in her fashion.
   I recall listening to Susan and our cousin Joanne Plimpton Reinnikka reminiscing over coffee one afternoon when we were all old enough to have children of our own. Joanne and Sis were thick as thieves, very close but they didn't see each other often because Joanne lived way across town from us. To know Cousin Joanne was to love her. She had sparkling brown eyes, dark hair, and a ten-thousand watt smile, and when Jojo laughed the world came along for the ride. Sis said, "Joanne do you recall that winter evening when we put Jackie on your sled and we were pulling her down the street behind us as we chattered like magpies? We had stayed out sledding too long and it was getting dark."
   "Oh Susan, I remember thinking the sled felt awfully light to pull and we turned around laughing and there was Jackie all bundled up in her baby suit half a block back in the middle of street waving her arms and legs in the snow! We were so lucky no cars had come along. God was really watching over us."
   "Oh Joanne--when I think of it now my heart goes to my throat, but we were just silly little girls out playing in the snow, laughing and having fun. We didn't realize how dangerous things were at that moment."

Sis and me, aged 27 and 17, 1975.

   Sis was the one I went to for information on birth control, sex, and dealing with life in general. She was my confidant with whom I shared all my firsts, and she opened her home and made a bed on her couch for me more times than I can count when life in the continual front line of household terrorism became too much for me to cope with.
   Susan married when I was twelve and she gave birth to my niece Brandy the day after my 13th birthday. I was mesmerized by "our" baby and I loved babysitting for Sis. She is my favorite niece and I loved spending time with her and her mom. Sis trained as my childbirth coach for my first pregnancy.
   As the years passed our lives grew apart, but we still managed to make some fabulous, funny memories--ones that I alone am left to remember now. I am so glad I visited Sis last May. We hadn't seen each other for twenty five years--not since our Mom's memorial service. Sis led a hard life due to alcoholism and prescription drug addiction. There were so many things in her childhood if one can even call it that--which left deep trauma in her soul; so many demons chasing her through the snow.
  When I was four, we lived on Doorbrandt Street in a wonky little gray house. I loved it because for the first time I could recollect our Mom seemed happy. She would sing as she put groceries away: "Today is the day they give babies away with a half a pound of cheese--absolutely free-a half a pound of cheese!" Mom baked on her days off and she and Bill were still in the new stage of their relationship, not married but co-habitating. Mom had managed to divorce my alcoholic father and I think she believed then, that her life had a slim chance of being happy. Bill decided one late winter weekend that we were going winter camping. I don't remember any other details about that weekend which is strange for me, because I am our family's collective memory and I have memories that stretch back to when I was six months old according to my Mom. What I do remember is that Sis didn't want to go camping with us. At fourteen she would rather stay home where it was warm, and watch TV. Bill talked Mom into letting Susan stay on her own. I remember Mom turning on the porch light and how it created illuminated pools of warm yellow light across the shadowed snow berms and black night. I can close my eyes and hear Mom telling Sis to be sure and lock the door behind her, while she grabbed my arm because there was a huge chunk of ice built up on the threshold to the door. Then we turned, got in the VW bug and drove away.
   Mom and Sis thought the door was shut tight and locked but the ice on the threshold was just enough to keep the door from locking. Susan fell asleep on the couch in her cotton nightgown. She woke in the dark with a man's hands around her throat, choking her. He had women's stocking pulled over his head, distorting his features. Susan fought for her life, managed to break the man's hold, jump over the back of the couch and was out the door in a heartbeat, running barefoot down Doorbrandt street at 3:00 AM in minus 10 degree weather, looking for a house with a porch light on, looking behind her to see if the man was chasing her. She pounded on doors until someone woke and answered.  We moved out of the little grey house shortly afterward, to the house on McKinley Ave. where life grew bitter and angry; a twisted seed watered with alcohol and violence, punctuated with knives and guns, our Mom calling for help whenever Bill beat her.
   Sis had never had any form of counseling for the terrible trauma she survived. Back in 1961 no one even heard of mental health or trauma counseling or knew that such events could cause PTSD. Sis always maintained that her attacker was someone she knew. She couldn't see his face but she knew his voice. He was never found and Susan spent a lifetime living in Anchorage, fearing he would return. She could never again bear to be alone at night and she began drinking to shut down her fear.
   I also knew Sis had never talked with anyone about how horrible our childhood was. People back then simply didn't discuss such things, and certainly not when the abuser threatened to make sure you wouldn't wake up in the morning if you told anyone what went on in our house. So part of my visit last summer was to bring up our childhood and open Pandora's box. I wanted to give my sister the gift of acknowledgement: recognition of the facts as we remembered them individually and together, and permission to speak about those terrible things, to weep, get angry, and be sad and let it out. Susan carried that awful burden from age five to age seventy two and I wanted to find some way to help her lighten the burden.
   It was good, our visit. We did all of the above, revisiting some of our favorite memories together too. We were so lucky to live in Spenard when we did--before "civilization" arrived, cut down the forests, paved everything over, Anchorage swallowed up Spenard, and flat-landers from the lower forty eight states moved up in the many thousands to escape their suburban nightmares and turned Anchorage into the same soulless urban landscape they left behind.
   We both love Led Zeppelin and we put on their music and danced, two old ladies feeling the weight of decades falling away, young and beautiful again for the length of a song. We also made new memories with plans for a few more. We went shopping together and I introduced her to Lush. We played Gin Rummy in the evenings, while listening to a host of good rock and roll which I made for her from my computer music library.  I met her best friend Kim and her husband. We all had dinner together, reminiscing about having moms who were school lunch ladies, and the Good Friday Quake in 1964, and growing up in Spenard. Susan and I went for walks and talked about a world of ideas, laughing like crazy, sarcastic old women do when they have seen it all. I am so grateful to have countless wonderful memories of Sis that make me smile through my tears. I've never laughed harder in my life than with Sis and Les. I carry them both in my heart.
   Susan was going to come down to Gresham in June to visit for a few weeks. I called her a week before she died and we talked for over an hour, singing The Witch Doctor song to each other and laughing like giddy girls; "Ooh-eee-ooh-ah-ah-ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang!" We were planning to visit the ocean together. We wanted to rent a yurt and camp out with my daughter Sparky,  my daughter-in-law Kelli, and my foster daughter Mary. We planned to smoke a bowl, eat some good grub, do a bit of hiking, lots of laughing, and enjoy the seashore...but it was not to be. I only hope Sis' death was quick, painless, and her spirit has risen with joy to find a place far better than we knew in this world.

My Achy-Breaky Heart

"What you leave behind is not what is engraved on stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others." ~Pericles, Greek statesman, orator and General, 495-429 BCE

     It has been ten months since I stepped off the bow of NB Valerie for the final time. It has been nine months since I returned to the Washington State, USA. There are some things that make attempting to forge a new life easier in my birth country. I know the systems here and how they work. I have an innate grasp of American English and I can wield it well. Yet this homecoming is bittersweet for so many reasons not the least of which I didn't want to come back; I felt I had run out of options in England and this was my final choice. In the eight years I was gone over the Pond, I am not the only thing that changed. As my life was spooling out with Les on the canals of Britain, the lives of my friends and family in America have as well, with some coming to their inevitable end.

     It is typical at age sixty-one that those around me are beginning to die. We know intellectually this is the case, but it is another thing all together to experience those losses one upon another with one's heart. Upon my return in late January I was facing the memorial service of Jim Barron, the husband of my dear friend Karen--she whom I met at Hospice volunteer training and who introduced me to Kamiak Butte where Les and I were married and where I scattered his ashes. We would have had a very different wedding without Karen kicking me in the butt metaphorically. I was swanning about all "moons and Junes," my head away across the world with Les on the boat and my heart there too. Karen brought me back to earth to face the necessary details required to plan a wedding. Jim was like Les--solid, kind, smart, funny, and he too knew how to love. In better times Karen and Jim were involved in square dancing with all the accouterments: the fluffy skirts and petticoats for her and bolo ties for Jim. He had many, many dozens of them, most made by Karen. At his service Karen displayed all Jim's ties and invited everyone to choose one to take in remembrance of him. It was a brilliant idea.
     I was notified two weeks later that a former coworker of mine also died suddenly. While we worked together every day for six years we were not close. The former receptionist was her best mate and no one would ever fill her shoes--not that I tried. I had my own way of doing things and I was quite successful in that position. Nevertheless I had to endure my co-worker's daily tirades, mean digs, impatient rants, and deliberate nastiness while letting it flow off my shoulders like water off a duck's back. The only thing that offered me any small comfort at all was the knowledge that she was an equal opportunity abuser, treating volunteers and staff with comparable disdain. Whenever she would approach my desk with her shark tooth smile I would smile back while picturing her head exploding all over the lobby. Nevertheless I didn't wish her any ill will and I would certainly never have wished her the death sentence of advanced metastasized cancer that was a part of her demise. I could have gone to her memorial service as a mark of respect but opted out. There was precious little respect between us in life and I have never been able to put lipstick on a pig and call it Marilyn Monroe. Still her death marked another milestone for me, the passing of an era as I remembered some of the better memories surrounded by creative, articulate, and very funny people who seem to be drawn to public radio.
     On February 19th I was notified that our dear Canadian friend Bryce Lee had died of complications from the cancer and Lupus he fought valiantly for a decade. Many of you who follow this blog will remember seeing Bryce's comments. He adored steam trains, canals and locks, boats of all kinds, photography, ham radio, motorcycles and men in leather. A giant bear of a man at six feet eight inches tall and 300 plus pounds, Bryce had fingers in all kinds of pies. He was a living example of Dorothy Parker's maxim, "Curiosity is the cure for boredom. There is no cure for curiosity." He was a major supporter of the Tallylyn Welsh steam train line among many other groups and individuals he underwrote with his time, talent, and finances. A gentle giant, I called Bryce Cousin Kindheart once I knew he was gay. As someone with roots deep in the LGBTQ  community over the last thirty years, I always consider someone who self identifies in this way as family because so often their own families disown them for being who they are. Les felt this way as well, and Bryce was on his short list to receive regular packets of Towpath Talk newspapers, Canal Boat and Waterways World magazines. Bryce offered and paid for three months in Cow Roast marina when Les was recovering from liver surgery in 2014. When my Best Beloved was in the last six months of life, Bryce called us frequently to chat about this and that, keeping us linked to him across the miles. After Les died, Bryce called me often, his rich Canadian baritone filling my ear with kindness, compassion, humor, and  satisfying some primal need of mine to hear a North American accent. Over the six years of our growing friendship he consulted me frequently about herbal supplements that might help him deal with the ravages of years of chemotherapy and radiotherapy which laid waste to his immune system and his body. He claimed I helped him endure and exceed the limits his doctors gave him and for that I am grateful. We talked on the phone earlier the week he died,  but Bryce hid from me how truly ill he was and I was not aware of the severity of Bryce's condition. We made plans to meet up in May of 2020 in Vancouver, Canada so I was shocked and grief stricken to learn of his death. I tried to arrange attending his memorial service but it was not to be. There was no chance of me arriving in time. It would mean an expensive commercial flight from Spokane to Vancouver BC. A connecting flight from Vancouver BC to Ontario and then a train ride to Burlington and still I would not have made it on time.
     In June the first of the Wednesday Women died. For those of you who followed my blog So This is Love, you may remember the talented group of women of which I am fortunate to belong, who vetted Les at a dinner and grilled him thoroughly in February of 2011.
     Marian Moos, Spokane's feminist fairy-goddess mother was in her 90's and dementia had developed. Marian spent her final year of life living with her daughter Ginnie. Marian contracted an illness which put her in hospital where she died. Ginnie went to visit her mom four days before she passed, and true to Marian's indomitable feminist spirit, she found her mom propped in bed with a magnifying glass in hand, reading Michelle Obama's latest book. I will miss her independent spirit and the excitement with which Marian always approached life.
   On the 3rd of August Rosemarie Duffy, Major, retired USAF died after a many years of dementia. Rosemarie was a firecracker. She called things as she saw them. She loved life, cats, her garden, and men. She created a studio space in one half of her basement to provide women artists with safe, free space to hone their craft, and she had a small apartment built into the other half of her basement which she rented out for a very low sum to struggling single mothers trying to get on their feet. Rosemarie was a nurse anesthetist with many connections to the Spokane medical community. She worked with local doctors, traveling to poverty stricken areas of the world to set up mobile hospitals and assist with eye surgeries to help other less fortunate people have the gift of good sight. She volunteered her time with Crosswalk--a youth shelter where many GLBTQ runaways and those tossed out of their homes ended up. Rosemarie also took in litters of kittens from pregnant cats at the animal shelter, caring for the babies until homes could be found for them. She wrote poetry for me, and it was her idea of forming intentional community that created the Wednesday Women. The gradual loss of her memory over eight years took its toll on her and weighed on the hearts of those who loved her. Rosemarie was aware of all she was losing, until it was gone, and essentially so was she. Her spirit trapped in a failing mind and body was simply waiting for death to tap her on the shoulder.
     The bigger picture of life in the USA these days is sobering and ugly. Those of us who do not espouse Trump's divisive MAGA rhetoric do what we can to counteract his tyrannical meanness whenever possible; we are bone weary from fighting decades for things such as clean air and water, the endangered species act, protection of our national parks, safe, affordable access to women's reproductive health including abortion, freedom of and from religion, equal rights for women and GLBTQ folks, assistance for migrants and refugees, and recognition of the diversity that made the USA the most successful immigrant country on earth. Watching all we have fought long and hard for disappear under looser regulations or a roll back to none at all; rallying to fight court appeal after appeal which keep us mired in the mud of contention as we valiantly fight to protect past legislation is exhausting and demoralizing as Trump's minions dismantle program after program. His nasty tirades draw out the worst of those who live in the corners and shadow of this country, welcoming racists, bigots, Christian religious fanatics, and ignorant bullies to walk down the middle of the street in defiant glory, wrapped in America's flag while they abuse and kill others, smiling defiantly, backed by the Republican Senate.
     In my other country across the Pond, I stare at the news in mute dismay and sorrow as Britain too appears to rise to bait of the worst in human nature, imploding while politicians drag their feet on the majority vote to leave the EU, thinking their delaying tactics will derail Brexit. Meanwhile no solid plans have been made to prepare for exit from the EU, leaving Brits everywhere feeling overwhelmed and under-protected, worried for want of basics such as food and medicine because the MP's in Parliament would rather fight each other like bully boys in the Lord of the Flies, throwing the entire populace they are elected to represent under the oncoming train, instead of facing forward and making the very best of the situation. Every time I see televised footage of British Parliament I am ashamed of how they behave and I am worried for all those across the Pond that I love.
     Unlike so many people I know on both sides of the Atlantic ocean, I continue to follow the news every day. I have never been a looky-loo, slowing down to stare at automobile accidents, but I cannot tear myself away from the politics of this age playing out in both of my beloved countries. Too many of my compatriots no longer watch or listen to the news. Their hearts simply cannot take any more. It seems I now live in heartbroken times personally, politically, locally, nationally, and internationally. 

The Wool Anniversary

"As long as I live, you will live, as long as I live, you will be remembered, as l live, you will be loved." ~Anonymous

Our wedding day, Kamiak Butte, Washington

     The 18th of June is our Seventh wedding anniversary; my second without Les. Time does not dull the pain of his death. The necessary demands of life cause it to recede into the background while one grapples with the activities of daily living. The moment I think of Les and our life together, memories rush over me and the pain of my loss returns with a force that bites deep and takes my breath away. This is the other side of the coin of what it means to truly love someone and give them your heart. 
     I am struck by the depth of love in Les' eyes as he looks back at me when I took these pictures and now, nearly sixteen months after his death, I sometimes find myself caught in a memory-moment. A piece of music will come on the radio and suddenly Les is here like a hologram, doing his crazy little dance he used to do for me, or someone on telly will make a statement and I can hear Les' voice clearly in my mind replying sarcastically. Occasionally on the news coverage of a football match a team makes a goal and I hear Les exclaiming excitedly, "Go on boy, get it in! Yes!!!" Sometimes in the very still small hours of those countless nights when I cannot sleep, I hear Les say, "I love you Jaqueline Marie Almdale Biggs."

Taken on the back of NB Valerie in May 2011 during my pre-wedding visit.

Les showing me the ruins of the motte and bailey at Berkhamstead, May 2011.

Dancing at our wedding reception at Chrisi and Keith Kincaid's farm, Pullman, WA July 2011.

Les relaxing on the back deck of Cloudhouse--our home in Pullman, Washington. June 2011.

Les and our Grandson Connor at Laird Park, August 2011. We took a picnic and spent the day with family, swimming in the river under the hot summer sun.

Les reveling in his catch on a never to be forgotten boating trip on the Snake River in Washington with friends Roger and Joe, August 2011.

Les posing with the statue of the Station Master in some small Washington State town. We were on our way to Seattle for a three day honeymoon before flying back to England and NB Valerie.

Les trying out our friend Karen's Segway, Pullman, Washington, August 2011. Wearing her flowered helmet was part of the deal!

Cheeky Les at the tiller in March 2012 on our way to Llangollen.

Les waiting for me at Burland on the Llangollen canal in 2012. I was returning from a walk to the Burland country Store for a Saturday paper and the best pies we ever ate.

The Bluebird of Happiness stretching his wings as we hiked to the ruins of Valle Crucis Abbey near Llangollen, March 2012.

Les in paroxysms of delight over a freshly baked chocolate Kahlua cake, May 2012.

Les giving me a mock-sexy pose on the Audlem Flight,Spring 2012.

The quintessential Englishman with his brolly, on the grounds of Dunham Massey Estate, Bridgewater canal, July 2012.

One of the countess times we stopped to score wood along our travels.

Les loved chopping wood. It gave him a great sense of accomplishment and appealed to his deep sense of thrift--accumulating a winter heat source for nothing more than a few hours labor. I loved helping him stack the wood on the roof, bark upwards, in neat sections to dry in the summer sun.

At our daughter Sparky's apartment in Portland, Oregon, November 2012. Our daughter Jesse in the background decorating cupcakes for her sister's wedding the next day.

Daughter-in-law Kelli, MOBs, daughter Sparky, FOBs, November 2012.

Les and his girls after the wedding, November 2012.

Les warm and cozy in his new LL Bean down jacket, on the shore of Lake Pend Oreille, Sandpoint, Idaho, November 2012.

Bliss! Portland, Oregon, November 2012.

Teaching Les the joy of playing in the snow, January 2013, Blisworth.

Wakey-wakey baby! Les before his morning tea, 2012.

I love this picture! Les having a moment, April 2013 moored up above Walthamstead Lock, the Lea and Stort navigation.

My boys (Les and son Kevin) cleaning up after a spaghetti lunch with family aboard NB Valerie, March 2014.

Les posing on the Lapworth flight, September 2015. It took me 10 months after his liver surgery to get him back to this fit state.

My baby making kissy lips at a kissing gate on the Wendover Arm, 2015.

Les was always happiest at the tiller of our boat, cruising through life at 2 MPH.

Look at the love in his eyes...Granddad with Kiernan and Kiera, Campbell Park, 2015.

Granddad in a happy moment, August 2016, at Cowroast, with our grandsons Teo and Battu.

Les, our grandson Jack, daughter-in-law Bev, and me, Cowroast, August 2016.

Me and my shadow, always.

Les' Memorial Service

"Grief is not a disorder, a disease or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve." —Earl Grollman, American Rabbi, death educator and counselor

    I have spent a month writing, editing and re-writing Les' eulogy, gathering pictures, watching videos he made, getting pictures copied, arranging the order of service, sending out the invitations, getting memorial cards printed, and putting one foot in front of the other when my mind was so beset by grief I could not remember my name or phone number.
   I have been supported and uplifted throughout all of this by a particular group of friends who have done what is essential when someone is struck deaf, dumb and blind by grief: they stepped in to fill the gap, meet a need, and hold back the world for awhile so I could just breathe because some days that is all I could really manage and sometimes even that is hard work. You know who are and each of you have my immense gratitude. The gift or your compassion and understanding, of your being here for me in whatever way I most needed you--even when I did not and do not always understand what way that is; you could see what I could not and with grace you stepped up for me and I will always be thankful.
   Although pouring rain showers were forecast for Saturday, March 4th, the skies cleared and sunshine was the order of the day. I was up after four hours of sleep, having prepared all the food for the luncheon after the service: three different kinds of sandwiches, two salads and brownies--some of Les' favorites. Soon enough our caravan was on its way to Tring Community Centre and once there our amazing friends took over setting everything up and helping me prepare. A few sadly could not make it due to contracting the lurgy (Brit speak for the usual illness making its rounds this time of year) and they were missed. Fifty two people showed up and we journied through tears and laughter together.
   I wish to thank everyone who shared something with the rest of us. You have no idea how comforting it is to hear you all speak so fondly and well of Les. The poems written in his honor were wonderful. The stories shared brought a small measure of healing to my broken heart and for those brief moments Les lived again. One of the things we who grieve experience is the need to look for signs of our loved one everywhere. We look for their faces in a crowd when we know it is simply not possible for them to be there. I especially treasure the stories that provided new information about Les. For example Richard, one half of Jules Fuels, the couple who travel the cut in their narrow boat Towcester and their butty Bideford, shared with us that once when they were filling up NB Valerie Les mentioned casually that he had "found a bit of nice stuff" on the Internet and he was flying over to America to check her out, which resulted in Jules and Richard taking the piss out of Les for his Internet dating! After he returned from the week visiting me, Jules and Richard turned up to service NB Valerie with diesel and they asked Les how his trip went. "Oh she's lovely she is!" I never knew this. Les never gave me one hint that he was checking me out that week!
   Poems were written and read by boater Mac on NB The Griffon and Sue Deveson on NB Cleddau. Each story and poem is a treasure I have tucked away in my heart as are all the comments people made to me afterwards during lunch as I visited with each person there. Andy and Tina Elford had a favorite picture of Les enlarged and framed for me and other photos provided a laminated montage of their time together cruising with Les. The large picture is sitting up on the table now, and Les' smiling eyes follow me around the boat from under the brim of his sun hat.
   Directly below is a transcript version of Les' Eulogy as well as a partial video of it appears at the bottom:

                                       Flying Without Wings/Westlife

EULOGY

Welcome everyone. This is a memorial service but also a celebration of Life forLes Biggs. Why try and do both simultaneously? "The great children's author E. B. White said that humor can take people to the place where tears and laughter meet and where they fall from one to another. He said it can do that because like poetry it has an added dimension and when it works it takes people close to the big hot fire that is truth…” this was quoted recently on CBC Canada radio about the writer Stuart McLean who also died recently, and I offer my thanks to Bryce Lee in Canada for bringing it to my attention. So this is why we will grieve and laugh together today; to reach that big hot fire called truth—the truth about the life of my husband, lover, and best friend. I believe the most important work we do in our lives takes place in our relationships with others.
   After a disastrous marriage that ended when I was 24, it was clear to me that I did not understand men. I wrote on my blog So This is Love…about the days just prior to Les coming to visit me the first time: “I hoped to offer Dear Sir a lovely visit he might enjoy immensely and remember fondly. My hospitality was a way of saying "thank you" for all the emails he took the time to write and send, the information on narrow boats and canals he generously provided, and for his friendship.
    At lunch in the dining hall with my friend Cheri, she broached the upcoming visit of Dear Sir. Smiling at me over her sandwich, she said, "Wouldn't it be something if the two of you hit if off and fell in love?" She chewed thoughtfully as she considered her suggestion with pleasure.
"Yes, Little Bear that would be something," I nodded my head and smiled, "but you know, he and I are friends and that's enough."
    Cheri comes from a close, loving family. She was wanted and loved as a child, and is still very close to her parents and siblings. She's been married to her college sweetheart for nearly forty years. Cheri believes in happy endings and a soul mate for everyone.
I on the other hand, do not believe in either one. Cynic that I am, while my head is bobbing up and down in agreement with Bear's dreamy query, my mind is laughing sardonically. Dear Sir and I are friends and I am content to leave it at that.
Life has taught me that for whatever reason, it is my fate to be loved dearly by myself, my children, and some very fine friends. I am my own champion and that must be enough. To expect more is to be disappointed. Given the abuse in my past, the terrible male role models with which I grew up and the childhood I narrowly escaped, and my inability to trust men--with very good reason--it was a massive miracle I invited this man to spend a week in my home.”
    So Les and I finding each other across 4000 miles of ocean and another 3000 miles of American continent, meeting and falling deeply in love with one another was nothing short of miraculous and truly meant to be for we are soulmates and unknown to me my heart and soul was waiting for him. Les taught me so much about love that I would never otherwise have known. I have no doubt that Les and I have lived many lives together before this one I also know Les, me and Val have done the same. His soul knew and recognized mine when we met for the first time in the car park of the Travel Lodge in Seattle in 2010.
    My soul? Well it was no doubt slumbering deep inside me, as I lived under the firm conviction at the time that if such a thing as soul mates existed then mine had not incarnated in this life. I wish I could say I recognized our deep connection at that moment but alas when I saw Les standing in the car park of the Travel Lodge in Seattle wearing a huge smile, a pair of blue jeans and a cardigan of wide stripes in pale mint and cream in which he looked a bit fem, my first thought was, “Oh, my gosh he’s gay!”
    Later I discovered that Les viewed clothes as utilitarian objects expressly for the purpose of covering the naughty bits—useful items like a tarpaulin is useful for covering the wood box on the boat. He was happy to wear anyone’s cast off clothing and the mint and cream striped cardigan was just that—not something he chose for himself but a useful bit of kit to keep warm that someone had thrown out and Les had picked up. We revisited our first meeting in the car park many times over the last six years, and Les would laugh hysterically each time I recounted my mistaken first impression. He got a huge kick out it.
   During the six days Les spent as my guest at Cloudhouse in Pullman, I was privileged to get know his authentic self because he didn’t know how to be any other way thankfully. The next morning I experienced the following:

“Sun streamed through the picture windows and lit the sheer curtain panels in my bedroom. I rose quietly, not wanting to wake Les, down the hall in the guest room; I thought he might want to sleep in after all the miles he'd travelled. I walked in to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea, glancing out the window to the back deck. Dear Sir was leaning on the deck railing, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans.
The morning sun lit his broad shoulders which tapered down to his waist, a very nice posterior, slim, muscular legs, and bare feet. I bit my fingers and grabbed for the counter to steady me. I woke up expecting to start a bit of breakfast before Les rose for the day, and looked out my kitchen window to see a Calvin Klein ad for jeans come to life on my back deck.” The week and my life only got better from there…and the rest as they say is history. So I share with you now some of the things I learned from Les:

   Thanks to Les’ example I understand now that someone who truly loves you will always put you first in all things—in heart and mind because your happiness is their joy. From my husband I learned that a man who loves his wife will never make her suffer jealousy, which is a sign you has been unwillingly entered into a competition for the attentions of your partner, leaving you feeling as though you come last not first. Les always put me first in all things and no one and nothing else ever competed with me for his time, attention, or affection—although he was inordinately fond of Canal World Discussion Forum! Les spent a lot of time on the forum every day, trawling through the new topics and checking in with other boaters across the cut. It was his go-to place for how to do something on the boat with advice from other boaters guiding him. I used to make Les laugh when I teased him saying, “Hey baby, Checking in with your mistress again?” 

Les and I only grew closer as our brief years together passed. It is a mark of the depth of his love for me that despite the fact I am no longer fertile, having had all my reproductive organs removed when ovarian cancer was found in 2008, Les looked into my eyes once and told me he saw our unborn children there. 

It is a mark of my love and devotion to Les that while I didn’t know he was out there in this world and I didn’t realize I was waiting for him, Les and he alone met my soul’s high standards and the needs of my heart, mind and body. Les showed me what it feels like to be truly cherished and he gladly allowed me to lavish him with my loving care and attention, knowing that he is and always will be my one and only. I still feel his love right down to the core of my soul and the depth of my DNA. 

When Les’ head hit his pillow each night he fell instantly into a deep and peaceful sleep. I believe this occurred because Les had an untroubled mind and heart. Les always treated others as he wished to be treated. He loved children and animals and they loved him back—even small babies who laid eyes on Les for the first time would break into smiles for him. When our grandson Connor was born I tried for three months to get him to smile for me. Nah, nothing. The very first time Les held Connor in his arms, their eyes locked upon one another and Connor burst into a HUGE happy smile as though seeing someone he loved dearly for the first time in ages. Perhaps their souls also recognized one another. One of the reasons Les was so good with children and animals is that he had a deeply kind heart and a patient soul, and this also served him well in dealing with the broken suffering people in this world.
   Les taught me about forgiveness—its importance to one’s own peace of mind rather than for any social, moral, or religious compunction. I was by far the more difficult person to love in our marriage; Les knew me inside out and yet he loved me wholly and completely. Due to severe mental, emotional and physical abuse in my childhood—and I use that term loosely--I had to grow up by the age of six and learn to be smarter than my parents and step-parents in order to survive which left me little time to actually experience anything close to childhood. In fact I used to watch other children playing and feel like an alien. I could not relate to them at all ‘nor could they relate to me. I looked like them but I thought like an adult. In surviving such things we get broken. Part of our life’s work is to try and heal the brokenness. We who survive childhood abuse have personalities with very sharp edges. Sometimes we unintentionally cut those we I love with them. Les knew all this about me and he loved me without reservation.
   Les loved me as I am--broken bits and all. He was intimately aware of the dark, shadowy corners of my soul. They didn’t scare him one bit. When I warned Les early on that I had a lot of personal baggage relating to my childhood but that I would do my very best not to unpack it and to leave it sitting around to trip him with, Les gathered me into his arms and said, “Don’t worry about your personal baggage Jaq. I love you and I will help you carry it.” And he did.
   I was nineteen years old before I ever heard or saw my mother laugh. I grew up believing I had no sense of humor. Les brought humor and laughter into my very soul. He used it as a torch to shine into those dark, shadowy corners and light me up inside. So let me share with you now some of the funnier moments of our life together.
   When Les returned to me in February 2011 he proposed to me and we finally got to snog at last! He lived at Cloudhouse—which became our house—for three and half weeks, settling in and making himself at home—which it was. Everything we each owned separately we gave to one another. All things became “ours” not mine or his. I only had the first week of his stay off and then I had to go back to work. Les did dishes, laundry, and cleaned house without being asked and without my expecting it. One day I arrived back home and the following conversation took place:

"I even oovered."
"You what?"
"Oovered--you know--did the oovering."
"I'm sorry darling but I don't know what that is. Say again???" (To me it sounded like he was saying Oeuvre as in the French word for eggs. I was hard pressed to connect eggs with housekeeping!)
"You know with the vacuum--I done the vacuumming."
"OHH! Hoovering. We don't call it hoovering over here; call it that and Yanks will think you mean 'hovering'."
"Huv-a- ring--what's that then?"
"You know--when you hang about over someone."
"OHH! You mean haahvering." We laughed ourselves silly at our cultural differences and it was pointedly brought home to me that I am the one with the accent.

                     Les riding my broomstick at Cloudhouse, July 2011

On another occasion Les was waiting for me to fly over in May of 2011 to spend three weeks to be sure living on a boat was going to work for me before we returned to the States to get married. A friend gave us a lovely wedding gift of some funds with which they wanted me to purchase a trousseau. After thinking it over I called Les and asked about how to spend the money, and the following conversation took place:
 

"I thought perhaps rain gear would be a good thing to buy." Les was quiet for a moment on the other end of the phone. I could see Dear Sir turning his head slightly, staring off into the distance and thinking about what I have just said. 

"Sorry darlin' what was that?"
   "I said I thought rain gear would be a good thing to buy with the money."
   "Say again please? I don't think I'm hearing you correctly."
   "RAIN GEAR--r-a-i-n- g-e-a-r--I thought rain gear would be practical," by now I am wondering what on earth he thinks I said. I mean I know I am the one with the accent but still...Les' booming laughter fills the phone receiver.
   "Oh God I thought you were saying reindeer." We giggle hysterically.

"That's right baby--love me, love my reindeer. We Alaskan women are VERY attached to our reindeer. I'm not sure what we will do with the carcass after we butcher it but we can keep it on the roof of the boat and cross that bridge when we come to it.

    When I finally did fly over in May of 2011 to be with Les on the boat I was exhausted after a ten hour flight and all the happy crap one goes through at Customs to get into another country. I found myself finally in his arms at 10:45 p.m. A half an hour later Kevin dropped us in the dark at a bus stop on the highway and I was following this British bloke with a torch into the woods! NB Valerie was moored up at Cassiobury Park.
   Now this next story is rather racy so you can cover your children’s ears if you must but I think it is good for children and young people to know that no matter how old someone is they are never too old for romance, passion and sex. All three are and should be a part of a loving relationship.
   Les and I were so enthralled to be together again, and as lovers who have been apart are wont to do we peeled each other’s clothes off and fell into a frenzied bout of passionate love making as the boat rocked in the darkness. Caught up in the moment, Les forgot about the solid oak cupboard at the foot of the bed, and while raising himself up on his arms, the corner of the cupboard buried itself in his forehead.
   Now the head has many tiny blood vessels called capillaries and when ruptured they bleed profusely. It took me a while to staunch the bleeding but it finally stopped. As stood there looking down at him, I said,

   “Wow Les that is a very deep and noticeable cut. People are going to see that and ask how you did it. What are you going to tell them?” His lovely brown eyes twinkled as he replied,
   “Well that depends on how old they are.”

    The next morning we cruised off and headed for Napton so Les could introduce me to two of his dearest friends, Andy and Tina Elford with whom he cruised for three years. We moored up at Napton Marina and that evening the four of us walked up the lane to the pub. Tina and I sat and talked at the table while Les and Andy stepped up to the bar to buy a round. I was watching Les. He had the nicest looking behind in a pair of jeans. Suddenly I saw the back of Les’ neck turn beet red. He turned around and hollered over the din of the crowd:

   “Andy just asked me how I hurt my head!” I hollered right back and said,
   “Do you think he’s old enough to know the truth?”

    The next morning we were headed for Heathrow to fly back to Pullman and be married. As we waited with our luggage for Tina to bring the car around, Andy—who is quite a bit taller than Les—put his arm around Les’ neck, pulled him close in a bear hug and inspected the top of Les’ head, remarking.

    “Oh I see you two behaved yourselves last night; no new gouges in your head!”

I got a tattoo of forget-Me-Nots the day before we were married. Les is doing a bit of Tattoo peeking!

    Months later after we returned from the States and settled in to life aboard NB Valerie, Les decided that the oak cupboard at the foot of the bed needed to go. One head bashing was enough, but before he took it down he got out some yellow tape, a cushion and a few minutes later he took a picture to send to Andy and Tina of a large cushion taped to the bottom of the cabinet!


                         Les' quick fix for the cupboard above the bed!

    In late August of 2012 we were cruising down the Trent & Mersey canal, returning south from having spent six months on the narrow northern canals Les loved dearly as he showed me his favorite places on the LLangollen, the Shroppie, The Bridgewater, the Maccelsfield, Caldon, and Peak Forest Canals. We reached Tixal Wide on the Staff and Worcs canal just past the junction with the Trent & Mersey. It was a gorgeous sunny late summer day. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun lit the world with warmth. As we pulled in to moor, a hot air balloon began to rise up in the adjacent meadow. Les was beside himself, like a small child at Christmas.

    "Balloons Jaq, come look--quickly, hot air balloons!" I looked out the hatch of NB Valerie and sure enough a large, multicolored hot air balloon was rising slowly above the meadow on the towpath side of our boat. Les dashed inside for his binoculars and I grabbed for my camera. He stood out on the towpath down by the hatch doors and I took up a position standing on the bow locker, arms propped on the boat roof, snapping pictures.
    Ever so slowly the balloon rose with a large basket attached, holding a fair sized group of folks. Les had his binocs glued to his eye sockets, repeating rapturously,

 "Wow! Oh Wow look at that!!!!" Suddenly another balloon rose on the far horizon of the meadow and began a slow ascent. As I snapped pictures Les danced around the towpath in rhapsody, switching his view from one balloon to the other. As the first balloon was almost directly overhead it fired up to gain height and I said, 

 "I wonder if the first balloon will follow this one." With his binoculars glued firmly to his face, Les said with utter amazement in his voice: 

"Jaq did you hear that? That balloon overhead is so close I can hear them talking. There must be an American on board, I'm sure I heard a voice say, 'I wonder if the first balloon will follow this one,'" affecting a flat, nasally American mid-western accent.

Stunned, I looked down at my husband as he danced around the towpath in paroxysms of delight and wonder.

Les at Tixall Wide, binoculars in hand, laughing, 2012

 

Les...Les...Les??? Honey that was me you just heard. I said I wonder if the first balloon will follow this one--and I did not say it like that.” Les looked at me for a moment incredulously and we both burst into hysterical laughter, folded over, holding our sides. For an hour after both balloons disappeared across the cut I would mimic him and we would start laughing afresh.

   "No honey there was no American on board the hot air balloon--it was the American on board our boat!!" (And I don't talk through my nose either!!)

    

Our comic timing with each other was as impeccable as that of Morecambe and Wise. In August of 2015 we moored up at Braunston and walked up to the bus stop to catch the bus into Daventry for groceries. Les turned away from me to stare up the road in the direction the bus would be approaching. Just as he was turning to ask me something I squatted down to tie my shoe. Les turned and I wasn’t there. His voice cried with astonishment,

 “Jaq where are you?” 

 Then he looked down and saw me and we laughed like crazy until tears rolled down our cheeks and our sides ached. He called me affectionately his “short arsed wife.” Les is the only man I know who could lose his wife at the bus stop when she is standing right next to him.
   Les love to laugh and he laughed with his whole body. His laugh started in his chest rolled down to his belly and spread from his lips to his eyes. He never gave a fig about whether or not he appeared ridiculous to anyone. Les would do anything to make me laugh. He was my hero—and he always will be.


Les wearing our grandson Kiernan's Captain America mask, 2011.  

 Les taught me that wives are not born nags—they are made into nags by lazy and self-centered partners. Any time I ever said, 

“Oh the rubbish bin needs emptying,” or “this or that needs fixing,” Les immediately took care of it; big or small, I never had to ask more than once and Les made it clear that addressing things as I brought them to his attention was not a hardship or inconvenience for him because it was his pleasure to help when I asked for his assistance. In this Les demonstrated that we were true partners for he knew that I would do anything for him—he had only to ask and sometimes he didn’t even have to do that! A day did not go by without our finishing each other’s sentences and voicing one another’s thoughts word for word, to our mutual astonishment and delight.
   In an uncertain world Les was literally my refuge and my safe place—something I never experienced before I met him. Even when we argued I could never stay angry at Les longer than a day. I could reheat an argument the next morning, still, the minute we lay down together each night, Les’ arms would reach out and draw me in and all contention would melt away. I fell asleep with a grin on my face because I was tucked safe in my Best Beloved’s arms, next to his chest and it always felt like we were two puzzle pieces so perfectly made for one another—a fit so fine nothing could ever really come between us.
   Distance, time, ‘nor death cannot diminish our love for each other.  

I carry Les’ heart in mine, not just because I love him as a famous poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote, “with the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach…” but because Les trusted me with his heart. He gave his heart to me to carry in my own. And he trusted me with his life. I know this because he told me so in one of audio love letters he sent me attached to emails—all of which I still have.

Les was the most romantic person I have ever known. I think Val’s death had a lot to do with this. Les told me once that Val’s love changed him and made him a better man. Just as Les’ death has irrevocably changed me, Val’s death also changed Les. Between diagnosis and her death were only eleven short weeks and Les said there were so many things they didn’t have a chance to say to one another. He knew that life was short and he understood the great importance of showing and telling everyone we care for how much we love them. He never held back his emotions and my heart will live satiated and full for the rest of my life on the love he gave me. 

Les and I are separated for now but our souls are inextricably linked for eternity by our marriage vows in which we pledged our love to each other beyond this lifetime and by a depth of love that endures all things. Yes I miss him terribly and savagely and the loss of his physical existence daily in my world makes me unbearably sad. But I can and will move forward with life because each day carries me toward my own translation from flesh to spirit. When my time comes Les’ soul will be waiting to help me cross where the veil between the worlds of the living and dead is thinnest; countless times on our walks across this countryside Les would go ahead of me and wait for me at the footpath gates. He called them kissing gates and he would not let me pass even once without giving him a kiss. Les will be waiting for me at the kissing gate and we will be together once again in the joy of pure spirit-for love is truly all there is and that is Les’ most enduring lesson to us all.


Les waits for me at the kissing gate on the footpath to Crack Hill, Leicestershire, July 2014.

 

    I have two files to share today. The first one is a video Les took of Braunston for me in late October of 2010 shortly after he returned from his first visit as my guest. You need a bit of back story first. 

At the end of that first week Les stayed as my guest, he wanted to shop for a toy for each of his eight grandchildren. I drove him to Hodgkins Drug store in Moscow, Idaho because they have shelve and shelves of old fashioned toys. We spent two and half hours choosing just the right toy for each child. For Lena May, Les bought a rubber squeezy lamb. When you squeezed it, its eyes popped out on stalks and it went Baaaaaah. As we carried the bag of toys along, each time we stepped off a curb the lamb went Baaaaah! The bag sat on tehback seat on the way home and every small bump in the road caused it to Baaaaah again, making Les and I crack up.
   Later that final evening, it was time for Les to pack his suitcase--it was HUGE! And it was stuffed to the gills. The children's toys were sandwiched in the middle and we spent thirty minutes yanking the sides together to try and close the zipper. We tossed the suitcase around, and I sat on it, bouncing up and down as Les struggled to close it. Not once did we hear a peep out of the squeezy lamb. After we finally managed to et it all sipped up, Les hoiked the bag into the corner, we shut off the light and as we left the room we heard, faintly from inside the case a very weak, ba-a-a-a-ah! Okay here is the video of Les showing me the delights of Braunston:

I also shared an audio love letter Les sent me in late December 2010 but I cannot get it to load on Blogger without spending days reformatting it so sadly I must leave it out.  Finally, here is the video of me delivering part of Les' eulogy if you wish to view it and listen to me as I give it. My deepest thanks to Carol Palin for this.