My friends Phyllis and Larry Henson had moved to Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and I missed them, especially Phyllis, who was a regular member of our meditation group. Phyllis and I talked on the phone a lot; she knew all about Grant’s and my problems, and was a source of comfort.
Phyllis had begun going to meetings of the Spiritual Frontiers Fellowship and told the meditation group about them. I decided to register for the Spiritual Frontiers Fellowship Conference scheduled for that July. Phyllis invited me to fly to Winston-Salem (where she lived) and travel with her by car to Lynchburg, Virginia, where the conference was to be held. My experiences at this conference, and how life-changing it was for me, I describe in chapter 22.
That year—1987—proved to be both the best and the worst year of my life.
21
Going to London Town
Some of the older people in the mountains often
spoke of the “old country”—”that land across the
sea”—and told yarns about “London Town”
When I went to England in 1984, I kept a journal so I could recall the places, people, and events I experienced while traveling. With Grant having gone to Oregon, I was facing Christmas alone. Because Bruce and his friend Kimberly were already in London on work-scholarships, I decided to spend Christmas with them there. Bruce had invited me, although he believed it would be most unlikely that I would come. I had never been abroad, and the very thought of going frightened me. And yet my not wanting to be alone at Christmas was stronger than my apprehension of travel. So I firmed my resolve and decided to go.
Bob and Maxine Menefee drove me to the Cincinnati airport. We left Berea on December 21 in a cold, gray rain. It rained all the way to Cincinnati. The flight to New York went fairly smooth once we got above the gray clouds and rain.
It was completely dark by 4:00 P.M. when the plane arrived at JFK Airport. I walked about, looking at the shops and the people. I felt lonely and scared. I kept thinking what a comfort it would have been if Grant were with me.
While waiting for my connecting flight I sat at a table, drinking coffee and watching the travelers. Christmas music, familiar carols and songs, filled the air. I swear they played “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” a dozen times as I sat there. It made me sad that Grant and I were separated and that neither of us would be home for Christmas.
Finally we boarded the plane. I was astounded by the Boeing 747. I never dreamed they were so big! Taking my seat and looking out the window, I thought the wing must stretch for a city block, at least.
My seatmate was an Italian woman who spoke very little English, so our communication was limited. Her husband was sitting in the seat direcdy in front of her. When she wanted to tell him something she leaned forward and hit him on his shoulder or his head. He jumped every time. They had been on holiday in Miami and were to spend three days in London before flying home to Florence.
I slept fitfully through the eight-hour flight.
As we neared London, at daybreak, I noticed first a tinge of cream color on the cloud floor. This widened and soon a narrow strip of red showed on the horizon. As we flew into the sunrise it was beautiful. I had to remind myself that back in Berea it was only 2:00 A.M.
Heathrow was crowded. Bruce had told me to meet him near the money-changing window. I got a porter to help with my bags and there I stood, not seeing Bruce anywhere. Thousands of people pushed by, mingled, hugged, kissed, and wept. I stood by a column and waited for what seemed a very long time for Bruce. Gradually I began to worry that he had been in an accident, although I knew Bruce was always late for everything. After I’d waited for forty-five minutes, he arrived. He had overslept, he said. I was so relieved and glad to see him and amazed at how much weight he had put on. When he had left the States in September he had weighed only about 150 pounds; now he weighed 170, he told me. I figured the food must be pretty good in England.
We rode a bus to his bed-sitter (which was basically one room), left my bags, and then walked about four blocks to a little restaurant located in West London at a row house, where Bruce took me for breakfast. I got my first taste of English bread and loved it. When we returned, Bruce showed me his and Kim’s rooms and the bedroom he had rented for me from his landlady. I slept until 9:00 that night. Bruce and Kim had cooked a big kettle of chicken and rice soup. We ate, and I went back to bed and slept until late the next morning. Bruce had many things planned for us to do that day, but we slept late. I helped him fix a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast in the tiny kitchen that he shared with four other tenants. The floor was sticky in places. If I could have found a mop, I would have cleaned the floor first thing.
After breakfast we set out for the Victoria and Albert Museum. We walked four blocks to the subway station. There I had my picture taken and got a pass to ride the underground and the buses for a week. We changed trains twice and then walked through a long tunnel on our way to the exit.
At one point we heard Christmas carols being played on a strange instrument in the tunnel. A young man was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, playing an instrument that looked a little like a bagpipe. It was some kind of Middle Eastern instrument, I thought, and the musician looked Arabic. People dropped coins in his cap as they passed. He seemed to pay no attention; he just kept playing. He was really good.
Bruce had already been to the Victoria and Albert Museum, and I asked him to show me his favorite areas. One of his favorites was a clock exhibit. I fell in love with a copy of Michelangelo’s David. Such perfection! I could have studied it the whole hour.
When we left the museum the streets were wet and the air was misty with rain. “I could be happy living here awhile,” I thought. It was a magical sort of time, dark with lights glowing through the mist. Londoners do not decorate as lavishly for Christmas as we do. I noticed a few discreet door wreaths, candles in windows, and Christmas trees. The outside trees were strung with lights, which seemed to be larger than the lights we use in America. In the mist, the varicolored lights looked like big gumdrops.
When we got home I was exhausted. Kim fixed me a cup of tea, and never has tea tasted so good! After relaxing for a few minutes we were off again. We made a dash for the underground so as not to be late for the movie we planned to see in Piccadilly Circus: an adaptation of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol with George C. Scott.
After returning from the cinema, we packed for our trip the next day. We left in the early morning to take a bus north to Windermere in the Lake District, where we would spend Christmas. The bus ride took eight hours.
We arrived a little after 4:00 in the afternoon and found we had to walk five blocks to the hotel. Bruce and Kim carried all the bags, and I still could not keep up. My legs hurt, and I hobbled along as best I could. I had something wrong with my left foot. It had begun to slowly turn in and made walking difficult. (Several years later I had to have surgery to correct the problem.) The weather was colder here than it was when we left London.
I must admit, I was a little disappointed with the Lake District when we arrived. The hillsides dotted with straggling pine trees that were frosted with a light snow looked familiar to me. It was like going to Stoney Fork for Christmas. I had hoped for something different!
On the way to Windermere were wide valleys and mountains, which reminded me of western North Carolina, though the mountains in the Lake District are not nearly as high. When we got to Windermere the hills had closed in and the valley was narrow; we could easily have been in eastern Kentucky. The Fir Garth Hotel rambled alongside the road, obviously having had several additions through the years. Behind the hotel was a little garden with a creek.
The rooms were comfortable, and the food was excellent. The son of the family that owned the place was a trained chef. Mrs. Mary McGrath, the owner, was a great talker, and sounded more Scottish than British. I anticipated some good conversations with her. She invited us to go with her later that night to a Christmas Eve service at a local church. Bruce and Kim dec
lined, but I said I would go.
Mary said that dinner would be delayed until 8:30 because two incoming guests had been delayed en route. She added that there would be only three guests besides us. To her disappointment, a tour bus had canceled at the last moment that day; otherwise she would have had a full house.
We had time to unpack, rest awhile, shower, and get dressed for dinner. Then we went down to the bar area for a drink and visited with our hosts until dinner was served. I loved the fish course, Plaice St. Germain. The fish were small, a little bigger than finger-size, and fried crisp. Bruce and I had the roast duck, and we all had strawberry gâteau for dessert.
When it was time to go to the church service, I bundled up and Mary and I got into her small car. It was very foggy, misting rain and cold. Her car steamed up inside and I feared for our lives as she tore around corners and up side streets. It seemed to me she was driving by feel rather than sight. We arrived at the church early—it was a Church of England, Mary told me—and got a good parking place right in front.
Inside there were candles everywhere and banks of purple iris and white chrysanthemums. There were holly and poinsettias also, but I was more aware of the purple and white flowers. The ritual of the service reminded me of an Eastern Orthodox service Grant and I had attended at Easter the previous spring with our friends, Walter and Sally Odum. There was no incense, but the readings, responses, kneeling, and bowing were just as frequent.
The main part of the service was over by midnight, and then communion was served. This took a long time. People lined up and, led by altar boys, came forward one by one to be served. All drank from the same cup; the priest put the bread on each person’s tongue. This was my first Church of England service.
After the service Mary said, “that was too high church for me. I don’t think I’ll go there anymore.” I gathered that she only went to church at Christmas and Easter.
We arrived safely back at the hotel after another steamed-up tear through the small streets.
The next morning, I awoke to Christmas Day in England.
This was the first Christmas I had spent apart from Grant since we were married. I felt grief; it did not at all seem like Christmas, but I knew I would have felt worse had I stayed home.
We went down to breakfast about 9:00. When we got to the dining room, the stereo was playing ballroom dance music, and Mary and her husband were dancing. They were really quite good. We enjoyed a feast of bacon, eggs, grilled mushrooms, tomatoes, and lots of toast with jam. Bread in England is wonderful, more like our homemade bread, solid, with no holes like commercial yeast bread in the States. It makes delicious toast. I could see why Bruce had gained weight with that kind of bread and real butter. In England, butter was much less expensive than margarine. We watched the queen on TV, then went back upstairs; Kim and Bruce went back to bed and slept until around 2:00.
There was nothing to do within walking distance and no bus service until two days after Christmas. The day after Christmas was Boxing Day, a legal holiday.
William Wordsworth’s home was nine miles from Windermere. Beatrix Potter and John Ruskin had also lived near there. Scotland is just fifty miles from Windermere, Mary said, and Edinburgh one hundred fifty. If I had had access to a car, I would have gone to Scotland for sure.
Bruce and Kim invited me to their room to watch Mary Poppins; it cost 50P to watch TV for several hours. At 4:00 we heard a knock at the door, and there was Mr. McGrath with a tray on which were three mincemeat tarts. Each of our rooms was equipped with a teakettle, sugar and cream, instant coffee packets, and, of course, tea bags. We had tea and ate the excellent tarts while we watched the rest of the movie. I never liked mincemeat pies the way they are done at home, but these were delicious.
Dinner that night was at 7:30—a scrumptious Christmas dinner. The tables were decorated with flowers and candles and at each place there was a Christmas cracker, a colorful tube of paper tied at each end with ribbon. You take an end in each hand and pull sharply, and there is a loud explosion, like a firecracker, with pieces of confetti bursting out. The ladies had fun with ours, but the men did not touch theirs.
We stayed in the lounge for awhile. We watched television with the other guests—a variety show, then a murder mystery, Home for the Holidays. Kim went up to read, Bruce went to play pool with Tim, the chef, and I stayed near the pay phone in the hall, trying to call Grant.
I had tried all day to get an international operator so I could place a call to Grant, but there had been no answer. I also had tried to get a call through the night before, but with no luck.
At 2:00 A.M. I finally succeeded in getting a call through, thanks to a helpful operator. He explained to me about British telephone queues. There are queues for everything here, he said. If you get a busy signal and hang up, you go to the end of the queue every time. He let the phone ring about ten minutes before an operator finally answered it. You let it ring until it is answered. The operator and I had a friendly talk while the phone was ringing. He told me of some local history. I finally got through to Grant and we had a tearful conversation. We recalled Christmas the previous year, when our friends, Phyllis and Larry Henson, came to spend the night with us in Berea. Our house was decorated beautifully, the prettiest it had been in many years. We had cooked a simple, but elegant, dinner that night.
The next morning Bruce and Kim did not feel like getting up for breakfast, saying they preferred to sleep late, take a walk later in the day, and get something to eat then. The breakfast menu varied only in a choice of sausage or bacon. I did not like English sausage at all. Mary sat down and kept me company while I ate breakfast, and she talked every second. I learned much about her family, her childhood, and her philosophy of life.
She offered to provide transportation if I wanted to get out in the afternoon. The nearest little town, Ambleside, fronts on the lake, she said, but it was too far for me to walk. At 2:00 I got my coat and went down. Tim drove me to Ambleside and said he would return for me at 4:00.
I walked to the lake; it was cold, and there was snow on the mountains beyond the lake, making them crystal white. I watched people queuing up for a boat ride. A large, grayish swan was in the water near the boat dock, but it paid no attention to the people. Seagulls were flying overhead. We must not have been too far from the ocean. Quite a few tourists were walking up and down the streets, as I was, looking in the windows, taking boat rides, and buying things in the only two shops that were open. Except for some gift shops and tearooms, all the stores were closed; it was Boxing Day.
At 3:001 went into a tearoom and had tea. I felt so elegant and proper, sitting there sipping tea and eating scones. I loved it. There were dozens of hotels and lodges in this small town, and in Windermere there are dozens more. One section of Ambleside is named after famous writers. There I saw Wordsworth Court, Potter Guest Cottage, and other such places.
Mary told me that when she bought her hotel it was the only one in the district. Then the Lake District was developed and hotels, inns, and various kinds of lodgings sprang up like weeds. She said she was feeling the pinch of competition.
The landscape in England’s Lake District is as varied as southeastern Kentucky or western North Carolina. There was also a great diversity of colors: greens, browns, purples, all blending perfectly. The hills wore bands of mist, like frothy lace. I recalled certain periods in my past, the history of this place, and the people who had lived in these hills and valleys so long ago and who had, in a fierce desire for religious freedom, migrated to the United States and thence into the hills and valleys of Appalachia, perhaps because it so resembled these highlands in northern England and Scotland.
Tim picked me up and took me back to Fir Garth. I was in my room when Bruce and Kim got back. They had enjoyed their walk. Kim said later that the walk made the whole trip worthwhile to her. We dressed for dinner and hurried down, eager to see what gourmet delights would be waiting for us. We were not disappointed—it was another good meal and, over
all, a Christmas I would never forget.
The bus ride back to London was tiring. The road was covered with black ice in parts. The bus was twenty minutes late; we waited in the cold. Then we had a few panicky moments when the driver said he did not have room for us. He finally agreed to let us stand in the aisle until we reached Kendal, where we would be able to get another bus. After we had left Kendal on the second bus, Bruce realized he had left his backpack, which contained his passport and other important items, on the first bus. The bus that took us from Kendal to London was very cold. My feet got so cold I thought I would not be able to stand it.
Since the bus was late, the driver was not inclined to make rest stops. There was supposed to be a twenty-five-minute stop at Birmingham, but traffic was bumper-to-bumper and he decided to keep going. Finally he pulled into a little place for a ten-minute rest stop. Kim and I flew to the bathroom, and then bought drinks to go with the chicken sandwiches I’d had the foresight to ask Mary to pack for us.
Then it started getting dark, even though it was only 3:30! It kept getting darker and darker, and then suddenly we passed through one spot where the sun was shining dimly into darkness again. I realized we had been driving into a London fog—our first. The bus had to slow down in the fog. Bruce was fretting by now, knowing he was gong to be even later for work than he had anticipated. He was supposed to have been there at 3:00.
We finally pulled into Victoria Station at 5:30. It was a madhouse. I thought Heathrow was bad, but it was nothing compared to the dozens of buses pulling in and unloading passengers here. The driver told Bruce that the bus we had originally been on was just behind us, and the best way to retrieve his backpack was to wait for that bus. So we stood there, bumped, jostled, jabbed, and cursed at by a throng of people of all nationalities and colors, all getting off buses, trying to get their bags, and lining up for taxis. I told Bruce to go to the other side and watch for the bus, while Kim and I stayed with our luggage and watched from our side. Soon Bruce returned, smiling, with his backpack. Then he said he needed to run because he was already so late for work. Kim started crying. “Bruce, how in the world do you think your mom and I can carry all the luggage to the underground station?”
My Appalachia Page 21