It’s the fourth of July and I feel like celebrating America today, not because I want to celebrate America so much as I want to celebrate my America — that is to say the reasons why the United States hold a special place in my heart. If you’re one of my American friends then read on, because this has something to do with you!

Unfortunately I won’t be making my usual summer trip to the States this year, and today I am reminded of how much I enjoy being there and how much I’m missing it right now.

I love America, I think I have loved America since I was a young boy watching CHiPs on TV and dreaming of becoming a California Highway Patrol motorcycle cop. Anytime I’m in a plane that touches down in the States I feel like I’ve come home. Whenever I leave America I long to return, and while I might not love the political swagger and arrogance of the country those things don’t alter the deep connection I have with the ‘land of the free.’

I’m lucky enough to know a great deal of truly wonderful Americans, some of whom I count among my closest friends. They have opened their homes to me, shared their lives with me, allowing me to experience America on a deeply personal level far outside of the bounds of any tourist book.

My America consists of the people who populate it, that is to say the people whom I know. From the winding roads of Boston’s North Shores, to the awesome landscape of the Pacific Northwest, throughout California, Texas and into the deep south, I am lucky enough to know people from very different parts of the country, all of whom have added color not only to their country, but also to me.

So today, as my American friends celebrate Independence day, perhaps you will forgive me this moment where I celebrate them; their friendship, their generosity, their diversity, and the continuing contribution they make in the life of their far away friend, me.

—

I didn’t get doubles
July 4th

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I have a busy week this week that will include quite a bit of driving, a funeral, a birthday party, and a house guest or two. Because of this I won’t have a lot of time to blog. So I had an idea; maybe I could just illustrate the week in pictures?

I’ll snap my way through the week and then post the best pictures that capture the seven day period. I’ve already taken a few so the experiment is underway.

I sometimes think it would be fun just to have a photoblog alone, but I enjoy the process of writing too much to abandon this medium. However, as this will be a busy week, maybe as a one off experiment it would be a good week to photoblog.

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On a recent visit to see my Grandmother I asked her how she came by her nickname ‘Yogi.’ She told me she couldn’t remember, to which I made some cheeky comment about how memories fade when you’re as old as her. She gave me a faux frown and said something she’s been saying all my life; “You’re not too old for a good hiding you know.” I wonder when exactly I will be too old? Perhaps I should have asked that.

‘Yogi’ and Granddad lived just down the road from us, their bungalow at number 70 Falmouth Road was just a couple of minutes bike ride away. Opening the side gate would always excite their dogs who would bark and bark causing Granddad to bark back at them telling them to be quiet.

There was always candy on offer, it was a treat to go to Yogi & Granddad’s after school. Yogi would get the sweet box down from shelves behind the retractable kitchen table that would pull down from the wall. It was thick and had a pattern like broken glass, I remember sitting around it eating dinner, drawing, making things, and playing cars.

They had a teletext TV, a kind of internet long before the days of the world wide web we know today. You could read the news, find out what was on TV, or go to page 300 on Oracle for the kids section where my siblings and I would do the quizzes.

In the summer we would pick blackberries from their garden that backed onto the London railway line. If I heard a train coming I would rush to the flimsy wire fence and step onto it, swinging back and forth as the train hurtled sometimes sounding its horn.

Yogi had a jar of buttons and things which I used to love turning out and sifting through. Week in week out it was full of the same strange and fascinating treasures from sparkling buttons and big old coins, to sewing thread and thimbles.

Neither Yogi or Granddad were religious but in that jar I found a crucifix. I remember being fascinated by the little man on the cross. I didn’t really know who he was or why he was “sleeping” on the cross, as Yogi told me, I just liked that he was a little man. With the contents of the jar spread before me I remember sitting in the hall and asking Yogi if I could have the little man on the cross. “When I die you can.” She said. I looked back at Jesus and then back at Yogi and asked, as only a child would, “When will that be?” I don’t remember what she answered, I just remember it wasn’t going to be anytime soon.

In the garden of their old place on Falmouth Road Yogi liked to feed the birds. There was a bird table upon which my brother, sister, and I would place bread crumbs and seed packs. In various trees and from various places hung bird feeders full of seeds and goodies that the little birds enjoyed. We even nicknamed a cake she use to make ‘bird seed cake’ on account of the fact it looked so similar to the stuff she used to feed to the birds. That cake was always so filling, I don’t think I ever managed to eat a whole slice.

Bread Pudding reminds me of Yogi. She made a mean Bread Pudding. Packed with Raisons and topped with lashing of sugar (which I think was my addition), her Bread Pudding was, in my opinion, the best in the land. Maybe it’s just my rose tinted memory, but to this day I’ve yet to have a Bread Pudding better than hers.

With bread itself she used to tell me to eat the crusts. “It’ll make your hair curl.” She would say, which was exactly what I didn’t want to happen, so I would leave the crusts safe in the knowledge that I’d be allowed to leave them – more food for the birds!

As I grew up and popped by to see her and Granddad she would always be quick to ask me the same question. “Hows the love life?” She’s asked that same question every single time I saw her since I was a teenager despite the fact I never once gave a straight answer.

On a recent visit to see her I asked her to tell me a little about herself, I told her I wanted to know a little bit about Doris Bradley. “I’m Yogi.” She told me. I explained that I wanted to learn something of the woman she was, some of her stories before she became ‘Yogi.’ She wasn’t forthcoming which might have been disappointing but for the fact that I concluded that no matter what I might learn about Doris Bradley, she would always be ‘Yogi’ to me and she was happy to be just that.

I didn’t want to take her for granted so I tried to make every effort to see her as much as I could. I would send her postcards from wherever I was in the world, perhaps in way to show her that the “naughty boy” she once told me was “bloody hard to love” had grown up, done well for himself, and was now a happy man of the world.

Yogi died today, leaving behind children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren – a legacy I hope she was proud of.

So Long Yogi, or as you might have said “Ta ta.”

—

So long Granddad

One of the things I most enjoy about life on a North Western peninsula, is the abundance of spectacular coastal sunsets. Often awe inspiring and always unique, a west coast sunset is a great way to bring any day to a close.

When I first moved to the North West of England from the South East, I used to often cycle to the nearby beaches of New Brighton to watch the setting sun slowly melt into the horizon beyond the golden waves of the Irish Sea. I would sit there and watch ships come and go, reading their names to try and figure out where they were from. Sometimes I would imagine what life on a ship that size must be like, how different it must be from mine.

I must have spent hours watching the same sun fall behind the same horizon, but never has it been wasted time. I think perhaps we could all benefit from taking a little time out of our hectic routines to unplug, switch off, and just look around once in a while, to soak up the surroundings, and catch our breath. Sometimes I think it’s escaped peoples notice how breathless they have become in pursuit of a happiness that they would struggle to describe if asked to.

There’s an old lighthouse at Perch Rock, New Brighton, where the River Mersey spills into the cold Irish Sea. It’s a lonely figure that stands in contrast to the modern offshore wind turbines that rotate serenely in the distance generating electricity to satisfy our unquenchable thirst for power.

I’ve not stood in its shadow for years so on Saturday evening I decided to wander out to it and snap a few pictures as planes drew lines to and from America in the darkening sky above.

Having so many beaches so close at hand is a luxury for someone who enjoys stopping to marvel at the wonder of the world. Sunsets on the west coast are simply awesome, they are beautifully dramatic and possessing of a near hypnotic power that can entrance anyone, young or old.

I often reach for my camera as the clouds glow like embers and the sky begins to blaze. But more often than not I choose to just sit there and witness the event, knowing that no matter how good any photograph might be, there are some scenes so stirring and magnificent that a photograph can do little to record them, some moments that are so glorious and free that nothing of heaven or earth could ever capture them.

—

As the sun goes down
Port in a storm
Hide and seek
Big picture, little post
Secret sunset
A bridge of stars

I have a new car. Actually I’ve had it for a couple of weeks already, but I’m especially enjoying it now that summer has shown up. Who knows how long any English summer will last, I usually escape to America for the assurance of sun and heat. For now at least it would seem that the sun is here making for ideal conditions for me to enjoy my new car.

The new car is (another) MGF, a British made two seater sports car which I picked up for a bargain from small car dealer in North Wales. My two previous MGF’s have both been ‘British Racing Green‘ but by way of a small change, this one is beautiful shade of metallic blue.

My previous car broke down a few weeks ago, suffering with a possible cam belt failure that might have been the result of damage sustained to the rear of the vehicle in February. It might well be repairable to someone who knows how to fix those kind of things themselves, but to me it was written off by my garage as beyond economical repair.

The new car is a beauty though! I transferred my Sportser roof and rear wind-stop from the old car to this one, and have been enjoying the beginning of a new motoring relationship. I don’t like these cars for their speed, I like them because when it’s not raining I can throw back the roof and enjoy the joy of top-down motoring.

You might think that owning a convertible in Britain is a bit pointless given our famously dreary weather, but apparently Brits buy more convertibles than our continental counterparts. Brits buy twice as many soft-tops as Italians and ten times as many as the Spanish. This despite the fact that on average the UK only gets around 51 sunny days each year, compared to the the average of 140 sunny days enjoyed in Italy and Spain.

According to Guy Fielding, an Oxford psychologist who analysed the motives of those who bought convertibles, Brits associate being in the open air and sunshine with being on holiday. “Driving soft-tops plugs directly into this, helping individuals to create a more relaxed and less stressed state.”

Funnily enough though, one of my favorite times to have the top down is at night. A warm starry night drive is fantastic! Hopefully there will be plenty of those this summer.

—

In with the new
Out with the old
Crash!
Hello Sunshine

A couple of weeks ago my Mom and Dad made the journey ‘up north’ to see me and together we played the role of wide eyed tourists around the city of Liverpool. I don’t get to see ‘the olds’ that much so it was fun to hang out with them for a couple of days.

It’s been many years since I traipsed around the museums and galleries of a city with my Mom and Dad. The last time we would have done something like this would probably have been when I was a kid and when the pair of them stood taller than I. Back then, with my brother and sister, we headed into London on a few occasions to check out the sites and museums.

I remember standing on the platform of Chelmsford train station waiting for the big diesel train to rattle into sight slowly coming to rest in front of us. The adventure of getting onto a train and racing to a window seat was exciting. A few minutes later the conductor would come around and give us tickets from a machine that was powered by the turn of a handle. It’s funny how clearly I remember sitting at the window looking at the passing scenery swinging my legs that were too short to reach the floor if I sat back in the seat. Every so often the trains horn would sound sending a rush of delight through me. ‘Make way, make way! We’re going to London.’ I would think to myself.

It’s funny the things that stick in your mind. Like Dad telling me that he stood in the same place on the station platform every single day on his commute to London. He told me how he would sit next to the same people every day. “Do you chat to them?” I asked. “A little bit, but not really.” He replied.

As the train rattled and shook its way along the tracks to Liverpool Street Station, we would eat sweets like ‘Chewits’ with their different colored wrappers. Dad discarded his on the floor of the train and was swiftly told off by Mom. He was keeping someone in a job, a train cleaner he said. But Mom just fixed him the kind of look that told him without words that picking up the wrapper was the only option. He did so, putting it in his pocket as my sister, Louise, and I laughed at how he got told off.

I can’t really recall much about the museums and galleries themselves. The Science Museum was cool because it had space exhibits which you could walk in and out of, buttons you could press that would make things light up, and levers you could pull that would make noises. I do remember thinking that the Victoria and Albert museum must surely be a very boring place. A museum all about some couple called Victoria and Albert wouldn’t likely have buttons to press or levers to pull. It would probably be more like a stuffy old library with adults who tell you to “shush!” all the time, putting there finger on their lips as they look down at you sternly, I thought.

Just as we had done all those years ago, we again took the train into the city. Mom specifically wanted to see the Maritime Museum which was far more interesting that I thought it might be. Something I found a little amusing was the fact that this time, rather than it being me who was zooming past the display cases and carefully arranged artifacts, it was Mom who was speeding her way through the museum. It made no real difference though because the pair of us had to wait for Dad who took his own sweet time wandering through the history laden walkways.

The Tate Gallery was our next stop. It’s a modern art gallery full of pieces that make you wonder why it is you never became the kind of artist who could talk about something like an upside-down glass mannequin in such a way that makes other people feel that can’t say that it’s just an upside-down glass mannequin. There was one piece that made an impression though, ‘The Passing Winter’ by Yayoi Kusama was a glass box made up of mirrors with holes in which you could peer at the amazing infinite reflections.

To round off our day of sightseeing Dad suggested we jump onto an open top bus tour of Liverpool. We sat back and relaxed as it trundled around the city streets telling us facts and figures most of which I’ve already forgotten. If you ever come to this city I would recommend this attraction because you can jump on and off the bus as many times as you like in 24 hours.

All in all it was a great weekend. We spent a great deal of the time just chatting. It’s funny how the dynamic between us has changed over the years, yet in many ways it’s remained the same. It wasn’t always easy between us, we had our ups and downs as we all grew up, like most families I guess. But as I chatted with ‘the olds’ over dinner on Sunday I realised that these two people really did do a great job of raising three kids who, though I say so myself, have all turned out to be decent people. We might not be the Walton’s but I’m proud to be the second son of Alan and Jennifer Jones.