A Flying Lesson that Worked

 Today I was wrestling with the side door to the garage when I heard an almighty noise. It sounded for all the world as if every piece of siding on our clapboard house had suddenly come loose and was flapping in the wind like a bunch of manic football rattles. I stared, open-mouthed. The neighbours' cat jumped up from sleeping in the sun and stared, open-mouthed, as a huge wild turkey launched itself from the general direction of the woodpile and hurtled up into the branches of the tall oak tree by the road.
  When I finally found my camera, it was still up there, gobbling away, but only long enough for me to get a single picture from out of an upstairs window.

   Then it hurtled off again, wings whirring, towards the house across the road.  I wonder if this was an offspring of the mother turkey who famously taught her family to fly off our sunlounger. Could it also be a solution to the woodpile mystery?                                        

All I can say is, there's never a dull moment here.

Maggie and Me

    Back in 1987, when I was a fairly junior reporter for a weekly paper called The Universe, I was sent to Ten Downing Street to interview the Iron Lady.  Since the paper had a Catholic and family-oriented ethos, I was supposed to interview her about family values and such like. Downing Street demanded questions in advance and implied I was not to stray from my brief. It was interesting that Thatcher was the first of the party leaders to jump at the chance of being interviewed by Britain's biggest-selling Catholic paper in advance of the general election - when she agreed, the others had to follow suit.
   When I got into Number Ten, she was sitting, flanked by a press officer and another aide ready to start up a giant tape recorder. I tentatively put my small one on the table.
  "Would you like coffee?" she asked graciously and added, "I like my coffee black".
  "Well I like mine white," I smiled, which wasn't true but I thought it might be my last chance to disagree with her.
   I had a small trick up my sleeve. Left to my own devices, I wouldn't have done it but the editor who'd commissioned the interview, Kieron Moore, (who, in a previous existence, played Vronsky to Vivien Leigh's Anna in the 1940s version of Anna Karenina) had insisted, being a proud Irishman, that I slip in a question about alleged miscarriages of justice against the Guildford Four and the Maguire family, wrongly, as it was to turn out, convicted for roles in IRA bombings. Mentioning them was definitely not in my brief. "They've got families", had been Kieron's there's-an-end to-it argument. I didn't know whose wrath I was more in fear of, the Iron Lady's or his, if I failed in my mission. Anyway, I asked my question and she answered in her stride, if not exactly giving me a scoop.
  Talking to her, I had the sense of a powerful muscle car in overdrive. When I replayed the interview afterwards, I said to myself, "Why on earth didn't you chip in there - or challenge her there?" On the clinical tape, her voice sounded so gentle. But I knew I could have no more interrupted her than stopped an Exocet missile in full flight.
 After that, interviewing Labour leader Neil Kinnock and Social Democrat David Owen, was a let down. (Liberal David Steel declined, probably worried he'd be grilled about championing the Abortion Act). Kinnock briefly lost his composure and accused me of interrogating him and Owen fell asleep while I was talking. I could easily see why, in her heyday, no one could touch Maggie.
  I met her again in 2002, at a book launch. She was already a little frail but the spirit was still there. I reminded her of our interview and she professed to remember, though it was probably just good manners. At the start of her speech, Denis was chatting with some friends. She walked over and chided him to be quiet,  "I must apologise for my husband!"
   Sadly, here, in America, most younger people will now only know her through the execrable film, Iron Lady,  which dwelt, almost gloatingly, on her descent into dementia. It was an unforgivable intrusion on her privacy and missed so much it could have said about this remarkable person.

Spring is Sprung

At least the crocuses have.

It's gone some way to cheer me up after the I did a tour of the back garden and realised the deer had stripped my baby rhododendron to its bare bones.  I have resorted to the "deer and rabbit repellent" (sic) which is made of dried blood and rotten eggs but a) it probably doesn't work and b) it's shutting the stable door (Americans say "barn door") after the horse has scarpered.
  Meanwhile at our neighbour's pond, all was quiet.

The two fat geese who'd been happily in residence flew off honking in alarm before I had a chance to take their picture.  The grass is still in its newly uncovered nakedness state - it's still a while before it'll start shooting up. The weeds will be there first. I can't be the only amateur gardener who puzzles why grass grows so well in flower beds but never in the lawn.

Back Up North

As we rolled up the motorways, past Cleveland, Ohio and Erie, Pennsylvania, it grew colder and the wind picked up. Ohio was due for a balmy weekend but we weren't going to be so lucky. And just like those attractions like waxwork museums which give you a little taster at the entrance, we rolled over the border into New York state, "Welcome to New York", and promptly hit a giant pothole. The Western New York motorways, where they exist, are notoriously atrocious. In fact I-86 is so bad that we make a cross-country detour to avoid the endless bump-bump-bump. My neighbours explain that New York City and the Albany politicians couldn't give an xxxx for WNY and its needs.
   As usual there was a dearth of rest areas, though this one, with a scenic overlook on the frozen Chautauqua Lake was posher than some.

A sign pointed out that, in the old days, the frozen lake was used for ice harvesting, which gave winter employment to local farmers. The ice was known for its pure quality and was shipped ("shipped" in the American sense, meaning, in this case, transported by rail) to Buffalo, Pittsburgh and lands beyond. A nice bit of trivia: Chautauqua in the local Indian lingo - or one of them - means Bag Tied in the Middle because that's what its shape is. That is not evident in the photo.

Inside, there were some interesting pseudo art deco touches

And on a warm day it would be a great place for a picnic. (Even the litter bins look posh.)

But today our teeth were chattering too much. There was hardly anyone there and in the information booth, a lady sat knitting her time away. I would suggest spending the money on more rest areas. Or give this one a nice cafe.

To find out what awaited us on our return, watch this space.

An Old English Lifestyle (continued)

Another subtle English touch - I also note that the shopping area (below) is called "Town Center" (sic). This is not an expression used much in America. And it's got parking meters. It does not, however, have a Boots or a betting shop.

An Old English Lifestyle

We are staying for Easter Week in a place outside Columbus called Easton, with apartments supposedly based on London's Regency terraces, offering an "Old English" lifestyle.

They are a little like Potemkin villages; the backs are not so salubrious.

(This might well be the last bit of snow left in Ohio).


And if you look too closely at the fronts, they're not exactly up to Nash's standards. But never mind, the door is almost like Number Ten's.

Across the road is something even more extraordinary, according to someone we met, the second most profitable shopping mall in the Mid-west. This may or may not be true but I wouldn't be surprised. Since my normal Cattaraugus County retail therapy dilemma is  weighing up the relative attractions of Walmart and Kmart, my head is spinning. I am like a kid in a sweetshop. It's a positive cornucopia of riches, filling 90 squared and fountained acres. From Trader Joe's to Tiffany, Banana Republic to Barnes and Noble, Lego to Louis Vuitton, throwing in a Macy's, a Nordstrom's several interior design emporia and a swanky Hilton, not to mention more cafes and restaurants than you can shake a stick at. And once you've taken your life in your hands crossing the six-lane highway between the flats and the shops, (they give you just over 20 seconds, counting down menacingly)  along which cars race at Indie 500 speed, you can walk everywhere with the minimum of hazard, except to your credit card.

And yes your eyes are not deceiving you..

It's built, I suspect, a little broader to accommodate Americans. And there are other subtle Old English touches

They are even geared up for Old English weather, kindly providing umbrellas.

Though it appears that all is not as rosy as it seems. Judging by the copious rules,

they have something of a potential hoodie problem here. In daylight, as in many such places, all is friendly, bustling prosperity, families and fun and businesspeople meeting for leisurely lunches; at night the boys and girls, given the opportunity, will come out to play.  Indeed in 2011 a teenager was shot dead here, caught in a showdown between rival gangs.  Stern action has been taken to preserve the Paradise; another local joked that every second shopper you see is a security guard. But as a Londoner, I can remind them that, in Old England, a Dickensian underbelly lurked beneath the charm.

Jerseys in Ohio

Just the ticket for a freezing Easter Monday. A typical picture-postcard Ohio farm

With a difference.

The fun includes cow pat ice cream (well they call it cow patty in America)

Some of the younger inhabitants are a bit blase

 Others enjoy the attention

While the older ones have learned a few paparazzi avoidance tricks

Jersey cows? Us? C'mon...

If you're tired of the real thing, you can watch the box

Not sure about the footwear though

And in case you don't know how to get there, it's easy to find.