the englishman

i know an english gentleman.  he lives near darlington, a place i do not know well, but am fond of nonetheless.  i met him nearly two years ago, at the train station.  it was merely a brief visit snatched on the journey from london to edinburgh.  my aunt and cousins and i hopped off the train and had tea with him and his wife.

when he was a boy, he would watch the planes that flew overhead during world war ii.  he knew them all by heart.  except one.  the plane that flew only at night.  many years later, he made use of the internet and found it.  the p61 black widow. 

he posted his puzzlement on a forum, my great uncle, who had been on the crew for one of the planes, responded, and a correspondence was established.  thanks to this seemingly coincidental connection, we had a new friend to make.

a tall, slender man with close-cropped silver hair and yellowed glasses.  a navy blue "woolly pully" sweater, dark trouseers, an army green coat.  a jaunty black cap, brimmed, trimmed with black braid.  his shoulder bag is also army green, with a spitfire printed on the flap.  twinkling eyes and a sweet smile.  he has seen much, done much, and seems good-natured about it all.

his wife is quieter, but just as sweet in her red wool coat with gold and enamel pins on the lapels.  her glasses are round, her curly brown hair is short and greying.

Lindisfarne

Nearly every step was a stagger as we fought the wind.  It blustered and blew against us; Hannah and I were struggling just to cross the yard.  We rounded the corner of the schoolmaster's house and walked a short way until we found the path.  Bracing ourselves, we stood for a moment in the sun, sloppy grins appearing on our faces for approximately the millionth time.  (Possibly the 40 millionth.)  Before us, the tall grasses bent nearly flat and the trees bowed and shook. 

We started down the path at a brisk walk, dodging rocks and ruts.  Momentum began to build as we went and soon we were sprinting over the dirt, gasping for breath as the wind threatened to snatch it from our throats.  The sudden line of hedges forced a halt.  We stood and we looked and there was the sea.  Sparkling, shining, shimmering in the sun.  Over the whitecaps, we could see the mainland spread out, consisting primarily of fields and sheep.  Waves crashed conversationally on the shore, chattering on the rocks, and with my hair flying around my face and the smell of salt in the air, it almost felt like home. 

The Process of Dreams

I stood outside the house, my hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, staring at the plain, unassuming sign.  This moment.  This was what it was all about for me.  The chill, damp, English air swirled around me and I tried to burrow deeper into my scarf.  Anticipation made my insides spin like a carousel.  I had waited years for this, years full of unfinished thoughts and fledgling wishes.  For me, England was - and is - the stuff dreams are made of.  Rolling green hills, cups of tea, witty authors, impeccable accents, rainy days, and walks in the countryside.  I glanced over at Hannah and her grin mirrored the oh-goodness-we're-actually-here-I-can't-believe-it expression I knew was on my own face.

Almost exactly a year earlier, she and I were sitting on the window seat in our aunt's kitchen in Texas.  We had been talking about wishes and wants and schools in England and writing novels under trees.  Our aunt walked in on the middle of the conversation and wondered what was up, so we filled her in.

"Well, if you go to school in England, we'll come visit you."

Really?  Was it that simple?  If Hannah goes to college in England, we'll visit her?

"We'll talk to Uncle.  I bet we could work it out."

To be honest, I didn't take her words too seriously.  One might say my aunt is known for having ideas on a grand scale; yet somehow, they often manage to work out.  However, I remained skeptical because this involved another country, painfully long flights, and a whopping amount of money. So I dubbed it a charming possibility and mostly forgot about it.  But the next fall, Hannah was, in fact, going to college in England.  There was one wish fulfilled.  Why not another?  So my aunt talked to my uncle and my parents and everyone said yes.

And now here we were, on a cold, wet day in March, standing on the street in front of a modest brick house, just a short jaunt outside of Oxford.  The only remotely coherent thoughts in my head consisted of "Oh God, oh God, thank you."  I couldn't seem to express myself beyond that.  I looked at the sign again.  It was still there.  The sign itself was nothing fancy, just a handful of carved black letters on a weathered grey board.  Eight letters forming two words.  Two words to forever spark my imagination.