LONGER STORIES - 31 lines and up

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Permalink Reply by susan chandel on February 19, 2009 at 7:00pm

The Meteor Shower Incident

Eric and Jake a few years after the meteor shower incident^

Developmentally, we learn that age three is an age of no fear. It is the age when a child explores the world around him or her and pushes the envelope so to speak. It is a time they don’t emphasize enough.. You hear of the terrible twos and those teenage years but 3 manages to hide in there. My daughter managed to avoid a third birthday adventure, my sons on the other hand perhaps, because their birthdays are in the summer each had such an adventure.
Jake’s story is perhaps most dramatic because he is by nature more adventurous and impulsive. We used to live in a more populated area about three hours south of here. We never took the kids to Disney world instead spending our vacations with friends and relatives visiting beaches and lakes. Every summer we would head 6 hours north to visit friends and watch the Persied meteor showers where there was less light pollution. We had just come back from one of our August trips, (in fact that August the kids and I had spent a month in northern Maine, while my husband and friends worked on our little house to ready it for a sale. The repairs were not finished, so we were staying at my mother’s ten miles away.)

Still bitten by the stargazing bug, we were out in the yard with a telescope on that hot summer night with Renee and Eric until after their bedtime. When we finally went to sleep, we all slept quite soundly. At my mother’s the air conditioner and fans were whirring away we did not have such contrptions so at 3 in the morning , we did not hear Jake slip out the kitchen door to continue his star gazing. My mother is also in the habit of locking her door so it locked behind him when he went out.

When he tried to come back in that door, he could not. So he began screaming and we didn’t hear him. Whether it was the whirr of the air conditioner or the exhaustion of the trip not one of us heard him. But He managed to wake most of the neighborhood. They probably didn’t have air conditioners running and had their windows open. Because he was screaming LET ME IN!! YOU CAN’T LOCK ME OUT OF THE HOUSE! No one really came to his aid, someone called the police.

The front door of the house wasn’t locked and the police walked in. The officer said “Shirley ( my mother) you are in big trouble.” I flew out of bed to see three police cruisers from two towns in my mothers yard and my son having fun at the wheel of the cruiser. It was a more populated area but small suburban towns. I was totally shocked and actually embarrassed, but glad that my son did not have to spend the night on the porch and that he was quite safe. I took him in my arms and showered him with kisses and asked him what he was doing outside he told me he wanted to look at the stars with us.

I explained to the officers that I hadn‘t heard him that we had been out side earlier looking at the stars and he wanted to join us out there. Which one of the officers found hard to believe “several people heard him screaming that you locked him out of the house.” They were debating the situation. One of them said they were calling social services and the other said this could happen to anyone and there was no reason to call social services.

Social services did get called… although having worked as an advocate at that time for a batterer’s treatment program. I could think of quite a few scarier incidents where they hadn’t been called. None the less there was an investigation. My husband headed north for a business engagement.My mother, one of our friends and I sat for the interview. The findings were a bit strange:We were found negligent and emotionally abusive, although I never found out on what grounds. But we were also found to have good enough parenting skills to not need any training.Puzzled, I asked the worker what exactly this meant. Well exactly what it says, you are negligent and emotionally abusive, but we don’t need to take your kids and you don’t need to go to classes because you apparently have good parenting skills. Which wasn’t much of an explanation.

Today a very self assured young man, Jake managed to survive his childhood adventures ( oh yes, there were a few other occasions where he impulsively strolled off at 5 and 7 which were maybe even scarier, but worked out okay). He is now an honor roll student in a commercial art program and soon he will be strolling off to college. Apparently, I must have had some kind of skills to maneuver through those scary child raising years and come out on the other side with three really wonderful and caring young adults.

Permalink Reply by Stephanie on February 24, 2009 at 6:01pm

Fish and fowl
Perugia, Italy

I normally buy fresh fish at the Coop, but today I bought it in a well supplied Italian fish store. For lunch I made stuffed trout (breadcrumbs, parsley, etc), but as I was getting ready to stuff the fish, when I opened up the package the woman had prepared for me, I realized she hadn't cleaned it. I can't remember if I EVER had cleaned a fish, maybe when camping years and years ago.

Anyhow, the experience reminded me of another kitchen first which I will tell you about here. It had to do with buying a turkey for Thanksgiving.

Several years ago we wanted to have a Thanksgiving dinner here in Italy. It is a holiday that is not celebrated by Italians, but if they are lucky enough to know an American living here, and someone who wants to go to the bother of making everything from scratch, they are extremely lucky. It is a lot of work, but in the past has certainly been worth it.

It used to be very difficult to find a whole turkey here. One would have to go to a butcher and order it, and then you would have to go back to the store and pick it up days or a week later. One year I ordered one, and went back the day before Thanksgiving, and the store had totally forgotten that I had ordered it! It was a mad rush to find one, and I had to spend a lot more than I wanted to.

Years ago I had been told that there was a farmer who had turkeys on his farm and I could buy one directly from him.
So, I got directions to the farm, and drove and drove looking for the farm. Of course, I couldn't find the place, and out in the country, with no lights on the roads, it was almost impossible to find it, which I finally did, but in the dark. The man had prepared the turkey for me, a large one (for Italy), and I was thrilled to have solved problem number one: the TURKEY.

Now I would have to buy some fresh pumpkin for the pie, make the pie crust, buy berries and make a cranberry sauce, make a homemade stuffing with bread I would buy, or with old bread at home, and then go to another store for sweet potatoes (not the orange colored ones, but white ones), and after a day or two of cooking be ready for the delicious meal, for my family and lucky friends who would be invited.

The turkey and I drove home. BUT.....THE TURKEY. THE TURKEY WOULD NOT. It just WOULD NOT FIT IN THE OVEN.
But "Why" you ask.....Because the farmer had left the NECK ON THE TURKEY. And something had to be done about it, and FAST.

I had seen films. I had seen how people used knives when they wanted to do something drastic. So.....I got my biggest knife possible, put the turkey on a board lifted my arms and down they went, as I started to cut the bone of the neck!!!!! It sounds horrible I know, and in fact, at that moment in walked my husband (Italian) saying excitedly "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!! NOT LIKE THAT!!!"
"Oh YES, exactly like THIS!! I have seen on films that this is how to use a knife!!" And in fact, I was able to cut the neck off the turkey, and he (she?) was able to get into the oven just FINE!!
What an adventure!
I did it.
Another first in my life.
And yes, the turkey and the stuffing and the pie and the cranberries and the sweet potatoes and the wine and the salad were all delicious!!!

I never went back to the farmer, too much trouble and too far to go. This year I just bought big pieces of turkey and was able to stuff them with a homemade stuffing. I prepared all except for the pie. And another year I found a whole turkey in the market. And another year I found a frozen one that had been imported from France.

But getting back to fish and cleaning things to be eaten. In Europe there is a lot more to be cleaned, but definitely, the food is excellent.

Sometimes you do have to work harder, and usually, it is worth it.

Permalink Reply by Marian Duggan-Markos on March 28, 2009 at 5:38am

It is so true, although I am no fan of fish, the best one I have ever had is one I caught, cleaned and cooked. My grandmother used to say "hunger is good sauce"!!! You make me want to come for Thanksgiving in Italy :)

Permalink Reply by Sandman on February 25, 2009 at 3:40am

A Fantasy Dinner
Melbourne Beach, Fla. U.S.

Yesterday I had a meeting with a couple of guys that are opening a new restaurant and wanted to meet with me about being the Executive Chef. So to prepare I went through many files and gathered some of the publicity I have received over the years, a file of many different menus I served in my restaurant, a list of references, etc.
Doing this turned out to be a really nice journey and reviewing all of the articles, interviews, photos, etc. I came across an interview I did for a magazine where I was asked a series of questions, one of which was "If you could invite anyone in the world, living or dead, to dinner who would it be?"
This is one of those fantasy questions I have asked myself for what seems like my whole life. (I think we all have some of those from the time we are children. Mine have always been things like, "If I was going to die and couldn't stop it, which way would I choose to go?"; or something like, "If I could meet my four favorite musicians, living or dead, but only four, who would I choose." You get the idea) But... I digress.
In the interview I named the following people: Martin Luther King Jr., Nelson Mandela, Gandhi, and Einstein.
When the writer, who clearly was surprised by my answer, asked why I chose them I gave the following reasons:
Martin Luther King, Jr.............so I could put my arms around him and thank him for inspiring me from early adolescense to reject prejudice; making me a devoute believer in non-violent civil disobedience; for showing me that when one group of people is so fiercely worked against, that hating the abusers only diminishes the group being abused; and for opening my spirit to discover the other three invitees.
Nelson Mandela.......................so I could embrace him and thank him for seeing that violence does not work; to thank him for being such a remarkable inspiration to so many including me {somehow the word "inspiration" seems small compared to the greatness of the man}; and to thank him for inspiring millions to fight against aparthied from all over the world.
Gandhi...................very simply to thank him for being such a force for right and for non-violence; and to thank him for letting me shake his hand and giving to me such an example that I could never live up to, and not being able to meet his example provides to me constant inspiration to be a better human being.
Einstein .........................to listen to him speak of anything he wanted. He was an incredibly fascinating human being with a great sense of humour. And to thank him for helping guide me for so many years on my journey to peace for the world. (Read the book, "Einstein, His Ideas and Opinions" for a starter.

All of these men were just men with all of the quandries, flaws, failures, and foibles that all humans have.Yet, they proved that we can evolve and chose so much of the path that we travel.
What would I cook for them??? Strangely I have never been able to decide (and my repertoire is large.)
But I do know I would cook anything they wanted!!
peace
P.S. Maybe I will write a story about teaching Stephanie how to clean fish, cut fowl, and dissect animals for cooking...........................becuse her story gave me a huge smile!

Permalink Reply by susan chandel on March 1, 2009 at 3:59pm

Cookin‘ ! At the tree house
Most of the snow had melted off the decks for now though the yard was still buried and we are expecting another foot of snow tomorrow. Yesterday I went to the movies with an old friend and later I prepared a wonderful meal…or most of it (what are future son in laws with degrees in cuisinary arts for?) I love dinner parties.
The savory smell of the pork roast rubbed with sage and fresh thyme and a hint of ginger mingled with woodstove smell in my toasty tree house. I sat before the fire in the great room. Perched on the love seat, Eleanor tapped out a beat on Djembe and talked about her drumming lessons in California. I responded on my small Indian kettle drum. I never really had drum lessons and really have only just started drumming again with the recent shift in my lifestyle. I appreciate all drumming tips. Brian had taken over the cooking at Ani’s suggestion ( the gravy and the potato mashing).
I like to think that winter has instilled a restlessness amongst my guests because several are embarking on major journeys in the coming weeks. Eleanor, a seasoned traveler of 70 plus years, is going to France to spend two years at the Buddhist center in Limoges. I am driving her to the shuttle bus on Thursday. Renee and Brian, 23 and 24, are leaving for the Pacific Northwest the terminus of a two month Kerouac-ian road trip. Renee will be finishing her education and Brian hopes to get a gourmet cooking gig. Eric is going to fly out there to meet them with their beloved kitties. He is afraid to bring his guitar and laptop on the plane and figures that he will only stay out on the west coast for a few weeks. They talked about their plans over a really yummy American style dinner. Roast pork, carrots, tossed salad and mashed potatoes, as I tried to teach my dog some manners an impossible task.
After cleaning up we boogied to some bluesy tunes and sipped on some Irish coffee, Ani’s favorite after dinner drink. I enjoyed my evening which seemed full of vibrant dreams. I am not sure where I am going… I can’t think beyond getting the fallen trees cut up for next winter’s firewood. But I will be having some adventures to be sure in the coming years as I decide what to do with the tree house here and consider which course to take.

Permalink Reply by susan chandel on March 3, 2009 at 8:14pm

After some discussion on culture clashes and some sketching, I decided to write this blog entry on boxes, various biases, acceptance and non acceptance. I believe that we all need to be more tolerant in general if we hope to have peace in the world. On that rich note I offer some of my experience.

In my travels, I have learned it is wise to assume nothing and keep an open mind. Actually, I may have been born that way. I think this because even as a very young child I questioned many things. I was out side the box more often than not. My father was a jet airplane mechanic and he offered to take my younger brother up for a ride and not me. It might not have been so bad, but when he told me that I had to stay home and set the table I was totally outraged at the age of 4. That was just the beginning. I got in trouble for being the only girl who violated the playground limits at one elementary school I went to. "It is perfectly natural for boys to go off limits on the playground, but girls are not suppose to do that" said the teacher as I stood before the class with a couple of boys who had enjoyed playing see saw on the cart in the yard next to the play ground. I must have been in good company because the women's movement got a big boost when I came of age.

One box that I was tossed into was not divided along gender lines, but was particularly outrageous. As a child we lived in the next town from the tree house a college town with two military bases. At 12, I was in the advanced class in the junior high. Which I will say was a box I did enjoy being in because I liked the challenging topics we studied. I had written an essay which I was quite proud of and the teacher read it before the class. The to my amazement she accused me of plagiarism saying that it was too well written to be the work of a 12 year old. I stood right up and denied it and challenged her to find what book I had copied it from and furthermore if she was going to accuse me of such a thing she would have to prove it. She said nothing. After class, I spoke with her and told her that if she thought that my essay was so well written she should give me an A on it. To which she said under no circumstances would she do that. My father was a non commissioned officer in the military and I did not even belong in that class. The advanced class was not for military kids and that I would be lucky if she gave me a C. Now it was beginning to make sense to me. I had this woman for three classes. Classes that I had never gotten less than an A in in my young life and I could never seem to get more than a C from her. I asked her if she knew that information, why she hadn't bothered to look at my academic records to see that I did indeed belong in that class. Probably outraged by my disrespectful manner, she did manage to get me demoted the following year, but I was able to rectify that by going to the guidance office and complaining with the backing of my science teacher. And I got an award at the end of the year for my miraculous advancement to the honor roll. Which my brother was right, I did not deserve, it was merely because I had a prejudiced teacher the year before. I don't think that I learned a lesson, I had always had some pretty good advocacy skills, but I guess I learned to put them into action.

One thing I questioned at 5 and called my elders on was why one needed to fall in love with a man... not that I didn't think it was an option, but it seemed like a silly rule to me as a child. I can’t say that I fit into that lesbian box because even as a young screaming feminist that really wasn’t the right fit. Though if you read my earlier story you might have figured that one of my great loves was with a woman., although some of you assumed otherwise. After we bought the tree house in 2000 together, Claire and I thought that we better make our relationship official. Even though we both owned the house, having split the hefty down payment, we did not want to risk either of us losing it in the event of one of our deaths, as had occurred with other same sex couples we knew. At the time, civil unions were recognized in Vermont so we drove over and tied the knot. Later we registered in our own state and of course drew up wills. Recently, I pulled out my photo album to sketch scenes from those days, here is one of Quechee Gorge in the Green Mountains of Vermont.

Permalink Reply by Marian Duggan-Markos on March 28, 2009 at 5:23am

Our Children Learn What They Live!

My nineteen year old daughter, Hannah, called me today. She said she wanted to thank me for making her make a lasagna dinner for Mr. LeBlanc when Mrs., LeBlanc died. I reminded her that it certainly was not my idea, but that we made it together and I drove her to leave it on his doorstep.

This is actually the end of a story that happened 14-15 years ago, when my daughter, Claire, began first grade. Her teacher, Mrs. LeBlanc, was a warm and very maternal presence in the school. Claire loved her and she loved Claire as she did all children,
Having had four children in five years I was always toting one, dragging another and chasing after a couple, as you can imagine, but mine were exceptional children. Not only were they highly gifted (which I didn't know at the time), but all were lovely souls, good and kind and compassionate.,

During Claire's first grade year Mrs. LeBlanc started to take a lot of sick days and by the end of the year we were told about the breast cancer she was fighting, Hannah, with an IQ in the stratosphere and a non-verbal learning disability did not have many friends, though everyone got along with her. Mrs. LeBlanc became Hannah's first friend in Kindergarten. When the kids had recess, Hannah would hang out with Mrs. LeBlanc, having discussions on an adult level and enjoying herself. She didn't relate to the other five year olds.

The following year, Hannah was placed in Mrs. LeBlanc's class and Hannah was in hog heaven. After a few weeks, Mrs LeBlanc came in and introduced us (I always volunteered) to a woman she said she had arranged to be the substitute any time Mrs. LeBlanc was out sick. She wanted the kids to get to know Mrs. S. Everyone thought this was wonderful. It was very considerate, but I knew we were looking towards the end.

After several months I got a call one night. Mrs. LeBlanc had died an hour before. The kids would be told in the morning. I told my children myself so that they could begin grieving at home and have some perspective. Hannah asked about a thousand questions about funeral practices all around the world. By the time they went to sleep, they were centered. The next morning I did not let them ride the bus so they wouldn't tell anyone anything they didn't know.

Hannah insisted on going to the wake. Mr. LeBlanc was a guidance counselor at our town high school at the time, and when we got into the funeral parlor, we were told all the high school kids bolted from there that Hannah was the only kid there. She had written a letter to Mrs. LeBlanc and drawn a picture of her idea of where you go when you die on the envelope. It was a rainbow and butterflies. When Mr. LeBlanc saw her waiting in line to pay her respects at the coffin, he came over, knelt down and had a long talk with her about many things and they agreed to be friends.

He then took the letter from Hannah and put it into his wife's hands so she could be buried with it. I never got to read that letter, but I do know Hannah's quirky sense of humor and her compassion, so I would love to have.

It was after the funeral that Hannah became concerned about Mr. LeBlanc grieving and not taking care of himself, hence the lasagna. That Christmas, we made boxes out of old Christmas cards and yarn with our 4H group and Hannah made an extra one. She then made hand dipped chocolates for Mr. LeBlanc and, once again, I made the drive so she could leave them at his door,

In our conversation this morning, after thanking me, she went on to tell me that she always thinks of me when she makes lasagna. She says she always makes it for others, especially her friend, Patrick, who cannot afford food, and she leaves it on their doorstep.

She, too, is paying it forward!

Permalink Reply by Marian Duggan-Markos on March 30, 2009 at 4:25am

She called me a day or two after that and told me that her landlord, the approx. 75 yr old woman from whom she rents a room and she have a new pet, sort of ...

Let's call the landlord Catherine. Well Catherine has a big house with half a dozen or so bedrooms, but will only rent one. She vetts her candidates well and always rents to college kids, all of whom come to her house for a Seder each Passover. Anyway, Catherine has cats who have a cat door to go into and out of the house, plus Catherine always leave the basement door open for their convenience also,.

So my daughter calls me and says they now have a pet possum or two. It seems they let themselves into the basement some time ago and are probably raising a litter, However, it is okay becasue the possums eat cat food and always use the litter box.

Catherine and my daughter are now feeding and cleaning for five cats and a family of possums!!! Share and share alike, right?

Permalink Reply by Les Derbyshire on September 16, 2009 at 9:00pm

This is a journal entry from my research visit to the Philippines.

Visit to Castellejos Tuesday 5th Feb 2008

Today was one of those days that, when you’re new to life in the developing world, leave you wondering where you could possibly have gone wrong. With a little experience – and believe me, you do learn quickly – you are able to accept it for what it is: normal!

The day started yesterday, if you see what I mean. Yesterday we had it all planned. Yes, that’s it. That’s where we got it wrong. We arranged to visit the new CFC Boys Programme centre in Castellejos, reportedly about 25 minutes drive from Olongapo. Travelling in one of the project mini-buses we were to pick up some lunch for delivery to the children and leave Olongapo at 11 o’clock in the morning. That would give us time to take a look around the new centre, interview a member of the staff there, talk with some of the boys and be home in time for tea, so to speak.

Wrong.

This morning our guide for the day told us that the trip would start just before 12 o’clock so we should go and ask in the kitchen if we could have an early lunch as there would not be an opportunity to eat once we got under way. She would not hear of us missing out on lunch so we dutifully asked in the kitchen for lunch at 11.30 and the cook happily agreed to the change of plan.

As we were about to leave our room to go for our lunch there was a knock at the door. It was our guide telling us that they were leaving immediately so we needed to be ready. OK, Plan C. Someone agreed to go and ask if we could have a snack to take with us instead of eating lunch at 11.30 and we gathered what we needed for the trip and made our way down to the driveway and the waiting mini-bus.

Well, the mini-bus had been waiting and had even been loaded with the children’s food that I mentioned. So far, so good. However, for some reason that we couldn’t quite follow, involving the driver being tired and being the only driver available, it had been decided that the mini-bus would not do. We must take the jeepney.

I should explain here that a jeepney is a uniquely Philippino mode of transport. It resembles a vintage US military jeep on steroids. Whilst no two are alike, they have in common a jeep front-end followed up by a stretched rear passenger compartment with a bench running the length of each side, the whole being covered by a roof so low that even the shortest must bend almost double to climb on board through the open rear end. The public transport system relies heavily on the jeepney which can be seen in great numbers at all times of the day and night, its strident engine drowning all but the noisiest truck and the horn sounding to clear the road, attract potential clients or indeed for no reason at all.

The project has its own private jeepney and, like the others, it is brightly coloured and festooned with chrome from radiator to tailpipe. With the food transferred from the mini-bus and several young passengers on board we took our place of honour in the cab with the driver – apparently now rejuvenated by this change of vehicle. As we were about to leave, an envoy arrived from the kitchen bearing a bag containing our snack, the full cooked lunch in pots and precariously held in a carrier bag! We placed the bag on the cab floor and with a crunch of gears and a growl from the motor we set off down the drive and onto the main road – in the opposite direction to Castellejos!

At the time it was hard for us to decide if this was Plan D or if in fact we had misunderstood all along and that ‘destination Castellejos’ had only been a fanciful notion of our own creation. On the principle that any progress was probably good, we waited to see what would happen next. The “Ahaa!” moment came as we pulled up outside a school and some of the young passengers alighted with some of the food which they took inside for the project’s children who attend there.

Deftly making use of a garage forecourt, the driver executed a u-turn in the busy main road and set off once more, this time in the direction of Castellejos, passing on the way the point from which we had set out half-an-hour before. We briefly entertained the foolish thought that maybe we could have eaten lunch and been picked up at the end of the driveway as the jeepney passed that way again? No, silly idea.

Any road journey in the Philippines evinces a mixture of emotions: mostly exhilaration with a dash of dread added as a flavour-enhancer. If the public jeepney is king of the road surely the project’s private one is, at the very least, a crown prince. A blast from the horn sends tricycles, hand-carts, pedestrians all scurrying respectfully to the side of the road as we pass on our way.

Our route today took us along the edge of Subic Bay, the road winding and dipping. Along the way we passed the entrances to numerous beach resorts. Once the proud indication of a hotel that occupied a carefully guarded stretch of beach but now showing signs of decay and dilapidation, they will still happily charge 100 pesos for a day-entry ticket.

After some distance on more open roads we then came to the community of Subic where the driver took a right turn off the main road into the back streets of the town. This, we then found out, was to deliver the last of the lunch food and some more passengers at the local school. Another U-turn and we returned to the main road and turned towards our final destination: Castellejos.

As we continued northwards the scenery began to change, the town streets giving way to open fields and in the distance the mountains. We saw small farmsteads, occasionally with one or two oxen in the fields. Quite suddenly we drove into Castellejos, a small town with a busy, bustling market and filled with tricycles, jeepneys, motorcycles and pedestrians all going about their business. The project’s new centre is located out of town so we drove for a further few kilometres once again emerging into open country as we travelled first on the main highway then turning onto an unmade road and finally leaving the road altogether to approach the centre over a rough dirt track between the fields. In all the journey had taken some one and a half hours!

The centre occupies a plot of level land about 2 hectares in area with a large, new concrete building still in the process of construction and a couple of small, wooden huts. We soon learned that the main building is to provide the accommodation for the residents of the centre. At the moment it consists of one very large space, completely open on one side, three smaller rooms leading off of that and a kitchen approached from the other side of the building. A hired contractor was painting the outside of the end wall and another was laying a floor screed in one of the smaller rooms. A further worker, in the shade of a tree, was sifting the stones out of the sand and cement mix in order to mix cement for the floor.

It was clear that the large open room, like a good-sized barn, was being used as sleeping accommodation for the boys who have already moved out to the unit from Olongapo. It also serves as a living area with a newly-acquired TV and at one end as parking space for the centre’s vehicles. On the land three men were marking out long beds ready for the boys to receive instruction in clearing the plots and planting vegetables. It was lunch-time when we arrived and most of the boys were eating in the shade at the rear of the building. We joined them with our ‘take-away’ and did battle with the flies that were intent on eating as much of our meal as we did!

Our intention was to interview one of the members of staff and then to talk with a few of the boys. I suppose 1 out of 2 is not a bad score. The boys were due to watch a film in the afternoon and it seemed churlish to deprive them of that pleasure so we contented ourselves with the staff interview and a chat with one of the land-workers.

The jeepney, being needed elsewhere, had departed some time earlier and we had agreed to take public transport from Castellejos town to return to Olongapo. To reach the town we accepted a ride in the centre’s tricycle, more recognisable to western eyes as a motorbike and sidecar. The driver and another passenger rode on the bike while Marion and I squeezed into the diminutive sidecar. I took heart from the seemingly robust welded construction of this part of the vehicle. The sidecars all seem to be of similar construction and I had seen the startling splash of the arc-welder’s fire-fountain in rough workshops and right alongside the road where they are put together.

After a little shopping in the market we boarded a jeepney bound for ‘home’ and passed a pleasant trip admiring the scenery and breathing the diesel fumes through the open back of the vehicle. The journey was uneventful by our normal standards being only slightly spoiled by over-shooting our stop back at Olongapo.

And the 25 minute drive? Well it’s a relative rather than an absolute measure, not to be taken too literally. A man might expect to embark on a 25 minute drive, there and back, in a morning – though he probably wouldn’t since some distraction would be sure to tempt him from his plan. Ah, there I go again. Using the “p” word. Have I learned nothing?

elD
Olongapo, Philippines.