Just read this entire thread without stopping. Absolutely incredible read. I will definitely be checking in for updates! Thanks a lot for writing all of this.

Just popped in for a read and was rewarded. Heading to your next post!

I'm not really sure how long it was after I turned in my report on Africa, that I received the letter from the U S State Department about taking part in what was called the "Peace Process" in the media. I was familiar with the history in Northern Ireland, but because I was a teacher by trade and had not been involved in political issues since the seventies, I wasn't sure what they were expecting me to do.

But, they had done their research on me, so they knew that I had written a paper a few years before that discussed the problems of changing attitudes in adults who had carried certain beliefs for their entire lives. The paper was an attempt to look at issues of "belief" in a new light, my emphasis being on learning methods and the theory of accepting change. (I had given a presentation in Aspen on SEX, Successfully Eliminating Xenophobia (the fear of strange or foreign things), a talk (with copious amounts of innuendo!) that garnered some press at the time, lol.)

Knowing that my specialty was in reviewing educational institutions, they asked that I visit several different schools in Belfast and other cities, as well as a few out in the country. I would be assigned both to schools that were segregated by religion as well as a couple of integrated schools that were run by the Quakers. Because I love meeting with both students and teachers, I decided that I would accept, even though I was very busy at the time.

The flight from Southhampton was on a small commuter turboprop and one of the most exciting flights of my life. The weather was British all the way with the plane flapping it's wings as hard as it could simply to keep us aloft (at least that's how it felt!). Security was easy, with simply a wave of my passport, I assume because so many Yanks were in town at the time. Belfast was a fantastic city, with the many old buildings and houses that I've learned to love all over Europe. The children I talk to always tell me how much they like America because of the modern buildings, but give me historical structures every time.

My first day there I checked into Queen's University, where I would be presenting my lecture and then decided to take a run and see the city. I ran for about six or seven miles through Belfast, first along the river and then going through the checkpoints in the walls with just a wave of my hand. I knew that everyone would just assume that I was another nutty American and in fact everyone was very nice.

A few little boys hollered at me for running through their neighborhood, so I decided to stop and have a chat. I'm extremely outgoing, so I just joked around with them for a few minutes, as they peppered me with questions. I could only understand about half what they were saying, but they seemed like good kids. I wondered if they knew why I was there, but they had only vaguely heard about it from friends.

great read so far

The next day I set out with a driver on a ride to the countryside that was designed to both see the sights and take me to several different schools. The weather was misty and overcast, so I knew the views would be the usual haunting beauty that I had come to to expect in the UK. The ethereal glimpses through the fog, of buildings that call to my past are the reason that I have felt a strange bond to the island for most of my life.

Many of my ancestors came from Scotland in the 1600's to settle in Belfast for many years, before they left for America looking for work. The old buildings, even the castles, those difficult and problematic symbols of another time, seem to call out to something inside of me that I can't really express in words. They remind me of the many times as a small child that I was admonished by my teachers for drawing castles and ancient houses rather than focusing on my work.

I was driven to the huge shipyards, sitting idle in the fog. It made me sad at the changing culture of the world that moves in front of us while we watch, inexorable and unstoppable, constantly pulling us toward a future that many of us don't want to live. The countryside, the ruins, indeed the very air seems laden with my history. Is it any wonder that the Irish flute causes me to shiver every time I hear it? It makes me both sad and happy at the same time.

We came to a town called Lisburn and went to the Friends School. It's what I would call a "soft" grammar school which, at the time, partially used the part of the 11+ for admittance, as well as a less formal committee approach. The Quaker church was the oversight body and they advertised as nondenominational with about eleven hundred students (through sixth form) and had about one hundred boarders.

We went on to Londonderry (Derry) and visited two schools there. Every school was filled with students happy to talk to me, probably because, like every other student in the world, they were getting out of work. I always ask open ended questions and then just let them talk. Most young people will open up quickly and begin sharing their thoughts with strangers at will and I've found that especially true when they find out they are talking to Americans. I just took my notes, smiled plenty and enjoyed listening while they did the rest.

Because I had a state dinner that night, (Where I was to meet the really important people without having to make a speech!) I had to too quickly leave to return to Belfast and visit a school there. I knew I would be taking a bus tour through the city the next day so I figured that I could identify a couple more schools to visit before I returned to Oxford to do my report. The hard data is already done at the national level, so by including that with a more my much anecdotal approach, I felt I could best meet the expectations of my being there.

The dinner was at the town hall in Belfast and they had a full set up for about two hundred people. It was a dressy occasion, but not full top hat and tails, so I wore my conservative grey suit and even more conservative grey tie. I was determined not to be the eccentric guy at this special "do". I arrived early and met various dignitaries who, after finding out that I love old buildings, showed me around, even letting me sit in the different seats of the politicians and explaining who they were.

They were all very friendly and because they knew that I was only dealing with schools, I felt like they opened up to me more than with some of the others. Many of the other Americans that I met had been in dry negotiations all day, while I had been talking and joking with teachers and students. I think this gave me a different focus and let me relax with our hosts a bit more.

Some people were worried that they might have to stand up and present their work to the room, but because I am extremely outgoing and can talk all day about schools and curriculum, I wasn't worried about that. The way it worked out, the room became full, the President walked in and there was no other thought to having minor functionaries being responsible for anything and certainly not having to give any speeches.

I got in the receiving line and moved up to shake Clinton's hand, while someone in the State Department told him who I was. I remember thinking about how this person, whom I had never met, could know exactly who I was, but of course, I'm sure I was well vetted back in Washington long before I was sent the invite. Because I'd already gone through the security screenings for the parties at the embassy, I wasn't questioned any further for Northern Ireland, although I'm sure there were many questions on the other end that I wasn't made aware of.

I was seated at a table with the Lord Mayor and several Aldermen (and women), next to Gerry Adams, and everyone got along well. Most of the questions were to me about our odd US customs, which I was used to answering. Long stints living in other countries mean that you get used to people asking about our eccentricities and I can play the answers into bizarre stories that are guaranteed to get a laugh. I think the Irish especially like our wild traits, because we carry them straight from our ancestors to the streets of America, albeit with our own bits added on.

There were a few short speeches (This was highly unusual, lol), but the focus was on the peace rally the next day. I remember thinking how nice this dinner was, because it was much less "stuffy" than some of the garden parties that I had attended, where everyone stood around eating and waiting to shake the hands of the most important people who show up. You would never just get to sit down and joke with the people around you.

The rally and the speech that the President made the next day seemed well received, so everyone was happy and feeling successful. I am well aware that most everything done on the diplomatic level is window dressing, but I suppose that's how most things begin. I was feeling pretty positive with my reviews of the schools, I really felt that much could be made out of the thoughts of both the teachers and their pupils.

A group of us Americans were given a bus ride through the historically troubled parts of the city, but it was done with the theater that we Yanks love so much. The tour guide was was a young unionist, who started off giving us his views of the problems as he saw them. Traveling through the checkpoints, he extolled his particular politics.

Suddenly, he saw a hitchhiker in the road and told the driver to pull over and pick him up. Because he was from the other side, this new rider then began giving the republican viewpoint as the two began to argue. It ended up that they were best friends from different worlds, two young men just trying to make a pound. They played their roles well and we were all duly impressed.

After a few more lunches I was ready to fly back to the UK. I don't pretend to think I had a huge effect on the process, but I was optimistic about the young people that I met. It was funny that I got to meet the only president I've ever met while out of the country, but irony has been one of the major factors in my life. It was another adventure in what had been an interesting journey so far. I flew back to Hants in that same exciting small plane and prepared to write my report, not knowing that it would have much to do with an even more amazing adventure in the future.

when signing up to 2p2 i didn't expect to read anything as insightful and interesting as this ^^^ or the rest of your blog. Even your experiences up to the age of 25 are more than some people have through experienced in their whole lives and now i wana go do something.. might live in the forest for a month or something ;/

I appreciate the kind thoughts. I would say just go for it, the world of bills, responsibility, relationships, etc., will always be there when you get back. It's the adventures that always take a back seat and then the opportunity never comes up again. I've started a list of potential journeys for myself and we'll see what happens.

My iron in the fire at the moment is that I've written a famous artist several times trying to get them to paint me wearing the clothes of an 18th century royal. We'll see...

Intermision

When I was young I would often go the old cemetery in our town late at night. I would climb over the gates and head straight for the grave of Alferd Packer, where I would lay down on the concrete slab that was placed there to prevent people from digging up his bones and I would look up at the night sky.

While I was laying there I would often ask Alfred about the universal questions that were on my mind. Were his motivations so different than mine? How did he go on after all that he had been through? I would ask him aloud the many things that I wanted to know.

"Why did he do what he did?"

"Did he sense the souls of the people, as he sat satiated by the fire at night?"

Did he eat them for a grand spiritual reason or was he simply trying to survive?

And most important:

"Where his dreams troubled for the rest of his life?"

Once, in the whisper of the wind, he answered me. Perhaps it was the rustling of the trees, but I would swear that I heard his voice in the breeze. He said that his dreams were those of the innocents and that he indeed slept deep and untroubled.

It was on one of those nights that I noticed something odd. It was as if the sky was darker than usual, there seemed to be fewer stars in the sky. I decided that it must be my mind playing tricks on me, perhaps it was just cloud cover or maybe it was pollution from the cars. I felt an uneasiness come over me, so I left the graveyard for home.

It was on my next visit that I was sure that something about the night was different. A tiny distant star, very close to the Big Dipper was missing. I had noticed that single star several times in the past, because it seemed to mirror my feelings of separation from others, surrounded by teeming humanity, but forever isolated and surviving entirely own my own.

I knew exactly where it had been and now, inexplicably it was gone. Was I the only person on Earth who was noticing this newly impending darkness that was overtaking the sky? As I left the cemetery that night I was suddenly overcome by a deep fear, because I knew in my heart that something was very, very wrong.

It was a few days later that several amateur astronomers reported their findings in the local newspaper. They had been assigned to watch certain parts of the sky and they could state with certainty that many distant stars were going out with increasing frequency. They couldn't say why this was happening, but they were sure that something unusual was happening. They called for a government review of their work, but the politicians remained strangely silent.

It was as few weeks later that the government finally came out with a small notice on the front page of the paper. It stated that indeed some distant stars were going out, but there was no cause for alarm. This, of course, set off an immediate panic throughout the country, with people rushing to the stores to purchase all the food they could hoard.

Humanity looks very superficial when viewed through fear, with everyone pushing aside their neighbors to buy that last can of beans. There is a visceral need to take care of one's own, a primal desire to survive at all cost. It evidenced itself early on and then never went away.

The next release that came from the government was even more frightening than the one before. All it said was that something, from every direction in space, was blotting out the distant suns. It seemed to be extinguishing more and more stars, at a greater and greater rate, but again everyone should remain calm.

I wasn't sure what to believe, but I joined in with everyone else. I pushed aside my fellow man and bought all the food and water that I could. Because something evil was headed towards Earth and it was coming at us very fast...

"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?" W B Yeats

You could see the fear in their eyes. It was the look of the hunted. A dark presence was overtaking the world and people were afraid. It was a blackness, a closing in, like prison doors being slammed shut forever with no hope of reprieve. It was a sick feeling that began with a churning of the acid in the stomach, starting with a slight burning in the gut, but soon grew to a sharp knife-like pain that worked it's way through the body, until it became evident in their very expression, a walking, talking reminder of what was to befall.

The stores were soon empty of food and then the streets began to clear. At first, no one wanted to go out after dark, because a glance at the sky would remind them of that great unknowable that was chasing them down. They would hide in their homes until morning, shades drawn tight against the truth, and then they would peek out to see the early sunlight, but always fearing the worst.

It was a well meaning official that decided that a star count would soften the blow. They brought in the mathematicians, yes, the experts and figured the count of the still glowing suns. It seemed to work at the beginning, when the count was in the several hundred thousands, but as the numbers began to dwindle, inexorably over the days, it was clear that something was still heading toward Earth and that nothing would slow its course.

Soon all services were ended, because nobody would go to work even at the threat of a gun. The politicians could rant, the Generals could threaten, but nothing could dispel the fear. With no electricity, no food and no water, the people just huddled in their homes, cowering, crying and sobbing, begging at the throne of the unknown.

The times that I ventured out in the daylight, I saw the few others who dared, walking slowly, their ashen faces expressionless, but their darting eyes giving them away. They had quickly become the hunted, they had suddenly become the prey.

Sometimes a child would break down and begin crying, but the parents couldn't muster the effort to care, there was nothing left inside them, except to wait out the impending end. Using the numbers from the experts, people had quickly figured out the approximate date that the "The Great Unknowing" would reach our own sun. The calenders were marked carefully, but the knowledge only added to the fear.

It was the closing in that made it hard to breathe. It felt like a grip on your chest that never let go. Eventually, even the daytime became claustrophobic and most people just stayed inside and shivered in their homes. Even the light coming in from the shaded windows was a reminder of the impending doom. Something surrounded us, something powerful, something evil was slowly bringing us to the end.

I, like most others, moved to the center of the house, into a closet where I could cower in the dark. It was the frightened huddle of an animal, waiting for a fate that stalked us all. I could smell nothing but fear and taste nothing except the bile in my throat. I counted the days off one by one, each day my mind became darker, a grim shell of what it had been before.

On the last day, the day circled on the calendar, that day given by the math savants, I decided that I had to know the truth. I had to face my fear and look outside, I had to know what was really in store. At the darkest of night, I crept outside and slowly looked up at the sky. I saw two stars left, out of a number that once was legion and a cry of sorrow rose up in my mouth. The end was near, all was lost and there was nothing left to do but wait.

I went back inside, crawled into the closet and pulled myself into a ball. I knew the end would be any minute now, the final last gasp of the world. Was humankind to disappear this way, without so much as a scream? I felt the pressure begin to mount like a vise and then suddenly it became very, very cold.

I awoke on the grave covered in snow, with the wind blowing real hard. I was laying on the slab, shivering in the dark, confused and dizzy, but alive. I jumped up and ran for the gate, but then suddenly I stopped and looked back at the stone. I, in my anger, gave one last yell, even though my voice crackled with the cold,

"Oh Alferd, why did you lie to me? Because, I know now that your dreams were very troubled indeed."

I return you now to your previously scheduled program...

I'm moving this over from OOT, because it belongs here, lol...

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Contretemps "or how I always wanted a Ferrari"

Oh, I knew full well how difficult they were. I was aware that the ads read, "Less than three thousand miles! Third owner!" Something was driving people away from their dream, but I could not dissuade myself. It was a need that could not be denied.

She was a beauty! A 360 Modena with curves that would melt your heart. She was from a stable of four race cars out of California and my heart was set on making her street legal. She was dressed in grey like her sisters, but I planned on changing that to red. Oh, the dreams we shared, out together on the open road, nothing but the wind between us. That's of course, only when she ran..

Sure she was expensive, but what dream isn't? The new leather seats, the paint prep, the new dash, yes, the costs began to rise. She was finicky and difficult, but she was mine. She was certainly more than I deserved and just looking at her made me smile. Then the brakes needed fixing and then the engine blew. Specialists were brought in and the cost of owning her continued to rise even more. I began to get resentful, she was hurting the rest of my life.

To make a long story short, I began to understand that we just had to part, the cost was too great, even to fulfill a dream. All the guys that looked at me with envy as I drove her around, just didn't understand the price that I was having to pay on a daily basis. I sold her after two years of losses, licking my wounds and regretting the money and time that I'd spent. Saddened and chastened by my loss.

My red Ferrari, gone, but not forgotten...

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I wish that I could say that I had accomplished some great feat when I was invited to meet the Queen, but alas, I had not. Like the cheeky bloke that I am, I just wrote her a letter and said that I had always wanted to meet her and would she like to get together for tea.

I mentioned the reason that I was in Britain, talking nonstop about everything and nothing at the same time. I wrote about Northern Ireland and Africa, about schools and castles and kings. I raved about the many garden parties I had attended and talked glowingly about her relatives I'd already met, how nice they were to this American, alone in her country for months. I went on and on in a wall of words, something that I can easily do, I must have struck at least one small chord, because someone near to her was moved.

Her people contacted the embassy, (probably asking if I was bonkers, lol) until finally after a long back and forth it was decided that I would be invited to the events of the social season, Cinderella invited to the ball as it were. This would include invites into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot and then a garden party afterwards where I would be presented, along with many others, to Her Majesty. I began to view my Mini as a pumpkin in disguise, although it did cross my mind to rent a Rolls, but the looks on the faces of people in my village, pretty much put that idea on hold.

When I shared this news with my British friends they were astounded, because they had been teasing me for a month about "pushy" Americans and how silly we are about what many of them consider a large and unnecessary expense to the country. Most told me that they had never even seen her before and certainly they had never met. But, I began to make preparations for what certainly was the most formal adventure that I have ever done in my life.

Only now, taking a moment to think after finishing the thread, do I realize why everyone kept talking about a rabbit and a carrot...

Looking forward to the next post!

Thanks. Yes, half the people go crazy with my not giving him the carrot and then when I finally do, the other half feel it's just not me, lol. I have a bunch of avatar ideas saved from the old Zap comics, but I'm not so sure...

I had to go to the Embassy in London to pick up my passes and take a few more lessons specific to meeting the Queen, so I thought I would make a posh day of it and take part in a few dressy events around town, because I was already in suit and tie. I arrived by train around half ten and walked through the first guarded area into the waiting area before final security.

There was a large man, whose face I couldn't see, talking to a lady in front of me and I overheard him mention their house in Colorado. In surprise, because he was the first person that I had met from my home state since I had arrived in Britain, I exclaimed, "Wow, I'm from Colorado as well!" When he turned around, I recognized that he was the actor Marlon Brando with his wife and I suddenly wished that I had been a little more formal.

He asked me if I had a house in Aspen and I laughed and told him that no, I was just a teacher from Denver. They were both very nice and were there for the same reason that I was, going through protocol lessons and security clearances. They also mentioned that they would be heading back to the states after Ascot, which made me feel a little wistful, because I was a bit homesick at the time. Meeting them left me feeling more and more like Cinderella all the time, because each adventure that I was having sort of became bigger than the one before.

I had played my only round of golf ever on the Old Course at St Andrews, in the middle of February alone in the cold. I had been lost in the fog in Wales while learning to drive British style and then suddenly drifted down into the valley only to see Tintern Abbey appear out of the haze. I sat in the Abbey and read the poem, one of the most hauntingly moving experiences of my life, thinking about how far I had come since I was young.

I had visited hundreds of the "great piles" that I had missed when I first lived in Britain and had enough brochures and pictures to last me the rest of my life. Each week I would plan a one off adventure, whether it was in London or out in the countryside, each one designed to be "life changing" in so many different ways.

We talked for awhile, mostly about skiing and snow and we listened to the lectures (with a few moments of acting them out, so I suppose I can claim that I acted with Brando, lol.), most of which consisted of information that I had heard before. After a couple of hours, I left the Embassy to head to lunch not too far away. I had reservations for "high tea" at the Savoy, which consisted of little sandwiches, awesome little cakes, gallons of tea and plenty of grey haired ladies to talk to.

After lunch, I headed toward the hallowed ground of Lord's to watch the Eton/Harrow cricket match which is open to the public each year. I had tried playing the game with students, but I never felt comfortable having that hard red ball coming at me, so I never really learned the game very well. Because cricket matches never seem to end, I left after a few hours to take the train back home. All in all, an amazing day in what was the beginning of an amazing adventure.

I went to the little tailor shop in my village, but I could see the look of skepticism in his eyes when I told him the reason that I needed to rent a top hat and tails. He took my measurements and told me it had to be ordered from London, but it would most certainly be there on time. If I had to do it again, I think I would go with the two-tone look of black coat over grey, but owing to this being my very first attempt at being "high class" (turn of the screw, as it were), I thought the pure Tory look to be best.

I drove over to the car hire shop, but the poshest car they had was an overly expensive Rover, so I figured that my Mini would have to be good enough. On the first day of Ascot I arrived early and followed a line of very flashy cars into the parking fields. Whether it was because my little car stuck out like a sore thumb or because of my "unique" accent (or because "The Lady", the name given to her by friends, being the tiniest car there, fit into a "special" spot), I was directed up to the very front and given a place of honor right by the entrance. I do give some credit here to my style of speech, I am generally very informal and like to have a laugh with everyone. (Yes, taking the mick!), something which in many circles in the UK opens many doors, while behind you, you can hear the closing of others.

Throughout the UK, my accent was a thing of wonder, causing reactions of some awe everywhere I went. If you get away from London, into the tiny villages deep in the countryside where the tourists rarely go, they have only heard a US accent on the telly or at the movies. I patiently told them that I came from Colorado, the one place that miraculously had no accent whatsoever, but they would only respond by asking if I actually spoke English or if I only knew how to speak American, which made me laugh every time. At times they would ask me to say, "Howdy pardner!" and then they would all chuckle to themselves, discreetly of course, behind their hands, because they never want to be rude. I didn't mind at all and I humored them with my "non-accent", which became a great ice breaker for making new friends.

Pulling up in my little car, joking with the parking men in my "Yank" way of speaking (odd in itself, if you are familiar with class customs) and then uneasily donning my top hat, I proceeded to do my best to "put on airs" as I walked toward the gates.

I had spent some time on stage in my youth, so I hoped that my acting experience would carry me through this charade and in fact, I prayed that I would emerge on the other end unscathed, but with a grand story to tell. (And yes, my story of triumph and fall on the stage will come in the future, but to those who are now imagining a tale of Shakespeare and Shaw, alas it's more of a Snidley Whiplash saving an innocent tied to a railroad track, think more Heritage Square Opera House, rather than the West End.)

First, I had to walk smartly through the mass of plebs who were crowded at the front gate, where, because of my attire I assume, I was personally escorted through the madding crowd, toward a private entrance more suited to my newly found station in life. How easily I could fall into this trap of faux importance! Would I emerge on the other side of this experience with a head so large that my recently rented top hat would no longer fit on my head?

Snidely tied young Nell to the tracks. It was Dudley Dooright who saved her.* But yeah, Heritage Square melodrama seems to fit.


*Then Nell made out with the horse.

You're right of course and I was always the bad guy, lol. I think it was because I have a baritone stage voice, but I don't remember doing much singing. (I remember the name Snidley Snodgrass, but that may be lost in the haze of time.) My favorite part was acting as the narrator (without the moustache and black cape) and telling jokes before the play began.

We would get into trouble (lines forgotten, cues missed) almost every time, but we would just ham it up and carry on, lots of laughs. I still have some of the publicity stills from back then (mid 1970's), so I'll post them later.

Later I took opera lessons, because I wanted to become an opera star, lol. I was disappointed that again most of the parts for my voice were bad guys, but it didn't matter in the end. My vocal instructor said, "You sure are very loud, but your singing is terrible!"

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I have a small clipping from that august publication, The Times (of London, where else?), an over-wordy link to the upper classes, that serves both to inform, as well as to advertise the coming trends that are to be forced into the minds of the well to do. This blurb, (a classless word, but fitting, due to my being brought up in less than royal circumstances) reports on the coming marriage between a Rupert Middleston-Halverson to a certain Gemma Throckmorton-Culberstrand at some distant time in the future, within the confines of a great Anglican cathedral, tucked somewhere in a corner of one of the well hidden alleys in London. Certainly a marriage conceived in Heaven if there ever was one.

In my dreams of the distant future (am I really alluding to Proust in a treatise on the Merry Olde?), I hear the voice of the Head Prefect calling out for young Rupert IV through the otherwise quiet halls of the (very) exclusive boarding school where he debates in ancient Greek, yes, the very tomes he used to detest. It's true that both boys attend the same studies, one because of a love for the classics and the other because his parents felt that it was the best place for meeting socially appropriate friends. Of course, both of the reasons are equally acceptable, if not preferred.

"Middleston-Halverson-Throckmorten-Culberstrand, you lazy sod, get in here!", the Head Boy (as it were) cries out in an almost perfect Oxbridge accent, studied over time to hide that Western lilt, that much hated inflection in voice that his father hadn't quite left behind in his climb up the ranks (and out of the mines), in the all important reaching for that grand ring, otherwise known as "The Upper Class".

The young Ru, fresh from the game pitch, sporting the requisite hair falling over the forehead in the style of all public schoolboys (known as the "flop"), which in turn hides the sweat on his brow, as an almost unnecessary addendum, runs up with the required "Sir" on his lips.

His countenance simply screams out an all encompassing need to protect country and Queen, because in the very same second he is ruminating on both the complexity of the cost to save the Falklands (never even thinking that other word for that country, that name that can never be said aloud...) and wishing he were home on holiday where his riding pony awaits and his nanny is there to listen to his entreaties.

Such is the lot in life that the upper classes are forced to endure and it's toward that same (is it really a life of nothing but duty?) expectation that we all must pretend. But, I digress...

Once I on the other side (as it were), I was immediately struck by two things. One, luckily, the men were all dressed like me (a worrisome feeling niggling in the back of one's head until the very moment that one actually "arrives" in the most non-literal sense of the word...) and two, the women where all dressed up like flashy models, wearing the most amazing hats that I had ever seen. It seemed as if each one of them was trying to out-do the other, with some dressed in clothes that would look radical on a Parisian catwalk.

I was escorted into the Royal Enclosure with what, thank goodness, was only a modicum of fanfare and I quickly found a seat on the aisle. Ascot is a series of horse races, primarily aimed to show off the stables of the wealthy (royals from the UK and several Saudi princes among others) and give the "lofty" class a reason to dress up a bit while betting on their favorite steed.

I had been to the track in the states many times, but I didn't really understand the layout of the British racing stat sheets, so I decided that I would just always bet on American horses and hope for the best. It was a tactic that was better ignored, because not only did I never win, my horses never even placed. I should have just bet on one of the more famous stables and I might have had a chance at break even. I've never been particularly lucky and my run of bad luck carried the day. Although to be honest, I didn't hear anyone else rejoicing over any wins either, perhaps Lords are more subdued in their joy.

Inside the Enclosure is a separate glassed in area, in what is a high security middle section of the stands. After a couple of races, the Queen was brought into this area, with all the pomp and circumstance that I had only witnessed in the movies. I recognized her husband, but there were several others with her that I hadn't seen, even in my preparation studies. (Of course, Diana was not there, as this was the very middle of the scandals, why I still shudder at the mere thought to this day.)

After a couple more races, those of us who were to be presented to her, formed a little queue. I hadn't seen the Brandos until we lined up, they must have been sitting in front, while I had been talking with a large number of lords and ladies, most of whom wanted to talk about US politics and business. When the time was right, we were escorted into the glass area and we were presented individually to Her Highness.

Luckily, I didn't inadvertently curtsy, a horrible faux pas if there ever was one, but instead I briefly told her why I was in Britain and how pleased I was to meet her. It was overly short, but I had met my goal, one that I would remember, if only because of my being dressed to the nines, at an event that boys, having been born in West Texas border towns can usually only dream of.

An interesting side note for me, was that those of us invited to meet her were also invited to Guards to watch polo, where we were treated even "posher". I briefly met the young princes, whose father was playing that day and mingled with the "swells", all of whom were wonderfully nice. It was a funny, fairy tale day, a long, long way from home.

"Lord of the bees"
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This story begins with an attack of ursine proportions, all black fur, with the claws of a monster. Snarling, smashing, searching by scent alone, it crashes through the hives and leaves them nothing more than crushed reminders of what was and what might have been. Lumbering off from my neighbor's hives, full of both honey and comb, it glances back at the destruction, burps once and then slowly walks away, completely guiltless and happy for one more night.

The bees, in their confusion, not feeling comfortable having been disturbed in the dark coolness of the night, cling in mass to a nearby tree to await the morning sun. The growing light only adds to their distress, as they gaze on what once was their paradise, but they soon sense the presence of the queen and the buzzing sound dims.

All at once they alight, a mass that is of a single mind, and it is in that oneness they fly off in search of a new home, yes, a shelter in the storm. It was the equivalent of a bee's Holocaust, the destruction of all they had ever worked for. They flew in fear, but they flew as one, ever sure that somewhere a place would be provided for them by that great protector of the insects, who they knew as God Bee, provider of all things good.

They continued to swarm in the clear morning warmth, until they reached my house around noon. Then they split into three groups and proceeded to hide under the eves, waiting for the word that they should begin working again; never blaming for their misfortune, simply working and buzzing, content in knowing their place in life, happy to have been born a bee.

Their labors, always prodigious even in the best of times, doubled in output, skillfully recreating their grand paradise lost, built upon the dreams of countless ancestors, honed in history, as the great Unseen guided their every move. They swept out onto the wild plum blossoms, returning over and over again to bring sustenance back to their new creation. With hope renewed, they worked, they slept, they toiled in obscurity, as all had done before.