Christie’s adventures continue with connections nearly missed, rekindled and newly made

The tiny train, a toy really, shunted me from Derby to a station near Nottingham. I had missed the last London express and the ticket seller assured me that the only way to get back that night was to pick up the express from Nottingham. I was deposited in the original haunted railway station. The quaint brick waiting room with its fading pastel scalloped façade and boarded-up windows looked spookier in the murky darkness than the station for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Beyond the station I could just about make out fields and woods, i.e. middle of nowhere.

Acting more confident than I felt, I set off down the deserted platform towards what I thought would be an information board. The driver of the departing train leaned out the window and yelled “Oyup luv, you better get crackin’ up them steps and o’er t’other platform, London train ‘bout to arrive.” I looked down the line to see a light getting bigger and closer.

I don’t know who has the record for up a 60 foot flight of steps across a bridge and down the other side, but I am in close contention. I landed as the train doors opened. “Eh lass ye just made it, I was ‘bout to wave us on through,” the startled conductor exclaimed.

I suppose I should tell you why I was wandering the obscure and amusingly timed railway system of the British North Midlands late on a Saturday night. Facebook had recently connected me to an old friend, one Dave Ball. I met Dave in the early 1970s. I was working for Chrysalis who managed Procol Harum (Whiter Shade of Pale, etc.) and their guitarist, Robin Trower, had left the band. In what seemed like a good idea at the time, Gary Brooker and Keith Reid put an ad in Melody Maker for a guitarist and gave my office number as the contact. After some dramatic expositive discussion and a bit of threatening, they agreed that I could cut off the number of callers who would be granted an audition at 70. Dave was caller 71. I put the phone down on him several times. Finally, I relented and set him up. They picked him of course and he stayed with them for a couple of years.

Dave is living outside Derby and had invited me up for a visit. He picked me up from the station in the morning. We started talking from the moment I clambered into the car and we did not stop for the next nine hours. Old times, missing times, times better experienced in retrospect, and where we are now; we drank endless cups of tea and chattered on and on. As I settled back into my seat on the train, I was glowing with memories and that fab feeling you get from spending time with someone who occupies a special place in your life and heart.

At the next station — Sheffield I think it was — football fans lumbered and lurched aboard. Unfortunately, their team had lost and so we had to pay the price for their disappointment. The pretty young woman sitting opposite me was an instant target for soothing their hurt pride. A burping, slurping Lothario plonked down next to her and attempted his best pick up lines. She was not impressed, and neither was she that put out. She seemed so unfazed by this intrusion upon her person. I, on the other hand, was wearing my “One more word and I’ll turn you to stone you contemptible excuse for a male of whatever species you belong.” The pretty young woman caught my eye, winked and smiled in a “Don’t worry about it, I can handle it,” way. I looked at my reflection in the darkened window, gone was the bright-eyed rock chick of yesteryear, replaced by a frowning grumpy old cow who couldn’t wait for the chance to give these young chaps a piece of her mind. I burst out laughing, and the girl opposite started laughing too. Her would-be suitor, fear starting from his eyes, instantly recognized the secret bonding that can unexpectedly take place between two women and took off to find another seat.

A grand day all round as my Dad would say.

Leave the pomp and circumstance behind, and take a walk on the wild side with Christie

I just returned from my first visit to the UK in five years. Nothing much has changed as far as I could tell. The nation was a bit tired from celebrating Kate and Wills wedding bash, but most seemed to agree it was a superb demonstration of British pomp with a liberal dash of the moderne. The unexpected day off courtesy of more PR conscious royals and a wobbly coalition government cheered the nation; and everyone was appreciative of Beatrice and Eugenie’s efforts to incorporate vaudeville into the day.

Clever Cat, who is about to visit the Sceptered Isles herself, asked if I saw any theatre during my trip. Hah! I visited my family. Now honestly, isn’t a visit with your family the best theatre ticket in town? Comedy, drama, mystery, it’s all there. Not that my family is any different from anyone else’s; a group of people thrown together through biology and desire, well-practiced in their eccentricities.

I spent a glorious few days with my sister in her new Cornish home. I really envy her retired life with all the conveniences and benefits of a social welfare system that is ailing but not yet dead. Baby boomers across the Pond are quietly enjoying their “golden” years trying not to feel too badly that they are probably the last generation to experience these joys.

My sister and I indulged in our favourite pastime, walking and talking. We set off on Monday morning to stroll a cliff-top footpath along the gorgeous Cornish coast. As we arrived in the parking lot, a threatening black cloud appeared. The attendant noted the impending storm and asked if we had waterproof trousers. My sister keeps hers in the boot (trunk) of her car as naturally as I keep an extra quart of oil in mine. The attendant immediately lent me his. Instead of seeking shelter, we set off. Still within sight of the car the storm hit. Rain pelted us in the face, wind ripped at our clothing, but we braced and struggled forward like abandoned women in a silent movie. My sister never wears hats and her hair was plastered into unflattering clumps and swirls. I turned into a menacing creature with two hoods tightly squeezing my ruddy face into gruesome contortion, the too-large waterproof trousers pulled up high were flapping and snapping like the sails on a shipwrecked yacht.

The tempest finally blew through and we continued our journey. From the looks we received from other walkers we must have resembled aging prisoners on work release who had given their guard the slip, English people pretend never to care about what other people think but engage in behaviour that is guaranteed to cause comment. We met the enquiring stares of the less foolhardy with insouciance, calling cheery “Hellos” as they hurried past us muttering.

I am as much a visitor in England as any other American; I have been gone too long to think of myself as “native.” But, I find it remarkable how easily I slip back into my Britness. My language becomes more pithy, my humour more acute. I am a big admirer of the English broadcaster and writer, Clive James. He has coined some of the most devastating comments on things and personages I have ever read. For example, he once wrote that Arnold Schwarzenegger looked like “a condom filled with walnuts.”

I may have more to write about my visit as this by no means captures all my adventures and experiences. I hope you will indulge me.

After being jolted awake, thousands of miles from the epicenter, Christie remains alert and open to dreams of all kinds

It is very hard to write this post. We are all profoundly disturbed by what is happening in the world and I feel puny in my attempts to sort emotions and thoughts coherently. Perhaps I should just simply tell you what happened to me in the last few days.

At around 1:00 a.m. Thursday night, I jolted awake, heart pounding and feeling a sense of complete dread. I was not having a nightmare I was in the middle of a lovely dream visit with my Dad. I could not imagine why I had received an urgent message to wake up. I reached over and turned on my radio and heard the first reports from Japan. Immediately I thought of Freddy in Hawaii and the threat of a tsunami. The next thing I grabbed was the phone. Freddy was in no immediate danger; it would take hours for the tsunami to reach Hawaii, but in that moment I needed to connect with him and know he would be prepared.

I can offer no explanation for the wake-up call, was it parental ESP or did I tune into a massive disturbance in the quantum realm? Okay, like I said before, keep it simple. May be it had to do with something that happened earlier in the week.

I was invited to attend a celebration with a group of women embarking on an audacious dream called Peace Begins With Me. A shaman welcomed us into the circle and we placed a personal item, something that represented peace to us, in the center. All the offerings will be tied up in a specially made blanket and kept in the place where this dream first happened. Melissa, my item was the gold leaf covered chocolate heart, called a Milagro, which I received at your magical celebration in New Mexico. I know it will help conjure some miracles to help these women realize their dream.

That night I dreamed so vividly and have ever since. A door was opened between night and day. This portal is wide open to many people and informs their lives daily. Here’s what, in part, Wikipedia tells us about the Australian Aborigine and their Dreaming: “it is also often used to refer to an individual’s or group’s set of beliefs or spirituality. For instance, an indigenous Australian might say that he or she has Kangaroo Dreaming, or Shark Dreaming, or Honey Ant Dreaming, or any combination of Dreamings pertinent to their ‘country’. Many Indigenous Australians also refer to the Creation time as ‘The Dreaming’. The Dreamtime laid down the patterns of life for the Aboriginal people.” I have also read that Indigenous Australians can “dream” their way across the Outback to their homelands.

Understanding our dreams, letting them inform and guide may be a way to help us seize our days and dream the world we want into reality.

If you have had an experience with prescient dreaming, I would love to hear about it.

As Christie checks in, her mind checks out — a new year, a new approach

New Year’s Eve celebrations have seemed less than satisfying in the past few years. Most parties are filled with couples and at the stroke of midnight I am the one standing off to the side gamely smiling. So I decided I would try something different, a personal 24 hour retreat to contemplate the year past and the year about to arrive.

On Friday afternoon I took myself off to an expensive local hotel and checked in. When I handed the completed form to the desk clerk, she read it through and stared at me. “You live in St. Paul?” I nodded. She gave me a piercing look and handed over my room key. As I walked to the elevators I could feel her eyes on me, and the little bag I carried. It was not until I reached my room that it dawned on me, Crikey; I’ve been put on suicide watch in a luxury hotel! I wondered if I should go back down to the desk and assure them I was sound in mind and spirit. Then decided that I may not be that convincing.

I was here to think, and not think. To let thoughts come and go and travel where they may. To examine some of my irrational fears, search for prejudices and pre-conceptions, try and discover what I wanted in my life and what steps I needed to take to make it happen. All this I would have to do while ordering room service every hour so that no-one would break the door down to see if I was “okay.”

Starting with irrational fears: fear of losing my house key and being locked out when no friend with a spare key was available. Solved. I have hidden a key outside and, because my memory is not as good as it once was (I can hear you laughing), I’ve put a note on the fridge door (which can be read through the kitchen window) saying ITS IN THE …. Fear of locking my key in the car, because of the insane auto-locking system. Solved. I do not lock my car anymore. Yes, I know that’s asking for it to be stolen, but honestly, it’s a 2001 VW Jetta with a permanent oxygen sensor problem. If anyone wants it, vaya con Dios my friend.

When I looked at these fears, I realized they seem to be pointing to a question about my single state, and also to some prejudices and something I may want. I have no partner to call to the rescue and make me laugh instead of cry. I have lots of friends but it’s not the same is it? Do I want to continue alone, or am I ready to share my life again? Can I find a special pal to please and who pleases me. Next steps? With light heart and open mind, I will get out there again and see if I run across a chap who is as willing to take a chance as me. Wish me luck. I’ll keep you posted.

A neighbor’s kindness brings warmth to Christie’s Minnesota winter

The promise of a blanket of snow thrills me and fills me with… hope. The world outside becomes quieter and quieter as the snow deepens, it is time to go inside and contemplate the year past and the year to come. When the sound of a snow blower interrupts my thoughts, I look out and see my neighbour Scott making sure the entire sidewalk around my house is cleared. I am reminded what a privilege it is to receive and give help. We all feel and do better when we take care of one another. I promise to give and ask for more help this coming year. Who can imagine what new growth will appear when the snow melts in the spring?

Christie explores a modern dilemma: is time saved actually time well spent?

The whole idea started when I was standing at my kitchen sink washing a badly blistered finger and cursing enough to make Snoop Dog blush. I had spent 30 minutes yanking the pull rope on my gas mower. The grass grew another half-inch while I over-exerted myself, sweat stinging my eyes and puffs of blue-reeking smoke burning my lungs. Enough! Gas mowers are supposed to save you time and effort. I dragged the dying beast to the curb, wrote “FREE” on a piece of cardboard and went inside to clean my wounds. The truck pulled up while I was at the sink. Sayonara El Toro.

I was not quite prepared for the clothes dryer to give a screech and die. Shall I buy another? Or shall I try and do without another time-saving machine of post-modern living?

It was about this time that friends passed along a wonderful read, Drinking The Rain written by Alix Kates Shulman. Ms. Shulman writes about her life and of her self-imposed exile to an extremely basic Maine Coast cabin. After a particularly stressful and difficult visit to the local store for food supplies she muses on “saving time/time-saving.” Her muse visited me. If I am saving time, who and what am I saving it for? Can time actually be saved? If you have been following the progression of quantum physics from string to membrane (or brane) theory to parallel universes you know we could go a lot of places with these questions.

Here’s what I have come to; time cannot be saved, it can only be spent. Brilliant!

I bought a pretty little push-mower. It is bright green and makes a throaty purring sound—like the noise when you stuck a plastic disc in your bike wheels. I can now spend my time mowing, morning, noon or night, without disturbing my neighbours. It is more labour intensive, but people passing by stop to ask about my natty little mower and I spend time responding enthusiastically to these enquiries.

I am hanging my clothes out to dry. They smell amazing and I am ridiculously happy spending time carefully folding sheets and towels into neat colourful piles. I make the time to take my rugs outside and give them a good beating on the deck. They look a lot cleaner than after vacuuming. And, I have a bicycle that can transport me to the local stores with ease. Oh, the wonder of the space-time continuum.

I am spending my time lavishly and extravagantly too; visiting friends old and new whenever the budget or opportunity permits. Gives whole new meaning to time well spent.

So to all my Big Spender friends who live miles away I say, “How about spending a little time with me?” The door is open, the spare bed is made-up, it’s time for a visit.

From “Bigotgate” to shades of Kennedy/Nixon, Christie Healey gives the play-by-play on the recent UK elections

As I sat eating my breakfast this morning, I thought of Mr. Brown. Gordon Brown, a man whose brilliant background in accountancy could not save him from miscalculation of the odds. I imagined him at the 10 Downing Street breakfast table last Friday, the eviction notice hovering in his mind. He must have thought, “Where did I go wrong? He waited years for this gig, suffering in silence while Tony bounced all over the world like Tigger only to be given the old heave ho at the first opportunity.

The last two weeks of the adorably short UK general election campaign have been nothing less than stunning. The changes for Mr. Brown were foretold upon England’s foray into that most American of primetime shows, “The Debates”. Our brusque-toned dour Scot was pitted against the Liberal Democrats’ youthful and articulate leader, Nick Clegg, who puffed deep breaths of fresh air into the stale clichés of British politics. Even the Conservatives’ front man, an urbane and typically toffee-nosed type, managed to look like one of the stars of Mad Men compared to the rumpled, haggard Mr. B.

More modern communication curses were heaped upon Brown’s brow when he learned first hand that an open mic is also deadly weapon. The press-op teatime with Mrs. Duffy, loyal Labour Party housewife, seemed to start out pleasantly, but seizing her righteous 15 minutes she launched into a racist rant against immigrants. Mr. B tried to soothe her with mumbled purrs of campaign speak. On the way back to the car, the real Gordy emerged and he entered into a rant of his own, calling Mrs. Duffy a bigoted woman and heaping scorn upon his handlers, with the mic still clipped to his lapel in the “on” position. The listening press corps experienced mass spontaneous orgasm over “Bigotgate”.

The election resulted in a hung parliament because the magic number of seats that any party has to attain is 326. Despite the expected resurgence of the Conservatives they only got 306, Labour squeaked out 258, the LibDems have 57. Which means that Labour and the Conservatives must woo the LibDems to reach the winning number. Whoever gets to first base with Nick Clegg will be Prime Minister in a coalition government. The LibDems are usually more attracted to the brawny workers of the Labour Party, but that cunning little minx leader of theirs decided to go all the way with Conservative David Cameron who has just become England’s youngest Prime Minister. This is getting more and more like an episode of Mad Men!

In England we say we elect the party, not the person. If you believe that, then I have some amazing old Houses on the banks of the Thames to sell you. Judging from the press reports, no one was prepared for how Kennedy/Nixon the debates were destined to become. Obviously, we do now care very much about the person. Not that an Armani suit, a good haircut and some subtle face-lifting would have saved our single-malt Scot. His fate was sealed with his belief that he was entitled to the job. Note to John McCain: call Gordon, he needs you.

Britain has turned a corner in its political history. There may even be a change in the “first past the post” system to proportional representation. But, if the British political movie-of-the-week becomes an American long-running series, the British public may demand cancellation of the show. By the way, the election may have to be held again later this year and I can’t wait for the new season of Britain’s Got Political Talent. Maybe Simon Cowell will preside over the contestants as they primp and charm their way to victory and who knows, the Labour Party version of Susan Boyle may appear on our screens.