FaceTime follies

I was at the coffee shop (yes, again) when my phone began to ring. 

This doesn't happen often; most of my messages come by text or email, so I scrambled to get my phone out of my pocket. It turned out to be a FaceTime call from elder daughter in London. 

Elder daughter doesn't usually phone or FaceTime me unless it's urgent, so I fumbled for the buttons, and succeeded in hanging up on her. 

I called back. It took a couple of tries, but when I got her image, it became evident that we weren't getting a clear signal. I still didn't know what this call was about, and intent upon my phone screen, I took a couple of seconds to register that someone was standing by my table. 

It was an older lady. She didn't look pleased.

"Would you put in earbuds?" she snapped.

I've taken FaceTime calls in the coffee shop with no problems before - after all, people do converse in person and on the phone in coffee shops, but I focussed back on my daughter, keep my voice light and level.

"Darling, I'm getting a complaint about the noise.  Shall I call you?"

Elder daughter quickly retreated, and suggested texts, to keep me out of trouble with "other patrons".

Elder coffeehouse patron had returned to her table, calling out a stiff "Thank you".  I ignored this.

It turned out to not be an emergency at all, but a source of excitement.

If I were looking up a genealogical event online, she asked, would I look it up under "family" or "hobby"?

"Well, neither," I replied, somewhat baffled.  

I don't look up events; I usually get notified about them via blogs I follow, or the social media pertaining to groups to which I belong.

The reason she was asking is because she works in a 410-year-old building in Greenwich called Charlton House, and the archivist is being featured on an upcoming episode of Who Do You Think You Are? - featuring singer/songwriter Pixie Lott.  

I own the seasons of WDYTYA (the original British version, that is) up until 2019, but current episodes won't be available on DVD for several months.  John Reid has been alerting his faithful readers of episodes that appear briefly on YouTube before the BBC yanks them down.  I can only hope.

As I packed up my journals, the elder coffeehouse patron strolled off to the washroom, and to my surprise, the coffeehouse proprietor came swiftly to my table and, putting her arm around my shoulder, asked if I were all right.  

"We always want you to feel welcome here."

I hastily explained that it hadn't been a fight, although I don't see a warm friendship springing up from that quarter.

I was touched and, in an odd way, healed, feeling a bit like I'd been in the right.

Probably not quite. As I explained to the proprietor, it drives me nuts when people watch sports or listen to music without earbuds in cafés, mainly because it fights with the piped-in music, so I wasn't entirely unsympathetic to the elderly coffee-house patron.  

But no, we won't be friends.

Mr Pickleball

He's in a grey tee-shirt, brandishing a paddleboard and roaring. 

"This is pickleball!!!" His eyes gleam indignantly. 

I gaze blankly at him. I don't know what pickleball is -- it looks a bit like badminton without a net. Or table. Or birdie. 

I've been trying to get Demeter's rollator (otherwise known as a walker, here in Canada) adjusted for height, with a cane holder installed for about six months. The shop that sold us both Demeter's walkers has set up a little walker/scooter clinic in the corner of the auditorium where we usually vote in elections, and today, we're apparently impinging on Mr Pickleball's style. He stalks over and tries marshalling the four people waiting for help with their walkers. His pickleball partner looks embarrassed. Demeter ignores him. The guy from the shop is bewildered and exasperated. 

"I've been asked to come in," he remonstrates with Mr Pickleball. "This is for the community!" 

Mr Pickleball counters with something about the door we're using to enter the auditorium. We were directed to this door by the entrance staff carefully checking our vaccination passports. There's an outdoor side entrance with a deep sill, not feasible for scooters and a challenge for rollators, and besides, it's raining. 

 Mr Pickleball resumes his game and ignores us. I guide Demeter out the contested door, and close it firmly. 

 Here's a brief rundown on pickleball. The lady is way more cheery than Mr Pickleball.

The Battersea Poltergeist

November 2nd is All Souls' Day, and in Mexico, it's the final Day of the Dead, so perhaps it's not inappropriate that the Hallowe'en decorations in our neighbourhood have not yet been taken down.

Ghost stories are not limited to the end of October, however.

I follow BBC Four on Facebook, and on Hallowe'en, my attention was caught by a multi-part radio programme entitled The Battersea Poltergeist, which was first broadcast at the beginning of this year.  As it happens, I have familial connections to Battersea, so I tuned in.

The haunting took place over about a dozen years at 63 Wycliffe Road.  The house is long gone, as is the part of the street it occupied, but I brought up Google Maps and entered the address.  I was astonished, and rather alarmed, to be directed to an area about a nine-minute walk from elder daughter's flat --- in South Wimbledon.  

Fortunately, along with the half-hour episodes, there are three "case updates" to accommodate just a few of the listeners' hundreds of questions and comments. One of the discussions involved the proximity of railway lines, so I learned that Clapham Junction Railway Station is about a mile to the west of where the house stood, that part of what was Wycliffe Road is now Ashbury Road, and that Lavender Hill is just to the south.  That narrows the area to somewhere around the Greek Orthodox Church of St Nectarios, about five miles north of elder daughter's flat, and one mile south-east of where one branch of my ancestors were living in the second half of the nineteenth century, near the west edge of Battersea Park.

Nicely oriented, I settled in, listening (in daylight, of course) to nine episodes over Hallowe'en, All Saints' Day, and All Souls' Day.  It's a twisty-turny, rollercoaster sort of tale, veering from inexplicable to explicable, from other-worldly to mundane, and from belief to disbelief-- and back again.  It's a mixture of dramatization - the cast is led by none other than Toby Jones - and interviews, including several with Shirley, the original tormented girl, who is now eighty.  (At least she was in early 2021.)  All in all,  we have a fascinating examination of the paranormal, and our differing perceptions of what is plausible.  Follow the above link, and give it a listen.

I'm a little perplexed by the illustration of the series. 

The image is spooky and arresting, but it shows a green-eyed girl against a very old map of the East End of London.

And not particularly close to South Wimbledon.

Shirley Hitchings was (is) a brown-eyed girl, and Battersea is south of the Thames.

"His hair was perfect."

Hallowe'en may be over, but we've still got All Souls' Day and the Day of the Dead tomorrow. Besides, I just tripped over this gem, which is a 2021 re-imagining of Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" -- which is not my very favourite Zevon ditty; that would be "Gorilla, You're a Desperado".

"Igor is a chain-smoker; look where it got him!"

 One of the things I do on Hallowe'en is listen to the Spotify playlist I pulled together.  It's got my favourites: "Werewolves of London" (Warren Zevon), "Time Warp"(Rocky Horror Picture Show), "Skeleton" (Fionn) "Ghost" (Indigo Girls)....

All in all, about two hours of spooky music.

Of course, I have "Monster Mash", but that's only because Spotify doesn't have Bobby "Boris" Pickett's ghoulish (and rather more grammatically correct) take on a 1947 ditty penned by Merle Travis and Tex Williams:  "Smoke! Smoke! Smoke That Cigarette"

Well, thank goodness for YouTube.

Now, I'm a fellow with a heart of gold  

And the ways of a gentleman I've been told 

The kind of a person who wouldn't harm a flea 

But if I and a certain character met 

The man that created the cigarette 

I'd murder the so-and-so in the first degree

 

Not because I don't smoke myself 

And I don't suppose they'll harm my health 

I've smoked all my life and I'm not dead yet 

But you nicotine slaves look a little more pale 

Each time you light up a coffin nail

Go ahead, have another cigarette 

Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette 

(Go on, take a puff!)

Puff, puff, puff 

And if you smoke yourself to death 

Tell St Peter at the Golden Gate 

That you hate to make him wait 

But you've just got to have another cigarette

The other night, I had a date

with the cutest little girl in the fifty states,

A high-grade, uptown, fancy graveyard pet

I gave her a kiss and a little squeeze,

And she said, "Boris, excuse me please,

I've just got to have another cigarette!"

Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette

(Dig your own grave.)

Sweet dreams.

Jack o'lantern jazz: freestyle, old-school, fusion, and bebop

I spent part of this morning test-driving jack o'lanterns.

 I already knew that mine would need a tilt. I'm the only family member who used a stencil this year. It's not as easy as you might think. I also decided I wanted to try peeling this year; allowing the light to shine though the exposed flesh of the pumpkin. (This is not as creepy as it sounds.)  

Note to self:  the stencil needs to be taped closer to the lid, so that the image doesn't disappear down under.

The Resident Fan Boy went old-school - suitable for scaring off evil spirits.

Demeter free-styled a sun-burst for a flash of brilliance.

And younger daughter has been focussing on the fantasy/horror series Stranger Things. She was mortified to have forgotten the "R", but I think the addition is in keeping with the storyline of children astray and missing -- something, I hasten to add, we do not wish for any trick-or-treaters tomorrow night.  

May the lights guide them home safely.

The early worms get the bird

One of several jump-starters on Linden Avenue

Oh, I had plans for today.

Never mind.  Things happen. I'll spare you.

I think the neighbourhood might be pretty excited about Hallowe'en this year.  Even in Hades, people waited until the Thanksgiving weekend to put up Hallowe'en displays.

Not in Victoria this year!  The spiderwebs and clutching skeletal hands started emerging in early October.

If our neighbours are this eager, I think it may be prudent to take the jack o' lanterns in early on Sunday.

And draw the blinds...

Passing by on the same side

It was the toppled tall planter that first caught my eye.

I was walking into Cook Street Village, and passing a pizza shop, which does steady business most evenings, despite the fact that their food is rather awful, which is not relevant.

It was quite early in the morning, and the shop was shut.  As I strode by, I caught sight of the planter lying on its side, the soil spilling out, and the plant flat against the pavement.  It took a split second for my eye to register that someone was beside the plant, seated on the edge of the patio.

He appeared to be asleep.  Clad in a camouflage hoodie, he was bent double across his knees, like a jackknife.  There was a golden retriever lying next to him, alert and calm.

Although slightly taken aback, I thought little of it, until I retraced my steps about an hour later -- and the man was still there, in the exact same position.  The dog apparently hadn't moved either, paws folded, he or she gazed off into the middle distance, paying no attention to me, as I paused uncertainly.

I had an unsettling experience trying to intervene for benevolent reasons, about ten years ago. I started walking again, recalling the incident, and wondering if any action should be taken here.  The dog was a consideration.  If something were wrong (aside from a man sleeping in a jackknife position on the street first thing in the morning), wouldn't the dog be agitated or distressed?  Whom would I call?  Would they take the dog?

I continued up the hill, unsettled, on my way to give Demeter her breakfast.  The day, as it does, swept me away.  

Later, I passed the pizza shop, and there was no sign of him.  The planter was righted, the patio swept clean.

An angel whispered trick or treat

The neighbourhood started oozing Hallowe'en decorations before Thanksgiving.  I think everyone is eager to have a real Hallowe'en, although you hear of scaredy-cats who don't want to shell out this year either.

Much as "Boxing Day" has been highjacked into "Boxing Week", or even "Boxing Month" by the merchants, I've been hearing the phrase "Hallowe'en Week".

Well, I'm prepping the pumpkins today, so I might as well get into the mood.  I didn't hear this 1992 Hallowe'en tune by Richard Shindell until a couple of years ago.  It combines the bitterness of a busted up love affair with dreamlike and nightmarish aspects of All Hallows Eve.  

It's a toe-tapper.

You took the toaster when you went 

You never paid your half the rent 

You took the spices from the rack 

But you don't have to put 'em back 

'Cause in your haste on Halloween 

You left your camera on the bed 

Where we played roles in black and white 

You left a roll of black and white 

I set the timer and thought of you 

And put the lens up to my head 

I took a photograph for you 

What comes out grey is really red 

Are you happy now? 

I smashed your pumpkin on the floor 

The candle flickered at my feet 

As goblins flew across the moon 

The children peered into the room 

A cowboy shivered on the porch 

As Cinderella checked her watch 

A hobo waited in the street 

An angel whispered trick-or-treat 

But what was I supposed to do 

But to sit there in the dark? 

I was amazed to think that you 

Could take the candy with you too  

So, are you happy now? 

I've sat all night and now it's dawn 

And I cannot believe my eyes 

There's garbage strewn across the lawn 

Where we once stared up at the sky 

And streams of paper fill the tree 

That hovered over you and me 

Shaving cream covers the car 

That we picked up in Baltimore 

Though I know it's hard to tell 

I hope that what's-his-name treats you well 

I still maintain that he's a bum 

But it's your money – have some fun 

And are you happy now? 

You always asked why I had not 

Written you a verse or two 

Since that's the one thing I regret 

I dedicate this one to you 

So, are you happy now? 

Are you?

The truth of the matter

I'm working at the computer when I hear an unfamiliar familiar sound.

It's the strange dropping swoop of a Facebook Messenger notification.  Years ago, I read on a internet security blog that it's unwise to have a Facebook Messenger app, due to the fact that you have to allow it an alarming amount of access to your personal information.

This means I can only access Facebook Messenger from my computer or laptop.  It also means that if I'm being contacted this way, it's usually someone who doesn't know me well enough to have my email address or my phone number.

Glancing at the name, my heart sinks just a little.  It's someone from my high school, who only gets in touch when a) she's planning a high school reunion; or b) she's lost track of someone she really wants to talk to -- I have a reputation for knowing where people are. 

It's a bit of both.  I supply her with an address, and she politely expresses the hope I'll be able to come.  I am courteously noncommittal.

"I don't know if you know," she texts, "but Buck Rogan died."

I did, of course.  As I've mentioned, I know where people are.  Buck is, presumably, in heaven.  

I've cudgelled my brain, but I have no memories of him, although I remember him.  He was one of the jocks, and I don't recall his saying a word to me.  

That's okay.  His obituary has a reasonably long list on online tributes, as is usual with one who dies before his time.  Clearly those who mattered to him, and to whom he mattered, are grieving.

I've kept in touch with those who matter to me.  I trust I matter to them as well -- although I may be mistaken.

This is the reason I don't go to high school reunions anymore.  I don't tell my correspondent that, because it might sound as if I don't care.  I wish I didn't -- which is also why I won't be going.