Anne and I are just back
from three weeks in
England. That’s a trip
I never expected to make
again.
But my other companion
Parkinson, as whimsical as he
is relentless, took a vacation
himself a couple of months
ago. (I’ll explain the likely
causes in another column.) I
was left free, at least temporarily,
from some of the worst
symptoms. And so my bride
and I decided, quite suddenly,
that we’d run under the silent
guns and make the trip.
It was wonderful, especially
since friends conspired to
pass us along, one to another,
making travel easy for me. We
drove to Boston, left the car
with good friends, and were
driven to Logan Airport. Since
I’m poorly equipped now to
stand in lines, we’d phoned
ahead for disabled assistance,
and a wheelchair driver met
us at the door. This man
whisked us around the lines,
right up to luggage check-in.
Then, with our carry-ons piled
on top of me, he steered right
up to the security gate, put
our chattel onto the scanner
for us, and braced the chair
and me as I stood to walk
through the metal detector.
Then we zoomed on to a
waiting area.
We needed to wait because,
following the airline’s
standard directions, we’d
arrived three hours early _ for
a process that had taken only
about twenty minutes. But,
no complaints. That disabled
assistance was a tremendous
blessing, going and coming
back, and despite an unplanned
adventure when we
got to London Heathrow.
As we left the plane, the
stewardess told us to climb
the ramp and be seated;
another wheelchair would
soon arrive. And indeed, one
did, this time pushed by a big
smiling Caribbean with not
much command of English.
I got loaded up, again piled
with the two backpacks and
my sleep-apnea gear in its
own box, and we wheeled off
toward passport control. I had
only to ride and, of course,
hold the load in place with
both hands and my chin.
It was a long run, and
halfway Anne got to step
onto a moving walkway as
we wheeled along beside her.
That’s where the adventure
began. From far down the
long corridor, highballing
along towards me, came an
empty wheelchair pushed by
a short, rather broad woman.
She was calling out in what
may have been Turkish,
and she had fire in her eye.
I thought for a moment she
was going to ram us. My own
wheeler stopped short, and
my Anne was carried away by
the moving walkway.
The squarish woman didn’t
ram but squealed to a stop,
blocking our way. Then she
went at it, hammer and tongs,
at the Caribbean twice her
height. Hers, it turned out,
was our assigned wheelchair,
and the amiable Caribbean
was a gypsy driver who’d
pirated her passenger, and
hence her tip.
She won. I was bustled out
of his chair and into hers, the
carry-ons were re-piled on
top of me, and we speeded
off, the woman still muttering
imprecations at the gypsy.
We caught up with Anne and
hustled on toward passport
check. But, almost there, I
heard a loud clank. The right
footrest had fallen off the
chair.
``Bad equipment!’’ she
shouted in English. ``Bad
equipment’’ It sounded like
a phrase she’d had many
occasions to use. Suddenly
she was squatting next to the
chair, pounding the footrest
on the terrazzo floor. ``Quiet!’’
Anne pleaded. ``My husband
has trouble with startle reflex!’’
(And, like many Parkies,
I do _ if I donÆt foresee the
cause of a loud noise. This
time, I did: a squarish woman
squatting, slamming a shaft
of metal on the floor.) But she
got it fixed, reinstalled it, and
soon was rushing us along
again, up to and through the
passport check.
Customs and luggage
were down a floor, and Anne
stepped onto a very long
escalator while the squarish
woman and I headed for the
top of a pair of long ramps.
She was still muttering, ``Bad
equipment!’’ as we got to
the first ramp, but then she
switched her complaint. ``No
brakes!’’
Well. Since we’ve been
home, I’ve watched a lot of
Olympic ski-jumping. Every
time skiers throw themselves
down that awful first drop, I
relive my Heathrow ramp experience.
Indeed, there were
no brakes on the chair, and I
plunged down that thirty degree
slope with only the
woman’s sheer strength holding
us both back. I couldn’t
look back, but I’m sure she
left a parallel trail of smoking
rubber from her shoe heels.
``Bad equipment!’’ she
shouted as we made a sharp
turn and were briefly on a
level stretch. ``No brakes!’’ and
we hurtled down the second
ramp.
Anne, on the escalator,
missed the whole adventure;
and you can see that I lived
through it. Shaken but laughing
in spite of my self, I was
wheeled to luggage-pick-up
and then through a perfunctory
customs check. Breathless,
we found ourselves in
the crowded airport lobby.
The squarish lady seemed
to have bonded with us. She
was suddenly maternal and
reluctant to leave. But we
insisted we were fine, and we
sent her off with a hefty tip
that was partly a bribe. When
she wheeled away, we felt
relieved and released.
I’ve since had leisure to
wonder: Had she played out
that whole scenario repeatedly
and found it always
worked? Did she end up
splitting the tip with the Caribbean?
Anyway, our friend
Michael Thrower soon arrived
to greet us and inquire after
our travels. We had a great
story to tell him on the ride
down to Chichester.
READ ABOUT Jim Atwell’s book, From
Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in
Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell.
com
Columns
Jim Atwell: Harrowing times in Heathrow
- Columns
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In These Otsego Hills: Continuing on from 1986 ...
We continue this week by answering the question we asked if anyone remembers the old Cooperstown National Bank? On May 13, we wrote: “Martha Dickison, Delaware Street, called to tell us about the Cooperstown National Bank where she worked at her first ‘real job’ after her graduation from school.
Continued ... -
Up On Hawthorn Hill: Spring inventions
The second line of Lawrence Durrell’s novel “Justine” reads as follows: “In the midst of winter you can feel the inventions of Spring.” I first read all four novels of his magnificent Alexandria Quartet during the year I traveled from Saigon to Paris after working in Vietnam for a refugee organization for several years.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Revving up for spring
Time to bring you up to date on Fly Creek’s happy clambering into Spring. First, the eatery scene. “Is Jerry’s open yet?” The answer is, “Oh, yes!” The porches are freshly stained; the lawns a uniform green, and the hop vines are already climbing the posts on the covered side deck. Blue and I went up there to lunch earlier this week, and I celebrated spring with my traditional bacon, onion and Swiss cheese hamburger. We two sat on the deck, enjoying the broad view and some spectacular clouds marching across, up toward Schuyler Lake.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: More from 1986 ...
This week we continue with the discussion of telephone service from the pre-dial days. On March 12 we noted that: “No one has yet produced a telephone directory from pre-dial days, but Doug Preston of New Hartford recalls that some business (which one?) in the village had the phone number 7.”
Continued ... -
Home Notes: Celebrations abound at the Thanksgiving Home
April was a month of celebrations and much to appreciate. We had a 90th birthday celebration for Wanda Noyes on April 4 including her family and friends. Personal care staff Dee Bouck worked with residents to hand paint Easter eggs for the tree in the activity room.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: 1986 continues ...
This week we continue our journey through the columns of 1986 with the answer to the question “for whom, according to tradition, was Hannah’s Hill named?”
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Baseball book features local contributors
Baseball is part of the nation’s fabric. Most kids have a memory of the game either from playing Little League, attending a major league contest or meeting a favorite player. In Cooperstown that feeling is magnified since we are the official home of baseball. We get to see firsthand what has made the sport the national pastime.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Ya really wanna know?
SETTING: Fly Creek General Store. CAST: Assorted seated geezers, drinking coffee. [Door opens, enter heavy-set geezer; walking slowly with wide stance, maybe prostatitis.]
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In These Otsego Hills: Returning to 1986 ...
For the past several years now we have undertaken sharing some of the area’s oral history we have collected over the years that we have written this column. Therefore, this year, we would like to go back to 1986 to share that rather unusual year. Those who were here then no doubt remember that it was that year that the village celebrated the bicentennial of its founding.
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From Fly Creek: For reasons unknowable
[Jim’s reached back to 2002 to share one of his favorite columns.] My father was born as the last century began into a river village in tidewater Maryland. He told me once of a man there in his boyhood who, like so many, made a thin living tonging for oysters in the cold months and, in the hot and humid ones, crabbing and raising vegetables.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: CCS balancing act ... side two
Last week we shared a number of activities in which students at CCS can participate. We thought it was an impressive, if not overwhelming, list. And we are indeed pleased that the young people of our area have these opportunities. However, we think it is also important to keep in mind that these undertakings do have a cost associated with them. They are not free. In fact there are, no doubt, those who would say they do not come cheap.
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From Fly Creek: A graceful crowd
Make of this what you will, friends. I feel I’m really meant to share it with you. Despite good medication for my Parkinsonism, every four or five weeks I can sensethe symptoms building up on me, giving me more than ordinary trouble. Lately it’s been falls, and last week brought a typical one. I’d gone out to get the paper, moving along with penguin steps on the snowcoved ice patches, and usingmy spike-tipped cane the waya climber uses an ice axe. But circumstances overcame me. Parkinson’s wipes out the possibility of multi-tasking.
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In These Otsego Hills: This and that and the other side ...
We note that the CCS Class of 2012 is presenting its senior class play, “Snow White” by Tim Kelly, this week with performances 7:30 p.m Thursday and Friday, March 29 and 30, and at 11 a.m. and 7:30 p.m. Saturday, March 31. All performances will be at the Nicolas J. Sterling Auditorium at the Middle/High School.
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In These Otsego Hills: That green thing ...
Of late we have noticed that our email inbox has been much busier than usual. In fact, we find ourselves hard pressed to keep up with all the various messages we receive. As a result we suspect we have not answered some in as timely a fashion as might be thought appropriate.
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From Fly Creek: What you need to know
In their last Sunday’s bulletins, all 84 churches of Otsego County were to have carried announcements of an important meeting; most of them did. But because the announcement is so important, and not just to the churched, here it is again.
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Book Notes: Living the magic of ‘Hoosier’
A lot of people consider “Hoosiers” the best sports film of all time. The 1986 classic follows the exploits of a fictional small town Indiana high school basketball team in 1952 as it attempts to achieve the impossible dream of a state championship. The story is inspired by the true life achievement of the 1954 Milan team, who with an enrollment of only 161 students shocked big city power Muncie Central on a last second shot to win the state title. It’s the kind of sports story that represents something that is hard to grasp unless you live in a small town.
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In These Otsego Hills: The most perfect village... home to heavy industry?
We suspect we would get a whole lot more accomplished if we spent less time thinking, pondering and musing about things. In fact, there is a good possibility we might actually have completed our goal of cleaning the basement if we only focused on the task at hand, instead of trying to figure out the world around us. It almost makes us wonder if it is possible to think too much about things. We certainly hope not because should that be the case, we are in deep trouble.
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Up On Hawthorn Hill: The past in the present
Clichés abound about the value of photographs. Most are probably true at least to a certain extent. What I do know about an image is that it represents something of the past that is not the pastitself. But that is the power of any image. It represents something that once was. The beauty of an image, revisited, is that it functions as a catalystfor reliving in the present a past experience. My own view, one that I thank the Spanish writer Jorge Luis Borges for, is that all we ever can experience is the present.
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Home Notes: Workshops held for Thanksgiving Home residents
We welcomed Linda Keller, Ph.D. of the Bassett Research Institute and Ida Baker of NYCAMH who presented a six-week workshop for residents and staff.
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From Fly Creek: Late-winter hamlet news
Well, at least I’m “guessing” it’s late winter now — in the winter that wasn’t. But, if not snow, I can provide a flurry of Fly Creek news to share with you, scooping Associated Press, Reuter’s, and United Press International, not to mention all local news services except our General Store.
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In These Otsego Hills: Continuing on from 1986 ...
