Gleann Dá Loch

There was a discussion recently where certain areas of the United States were being compared to Glendalough. It was said that Glendalough was "much like many places you might find in the States." I would have to gently disagree. There is no place on this planet like Glendalough. It has a spirit, a serenity, and a grace all its own. It is as if the aura of the earth abides here. There is an old adage, "You get what you give" and nowhere on this earth is that more true than in The Valley of the Two Lakes. If you can, give to her your time, give to her your patience, your inner grace and she will return it to you tenfold. In just the air alone one can find a peacefulness unlike any other.
As I was perched alone atop the gentle slopes yesterday, the wind itself seemed to open up and speak to me. It paused in its battering of the hillside, but briefly. The grass, the trees, and the clouds as one, were still and unmoving.

But then, from across the valley, I heard and then felt its presence. The wind ran howling down the mountain bog. It danced along the short, wheat-like grass, bending it to its will. Picking up speed, it peeled across the mountainside and up into the giant Conifers. The trees bent and swayed in perfect synchronicity. The clouds raced across the sky. It was as if the heavens themselves opened up the wind-gates and the breeze escaped, bound for the mighty earth below. No...no I say, Glendalough is like no other. And if you are ever lucky enough to sit quietly in her embrace, remember; her generosity is unending, if you just take the time to open yourself up to her. She will never ask more of you than you are willing to give. For on the hills Glendalough it is enough to just simply...exist.

             

She is elegant, she is graceful, she is generous of spirit, and  kind of heart.
                                    She is...Glendalough.

Lions and Tigers and...Cows?

So here you have it. After camping in my tent along a beautiful babbling brook my first night on the trail, I awoke to an equally beautiful morning. I was eager to hit the road; so I packed my gear, said goodbye to the babbling brook, and headed into Drymen to get supplies for the day. After doing so, I retraced my steps back to the brook and to the West Highland Way. I then made my way up and over a small hill and across a huge cow field, filled with mother cows and their calves. No problem. How many other hikers had ambled over the same sunny dale without incident? Plenty I assumed. 

    I continued along the Way and as I came over the ridge I saw several calves kicking up their heels and playing and, for the most part, ignoring me. I knew I needed to be cautious. This wasn't my first rodeo. Calving season was in full swing and I knew the danger quite succinctly. I waited for the little buggers to run down the hill toward their mothers. Eventually, they all did, except for one lone straggler. No worries. I shrugged my shoulders and began to walk the rest of the way up the hill when I heard ole Straggler’s mother give a fairly sizable, “Mooooooo.” Being fully aware of the issues that could arise, I headed away from the line between point “A” the calf, and point “B,” the overly protective momma cow. "Smooth move. Well done," I said to no one in particular. All was going according to plan. Avoidance at its finest; right up until Straggler decided to run right for me. And I mean right at me. So what happens you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Momma cow, at a healthy, freight train sort of trot, does the same. 

Now listen, I'm not sure if you know this, but cows are BIG, and they are scary when they come at you at the speed of a Top Gear race car. So there I am, shitting myself, as this two-ton cow barrels down on me. I hesitated for only a second. I, with lightning-like speed, and the agility of a ballerina, bailed for a small bog that happened to be in the field behind me. So there I am, ankle-deep in a cow shit bog, being stared down by one pissed-off momma cow.

I damn near pissed myself. Now while this going, on ole Straggler there had already run off to play with his buddies. Thanks a lot, dude. After one more indignant, motherly “Mooooooo” in my direction, and a steely Clint Eastwood stink eye, momma cow ambled off and left me to my own devices. Just as I thought everything was in order, here comes another mammoth-sized cow all covered in cow shit. She walks right up to the edge of the bog and stands there just staring at me out of one dirty, eyeball. To myself, I was like, "Really? Seriously?" To her, I finally said, “Shoo. Go on now.” Yeah right. She looked at me like “Hey, F-you.” In my mind I was thinking "How on God's green earth did I find myself in the middle of this cow field, in the middle of the Scottish highlands, having a pissing contest with a cow?" And she was winning. Finally, the damn thing gave me a snort and a “hmmmnnphff” and trotted off. 

By now, all I wanted was to get out of that god-forsaken field. So, off I go. I make it to the top of the rise. I can see the other side; the gate to my freedom. But, and I shit you not, in between me and that gate was the biggest bull on the aforementioned God's green earth. All I could think was “Are you shittin' me universe?” I stood there, frozen. 

I looked across the great expanse of the Scottish countryside which was littered with Mr. Bull's offspring. I looked back at the greatest bull of all time and sighed. He in turn looked up casually and gave me a look that said,

 “Human, you may pass.” And with that, he put his head down and continued to graze with his back to me. He then slowly, as in a fuckin' eternity, made his way down into the glen. Finally, it was time for me to make my great escape. Man, I hightailed it up outta there at a rate of speed that would have astounded you. And I am certain it impressed the cows.

The Guardians

To be honest, I thought my first blog on the trail would be filled with an abundance of waxing poetic about the beauty of the land. About solitude, inner peace, and the friendships I had built with the other hikers that I met along the way. That it would be filled with tales of the great expanse of wilderness, about the tough climb, and the intrinsic lessons this journey has taught me thus far. But the reality is, although those stories need to be told, this tale is about what should have been the last two exhausting miles of the trail on my first day out and the two day hikers who made it an absolute pleasure, and who managed to become my good friends along the way. And so the story goes as follows:

On Tuesday I left the small town of Milngavie (pronounced Mil-guy) which bore the concrete post marking the beginning of the West Highland Way. Before my departure, I helped capture the photographs and still frames of the other hikers posing for their cherished memories, and they for me. I immediately became aware that I would not be alone on this part of the journey. I did indeed come across many people along the Way. I also came across the same hikers again and again periodically throughout the day. It was a beautiful morning, the sun was shining, the scenery was spectacular, and the Way was an easy jaunt. At least at first.

It quickly became apparent to me that most hikers were doing, at the very least, the first 12 miles out to Drymen, and some, the more adventurous ones, beyond. After thoroughly enjoying the first 6 miles, I realized that I too could make it a bit further and headed for Drymen with the rest of the herd. About ten miles in I decided that I may have bitten off more than I could chew. I had reached my proposed campsite, and what I thought would be my accommodations for the evening, when I realized that was not going to be the case. The campsite was overgrown from disuse and apparently closed. Although my body was aching I had no choice but to move forward. Within a few minutes, I ran into

Monica and Pierre who were from France, (It was they who had taken my picture in Milngavie) sitting in a little town called Gartness which consisted of three dwellings, one which had a small refrigerator out front with a sign that read, “Honesty Box.” The fridge, with the box sitting atop it, was filled with chocolates, water, and sodas. We all took what we needed, paid the box, and sat upon a stone wall gratefully eating our treats and talking about the trail. I would run into them again later on, but again that is not the story that needs telling. Although I set off before them, they once again overtook me and were out of sight before long. (as was par for the course for most of the hikers that I had met.) Two more miles I thought as I continued to

drag myself, my pack (that now felt like it weighed 100 pounds), and my weary legs up the next gigantic mountain. Okay, so it was really just a little hill on a road, but it felt like a gigantic mountain. I again found myself alone at the back of the pack, slogging along, trying to enjoy the scenery. I was thinking to myself as I walked, how tedious the last miles had become when I heard voices that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Just moments before I had looked back and saw no one coming up the long road behind me, but there they were nonetheless. Behind me coming up the hill were two older men carrying day packs. They were smiling and laughing and speaking amicably among themselves. I stopped and waited for them to overtake me and said my perfunctory 'hello' as they pulled alongside me. I could immediately tell they were Scottish as they returned an “ello” with a smile. We made our way down the road together. I naturally assumed that after a few minutes they would pull away as most other hikers did after pleasantries were exchanged. However, this was not to be the case.

 “Are you hiking the Way then?” One of them asked me.

“Yes, yes I am. Are you?”

“Ah, no we live here. We just like ta walk ya know.” (now for the rest of this story just think of Sean Connery's thick guttural Scottish accent when you read these gentleman's lines. It will lose something in the translation if ya don't)

“What's ya name?”

“I'm Kristine.” I smiled in their direction.

I'm-a David, Kristine, this-'ere is Michael.” We all stood in the middle of the road and shook hands.

 “So how far have ya come taday, Kristine?”

“Only about 10 miles or so.”  I replied.

The three of us continued down the road chatting about this and that as we went. We paused at the top of the hill to catch our breath and enjoy the view. Michael took off his pack and began rummaging about in it. 

“Hey Kristine woulda like a beer?”

I just looked at him, "huh?”

“A beer Kristine? Woulda lika beer?” Michael repeated, digging several Budweiser out of his pack. Now, I have had many people offer me a beer in a pub in England or Ireland, but on a dirt road, out of a backpack, in the middle of nowhere Scotland? I have to say I was a tad taken aback. Pleasantly so of course. 

“Why thank you but, but, I can't take your beer.”

“Whey-not? We have plenty din't we, David?”

“Aye, aye, sure we do. How about a smoke then too, Michael?” 

Michael smiled and handed me a bottle of Budweiser, then out of his backpack he pulled this large, crumpled-up joint and placed it casually in the crook of his mouth. I just looked back at him and smiled, popped the top of my beer, and shook my head with quiet delight.

The thing is, instead of walking the last two miles of that day with my head down, chugging away, just trying to make it the last bit in sheer desperation, I found myself casually strolling along a Scottish country road, drinking a Budweiser, watching two Scots getting high, all the while giving me the grand tour. David used my name each time he addressed me. And he was, without doubt, a wealth of information. “So ya see here Kristine, this here use to be a Roman encampment here. And ya see this Kristine? This is used for triangulation. Stand here Kristine then and ya can just see Loch Lomond there. So where ya going to stay tonight, Kristine?” 

And so it went. Strolling, drinking and smoking, pointing and laughing all along the way.

After a bit, some familiar hikers caught up with us. We all strolled along down the hill heading toward Drymen until eventually the hikers went on to town and I was left wondering where I was going to be able to pitch my tent.

 “So you sleeping un ya tent are ya then, Kristine?”

Yes. I am if I can find a place to pitch it.”

“Aye, well not ta worry Kristine, Michael and I know where ya can pitch it din't we Michael?”

“Aye,” Michael replied. “Let's get down here on the Way and we'll smoke another one and I'll show ya.” We ambled off the road along the Way, across a stream, and down into a place that was protected from the wind, was right along said stream, a safe distance from the trail and the roadway, and had a rope swing tied to a giant oak tree. I un-shouldered my pack and set upon the green grass that peeled up the hill as far as the eye could see. It was perfect. Michael took out another joint and David handed me another beer.  David then proceeded to climb up onto the swing

which was hanging near the brook and launched himself off the bank. And so it went. Michael got high, I sipped my beer in what amounted to Scottish delight, and David swung to and fro on his rope swing twirling and giggling all the while. And so, somewhere near a small Scottish town, in the gentle twilight of a Celtic afternoon, one could hear our laughter echoing out across the hills and valleys.

All good things they say, have to come to an end, as did these few precious hours that David, Michael, and I spent together. Michael indicated it was time to move on. He asked if I had enough food. Although I indicated to him that I did, he nonetheless left me the meats, buttered rolls, and fresh tomatoes they had brought for themselves to munch upon along their walk.

 David left me another beer to wash it all down with. I hugged them tight before they left and thanked them for all they had done for me. It was Michael who turned back towards me with just a hint of a twinkle in his eyes and replied, “It's what we do Kristine. We all have ta look out for one another.” And with that simple statement, the guardians made their way up out of the glen, over the lush green hillside, and disappeared into the fading sunlight.

The Encounter

The Clan Campbell Castle

         Dedicated to the memory of my

         Grandfather Neil Campbell

Who knew that fate would be waiting for me on the top of a green and quiet mountain, nestled deep amongst the Scottish countryside. Certainly not I. But on this particular day, it was as if the universe had been patiently waiting for me to arrive.  I had come all the way from America to discover my family heritage. To the town in which our ancestral castle was situated, home of the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, and ancient seat of Clan Campbell. 
With a feeling in my gut that one garners from a particular feeling; as if one is not just on the earth but a part of it, I strolled out past the ancient castle, out along the small, lazy river which ran into the gleaming Loch Fyne. I was trying to find a  way to the top of a small mountain that sat beside the castle and soon discovered a route that would lead me to the top of the hummock.

The trail I found was a small, rock-strewn creek that was covered with a slick algae. I began the gentle climb, slipping and sliding my way upwards. The forest that surrounded me was dark and enigmatic. Although the trees that sat in the woods had a willowy, brown bark, they were covered in a green, silky moss that permeated the woodlands with the aroma of the earth. The ground was laden with smooth rocks and a dense, dew-covered grass. The canopy of trees was so thick in places that the intermittent Scottish sun barely reached the loam-covered earth below. Here, in the depths of the forest, I could feel a boundless history. I could easily discern the legends which penetrated my existence. I could hear the clang and charge of distant battles. I could taste the past that hung in the air. I stood mesmerized in the timbers. With a purpose born within, I began to understand my clan's claim to these rugged hills and valleys. I was immersed in the deep, guttural feeling of this place. I stood...drinking in the energy. I blinked. My mind slowly surfaced, and the past vanished. I moved forward; up and out of the heavy forest toward the pinnacle of the hill. Loch Fyne, shining in the rare sunlight, stretched out before my eyes. The town sat at the base of the hill, white and stony. I was basking in the glory of being in Scotland, of traversing the land of my ancestors when suddenly, up and over a rocky knoll, came two small boys of about 6 or 7. One of the boys was wearing a costume of sorts and behind them came a gigantic sort of man. He wore black wellies and a thick, brown coat. He had hands the size of tree trunks. The young boys ran about me. One dressed, I assumed, as a dragon, the other feinting and parring with a wooded sword. After several attempts to slay the dragon that had come charging over the hill, the two boys stopped to address me. “Ello,” the dragon boy said to me, the tall, tree trunk of a man standing near, as if on guard. “Well hello. Are you a dragon?” I asked politely.

Inveraray, Scotland

“No.” the young boy replied in a thick Scottish accent. “I'm the Loch Ness Monster and I live in that castle down there.” He pointed with his diminutive finger toward the Clan Campbell Castle. I smiled and nodded at him and his partner. About that time, I saw a large, four-wheel golf cart coming up over the dale. It stopped just a few yards from where I, the Loch Ness Monster, and his charge, stood. Out of the vehicle came a man dressed in a black blazer and slacks and a woman in a lovely, blue blouse and jeans carrying a picnic basket. For some reason, the young couple looked familiar. I began to turn their faces over in my mind. I knew that I had seen them before, I knew I recognized them. In a moment of clarity, my mind put all the pieces together. I addressed the young monster, “You live there, young sir?” I pointed down the hillside. He and his young friend nodded vigorously. Ahhhh...I smiled and nodded my head in understanding. “I see. So you and your charge here are the princes' of Argyll are you not?” The young boys grinned, nodded, and laughed. Abruptly, one gave a mighty growl, the other raised his mighty sword, and they turned and raced towards the young couple with, what I now understood to be, their Man at Arms hot on their heels.

The Watch Tower

 I moved in the direction of my backpack, the couple, and the tower that sat ever so majestically on top of the hill. I nodded as the beautiful young woman reached down and tousled the hair of a young prince. I smiled in her direction and she returned the gesture kindly. “Beautiful day is it not?” she addressed me.

“Yes ma'am, it certainly is. Still, we might get some rain...” My voice trailed off.  I looked across the sovereignty that stretched before us. The young gentleman emerged from the antiquated, stone tower. He smiled at me as he approached. I addressed him casually. “So how does one get to ride to the top of the mountain on one of those, sir?” I pointed toward the gigantic, four-wheel vehicle that they had, just moments before, arrived in. With a wink and a smile he returned, “Oh, well one has to have a special sort of pass to get a ride up in this contraption.” I smiled and laughed and the three of us exchanged some more pleasantries about the day and the beauty of the land. I eventually excused myself and wished the party a good day. The Man at Arms gave me a quiet nod of his head, the children did a final feint and parry, and the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, the head of my clan, bide me ado with a wave and a smile. I turned and walked down the grassy hillside, out of the sunlight, and into the depths of the forest, grinning I might add, from ear to ear.

The Duke and Duchess along with the Dragon and Knight that I encountered
along with the newest member of the Clan
(this is a file photo)

And that my dear friends is how fate brought me together with my heritage and even closer together with my grandfather. It was he, I am sure of it, who reached down from the heavens that day and granted me a most beloved and treasured moment that I shall cherish until the end of days, and beyond.

The Ballet

This blog entry is dedicated to two of the people I love and respect most on this earth; my sister Debbie and my Broman Gary. I love you both. Thanks for always taking such good care of me and for always keeping me entertained. (PS Don't forget Broman, it's called poetic license lol)

The journey of 1000 miles begins with....a hair-raising ride in my Broman's Exploder. It's the truth. It seems as if any time I start a long journey it begins in much the same way as no trip would be complete without a ride to the airport from my bro-in-law, accompanied by my sister in the front seat gripping the “oh shit handle” and wondering if we are gonna make it off the highway in one piece. You see, my brother-in-law is the poster child for road rage driving. He has the unique ability to make one shit in one's pants whilst laughing one's ass at the same time. The assortment of curse words, tempered with a wide variety of facial expressions and fist and/or finger waving are, in my mind, priceless. And, always expected when Gary is behind the wheel.

You see, usually I make my way to my sister's house in Ft Lauderdale on my own to begin most of my adventures but, on this rare occasion, my Sis and Broman came to scoop me up. And as such, the trip from St Augustine to Ft Lauderdale yesterday held all the fun of having tooth pulled with no novocaine. Similarities to the aforementioned car ride at the beginning of this story were apparent. But, on this occasion, I also became aware of the rather intricate ballet that ensues while my sister watches, and subsequently (whether he likes it or not) guides my Bro-man as he weaves his way in and out of traffic at an alarming rate of speed. Said ballet unfolds in perfect synchronicity. It is a thing of imperial beauty to watch the swan-like grace with which my sister moves her extremities like magic wands: pointing, waving, or steering as if the Exploder will ignore my Broman's commands and instead, magically read my sister’s body language and respond in kind. One can almost taste the look of consternation on Broman's face as he brakes just seconds later than Debbie would have preferred, as she jams her foot into her imaginary brake. And one can't help but chuckle under one's breath when the choice words of wisdom she offers up to Broman comes out of her diminutive self in such a way that you think there is a large, tattooed sailor in the Exploder all of a sudden. In all its glory and humor, this ballet of sorts unfolds before me, as I watch from the back seat in terrified amusement. I would like to say I would not give up the time I get to spend with these two as they make me laugh and keep me bemused and amused on the regular. That being said, I did find that the key to a successful road trip with these two is to keep one's iPod fully charged, your pillow fluffed, your head down, and your opinions...to yourself. 

And so it begins... 

 

To be Sure of It

The bus rolled slowly to a stop as I opened the door for the umpteenth time that day. The girls stood, unassuming, on the other side of the narrow, gravel road. I got up from my seat behind the worn and faded wheel and went down the three grey, metal steps and onto the roadside. The gravel crunched beneath my brown, faded work boots as I crossed the road, “you ladies trying to get the bus to Dingle Town?” “Yes sir.” Well Lassies to be sure, you be on the wrong side of the road then.” I squinted into the rare sunshine as I motioned for them to follow me. I stashed their gear in the nearly empty hold and we all climbed back into the warmth of the bus. As the young girls got themselves situated I slid back into my worn leather seat; my perch above the long and winding roads of Ireland. I closed the folding door and as I let out the brakes I heard the comforting and familiar sound of the air rushing through the lines. I checked the rearview mirror to make sure my new charges had safely settled in behind me and took my foot from the brake. The bus eased into motion.            

28 years I had been driving this bus, these meandering lanes almost to the day. And not a dawning had come and gone that I haven’t thanked the good Lord up above for my life behind this wheel. So many people have come and gone through these old, squeaky doors. So much life, and love, and laughter: faces of the earth, brown and golden. Pale. Eyes of green with black-rimmed glasses, long fuzzy scarves, toques, baseball caps, surfboards, and rucksacks, young folks and old. Travelers from the earth. 

I turned onto the asphalt roadway, gave her some gas, and picked up some speed. The bus rolled along, humming down the lanky road that came alive before me. Ahhh…a grand day to be sure of it. I took a deep breath. I had lived all my life in these hills. I had, for 50 blissful years, breathed the cool, delicate air which always seemed to be filled with the taste of green grass and the salt of the sea. To be sure of it I had grown, loved, and lost here in these highlands.

The locals were my neighbors, my friends, my family, my charges, my passengers. I loved to watch them, wrapped in their grey, woolen coats of winter or the short, cotton sleeves of an Irish summer. I loved to watch them as they hopped on and hopped off my bus with their brown, cloth grocery bags packed with the evening’s meal or backpacks filled with novels, binders, and school books. I loved to watch as the children, whom I have known for almost all of their lives, grow up and leave the comfort of this gentle place for parts unknown. I am the guardian of these times. Of the Irish folk as they intermingle with the tourists who have come to eat, sleep, and breathe Ireland. As one, they all come together sharing moments in time like vines growing and twisting up a trellis in full bloom. Life.

 My mind returned ever so gently and briefly to the task at hand. I was making good time as the bus rambled down the road heading west into the misty rain that had suddenly taken over the day, as was often the case here in Ireland. I checked the mirror once again to see the young ladies in a deep and blustery conversation. I steered the bus towards today’s final destination. My thoughts returned to the far-reaching asphalt that stretched out before me, the smell of the rich loam of the hillsides, and of the salt air that drifted in through the open window as I got closer to the ragged cliffs that sat stonily along the Irish Sea.  

 This is my life behind the wheel. I am content as I spend my time on this earth peering out the windshield as the wipers wash away the rain showers. The blades move back and forth with a rhythmic tick, tick, tick. Luck of the Irish they may say or, as I think of it, just a life filled with gifts, smiles, and long winding roads. Ahhhh….I am blessed to be sure of it. The young ladies behind me were still busy chatting with excitement as we drew closer to my concluding stop of the day and, as happenstance would have it, my hometown.  I slowly took the long remaining curve down into Dingle Town and in due course we pulled up along the quay and I gently guided the bus to a stop. I slid the door open and I, once again, eased out of my seat and hopped down to help the young maidens retrieve their gear out of the belly of the bus. “Have ya been ta Dingle before ladies? 

“No sir. This is our first time.” 

“Well to be sure of it then this is as beautiful a place as you will ever see. Now ya must take a ride out along Slea Head Drive as it is the jewel of Dingle to be sure. I was raised here ya know.” That single statement seemed to pique their interest and they stopped gathering their things and turned their full attention to me.

   Since I was in no particular hurry I sat down along the gated entrance to the harbor, lit a cig, and answered as many of their questions as I could. The part of my job I loved the most, imparting to the wandering souls the simple yet intricate details of the place I call home. I took a long drag off my cigarette and exhaled deeply. “Now if ya take this road up a block or two

and turn towards the water you can take a stroll along Dingle Bay all the way past Hussey’s Folly there and down to the lighthouse that has stood along these rocky shores since the year eighteen and fifty-five.” I took another drag on my cigarette and continued. “As you walk now young ones, keep an eye across the bay and you will see the grand and majestic Esk Tower which stands guard over the harbor and directs the fishermen to the entrance to the port and towards the safety and warmth of home. I pointed towards the bay across the colorful boats that were moored along the dock and filled with men returning from a day upon the sea.

“And see here. If you make your way past ole Murphy’s Pub there,” I pointed “just down around the corner there is a place along the lane that pipes ancient Gaelic music out into the alleyway.” The girls were drinking in the information like this was the place they had longed for all their lives. I smiled at them. I had two daughters myself about their age, both making their way in the world both feeling too confined and stagnant in this little seaside town.

 I worked many a year driving these hills and roadways to give my girls the opportunity to see the world beyond, as these two girls were doing today. Dingle was a world beyond to them but was an old comfortable hat to me. “Excuse me sir I know you have to be on your way but could you tell us where we might find a good hostel?” “Oh to be sure, now ya make your way straight up this street and you’ll find the ‘Hideout.’ Ole Micheal, he’s a fine man and will take good care of ya to be sure. And if you want to go drink up some of our national brew and listen to the best music in town you must go to the Courthouse up yonder there. That is where the locals go to be sure. Be still now, as we take our traditions very seriously and if you can be wordless, and close your eyes and pay close attention, the music will carry you back to the times of my ancestors and it will fill your head with visions of old to be sure of it.” The girls nodded their heads in quiet delight as I helped them shrug back into their rucksacks. I gave them a wink and smile which they returned wholeheartedly and as they turned to leave they smiled and waved back at me.

I watched with a slow, rising joy as they disappeared up the quiet cobblestone street past the rainbow-colored houses that were awash in the early evening mist. I turned and closed the luggage hatch, climbed back aboard my old red bus, took one last look at the fading twilight over Dingle Harbor, let out the brakes, and ushered my bus towards Tra Li.  I’d be there and back in two hours, driving my old sea blue pickup truck up and over Connor’s Pass and back to the green pastures of home. Tomorrow I would do it all over again. I was a lucky man…to be sure of it.

 

A Christmas Story: Kristine Style

 Last evening I decided to brave the holiday crowds and headed out to do some shopping on the last Friday before Christmas. So with my holiday cheer and as much patience as I could muster firmly in place, I arrived over at the Bed, Bath and Beyond to make my final purchase of the season. As I wandered through the store I eventually saw the item I thought I wanted to purchase: 12 feet over my head and decidedly out of my reach. So off I went to the front counter where a lady informed me she would send someone directly. After several minutes I noticed a young man scampering towards me, kicking something down the aisle, in bending to pick it up, he knocked something else off a shelf, and in doing so his radio fell off his hip and went skittering across the floor.  With an exasperated look at me and a wave of his hand at it, he leaves it lying on the white tile floor in lieu of helping me as quickly as possible. I gave the young man a wave and a smile and motioned for him to take his time, and retrieve his radio, which he did. Smiling hello as he approached the final few feet, I smiled back and turned and pointed towards the ceiling. We casually had some discussion about the item that was not just out of my reach, but out of his as well, so he quickly departed to retrieve a ladder from across the aisle.  As he was trying to make it back across said aisle to me, his sojourn was interrupted by yet another, obviously more impatient, customer. He helplessly began to listen to the man’s request, shrugging his shoulders and throwing me a glance of sincere apology. Once again I wave at him as if to say, no worries bro. You could see the visible sigh of relief in his posture and after a few minutes, he returned to me, ladder in tow. As we start to chat about my pending purchase, about his many encounters with unruly customers this holiday season, and about the weather, he climbs the ladder and I begin to toss instructions at him, “No that one. Yes. The one to the right. Damn. that’s not the one either. I want the one that looks like the one here.” He finally finds, in the far back right of the top shelf, exactly what I was looking for and makes his way triumphantly down to earth grinning all the way. I was like, “Dude you just made my Christmas! Thank you so much for all your help.” “Hey no problem” he responds, “I wish all our customers were as warm and friendly as you.” I smiled and shrugged at him and as I could not read his name tag I asked him his name. “Colton,” he said. I reached out my hand to shake his “Kristine” I replied. We cheerfully exchanged “Merry Christmases” and off I went to pay for my present.

So about a minute later, as I am standing at the back of the line, here comes ole Colton around the corner. He sees me in line and says, “Hey Kristine! I’ll take you over here.” and motions for me to come down to his register, which I gladly did. As Colton began to ring me up I retrieved my wallet and started counting my money to see if I had enough cash to make my purchase or if I needed to put it on my credit card he said “Here let me help you out” and promptly gives me a ten percent discount on my 100 dollar purchase. I was like “Awwwww…dude, you did not have to do that but that’s cool thanks so much.” Now as I am about to walk away sending another “Merry Christmas” Colton’s way, he says to me, “Hey, Kristine you know what you said to me back there, about making your Christmas? Well I just want to say, you made mine too.”  I hesitated and looked back at him and smiled and said “Hey dude no worries…might just as well be the reason someone smiles today, eh?”  As the realization of my remark came to him he smiled a smile as big as Texas and nodded his head in agreement and as I finally departed I realized in that brief encounter Colton and I left each other better off than we when we found each other. 

Kumbaya my friends, kumbaya. Oh…and Merry Christmas.

The moral of the story: be kind, be friendly, be patient. And regardless of whether you have known someone for years or just a few minutes leave them better off than when you found them.