My 75^th Birthday Celebration

Or

“Emily’s Greatest Hits”

U.K., June 27-July 17, 2023  

My long-anticipated trip back to England, a.k.a. The Motherland, will likely hold scant interest to most of you. I don’t hold it against you. 

For these readers, suffice it to say that it was my Best. Trip. Ever. 

Therefore, you can skip over the tales below – including my immersion into the Tudor era (16^th Century), a carjacking and an encounter with a witch. 

So if you don't want to fool with my deathless prose, just go for the pictures instead. 

A TRIP WITH A PURPOSE

 My dear sister-cousin Margaret Floyd Harris of Denton, NC, a fellow Guilford College graduate and frequent traveling companion, and her daughter, Joanna Stone of Greensboro, joined me for what became the penultimate romp through London and the English countryside to mark my 75^th birthday. 

No longer a spring chicken, I figured this trip might be my final one, and to use a sports metaphor, I wanted to “leave it all on the field.” 

I think we succeeded in spades.

The epic birthday itself, as some of you recall, was May 6 – Coronation Day! But because I wanted to go back to the Royal Horticultural Society’s mammoth Hampton Court Flower Show in early July – one of my hits from a previous trip -- we timed this one to coincide with that spectacle. 

Everything else fell beautifully into place around that anchor event. Never one for "canned" tours, I planned the entire trip myself -- one of the biggest joys of traveling, in my view -- and purposely included things I’d enjoyed before (hence, my “greatest hits”) as well as a few new attractions. For Joanna, who had never been abroad before, it was all new, and Little Margaret and I loved seeing England through her fresh eyes. 

What were the highlights? Since this itinerary has essentially been in the making since 1978 (my first trip to the Spept’red Isle), it’s hard to single anything out. It would be like asking a six-year-old to pinpoint her ten favorite moments at Disney World. After all, to me the U.K. is  my own Magic Kingdom!

KICKING OFF IN CORNWALL

        The charms of Cornwall are often overlooked by Americans, if for no other reason than the five-hour train journey down from London to Penzance -- literally the end of line. It's a shame, really, because this duchy in England's extreme southwest corner has a climate and sensibility all its own. The coastline is rugged, postcard perfect and well worth the effort to get out there. For fans of British TV, think "Doc Martin" and "Poldark."

        Here's a sample. It's Cape Cornwall near St. Just, home of the world's best chippie (fish n' chips shop).

        Cornish people have never met a stranger. Visitors are heartily embraced; if you're there, you're made to feel at home. After spending time in Cornwall on four previous trips -- twice on house swaps -- it's no wonder I wanted to go back.

        I stayed in a B&B in the fishing village of Mousehole (pron. MOWzel) tucked into a hill overlooking the ocean. On my last night a village festival was held in the garden featuring a performance by the Mousehole Male Voice Choir, an ensemble with roots in the local fishing and tin mining industries. These guys have singing together since Jesus was casting his own nets in the sea. What they might lack in quality, they make up for in enthusiasm! 

        While I was out there I had a lovely catch-up with Carolyn, with whom I house-swapped about 20 years ago. Carolyn is a bright spark, always up for a laugh and is a great ambassador for her native Cornwall.

The only drawback with the accommodations were the stairs, which threatened to defeat me. Bless their hearts, Brits are the masters of understatement. If a Brit tells you that a destination is "a five-minute walk," be prepared to walk at least two miles. "A ten-minute walk" can mean "you'll be walking three days; take a tent." 

        When making my reservation at the Old Coastguard, I explained my mobility issues and that I couldn't handle stairs very well. I was assured there were only "a couple of stairs." Sadly, this estimation was off by about 5,000%. Getting to and from my room from the lobby meant a climb equivalent to the Washington Monument. Add to that trek the steps down to my en suite bathroom -- with no railing. Needless to say, my assessment of these accommodations carry a distinct American slant: "Nice folks and good food, but unless you're young and/or a mountain goat, put an orthopedic specialist on speed-dial and stay here at your own peril!"

ON TO LONDON   

        Train back to London and settled into my hotel in the Kensington neighborhood Saturday night. On Sunday I met up with my dear friend Hazel from Nottingham, my first house exchange partner from 1995, and her beautiful daughter Amy for lunch -- a rare treat, since we don't get to see one another very often. Margaret and Joanna joined us for an outing at the Queens Gallery at Buckingham Palace. They were knackered after their overnight flight, but they gamely soldiered on. This was London, after all!   

    

        Yes, in London we did the usual stuff. For Evensong at Westminster Abbey we got to sit in the exact spot occupied by the Royal Family during the Queen's funeral -- the front row on the right as you face "the stage," as Joanna called the high altar. 

        We agreed in advance that we wouldn't remain joined at the hip, so on several occasions we went our separate ways. One day Margaret and Joanna toured Windsor Castle (which I had visited several times) while I slept in, took a later train and joined them afterward in Windsor for lunch with dear friends Jane and Tom, with whom I had house-swapped in nearby Newbury many years ago. 

        While M. and J. did the Tower of London, I did my Sherman-through-Georgia march through the always-fantastic Victoria & Albert Museum (the "V&A") right down the street from our hotel. 

        Here's Little Margaret at Tower Bridge in full goof-ball mode. Joanna claims it's for her mama's funeral visitation slide show.

        At the end of most days -- surprise! -- we found a pub.

        Since choral music is one of Margaret's and my passions, I had sussed out a free concert at one of the churches in Piccadilly featuring, of all people, the San Francisco Boys Chorus. They were touring the U.K. and performed both British and American selections. Sweet!  And then the day continued to get even better.

        One of Margaret's and my favorite things in London is afternoon tea at The Dorchester Hotel. It's snooty, it's posh and it defines elegance. This was Little Margaret's belated birthday treat to me! Tea at the Ritz and The Savoy have their fans, as well (including me), for good reason. But to me the presentation at The Dorchester is first among equals.

        We were met there by the adorable Katarina, a London native whom Margaret and I met five years ago on a course at Cambridge University's Institute for Continuing Education. Judge for yourself whether we were having a good time. Cheers!

        From tea we went straight to St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the church on Trafalgar Square famous for its music. On offer that evening was one of their Cabaret in the Crypt concerts of contemporary music -- in this case, jazz vocalist Gary Williams and his ensemble performing the standards of Frank Sinatra and friends. 

        Picture it: You're sitting in the ancient burial ground underneath the sanctuary jiving to Sinatra classics from the Great American Songbook! I can't help but think Great Uncle Nigel, on whose grave you might be perched, was happily humming along. There was a cash bar, and the packed house was having a grand time indeed. And ol' Gary, whom I'd never heard of, was terrific.

HENRY VIII LOOMED LARGE 

          As it happened, King Henry VIII – he of the six wives, abolisher of the Catholic church in England and daddy of Elizabeth I – cast a long shadow over our trip. The Tudor dynasty has always been a favorite period of mine, and Henry kept cropping up often, starting with the musical "Six," a monster hit on the West End. Yep, it's about those selfsame six wives, who evermore rock that stage.

        We had tickets for the 4 o'clock matinee that Saturday and thought we were giving ourselves plenty of time to taxi over from Kensington Palace, which we toured and where we had an elegant lunch. Sadly, we hadn't factored in a huge gay protest (about what? who knows!?) along Piccadilly in central London which affected all traffic coming into the theatre district. 

        With traffic at a dead standstill around Piccadilly, our taxi driver threw in the towel and threw us out of his cab with the advice, "Start walking. I can't get you ladies any closer." 

        We were over two miles away from the theatre and might as well have been marooned on Mars. Expecting me to walk that far was a joke. We politely elbowed our way through the marchers -- who were in a jolly, upbeat mood -- only to discover there were no outlets on the other side. That meant no taxis or buses there, either. We approached a police officer on the scene and explained our dilemma -- the clock was ticking faster! -- who simply shrugged and murmured the British equivalent of "Tough shit."

        Missing "Six" was not an option! Margaret and I had had tickets for that show in 2020, but our trip was cancelled due to Covid. And here we were again -- so close, and yet so far! But with no means of transportation it felt like we were well and truly screwed. By now it was 3:35.

        Fortunately, being "old-school," I had printed paper tickets rather than a QR code on a phone (I don't trust that stuff), so I doled out two of those suckers to M and J and said, "Y'all GO. No need for all of us to miss the curtain. I'll catch up with you. Eventually." 

        We had already observed that our little outfit resembled the hare and the tortoise, with M and J being the energetic bunny rabbits and me, well, you know. The old turtle.

        In this instance, it made perfect sense for them to start hustling on foot at top speed in the direction of the theatre, impossible as it seemed that they'd make it by 4. 

        As I watched them go, it occurred to me I had two choices. I could stand on the street corner in this sleepy residential neighborhood and hope Santa Claus came by on his sleigh. Or I could take matters in my own hands. My Inner 75-year-old American Bad-Ass reared her feisty head. One way or another, I was going to get to that theatre in time! 

        I believe in angels, both seen and unseen, and what happened next was certain proof that a small celestial army were rooting for me. Across the street sat a man parked in a Mercedes -- virtually the only sign of life within blocks. I rapped on his window with what I'm sure was an expression that I meant business. He reluctantly opened it a fraction.

        "Please excuse me, but my ox is in a ditch and I desperately need a ride to the Vaudeville Theatre. I've got a ticket to see 'Six' and it starts in 20 minutes and there's no way on earth I can walk that far and no taxis are running around here at the moment because of the gay pride parade, and I'll give you 50 pounds" -- all the cash I had on hand -- "if you'll take me there!" 

        I've never undertaken a carjacking before, but desperate times require desperate measures, in my view. The sudden appearance of an old crazed American must have shaken this young man to his core. But I could see the wheels turning in his head, and in only a few moments, he said, "OK. Hop in. I'm Stuart, by the way."

        As I buckled in, he typed the address into his GPS and off we took. "The first boy I was sweet on was named Stuart," I started chattering, along with my profuse thanks for his life-saving gallantry and the fact that my traveling companions had struck out on foot but my mobility issues had prevented me from even undertaking the hike. 

        Stuart, bless him, understandably sat in a daze, no doubt wondering whether this crazy lady was on the verge of going completely off the rails before he could get me to my destination. 

        As luck would have it, the car's GPS was in sync with Joanna's smart phone, which she was using to navigate their route to the theatre. In about five minutes, I spotted them on the sidewalk ahead, and demanded that Stuart pull over. (An effective carjacking, after all, requires firm, decisive instructions.) As he slowed down, I leaned out the window and trillled "Little MARgaret!! Quick, get in!!" nearly causing both her and Joanna to stroke out. As soon as they got over their shock they piled into the back seat and off we motored once again.

        Thanks to all my angels and archangels -- and Stuart -- by jiminy we made it to the theatre with five minutes to spare! Before we got out of the car, he insisted on taking a selfie with us. His girlfriend, he said, wouldn't believe this adventure without proof, and since he's a professional photographer it was only fitting that he document the encounter. We produced the promised cash, which he tried to refuse, but I suggested that he treat his girlfriend to a nice curry if it made him feel better.  

          "Six" lived up to its considerable hype. Rooted in history, which Margaret and I both appreciated, it gave an entirely new spin on ol' Henry's storied harem of wives. There was not a weak link in the cast; every one of those babes was a powerhouse performer. We all loved it!  And it was all the sweeter for the effort made to get us there.

        No doubt Henry, no stranger to bold moves, would have approved.

        And then the theatrics got cranked up to an even higher notch. The second show on this day's double-feature was a new staging of "Crazy for You," originally produced on Broadway in 1930 under the title "Girl Crazy." Composed by George and Ira Gershwin, it brims with classics like "Embraceable You," "They Can't Take That Away from Me," and the effervescent "I Got Rhythm," one of my all-time favorites. Susan Stroman, the mega-talent behind "The Producers" and other Tony hits, was the creative force behind this production. 

        Adjectives fail me.

        The singing! The dancing! The costumes! The set! The orchestra, the goofy staging and the laughs: All absolutely first-rate. With the possible exception of "The Producers" in 2001, I can't remember having a better time in the theatre, and I've been hundreds of times. It's pure, escapist entertainment. GO SEE "Crazy for You" if you ever have the chance. Prepare to be dazzled!! 

        Still on a high from the previous evening, I thought Sunday's service at St. Paul's Cathedral -- always on my hit list -- couldn't lift me up any further. Wrong. Getting to the church early enabled us to soak in the unexpected mini-concert in the courtyard by the chimes. What glorious bells! And at the service the choir was accompanied by the extraordinary London Sinfonia Orchestra, so the music was even more than usually transformative. In that magnificent space one can hear the angels and glimpse Heaven itself. Ahhhh....

BUT BACK TO KING HENRY

           While in London one of our day trips included Hampton Court Palace on the western outskirts of London, Henry VIII's principal residence and site of the aforementioned flower show. 

          While Margaret and Joanna toured the palace (built in the early 1500s), I hopped on a motorized scooter to see as many acres of gardens, pavilions and blossoms as possible on the palace grounds. Did I mention that RHS Hampton Court's is billed as the largest flower show in the world? 

          Without that scooter I would’ve collapsed into a heap after about five minutes. I hadn’t realized until I got to England how compromised my mobility had become. In a word, I can’t walk worth shit these days. OK, being 75 doesn’t help, but my feet are numb (diabetes-related neuropathy), my legs are weak and unstable, my balance is shot, and overall my walking mechanism has stopped working properly. This sorry condition comes even after losing some weight in the last three years. 

          However, sitting on the sidelines is not an option. While I still have a pulse, I intend to go. Traveling evermore gets my blood pumping. It's when I feel most truly alive! So I take advantage of as many accommodations as possible, like handicapped parking, elevators instead of stairs and on this fine day, a scooter. 

         The Royal Horticultural Society had spared not a single blossom when it came to creating an Eden on those palace grounds, and I was bound and determined to see every one of them. In addition to many pavilions devoted to commercial and amateur growers, garden clubs and enthusiasts for every blooming species from asters to zennias, a sizeable amount of acreage was set aside for show gardens installed by environmental groups, charities and tourist bureaus from all over the world.

        By far the highlight for me was the demonstration garden installed by Explore Charleston, our very own visitor bureau. Picture it: A replica of Waterfront Park overlooking the convergence of the Cooper River into Charleston Harbor (thus creating the Atlantic Ocean, according to people hereabouts.) A replica of the iconic pineapple statue was surrounded by plantings of hydrangeas, roses, decorative grasses, palmetto palms and other trees draped by Spanish moss with paths of brick and crushed oyster shells. There were life-sized statues of herons, a small “summer house,” and beautiful wrought-iron work that’s found in the courtyard gardens of countless houses down on the Peninsula.

        I was home!

 

There were even a couple of joggling boards, those whimsical sideways rocking seats used as part of the courtship ritual unique to Charleston during Colonial times. And to reinforce its Southern charm, the temps were in the mid-80s that day with low humidity and without a cloud in the sky! 

[To Charlestonians these climatic conditions are ideal -- and hardly "hot." On the other hand, the first aid station was overrun with pale, swooning Brits who were dropping like flies. Bless their hearts.] 

          Charleston's lush, inviting garden was flanked by one installed by the Oregon tourist board (yawn) and one by the good folks of Phoenix, AZ, who tried gamely to recreate a garden from the desert. Sorry, people, cactus landscapes leave me cold, a sentiment apparently shared by the hordes of visitors that day. No wonder they flocked instead to our authentic pink, purple, blue and white Charleston oasis! 

          And the RHS judges agreed: Explore Charleston’s entry won a silver medal.

STILL ON THE TUDOR TRAIL

          After a memorable week in London we gathered our bags from the Hotel Montana,  picked up a rental car and headed south to Kent, still very much in King Henry's Tudor country. The friendly guys at the front desk, incidentally, who couldn't have been nicer and more accommodating all week, professed to be sad to see us leave.

        Creating a book end to Hampton Court Palace were the two nights we spent in Kent at Hever Castle -- childhood home of Anne Boleyn (Wife #2) and eventual home of Anne of Cleves (Wife #4). For my money, this was the ultimate immersion into the 16th Century and Henry's world. 

        I had discovered online that the Tudor village behind Hever Castle -- literally across the moat! -- now offers B&B accommodations. Sign us up! Alas, rooms are in great demand and there's a strict procedure for booking them. The obsessive part of my nature was determined we would stay there, so after dancing through several hoops, I secured reservations for us. 

        Good call, if I do say so myself!  The rooms, timbered beams and all, were nothing short of luxurious. The grounds were in riotous bloom. Breakfasts, usually a big ho-hum for me, were abundant and delightful. The secluded courtyard was the perfect spot for a bitter shandy (my tipple of choice over there) and snacks after a day of sightseeing. The 16th Century never looked so good!

    

            Behind the moat is the Tudor village where we slept. Hever Castle is just to the right (out of sight here).

        I had forgotten from my previous trip to Hever how large and magnificent the grounds are.

  

 

    From our Hever base, we stuck out to Sissinghurst Castle & Gardens less than an hour away. Many of you may recognize this National Trust attraction as my "cemetery," the place where I've chosen for my ashes to be scattered. While I'm not planning on residing there any time soon, I go periodically to make sure it's being maintained to my standards.

        Rounding out our Kent expedition were a drive through nearby Chiddingstone, a National Trust-maintained Tudor village, and Penshurst Place, dating back to the 14th C. and once Henry VIII's hunting lodge. It's likely he stayed there occasionally while wooing Anne Boleyn. The gardens are still fit for a king.

ON TO THE COTSWOLDS

        For an English major like myself, what trip to The Motherland would be complete without a little Shakespeare? An online search found The George, a coaching inn in the village of Lower Brailles (distinguished from Upper Brailles). Built circa 1382 with nary a right angle in the whole building, this historic pub and B&B is within striking distance of that literary lovers' Mecca, Stratford-upon-Avon. 

        Dodgy plumbing aside, stepping into this building was taking a giant leap even further back than the Tudors! The freshly baked steak and ale pie for supper and a cold pint of bitter shandy more than made up for a toilet that flushed only once in 48 hours. ("Given the age on this place," the innkeeper pointed out congenially, "we're lucky to have indoor facilities at all!" Fair point.)

        Fans of British mysteries like "Midsomer Murders" and "Father Brown" can easily imagine the criminal mischief afoot in the cemetery, on the altar in the little stone church and behind the twitching lace curtains in the centuries-old houses nestled along Lower Brailles' high street. Suspicious minds don't find it hard to wonder what the vicar was up to...!

        Before the pilgrimage to Stratford the next day we headed to Althorp estate, childhood home of Princess Diana and still residence of her brother, Charles, 9th Earl Spencer. My impression is that it was, and is, an austere place packed with scores of portraits of grim Spencer ancestors. Its principal attraction is the island in the middle of a little lake where Diana is buried.

        At last we rolled into Stratford and made a bee-line to Holy Trinity Church, where for the first time I got to pay my respects to The Bard in person. It was a sacred moment for me. Here, after all, is where he and his children were christened and where he's buried. You'll notice Shakespeare's bust -- thought to be the best likeness of him in existence -- above my head.

        Supper and a toast to the greatest playwright who ever lived were clearly in order. Here we are at The Dirty Duck pub between the church and the Royal Shakespeare Company, where we were soon headed...

        Never let it be said that William Shakespeare hasn't weathered well since his death in 1616. Rooted in the Tudor era, this man is still enthralling audiences, as we found out in the RSC's latest production of the pastoral comedy "As You Like It." It was non-traditional, to say the least.

        One of the funkier aspects of this staging was that there was no costumes, no set. Instead, the cast wore street clothes and rather than being the nubile shepherdesses and fey, lovesick hunters one would expect in a typical Shakespearean romp, these actors were...old!

In fact, this was a re-creation of the production mounted by the RSC with these same surviving cast members in 1978 -- gray hair, wrinkles and all!

        OK, then. I was fascinated to discover that ol' Will's work remains as elastic and dynamic and adaptable as ever. I heard it with new ears, saw these characters with new eyes. These guys onstage were my age, and the poetry still worked! 

        I kept wondering what Miz Hedrick, my 12th grade English teacher, or Dr. Gutzell, my Shakespeare professor at Guilford, would have made of it all.

        The best-known lines from the play are from the "Seven Ages of Man" speech, which begins, All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. 

        Uttered by an old geezer whose age was unaided by make-up, the passage took on new gravitas.

        One last stop before Joanna flew home: Waddesdon Manor near Oxford, a property completed in the 1880s in the French Renaissance style by Baron Frederick de Rothschild of the wealthy European banking family. It was built not as a residence but as a party house, eventually gifted to the National Trust. 

        Its interior is absolutely palatial, its priceless furniture and decor assembled from the homes of many of the crowned heads of Europe. If you've ever visited Asheville you may see a resemblance to another big, showy place. However, in my opinion, compared to Waddesdon, the furnishings of its North Carolina counterpart look like those in a trailer park.

THE LAST LEG: CAMBRIDGE

        After saying good-bye to sweet Joanna -- an Anglophile convert already talking about her next trip to the U.K. -- Margaret and I headed to Cambridge to shift into Scholar Mode. 

        This was my fourth foray into Cambridge University's intellectual goldmine known as the Institute for Continuing Education. Founded 150 years ago, it draws people young and old from all over the world who love learning for its own sake. Staying on the campus proper or in this case, in a 16th Elizabethan manor, is part of the charm. This is Madingley Hall:

BUT FIRST, WE ENCOUNTER A WITCH      

        Unaided by Joanna's smart-phone, the drive out there was...challenging, to say the least. Our plan was to log in one more historical place of interest -- a 900-year-old house reputed to be the oldest continuously occupied dwelling in England -- just outside Cambridge.  Literally on the way, we thought. How hard could that be?

        Pretty damned hard, it turned out. Later I figured out why.

        First of all, I had made a rookie blunder and didn't pack a map. I'm hell on wheels when I have a map, but even with written directions -- which in this case were generated by deranged elves -- navigation can be a nightmare without a compass or signage. Add to that, it was raining cats and dogs, and nobody we asked seemed to have heard of this old house. 

        The one chap who thought yes, he might know where it was, gave us the standard "It's only five minutes up the road." That's Brit-speak for "three hours."

        We proceeded to do a thorough and fruitless tour of Cambridgeshire -- in the rain, did I mention? -- on our quest for this old manor house. Even when we found the right village, the locals pretended to be clueless about its location. We now know why.

        I had made a reservation to see the place, but during our wild-goose chase to find it realized we were still going to be late. We stopped to call in advance with apologies and to let the proprietress know of our dilemma. Instead of offering directions, she hung up on me. Clearly something was off here.

        Against all odds -- and despite the foreboding nature of the house -- we finally found it. 

        The gloomy day suited the place perfectly. Were we imagining that bad vibes were dripping off the house along with the torrents of rain? It actually had a pretty garden, which would no doubt have looked even better in the sunshine. As we were idling in the drive, wondering whether we dared go indoors, out swooped a tall, wizened woman, wild gray hair blowing every which way, telling us in no uncertain terms not to block the cars already parked in front. 

        At this point, my full bladder overruled the downpour and this less than congenial welcome. "May we use your toilet?" I pleaded. "Yes, yes, just move your car," she ordered. I dared not comply.

        Car duly tucked into the barnyard, Margaret and I scurried indoors. It was not hard to imagine this place had been around for 900 years. In the first place, in my judgment it had not been cleaned since the time of the Crusades. Words failed us both. 

        Our Hostess had already flown back up the steep, crickety stairs (on her broom?) to her other guests, leaving us in private to snoop a little. Centuries-old detritus and debris were piled on every surface and in every cranny; cascades of doom flowed from every corner. We touched nothing. 

        Margaret, a braver soul than me, climbed to the second-floor facility; not up to tackling those death stairs, I used the outside accommodation. My parents both grew up without plumbing, so I had seen worse.

        Mission accomplished, I called up to Margaret, "See you in the car!" We were out of there in a flash, heaving a huge sigh of relief. It was a few miles before we could process what had just happened. Neither of us had ever experienced such a queer energy -- either from a place or a person. If you believe in witches, that woman was one for sure.

        Eventually Margaret observed, "It was a wonder she didn't boil us and eat us." She was only half-kidding!

MADINGLEY AT LAST

        Truckloads of people will probably think we're dancing with the fairies, but Margaret and I both love British history and love learning about it. Not for a grade or a certificate, but for enrichment.

        A weekend course on "Oliver Cromwell & the English Revolution" therefore sounded tailor-made for us, especially since it was presented by Dr. David Smith, professor of history at Cambridge. He's a leading scholar on the 17th Century and on Cromwell and the Stuart kings in particular, and has written numerous books on this period. We've heard David before and he's simply mesmerizing. Hearing him hold forth on Cromwell, as controversial and polarizing a character as Britain has ever produced, sounded great.

         At the end of the course we were asked whether our views of Cromwell had changed. My own take-away was realizing the frightening ease with which current events can conspire to bring a government into chaos, especially if the leader does not have a strong moral compass. 

        Toward the end of his life in 1658, a lot of men were encouraging Cromwell to accept the title of monarch, but he declined. Refusing the crown eventually led to the restoration of Charles II, but I think it's incredibly telling that this civilian ruler -- a son of Cambridge, as it happened, who was essentially governing as a dictator at the time -- pulled back for the good of the nation. Imagine a would-be king turning down absolute power because it's the right thing to do!

        Could lessons be learned here by Americans?

         David Smith brought all of these dynamics to vivid life. I could have listened to him for many more hours. He's that engaging!

        

        Bless you if you've made it to the end. Thank you for sharing my journey with me! 

        

        

        

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How choral music got me home

            Scientific studies have proven that singing in a choir is good for your health. But I can now prove it’s good for international security, too.

            Bear with me. I owe my re-entry into the United States of America to my choir membership. I’m not making this up.

            Picture it: London’s Heathrow Airport, Sunday, Aug. 21, at the hairy crack of dawn. Your intrepid traveler is joining the masses, hordes and throngs whose sole aim is to board an aircraft. Trust me: NOBODY is more eager to go home than I am. After 67 mostly cloudy, chilly days away from Charleston, I am itching to get back to my house and into the spiritual and literal warmth of the Lowcountry.

            Don’t get me wrong. I had some extraordinary experiences this trip. Unfortunately, “summer” and “comfortable accommodations” weren’t among them.

            So by the time I enter the controlled chaos of Heathrow, I’m on a mission and heaven help anybody who stands between me and that American Airlines jet.

            No lines at the automated check-in kiosk. Got my boarding pass in record time. Sweet. This is a breeze, I thought. Next stop: The baggage drop-off.

            My heart sinks when I see the line -- at least 75 bag-laden passengers ahead of me. OK, remain calm, I tell myself. I’ve got plenty of time. Relax. Try to ignore the pain in your legs and back.

            Whoever came up with this new “time-saving” check-in procedure at American Airlines is clearly insane. They might as well put up a sign that says “Fly Delta! We’ll get both you AND your luggage there hassle-free!”

            But anyway, after about 40 minutes (during which time the line swelled even more), I finally make it up to one of the handful of AA agents manning the baggage drop-off desk. We exchange pleasantries. I hold my breath as she weighs my suitcase; I do a happy dance when it’s NOT overweight.

            Oh, boy, I’m home free!

            Oh, no, I’m not.

            “Were you asked any security questions this morning?” AA agent asks. I allowed as I hadn’t, figuring I was about to quizzed on whether I was carrying any weapons or pointy-shaped objects onto the plane.

            She begins her interrogation. Where have I been during these last two months?  What have I done?  Why?

            I answer truthfully. Life’s an open book, that’s me.

            Then she switches course. What do I do for a living? Oh, what did you do before you retired? Nonprofit fundraising? What does that involve? How did you do that? For whom did you raise money? What’s the best way to do it?

            I’m babbling by this point, wondering where she’s going with this inquisition. It occurs to me that I’m in a parallel universe – one in which I never get on that plane! Does she really want a mini-seminar in the principles of fund development? I mean, I could rant on and on, but it’s just too surreal to comprehend…           

Meanwhile, I can imagine that the Syrian suicide bomber in the line behind me is getting worried that his device is going to detonate before he makes it onto his own flight.

But if Girlfriend wants to talk about fundraising, and if it aids my own cause – GOING HOME – by jiminy, I’ll talk about fundraising. I launch into a scholarly discourse contrasting the benefits of cause-marketing versus major gift fundraising. I am now officially in Airport Hell.

Five minutes of my making the case for a donation of $10,000, and I’m certain one of two things are about to occur: A British security operative is going to materialize and cart me off to an underground bunker, or my spiel will appear in the next episode of “Monty Python.”

Finally, she seems satisfied with my qualifications as a fund development professional. I hold my breath. After all, the wild horses that were going to keep me from getting on that plane have not yet been bred. My ornery Inner McCarn (from Mama’s side) was just about to rear her ugly, stubborn head. Surely I’ve passed the final security hurdle.

No, not by a long shot.

“So, what do you now that you’re retired?” she asks. Apparently, she has all the time in the world – unlike the passengers in line, whose numbers have now swelled into the thousands.

“Well, I travel….” I cleverly offer. She is still looking expectantly. “I read a lot, and do a little writing.” She appears blank. “And I sing!” A chord has been struck (no pun intended), and she’s launched into an entirely new line of inquiry.

Where do I sing? What’s the name of my choir? What do you sing? “I sing in Charleston, South Carolina, with the Charleston Spiritual Ensemble. We sing gospel and spirituals in the African-American tradition, and yes, I realize I’m a white woman, but it’s a culturally and racially diverse group, and fortunately they let me in, and we sang our last two concerts in a Jewish synagogue,” is my earnest reply.

Meanwhile, the swarthy dude near the back of the line has used this time to recruit and train his newest ISIS cell of terrorists…And still I babble on, praying I actually make it back to Charleston in this lifetime.

I’m just describing myself as a choral music junkie when Girlfriend scrapes deep onto the bottom of the interrogation barrel to ask, “Where do you rehearse?”

“Second Presbyterian Church in Charleston’s historic district downtown,” I offer eagerly.

THAT must have finally done the trick. I must have passed the test. Hallelujah for the Presbyterians and choral music! She cranks up the conveyer belt, sends my suitcase on its way, hands me my passport and boarding card, and wishes me a good flight.

I nearly break out in song right there. How d’ya reckon the al-Qaida lieutenants still in line would have enjoyed a spirited solo version of “God Bless America”?

And that, friends, is how choral music helped avert an international security crisis!