Prior to that first day at Milford Grammar School I’d had a lot of experience in making adjustments and dealing with newness, but all I could focus on that particular morning was doing my best to remove the newness from my ‘just out of the box’ uniform, scrunching up the brand new navy beret and scuffing up those black lace-ups.  I had been the new kid many times before…you could almost say I was a professional new kid…and I was becoming pretty good at making a quick study of an environment and blending in as best I could.  My desire to integrate into a new environment was motivated partly by shyness but largely by the encouragement of our parents, especially our mother, to learn about and appreciate our new hometown and its population, not to dwell on but enjoy the differences.  Mom was especially good at making a fun, positive experience out of our frequent moves, setting a great example by assimilating herself into local life whole heartedly.  By the way, when I say ‘our’, I include my younger brother, Ken, who shared the same travel and sometimes the same viewpoint with me and, in this case, agrees with Milford’s most favored position on our list.

School No. 10, chronologically,  had been in Mt. Gravatt, near Brisbane, Queensland, Australia, where in 1964 we did not always wear shoes to school, I learned that I was a slightly better than average runner, swimmer and singer, and where the presence of a punishment called the ‘cane’ scared the crap out of me.  School lessons included: handwriting (the use of inkwells and nibbed dip pens), learning the difference between the Coolgardie and the Kalgoorlie gold rushes, and assembly each morning where we would sing “Waltzing Matilda” out in the open air, at attention, in something that felt like a parade ground.  My best friend, Elvira Vogelsang, was prettier and sang better than I did; in fact, I still expect to hear that she is a famous opera singer somewhere although I wouldn’t be surprised if she had changed her name.  I loved Australia, both Perth (No. 9) and Brisbane – the people and the country were exceptional and, if I’d stopped my travels right there, I would have said this is my favorite place in the world and I would have lived there happily forever after.  Yet, I did not know that Milford Haven loomed in my future.

Our family arrived in London, England, in the spring of 1965.  Can you imagine coming from the rural life of Australia and landing in the middle of Marble Arch?  That is literally what happened – yet we adapted well to crowds and traffic and noise and foreign accents in the several weeks we stayed at the Cumberland Hotel in London’s Oxford Street while our parents researched schools and houses.  We settled in Beckenham, Kent, and were enrolled in our eleventh school, a private one called Clark’s College in Bromley.  We bought the uniform (lovely purple and white striped dress, ankle socks, and a straw hat for me), learned how to take two trains followed by the bus up the hill to get to school, and nervously anticipated the new educational experience that awaited us.  If I had read any Charles Dickens by this point, I would have known to describe this school as one right out of one of his novels.  Each class began with standing up in silence as a scowling ‘master’ entered the room in his flowing black robe, barking out orders, smacking a ruler on some poor boy’s head, throwing papers back at students with scathing remarks.  Quite a grim contrast to Australia.

A few respites from the terror of the school day at Clark’s College were learning to play tennis (we even had a special white outfit) and the day I won four medals, a cup and a plaque at field day…no one was more shocked than I was about the latter.  The school was dreadful, I don’t remember learning a thing, and my friends, Pauline, Margaret and Winifred, are sadly lost to me forever.  Yet, my fervent interest in the sport of tennis has remained with me to this day, so you have to take what you can get.

We knew in advance that we would be spending less than a year in the London area and then move to the job site in Wales and, after 7 months, the day finally arrived when our dad announced that it was time to move to Pembrokeshire.  He had found a house in a place called Hakin, we were told, and our school would be a short bus ride (or breathless bicycle trip as I would later discover) away.  As far as I can remember, our mother snapped her fingers and we were all moved but that’s a kid’s memory for you!

My affection for Milford probably began as soon as we left the suburbs of London and was set in concrete upon seeing the coastal vistas and the little town set on the side of a hill adjoining this huge body of water.  The setting had you looking outward toward the expansive horizon, instead of inward the way you do in a city where the crowds and traffic necessitate a more myopic viewpoint.

After an interview with the headmaster, a lovely gentleman called Mr. Tidswell, we were enrolled in the grammar school.  Right away, there was no ignoring the rhythmic Welsh accent of my class mates and teachers which I found intriguing and beautiful, even if I was struggling to understand what was being said.  I enjoyed the latter part of form 2T where I found I was too far behind to stay with Latin, and took advantage of the option to drop physics and chemistry in place of art as we headed into the third form.  I loved assembly (well, the singing part really) from the very first day and each morning thereafter.  What a great feeling to hear a room full of kids belting out the lyrics ‘Bread of heaven, bread of heaven, feed me till I want no more…want no more!’. It left me speechless the first time I heard that.

As I observed and absorbed more about the Welsh, I was struck by the ardent display of national pride, well founded no doubt, and in sharp contrast to the ‘understated’ English.  Daffodils and huge smelly leeks pinned with pride to blazers on St. David’s Day were a novelty for me and I appreciated the patriotic sentiment of the phrase, “Cymru am byth!” (Wales Forever!) which one of the Thomas brothers taught me one morning at the bus stop.  This is a key reason for my love of Wales, I am sure…this strong pride of heritage and country and perhaps, due to my nomadic life, I longed to be a part of.

… camping with the Hakin Girl Guides on spectacular cliff tops, waking to nature and views I didn’t appreciate enough;  looking up the origin of a ship that we identified with binoculars in the haven in our dusty old ships’ registry book; starting the run of the last leg of the girls’ relay race for Hamilton house while the runners from the other three houses had already crossed the finish line; waiting at right back position on the hockey field on the coldest, wettest, windiest day for Gillian W. to run rings around me and score a goal; to this day, I cannot hear the phrase ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful’ without hearing vividly in my mind the commotion of the clanging of cutlery and scraping of chairs immediately following the “Amen!”… and the list could go on of things that I remember fondly about Milford.

All a typical list of childhood memories, you might say…and that is true.  And yes, this was a great age, early teens (although I doubt if I’d agree back then), in a much simpler time – who wasn’t having a better time in the 1960s?  For me, however, the key variable that makes Milford top of my list is undoubtedly the people (genuine, fun-loving, proud, tough, optimistic) and I am so thankful for the stay, however brief, in Milford Haven, Pembrokeshire, Wales, where I felt at home, part of the ‘family’, and came away better in all aspects than I arrived.

When asked ‘where are you from’, I wish I could just say, “Wales”…but no…I have to go into a whole ramble about …born in Canada, lived all over, educated in the UK, married an American, live in Texas…but to my great relief while doing some genealogical research recently I found my Welsh ancestry – not quite in Milford – but Glamorgan is pretty close, isn’t it?

Have I explained Milford Haven?  I honestly don’t think it can be done.

In my early Texas days (I moved here in my mid 20s), the first bumper sticker that caught my attention was one that said:

which I spotted in the back window of a pick up truck next to the gun rack (naturally) at the stop light in my new small Texan home town.  I caught a quick glimpse of the man behind the wheel, a cowboy-hatted, normal looking 30-something.  I couldn’t help but wonder if this guy was really feeling this philosophy or was he just being funny.  What did his wife think?  Could he possibly HAVE a wife?  Maybe he was divorced and bitter.  Unfortunately, he turned right and I turned left and I would never know, but I sure would have liked to discuss this over a cup of coffee.

As I’ve said, bumper stickers were rare in the places of my youth.  In England, for example, you might come across the red ‘L’ sticker on a bumper which designates that the person driving is in the process of learning how to drive (talk about a ‘scarlet letter’!).  Anyone who has not yet passed their driving test has to display their “L” whenever they are behind the wheel.  This can be really useful information for other drivers who know to keep a safe distance from this novice and be prepared for an erratic maneuver at any moment.  Taking this idea a step further, I wonder if we could categorize all drivers in this way in the name of safety:  for example, displaying an exquisitely calligraphied “P” for the perfect driver, or an italic green “R” for the racing driver…how about the yellow question mark for the blond driver? These tiny clues to our driving behavior may add a measure of safety to our hazardous roads these days.  OK, I’m not running to the patent office with this idea just yet.

The only other bumper sticker that might be found on the back of a European vehicle is the oval black and white sticker which designates the country you (or at least your car) are from:  “GB” from Great Britain, “F” for France, “I” for Italy…“E” is Spain, “D”  Germany and “CH” signifies  Switzerland.  Obviously, the initials are in the native language of the country of origin, although I never knew why CH = Switzerland.*  I theorized that the “S” had already been taken by Sweden, so they had to chose some other letters for the Swiss.  Anyway, national origin bumper stickers could let others know that this driver may not be accustomed to driving on the left side of the road for instance, or that there is a good chance that they are lost on unfamiliar roads…thus you can see that the bumper sticker of my youth was one of simple information exchange, very proper and impersonal.

Fast forward to present day Texas, U.S.A., where I am intrigued to find so much personal, political, and private information displayed on a person’s bumper for all the world to see and know.  Can the large volume of bumper stickers in the United States be explained by the first amendment?  Certainly people have been expressing themselves via their bumper messages for decades and they want them to be read.  I am wondering if you could go so far as to say that bumper stickers were the forerunner of  twitter?  A social communication forum on the back end of your vehicle?  Seems logical to me…the readers of both formats are called followers after all.

Maybe the U.S. bumper sticker phenomenon can be better understood by examining the various types, looking into the whos and whys of these sticky statements.  One of the largest categories has to be what I’d call the ‘brag’ bumper sticker; it is the one that just wants to tell everyone about how great their kids are, their school is, their team is, etc.  This kid bragging group perplexes me somewhat because so many people broadcast their child’s name, school, graduation year, sport (even jersey number), extra curricular activity, academic achievement, in a way similar to the following:

This sticker lists on the back of its vehicle (the make,  model and license number of which we now aware), a passenger named “Travis” aged 14-18 years old, too much information.  Further, I wonder what the long reaching affects of this sticker might be?  Is Travis feeling better about himself and supported by his parents, are other kids who read this message becoming inspired to become better athletes, are kids from opposing schools feeling intimidated, are moms thinking they should move and enroll their child in this fabulous school, are dads thinking their own children are underachievers in comparison to Travis, am I overanalyzing the whole thing?

Other kinds of brag stickers are the sports messages.  A reader can presume that the driver of said vehicle is a sports fan, which team is their favorite and what sport, a guess as to where they live or went to school.  Seems harmless enough.  Yet is the message really innocuous?  How about the ones that seem to say:  haha to you (rival) team (for example, the Texas Aggie sticker that advocates sawing off state rival University of Texas’s long horns), or isn’t it great to be in this special group, or could it be as simple as I got this bumper sticker for free and I had no where else to stick it but on my bumper?

Another classification, I’ll call the ‘persuasive’ bumper sticker, wants to tell others not only what the vehicle owner believes in but also wants to influence the thoughts, beliefs and even actions of the reader.  Into this category would fall the political message (particularly prolific during an election year) but I wonder how many people are convinced to vote a certain way by a bumper sticker?  Maybe the strategy is to bombard as many eyes as possible with the same message…if you see more “McCain/Palin”s than “Obama for President”s, does McCain win?  Don’t think so.  Into this persuasive category, you can also place the religious bumper sticker – an area I will not comment upon too much except to say that, for me, the magnitude of one’s religious belief is not meant to be squished into a slogan.

A subset to the persuasive bumper sticker is the ‘selling you something’ sticker, and my take on them is that I can take them or leave them…like the advertisements we see all over our visual world these days (television, websites, road side, etc)…and they are easily ignorable as we have learned to switch off our brain to such messages.  Even ‘good’ ads like the simple pink ribbon for breast cancer can be brushed aside visually although there may be some subliminal recognition if one can relate to the cause.  A sub-subset in the ‘persuasive’ grouping might include the angry message.  You know the ones…they might tell you how to drive, or let you know this person’s opinion on gun control, dogs, wives, or all of the above, with angry undertone.  Recently, I read an article which theorized that drivers who displayed bumper stickers on their vehicles are more likely to manifest road rage than those with blank bumpers…I wonder.

Two manifestations of the bumper sticker that are closely related to one another are the ‘out of date’ and the ‘I’d Rather Be’ messages.  To me, both message types convey instant loser status, a classification to be avoided at all costs!  For goodness sake, if I’m seeing that you’d rather be fly fishing in Maine and you’re actually in a 5 mile traffic jam in fume-ridden Houston, Texas, that spells ‘loser’ to me.  Equally, if your worn and torn up bumper banner says: “Ralph Nader for President” you are either out of touch or your sticker is covering up a rust spot.

The one message I really appreciate receiving via the bumper is the comical one, having the one intentional goal of making those who read it smile.  The funniest ones catch you off guard and make you laugh out loud, yet the humor only lasts for one reading most of the time which is probably why I cannot think of an example at the moment.

My final categorization in the world of bumper stickers is the variety that I personally own:  the ‘pointless bumper sticker’…those that we bought, thought were cool, funny, poignant, and proceeded to hide away in a drawer for ever more.  Bumper stickers waiting to express themselves in my house are:  “He Ain’t Kinky, He’s My Governor” and “My Governor is a Jewish Cowboy” which would be loser material except for the fact that they are not on display, a smattering of “ZZ Top” and “BB King” stickers, and our most recent proud purchase declares:  “It’s a Good Day to Whup Somebody’s Ass” which was purchased at a concert.  Was it the couple of glasses of wine or is that the message I have been waiting all these years to send?  You can persuade yourself that these pointless pieces of sticky plastic may be worth something one day, return them to the back of the drawer and let your investment grow.

After I do a quick e-bay check, I will be heading out to find some new and amusing bumper stickers…

*CH is the abbreviation for “Confoederatio Helvetica” which means Swiss Confederation in Latin…so there!

You can make it in the world of driving for 99 percent of the time without even using the “R” – I happily drive around to find parking places that I can drive directly into, and often plan ahead so that I can drive forward to exit as well.  I smile to myself with satisfaction as I walk from the outlying areas of a parking lot in the Texas heat, almost disdainfully observing all these people backing into those tiny front door parking spots.  I get some exercise as well, so it’s a win-win, I tell myself.

A friend of mine lives at the end of one of those driveways, the pull in-back out kind, and when I go by to pick her up I just poke the nose of my vehicle into the driveway and wait for her to run the length of the drive…she does not want to see the havoc I could reek by driving all the way in and using the “R” to exit, taking out that pretty white picket fence and the quaint mail box as I go.  She’s a brunette so she can handle this task on a daily basis.

Recently I had to pick up a piece of furniture I’d bought at a warehouse and the lady in the office said these words that sent chills down my spine:  “Follow the signs for customer pick up and back up to receiving dock number 2”.  I was filled with panic, thinking what signs, what’s a receiving dock, which one is number 2, and then you want me to use the “R”?  Are you kidding me?  I guess not as she did not respond to the look of terror on my face.  When I got around the back of the warehouse, I paused, surveying the lay of the land and the task ahead of me, noting that there was another vehicle in dock number 1…some huge SUV, naturally.  I caught the eye of the young man waiting for me at dock number 2 and gestured with my keys, jingling them in the air and pointing at him.  However, my pleading expression had no effect on the guy as he firmly shook his head and forcefully waved an arm, as if to say “get on with it, lady”.  Well, I drove forward and to my right, aligned myself and put her into “R”.  Now I can drive forward with just a finger touch of steering effort and make a pretty straight line – but this 30 feet or so backwards was achieved almost like a sail boat, tacking left, then right, both hands in some kind of death grip on the steering wheel.  I arrived at dock number 2, maybe a few too many feet away and rather askew, but I was there.  As I walked around to open the back of my vehicle, the young man at the dock was smiling big and made a comment like they were not allowed to drive customers’ cars due to liability problems – my thought was that there would have been far less potential for damage if he had driven.

My relationship with the “R” goes back a ways.  I came to Texas in my mid 20s and had to take the state driving test after having driven for almost ten years.  I was driving this boat of a car, my grandfather’s Ford LTD, and when the parallel parking part of the test came up, I did it perfectly as if some kind of divine intervention took the wheel and put that car between two florescent orange cones…unfortunately, I failed the test due to not stopping long enough at a stop sign (the way we all do).  At the re-take, I stopped for a few minutes at the stop sign and somehow succeeded once again with the parallel parking.  Since that day, I have survived 30 years without ever making that maneuver again.

Speaking of Texas, I love the way these folks can make a fun time out of an ordinary task – backing up, for example.  At our small county rodeo, there is a man-woman contest event which they call ‘back seat driver’ where the man, blindfolded, is driving a four-wheeler with a small trailer hooked to the back, and the woman is in the trailer shouting directions as to how to get this trailer, by way of the “R” gear, backed into a small marked parking area, all while the clock ticks away.  I have never participated in this event but I did learn by observation that your directions need to be exactly the opposite of what you would think.  Lots of these local girls, all hair colors included, were pretty good back seat drivers but some got their vehicle in the most hilarious predicaments!

Maybe it’s just that I have the “R” gene.  My senior citizen mom has that awful gizmo installed on her car that emits a loud beep beep beep whenever she is in the “R” gear.  She has had three rear bumper fender benders in her first year of ownership and I think it is because she thinks the “R” stands for “remove”, as if the beep removes any obstacles from her path.

My husband can do miracles with the “R”, putting a truck and trailer in a spot with inches to spare.  I am in awe.  I remember once complimenting him on his prowess in this area and he gave me the biggest hug and kiss, he was so proud of himself.  For him, the “R” may stand for “romance” every now and then.

As for me, I’d have to say that my issue with the “R” could be that it is just not an important aspect of my life or that I am suffering from some kind of spatial acuity syndrome, but for now I’ll go with blaming the blond – that is until I go grey.

Certainly, any past musical association I can think of is a happy one for me…and whistling in particular.  Going way back to my first childhood memory, I am sitting at a kitchen table opposite my dad and he is showing me how to purse my lips and blow, just so, to make a little chirp emerge.  I sense that I am very determined and eventually succeed in making some semblance of a whistling sound – what an accomplishment for a 4-year old – making both of us proud.  My dad then shows me his “father of all whistles”, requiring his hand to his mouth, letting out a shrill that seemed it could have knocked me off the kitchen chair!

That ‘Dad’ whistle was used frequently during my childhood.  One time, our family was browsing in a wonderful outdoor market in the east end of London, a place teeming with people and overwhelming with the sounds, sights and smells of the place.  When my brother and I heard that special whistle, it made us stop, smile and look about for the tall figure of our dad.  That 3 note whistle must have made my brother and I look like cubs alerted to their jungle parents’ call, it was so instinctive and never to be confused with other dads’ whistling calls.

So, I come from a long line of fine whistlers…my mom’s dad was excellent.  Early in his marriage, he learned that if he silently entered a room where his wife was present, she would screech with terror, so he began to preface his entrances with a bit of a whistle and she was then very pleased to see him.

Long before mace and car panic buttons, my mom gave me a whistle necklace when I went away to college – I was to use it to summon help if I were ever in trouble.  I must admit, I used the necklace in a decorative way but never had to test its safety effectiveness, thank goodness.  My mom has a similar whistle pendant, although hers has some lovely rhinestones on it and instead of hailing help she uses it very effectively to hail a cab whenever she’s in a big city.  In a way, when you think of it, these artificial whistles of ours were in lieu of my dad and his presence and protection.

My father passed away with cancer a few years ago.  His death seemed to me like the felling of a grand old tree.  One day not long after, I was out in my garden, digging in the dirt and feeling sad for my loss, when I became aware of a bird, unusually close to me, maybe 6-8 ft. away.  It began whistling its tune and I tried to echo its song in reply…we had a good little conversation.  And I know it sounds strange but I felt a wave of comfort and happiness come over me at that moment and could even go as far as to believe that my dad had sent this bird messenger to me somehow.  In any case, I think my dad would be pleased and proud that I was smiling and whistling again.  Kind of like his pride when I produced my first chirpy whistle way back when…

Suddenly, the impression of movement to my far right roused my attention.  I squinted through the large windows into the murky landscape to try to make out exactly what had arrived at the water’s edge in front of me.  Despite the grey filtered light of evening, details of the animal gradually became clear: first a large body, dark bluish grey in color.  Then, as it moved, almost in slow motion from right to left along the pond’s marshy edge, I could make out a hint of its long legs and I felt sure that I was looking at a large bird of some sort.

After moving smoothly, almost stealthily through the tall grass for several feet, the creature came to an abrupt stop.  The fading light made it increasingly difficult for me to see and I took this opportunity to cautiously move toward a pair of nearby binoculars, being careful not to alarm nor distract the animal.  Raising the glasses to my eyes, I realized that those long legs, long neck, and long, sharp beak belonged to a heron which was now poised “ankle” deep in water.  For the longest time, the bird continued to stand perfectly still, remaining so, despite any and all fluttering distractions from nearby birds and insects.  Then, inch by inch, it began to uncoil its neck away from its body, mirroring the movements of a snake so closely that I shuddered.  With unblinking eyes, the hose-like neck gradually stretched to its fullest extent and once again the bird froze in place.  Obviously, something was in its sights and I was so completely captivated by the scene before me that I could not have looked away if I had wanted to.

As I watched what was evidently a stalking of sorts, I tried to anticipate when this bird would make its move to strike its target.  “Now!” I thought, then “Now!” again and again, yet each time the bird remained motionless.  Then, just when I thought nothing would ever happen, the bird abruptly shot its dagger-like beak into the water at impossible speed and, with a minimum of splash, retrieved a small, flopping fish.  I gasped as I was caught off guard and I realized that the little fish and I had something in common!

The heron held its victim firmly and still in its beak for what I felt was an important moment.  It was as if the bird was giving the fish one last glimpse of the world.  Then, perhaps in realization of its plight, the fish began its futile struggle for life, flipping its tail frantically.  The bird began to open and close its beak upon the fish body and, with one, two, three jerky chomps, the fish was forced into the long, dark, narrow throat, followed by a wash of liquid as the bird took a quick, after dinner drink of pond water.

I watched two more fish caught and dealt with in a similar manner.  Once that eye caught sight of its prey, the bird’s neck, initially resting against its body, would slowly, rhythmically unfold into its eventual deadly lunging motion to deliver another morsel for its evening meal.  Finally, when I was able to extract myself from watching this dramatic game of eat and be eaten, I was able to consult a reference book and identified the bird as a Great Blue Heron, a common resident in this part of the world.  The book’s short chapter included information about habitat and breeding etc., but personally I would have added that the great blue heron’s feeding behavior is just as intense as the lion, stalking a gazelle in the heart of the African savannah.

The next morning I went down to the water’s edge to see if there might be some evidence of the events of the night before – bones, fins, a tail perhaps?  Surely, the lion would have left remnants of its feast.  But no, not even a fish scale could be found.  As I looked into the clear water along the edge of the pond, I could see lots more little fish, moving jerkily from place to place, tonight’s potential dinner.  That heron would find little challenge in helping himself to this buffet of small fish delicacies, each and every evening.  And that’s the way Mother Nature planned it.