~Bernard Williams
Violet and Harry have a game. Many children create games that deal with the socially inappropriate (hence hilarious) bodily function of flatulence. Growing up in the Bourget household, we would rarely acknowledge the stench because,
"Oh my god, that's vile."
was usually greeted with a smug --
"He who smelt it dealt it."
So we pretended that farts had no fragrance and reduced our resentment to accusing looks that said,
I really do smell that, you know. And I'm sure it's your fart because it smells just like the one from yesterday when you were the only other person in the room. *intensifies glare* Yes. This is your fart.
Violet and Harry's game is much more useful because it permits the victims to know who polluted the air and against whom to send their seething stares. When these kids pass gas, they quickly utter the word, "safety!" to avoid being "doorknobbed" by the other sibling.
Violet and I shared a bunk bed in one of Sarah's spare bedrooms, the little lady on the bottom and myself on the top. I awoke at half six to an unfortunate smell and a sweet, sleepy voice whispering,
"Safety..."
Charlotte and I had planned to take Spike and Willow out on a hack through the country roads of Devon, but time conspired against us (as it so often does on family vacations), and we decided to postpone until the next day. Jack and Harry set off bright and early for a mackerel fishing excursion, and Charlotte, Sarah, and I all started preparing foodstuffs for the planned beach barbecue that evening. I cut courgette, onion, peppers, and broccoli and marinated them in a tupperware with lemon, olive oil and herbs. Sarah prepared a bean salad from various tins of beans and a green salad from various leafy things growing in her garden. Charlotte handled the logistics of picnic utensils and toys to occupy children, which was definitely the more strenuous task.
Early afternoon and after a lunch of cheese, salad and plum chutney, we piled into two cars and drove into Kingsbridge to visit Charlotte's grandmother in the nursing home. As Violet sang for the sweet old woman with trembling hands and sparkling eyes, I was whisked back to the time where I performed "Couple of Swells" with my childhood BBF at the nursing home in Rifle, Colorado. I had worn black slacks, a suit coat, a makeshift tie, and a bowler hat with a hole punched through it. I sang and danced and stuck out my tongue and went around the room to hold the trembling hands after the music stopped. Some of my young colleagues felt like visiting nursing homes was a bore and a chore, but I loved it. People were always so happy to see me there. As a child, there was something affirming about believing that my mere presence made people happier.
Everyone in the nursing home in Kingsbridge adored watching Violet sing. I'm not sure whether or not anyone heard her soft (she sings much louder on the toilet, as do we all) charming voice, but they were all transfixed on her precious little face.
We scheduled a lunch for Sunday at the Crabshell pub, bid farewell to granny, and loaded back into the cars for some final pre-barbecue grocery shopping. When we finally returned to the Frogmore cottage, I found Jack busily cleaning mackerel in the kitchen. Loads of mackerel. It had been a very successful day at sea for Harry and his dad, and we would eat well because of it. Charlotte prepared a marinade for the mackerel, wrapped them in tinfoil, and added them to the bulging bags of food and accoutrement.
This all seems rather easy when written down in blog form, but I ought to remind my reader that we'd been working on putting this barbecue together since around noon. It was a day rife with,
"Did you pack the spatula?"
"How are we going to cook the fish -- disposal barbecues?"
"How are we going to get the fish to the beach?"
"Are we bringing blankets? Which blankets are okay to use?"
"How many cars are we taking?"
"Are there enough plates?"
"Do we have water bowls for the dogs?"
"Do we have a table so the dogs can't get at the food?"
"It looks like it's going to rain... do the kids have their jumpers?"
"Why didn't we just make sandwiches?"
Regardless of how long the preparations took and how often we questioned the value of our massive undertaking, we arrived at the beach around 19:00 on Friday evening.
The sand was soft, the landscape was stunning, and the weather was windy and cold. I immediately donned a blanket (I usually wear them like high-waisted old lady skirts, but I wore this one like a poncho) and set about arranging chairs and bags. The dogs scampered happily, the children dug holes, and Jack stalwartly fought the wind to light the barbecues.
And then it started to rain. Proper rain. We gazed at each other dolefully and then proceeded to pack up our things and relocate to a cave of sorts where we were sheltered from the rain and wind, but were situated right underneath a "DANGER, FALLING ROCK" sign. As these warnings adorn just about every roadside in Colorado, I tend to disregard them.
Thanks to Jack's persistence, the barbecues were finally lit and at the proper level of smoldering. I appointed myself grillmaster, and started roasting vegetables and mackerel.
The "DANGER, FALLING ROCK" sign would have been much more appropriate had it said, "DANGER, FALLING SAND". I believe that some of the veggies I dished up might have been more sand than vegetable, but the fish was still absolutely delicious. I sat with my back against the cave wall, spatula in my right hand, glass of red wine next to my left knee, sand in my hair, and I watched. I watched the kids I'd grown to love playing in the sand, the dogs I'd grown to love frolicking in the ocean, and the parents I'd grown to love drinking wine/budweiser and chatting about horses and dogs and laughing at Jack's jokes.
I watched the clouds roll in. I watched the waves gently crash into sand. I watched the undulating colors of the Atlantic.
I watched the campfire flicker in the wind and taught Harry and Olivia how to play "these old boats".
Then Jack played and beat me at my own game.
Then we packed up and headed out.
It was a beautiful evening, and I'm glad we didn't just pack sandwiches.
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