“The best husband is a good father.”
Dr. Willard F. Harley, Jr., Marriage Builders

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I have made many new women friends here in England. I sit beside or across from them and listen to their stories with intense interest. Some of the stories begin in far away places like Nigeria, Ghana, South Africa, or the Philippines. Some begin very nearby. All of the stories end here – or rather – are paused here – in London, playing themselves out. Some of my friends struggle at present, but all dream of abundance for themselves and their children. Far too many have sad experience with the men in their lives: with the fathers of their children. The worst of these men have abandoned their own families.

The disappearance or disengagement of biological fathers leaves wounds in the hearts of women and children that bleed for a long time afterward no matter what language you cry in. Whether the absent father is a distant memory or a fresh sorrow, he has killed something instead of giving life.

We have children and in-laws who call Dale “Dad” (one 5 year-old who calls him “Grandpa”) and many other adoptees who know him as “Papa Z”. We can hardly believe that the baby of the bunch turned 22 this week. Her father lavished time, attention and his hard-earned money on her, like he has since she was a tiny girl with ringlets. She used to make him bend over so she could squeeze his neck and call him “Beastie”, the fairy-tale prince. Her ringlets haven’t straightened, but her older daddy can now. It’s easy to kiss his cheek without standing on her toes, which she did again and again on birthday night. Overwhelmed by a beautiful summer and a beautiful day, culminating in an evening at the theater – all made possible by Dale – I watched as she wrapped herself around him and whispered, “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you.”

Thank you honey, thank you. Do you really know what it means to me as a woman to have the father of my children committed to their well-being? Can a man appreciate the depth of devotion his wife feels toward him when he gets down on the floor to tussle with the children? Does the male brain comprehend a woman’s delight when a big man sits a little child on his lap; when he opens his wallet to pay for that new pair of new shoes; when he accompanies her to parent night or makes certain the kitchen cupboards are full? Does he appreciate the security he creates for her when she is able to trust his approach to discipline? Can he know that she is his forever IF forever, he will protect not only her, but the little people that are an extension of her?

We will put our girl on a plane back to the states this weekend, and although my man says he is looking forward to having me all to himself for the first time in our lives, I know he will cry just the same, because he loves being a daddy.

“…men who accept the challenge of good fathering report that they come away with increased marital fulfillment. Their effort comes back to them many times over in the admiration of their wives.” Dr. Harley, His Needs Her Needs

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A WICKED Birthday

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Download this post as a podcast or click on the player below to listen along as you read.

“Love is what you’ve been through with somebody.” James Thurber

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Try to remember the kind of September…When life was slow and oh, so mellow. Try to remember the kind of September…when grass was green and grain was yellow. Try to remember the kind of September…When you were a tender and callow fellow. Try to remember, and if you remember…Then follow.

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Last night, I listened from the back seat to my new friend in the front seat as we maneuvered London traffic. She told me that her first marriage at 19 had been abusive: she was afraid of him. It took thirteen years and seven children before she had the wherewithal to divorce. Never again, she thought, never again. And then she met Bernie. He came with other men from church to clean and work her garden. He came back to help again. And again. And again. Treats for the children gradually won their hearts and hers.

She’s been married to him for 27 years now — only dementia has replaced her companion with a stranger; a stranger that she watches over day after day. “He took care of me all those years,” she remembers. “Now I take care of him.”

Every marriage has a history; a story that is complex and intricate and unique. When you meld nature and spirituality and emotion and physicality, how can you end up with anything that is not completely mysterious? That’s why I love studying and reading and writing about marriage. It never ceases to fascinate and astound me. My own marriage amazes me every single day.

We met and married young, very young, and continued to behave very young for years afterward. Every silly, irresponsible thing you could think of – we probably did: from under planning to over spending. Our parents were constantly shaking their heads at us or shaking in their boots for us. We were oblivious to the wisdom of the ages and blazed our own trail in the spring of wedded bliss.

Summer came along with babies and mortgages in its wake and we got a little smarter – but not much.  We hung in there though and worked at being crazy about each other, instead of just crazy. By fall, we were experiencing the tugs and pulls of life, figuring out how to parent teens and making lots of mistakes. Then came winter – when dreams were on the ground instead of in the trees and we cried a lot. But the snow was still pretty if you looked at it a certain way, and we cuddled under the blanket of our loyalty to one another, which was never in question.

Green eventually popped into our lives as tough times began to melt, and the colors that followed the green seemed more vibrant than ever. Now, at the apex of another summer, a late summer perhaps – we are experiencing such abundance that we can sit at outdoor cafes and sip memories without tasting the pain.

I began musing about the learning curve called marriage when we saw a little musical at London’s Duchess Theatre recently, one we have been fond of ever since I played the Ingenue and he was the Lead years ago. You may not know the show — called “The Fantasticks” — but life “follows” its theme song…

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Deep in December, it’s nice to remember…Although you know the snow will follow. Deep in December, it’s nice to remember…Without a hurt the heart is hollow. Deep in December, it’s nice to remember…The fire of September that made us mellow. Deep in December, our hearts should remember…And follow.

(“Try to Remember” from The Fastasticks: Music by Harvey Schmidt, Lyrics by Tom Jones. Vocals by Jerry Orbach from the original soundtrack. Instrumental version by Pianos of Cha’n on the album “Inspirations”)

“A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.”  ~ Rupert Booke

Some things about England that make me young again: counting out change like a first grader to a grinning clerk; losing my way on what should be a familiar street and stopping to cry a little; wrinkling my nose at beans for breakfast or mushy peas for dinner; understanding every third word in a language I thought I knew; driving the drivers I’m dependent on crazy pointing out red double-decker buses and underbellies of giant planes.

I am also completely a child watching a West End show, leaning forward as though I might leap on stage, beaming with an intensity that could distract serious actors. I’m no better at concerts:  the Shrewsbury Orchestra playing Cole Porter or the Army Big Band cranking out Glen Miller makes me clap too loud and wiggle too much for mature British sensibilities. And although I may distract adults with my constant “what’s that?”s — children love me: playing Barbies or pirates is THE best way to practice an English accent.

But for all my helplessness and exuberance, there was a moment last Saturday when I felt youngest of all, the freshest I’ve felt since moving. Dale and I had made our way through a hot day to a county fair in the village of Barnes. We rock-n-rolled like preteens as our friend Lindsay sang with her crazy fun band; ate lunch at a round table I fought like a King Arthur for; and bought a set of ceramic goblets that must have belonged to a fat squire once.

Making our way out of the peasant throng toward the train, we were arrested by this sight:

A carousel.

Not just any carousel: this one was set apart, other-worldly, right out of little-girl-dreams.

Dale excitedly maneuvered us to the side where the real pipe organ was tooting away and pointed out the lady conductor, waving her wooden arms. We could only get a peek at her through the horses that looked so real — in a fantastic sort of way — we believed they might jump off and join a fox hunt any minute. Charmingly, there was nothing to stop them – no fence, no barrier, no carnival workers. In fact, nothing prevented us, or the little people around us, from coming up close to the undulating riders.

We stood like that for a long while.

And then it happened.

A kiss.

Not just any kiss: this one was set apart, other-worldly, right out of little-girl-dreams.

Past and present were all mushed up in that kiss. I felt deliriously adolescent and adored; hardly noticing  that horses hung in mid-air, folks froze in mid-step and pipe organ paused mid-melody — all suspended in time until my boy and I took another breath.

Ahhhh.

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“There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C…(before then couples hooked thumbs.) And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy…Well, this one left them all behind.” William Goldman, The Princess Bride, Chapter One

Click here to view the embedded video.

“And remember, my sentimental friend…that a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.”  – The Wizard of Oz to the Tin Man

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We sit across them at a round, linen-covered table, engrossed equally in conversation and beautiful food.  These friends of ours just flew in from Florida to celebrate their 50^th wedding anniversary in London. We discuss mutual associates and they tell us all about friends and family whom we’ve never met, but they do it in such a way that we can’t help caring as much as they do about the brother whose life was saved by a gastric by-pass, or the former student who narrowly escaped the mafia, or the middle-aged widow who happily married a wealthy dentist.

While hugging good-bye in front of the costumed bell-hops at the hotel, these fine friends said to me, “We feel so close to you. You know how much we love you.”

After parting, as our taxi sails past Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace, and Big Ben toward Waterloo Station, I marvel at how good I feel.

“You know what, honey? The Perinchiefs are the epitome of the Christian maxim: ‘we loved him because he first loved us.’”

He agrees.

“I thought we were getting pretty good at that,” I say, referring to our recent July 4^th celebration with new friends from America, Australia, South Africa, New Guinea, Romania and England. “But the Perinchiefs are amazing.”

“They’ve been at it longer,” Dale reminds me.

They’ve been at it longer…hmmm. Bert taught community college music for thirty-one years (including directing Handel’s “Messiah” annually) and led his church’s music program for twenty-five. Hazel spent the same amount of time teaching grade school. That represents a lot of caring for others as well as for one another.

Over dinner they told us how they recently renewed their vows in front of five-hundred people. She wore a “knock-out” dress with flouncy layers like a Spanish skirt and he “of course” had worn a tux. Why, I asked, did you do it?

“Because!” she giggled. “I’m only just now getting to know him!”

He looked at her sweetly then turned thoughtful.

“We thought it would be nice,” he said, “for others.”

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A slender boy with the dark features and thick hair of his Greek fore-bearers ducked strings of crepe paper to enter a gym full of young people. His Army uniform earned notice and though Elvis kept crooning, the chatter of chaperons and dancing couples changed direction. A few thought the newcomer had once lived in the neighborhood, but others weren’t too sure: the war in Korea pulled their young men away and changed the aspect of those who returned.

Whether or not they recognized him, or remembered his contribution to the construction of the church where they gathered, or whether they cared that their houses had been built by his grandfather or that their streets had been named by his great-grandfather, was of no matter before the evening was out. He may have felt self-aware in the first hour, but by the second he was completely oblivious to disappointed wall-flowers and gossiping refreshment ladies. There was this girl.

No one knew her exactly. With the round face and innocent expression of one who had hardly been out of her own neighborhood, they wondered where she had come from. Within minutes of the boy’s appearance, it was clear they would not get the chance to ask. He found out that she was visiting a brother, one of eight older siblings doing their best to raise her. And she found out that his mother had remarried. Disruptions to childhood and adolescence had left each longing for resolution, and that night the soldier and the orphan found a resting place in each other.

Soon after, they bought the house his grandfather had built. All the relatives moved to other places, but they stayed on; eschewing risk, secure in routine, unconsciously determined to give their little girl and four boys stability. Then the children grew up and away, but they stayed on. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren came and went, but they stayed on. Their only change of scenery has been the house-my-great-grandfather-built, which morphs to the whims of the people inside. What need have they had for anyplace else? My parents are the epitome of Dorothy’s return-from-Oz wisdom: there IS no place like home.

And so you see, I am bred for the habitual, the regular, the repetitive. My mother and father have modeled permanence in a way that makes adapting to a new country a bit uneasy for me, but I have found that their example compensates with something far more important: a natural desire and commitment to constancy; an innate attitude and aptitude which has under-girded my own thirty-two year marriage.

A friend recently observed that ‘Dale & Mona’ are acting more and more like ‘Ray & Sharon’. I wasn’t sure what she meant until we walked through tiny Bray Village last week. Each aged cottage and mature garden radiated contentment and sameness like art by Thomas Kinkade. The paned windows at dusk glowed from inside and I imagined old men and women cherishing an evening together exactly like hundreds before. A romantic notion I know, but the vision suddenly illuminated what my friend meant to say about Dale and me. In comparing us to my parents, she was referring to our oneness: a cohesiveness created by steadiness. And by that, I am deeply flattered.

Happy 53rd Anniversary Mom and Dad.

“Commitment has kind eyes. He wears sturdy shoes. Everything is vivid when he is around. It is wonderful to sit and have lunch in his gardens around harvest time. You can taste in the vegetables that the soil has been cared for.” - J. Ruth Gendler

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Visit Mona’s Musings on Facebook for this week’s photos from our stroll to Buckingham Palace through St. James Park. And don’t miss the additions to Europe’s Affectionate Lovers!

Castle: [kas-uhl, kah-suhl] noun:
a strongly fortified, permanently garrisoned stronghold.

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I will never in a million miles drive in England because I would be the certain cause of a 14 Mini pile-up on one of those jumbo round-abouts. On the other hand, with England’s public transportation system I can’t wreck anything except the sense that I am a competent person.

You know how you stare at the inside of your fridge expecting something new to appear or the contents to rearrange themselves into a casserole? That’s me, gaping at a tube map, bus schedule, or train station reader board. And I am discombobulated by harried humanity.

If it weren’t for the fact that my daughter, who is visiting us, inherited her father’s GPS genes; I would not have gone 150 miles from Reading to Shropshire without Dale; then all over the medieval towns of Shrewsbury and Ludlow, the home of my mother-in-law’s ancestors.

Walled in by Tudor and Elizabethan architecture on every cobbled lane, it was easy to imagine villagers pulling carts and noblemen steering horses through mayhem. The surreal was strongest at Ludlow Castle, whose ruins lord over a winding river and rolling green countryside.

The vista from the castle embankment is so picturesque; you would swear a master landscaper had designed it to the last hedge, grove, and cottage roof. A long line of royals and would-be royals had lived in, fought over, and defended Ludlow Castle since 1066 and as we wandered through its stone rooms, stairwells, and turrets, I began to muse how a marriage is “like unto” a castle…

●“The castle has a double nature; it is both a home and a fortress…(It is) this double nature which makes the castle so different from dwellings and fortification of other periods…

●One of the things that makes castles interesting is that they are all different. Primarily this is because they were built by men of differing ranks, at different times in different regions…

●This is what makes castles so interesting, that they are both so variable and yet are built according to certain clear principles…

●No castle ever stood in isolation. It was always part of a community. Indeed, there were two communities: the one within the castle, the other surrounding it and forming its milieu…

●A castle may exist inside a town but must be able to be cut off by the closing of a gate or the raising of a drawbridge.” (The Medieval Castle In England And Wales, by N. J. G. Pounds)

Our once-in-a-lifetime week of experience in Shropshire exhilarated and exhausted me. Back at Reading Station, as we dodged the crowds and dragged our luggage, I was on the verge of tears. It was all – EVERYTHING – too much: sensory, physical overload.  Stepping onto the crowded down-escalator, I crumbled emotionally.

And then – through all the moving bodies on the floor below – I saw him: towering over the commotion; his face full of calm anticipation, riveted on mine: so solid, so sure, so still. I did of course; melt the instant I reached him. My honey is a big man, and his arms supported as much as comforted his lady-in-distress. As he kissed me I began to cry.

Here, I thought, is my fortress and defense. HERE is my very own castle.

“Love in marriage not only serves to seal up a man and a woman in a valid union, it seals out everything and everyone alien to that union.” – Rodney Turner

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Rumble through the castle with our daughter, Lady Hannah.
Hang in there…ya just gotta go ALL the way to the top!

Click here to view the embedded video.

Visit Mona’s Musings on Facebook for lots more photos of the castle, Ludlow, and Shrewsbury and to receive daily hints of romance.

“…there must be continued courting and expressions of affection, kindness, and consideration to keep love alive and growing.” – Spencer W. Kimball

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My honey said that he fell in love with my hands first, before any other part of me. Evidently, I was sitting several rows up in an otherwise empty theater: crossed legs, elbow to knee, chin atop draped fingers. I didn’t realize then how small my hands are, or how they decorate my face when I talk, like the ruffles of a blouse or bonnet. Dale pointed out those feminine features later, when my hands belonged to him.

Those hands have taken a beating in the three decades since: dishwater, toilet water, cuts, burns, and scouring pads.  Still, he loves them. We were walking this week down a Reading Street to the train station, when he interrupted our conversation and gave my fingers an extra squeeze. “Oh, your hand feels so good today,” he said. That tender remark, which may seem a small thing, yielded big dividends. The woman in me turned to putty.

I live every morning for his “you look so pretty”. My heart jumps when I see his phone call in the middle of the day. I long for his kiss when reunited and never feel more loved than when he listens to my tremendous trivialities. By night, I melt like butter as he strokes my forehead and tells me he loves me. And of course, notes and flowers are the occasional surprise that slay me altogether.

Women need affection like air: it creates an atmosphere we can thrive in, like an exotic flower in the mist of the tropics. Every chocolate ‘affection’ is savored to the last; we roll it around in our imagination, replaying and drawing out romantic nuances for days, even years, creating meaning that sustains us through doldrums or famine. (If we go without it for too long though, we will shriek, or shove, or just shrivel.) So take note, dear husbands: our “beast”, if he can learn to express consistent, real affection, will be magically transformed into a “prince”, whose shortcomings we can become blind to, and whose own masculine needs become a pleasure and priority to satisfy.

Strolling through Kensington Gardens this week under a perfectly blue sky; and a few days later, walking through the busy promenade of Reading’s Broad Street during a community festival; and then a few days after that, making our way down the narrow, cobbled lanes of Shrewsbury; my musing awakened me to all the hand-holding going on. Couples hobbled, sauntered or brushed past — clasped together in the international sign of friendship.

The most striking of these lovers was a white-haired, pleasant looking man and woman, stepping in leisurely unison, their hands swinging like a rope, binding them as they stopped to admire the children, gawk at the swans, or rest on a bench. They were irresistible. How long, I asked, have you been holding hands? With the kind of smile that made me feel naive, they answered together:

“Sixty-one years.”

See how far a little affection will take you?

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Visit Mona’s Musings on Facebook for more pictures of Europe’s Affectionate Lovers, which I will add to regularly!

Related Musing> Thank You Darling, for the Flowers

“I was awoke at 6 o’clock by Mamma …who told me the Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Conyngham were here and wished to see me. I got out of bed and went into my sitting-room (only in my dressing gown) alone, and saw them. Lord Conyngham then acquainted me that my poor Uncle, the King, was no more, and had expired at 12 minutes past 2 this morning, and consequently that I am Queen…” -Alexandrina Victoria; 24 May 1819 – 22 January 1901

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Walking through Westminster Abbey in Central London is something like shouldering your way through a very crowded, very solemn assembly of famous people; their names whispered in stone, rising from floors to ricochet off cathedral ceilings. On our fourth day in Europe, Dale stood and cried at the foot of Handel’s grave while I sat in a stupor beside Austen, Bronte’, Dickens, and Shakespeare. Together, we gazed up at fallen soldiers and then bent over scientists and statesmen. Weaving our way through this host of monumental human beings inspired and trivialized us. Where do we fit in? Of what value are we to our fellow man?

Shakespeare wrote: “…some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.” I think perhaps the truly “great” come to it through a fateful combination of all three.  Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom, for instance, was ‘born’ in line and ‘thrust’ into place at only eighteen. However, her ‘accomplished’ greatness came after she married–and subsequently made a real partner of–a man whose name became synonymous with hers: Francis Albert Augustus Charles Emmanuel or, as officially titled, Prince Albert. Their reign and romance are considered a zenith in Great Britain history and their love affair makes becoming a queen seem a doable, if not envious objective, if a man such as Albert can be your partner.

Victoria died nearly forty years after her beloved. She was England’s longest reining royal and the most commemorated, and among the most prolific: her posterity serve in monarchies from one corner of Europe to another: yet all she asked for was to be buried beside Albert, dressed in white, wearing her wedding veil instead of her crown.

Their story has haunted me ever since I arrived here. I sense Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in England’s most elegant places–tangible and imagined; exemplifying this sweet truth: that the essence of a virtuous romance can be felt everywhere and for eons to come; that its beauty and solidarity will affect all who come to know it, as well as all who descend from it; and that the world needs, even craves, mature, splendid marriages–for authentic lovers give the rest of us courage to live through, and up to, our promises.

Holding Dale’s hand as we exited the Abbey, I began to muse how he and I will never be important anybody-s in this life, not by these standards. No ornate crypts or elaborate epitaphs for us. And yet, if a woman can adore her husband with all of her heart, and inspire him in turn, to adore her with all of his (and visa-versa); if together they can nurture that devotion through grand and grievous days until they are lain down with age; is that not one of life’s greatest attainments?

The Young Victoria (2009)
View the trailer

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Visit Mona’s Musings on Facebook for pictures from our visit to Kensington Gardens and Castle as well as daily reports and hints of romance! (Kensington is where Victoria was born and raised until her ascension to the throne and where she built a magnificent monument to her Albert.)

My bounty is as deep as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite. ~ William Shakespeare

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She stood on the bow of a great ship. With a fondness for rigging and bowlines, masts and yard arms, inbred during her tiny days in a port city; and with the majesty of the sails above her–rippling in the stiff breeze but aching to flex their muscle in a real storm–her heart surged with delight and daring. How did she come here? How was it possible that she, of all people–one grown in the soil of a small world–should be standing like a sailor, legs spread for balance, shifting weight against the roll of a colossal ocean? Only one force could be magnetic enough to draw her away from the well-worn view out her window; away from the beaten path between home and market; away from the faces she knew best and their constant appearance at her door. Only one voice could convince her to leave it all and come over the sea.

So what do you think of my little foray into romance novel-ing? According to Meriam-Webster, a “romance” is a “prose narrative treating imaginary characters involved in events remote in time or place and usually heroic, adventurous or mysterious.” My paragraph fits except that the characters are hardly imaginary. Both Dale and I have third great-grandmothers who could play the part of our heroine: Johanna Kirsten Jenson left everything she knew in Denmark, and Mary McGovern Frazer left everything familiar in Scotland for the love of a man. And in the latest installment of this generational epic, I play the part.

In a matter of days, we leave for England. In fact, the next time you and I muse together, I will have vanished from here and will have reappeared there; catapulted by the engine of 767 rather than the tailwind of clipper ship. Minor difference really. The motivation, direction, and emotion are the same.

And although what awaits us over the next year is a personal adventure, I’ll do my best to share the best of it. On Fridays (U.K. or U.S., I haven’t figured that out yet) I’ll post and sometimes podcast (microphone is packed this week) here at Musings (with some new design features including Real Romances) about our exploits — always with a “Hint of Romance”. Every afternoon, I will “share with everyone” on Facebook and will upload lots of photos to albums there. And, beginning the week we “sail”, I will Twitter whenever I’m smack-dab in the middle of one of those “who’da- thunk-it!” kind of places or situations.

“Sail with me,” he had said. Of course, she’d agreed long before he’d asked; her heart sustained by his for too long to beat alone; his faithfulness proven through every ordeal required of a man dedicated to a woman. And now, as the wind whipped their hair and hearts into a passion, the mighty barque felt deserted. So alone were they, that as he took her hands and pulled her close, even the roar of the sea was muffled. She stood on her toes to kiss him, then tenderly brushed his cheek with her lips and whispered, “I’ll sail with you my love…to the ends of the earth and back, but you won’t mind, will you, if all my friends come along?”

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SPECIAL OFFER: I will be publishing photos for fellow Musers of anywhere or of anything you love or want to see in Europe – as in “think of me whenever you see a street painter in Paris…” or “think of me when you see anything Austen…” Leave your “think-of-me” here, at FB, or email.

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Don’t miss>The Quest for a New Home

Rose: We came down the Ulanga — the Bora, you call it down here.
(All three officers look at each other — and back at Rose.)
Officers (together): But that is impossible!
Rose: Nevertheless!

Our cell phones meet at a pinpoint in orbit. House-hunting in London is tough when the Columbia is closer than the Thames. Romantic they may be, both rivers are full of unexpected twists and sudden currents. And right now, as we negotiate our way through a sticky situation while on opposite sides of the globe, it feels like we are plummeting down the rapids toward a three-hundred foot drop off.

For two weeks, he’s been stoking the boiler like mad, keeping our hopes afloat and the engine running. He’s determined to find us a new home in the old world but “available” properties are either unacceptable or unavailable.  Meanwhile, I’ve been clinging to the rudder for dear life—straining through the spray to see what’s coming round the bend.

Charlie: How’d you like it?
Rose: Like it?
Charlie: White water rapids!
Rose: I never dreamed…
Charlie: I don’t blame you for being scared – not one bit. Nobody with good sense ain’t scared of white water…

Not only can we not find a place in greater London, we can’t agree on priorities.  Though we are verbally self-sacrificing we know each other’s hearts too well: he wants covered parking and a stand-alone shower and I’ve got to have windows and light. Oh, what does it really matter since there is no place to let in Surrey? Disappointment upon disappointment…frustration after frustration…we are caught in a landlord’s market; an eddy with no escape.

Rose: The whole thing is like a fever dream, isn’t it?
Charlie: All the channels we’ve lost—an’ the the twistin’ we’ve done—we may come back where we started—if  we come out at all.
Rose: We’ve always followed the current, dear—what little there is.

Meanwhile, Dale’s time in London is running out and the precipice is approaching. We make a desperate offer on a property that represents a major compromise for us both. The deal falls apart. It is 2:30 a.m. for me and he is at the airport about to board. This is it. Like the scene in African Queen when Rose and Charlie have exhausted themselves navigating the the Ulanga and have no other option but to lie down and die in the Belgian Congo, we hang up and cry.

Rose: Dear Lord, We’ve come to the end of our journey, and in a little while we’ll stand before you. I pray for you to be merciful. Judge us not for our weaknesses, but for our love and open the doors of heaven for Charlie and me.

Minutes after our sad conversation, the screenplay of the African Queen begins inexplicably to run through my head. I come upon the scene of the little steamer, entangled in a jungle marsh; the bodies of Charlie and Rose prostrate on the deck, as motionless as their boat. The camera sails higher and higher until we can we see what they cannot: the lake—the big, open lake that has been their destination all along—is just yards away.  Overnight, clouds gather and explode, swelling the river and setting the African Queen on her way.

I bolt out of bed and dive back into the on-line real estate market. And there it is: our miracle. An exquisite flat in the very complex and location we’d dared not hope for—posted only minutes before. In the spirit of “snatch and grab it” and with the help of friends I’ve never even met, the place was basically ours by the time Dale landed in Chicago.

Charlie: What happened?
Rose: We did it, Charlie, we did it!..
Charlie: Well I’ll be… Are you all right, Rosie?
Rose: Never better. And you, dear?
Charlie: All right!
Rose: I’m all turned round, Charlie. Which way is the south shore?
Charlie: The one we’re swimming towards, old girl!…

CLICK ON ANY OF THE PHOTOS FROM THE MOVIE in this post to see short,
wonderful videos of–or about–the film. (Two have brief commercials at the start.) BELOW: Trailer for John Huston’s The African Queen (1951)

Click here to view the embedded video.

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REAL ROMANCEMatt & Kelsey
May 10, 2008

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Official London Forecast: Biometrics (fingerprints, etc.) tomorrow, then the whole pile of papers, which has been accumulating for weeks, goes to the attorney, then onto the Los Angeles Consulate. What happens after that, I’m not sure…my movie-brain visualizes the last shot in “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Come to think of it, my dining room looks something like that shot…everything ready for the shippers.

Don’t miss>Somewhere Else