Short Stories

WARMTH IN WINTER
AT TWO ENDS OF THE MERIDIAN

A personal diary recalling 23 days in Ghana during January 2002 in celebration of our Silver Wedding.

In the lay-by on the A711 , I listen to Lesley Riddock . She invites her listeners to the air waves, then dispatches them with a curt strike. The tuna in my sanny probably underwent a similar process in more salty waves. Sustenance of mind and body complete, I set off to the office in Dumfries.

The case in the Sheriff's Chambers at Kirkcudbright had lasted no more than 15 seconds. He is perplexed by the insufficiency of the law. A toddler's case fully accepted by the parents at a children's hearing but not understood by the 17 month old child, is to be remitted back to a hearing for disposal, from whence it came. The learned Sheriff felt a helicopter would have saved us both time. Indeed it would have returned him to Stranraer and me to Dumfries in a matter of minutes. My regular rendezvous with Ms Riddock on the A711 would be at risk if the Scottish Courts Administration and the Scottish Children's Reporter Administration took the suggestion on board.

Lunchtime lay-bys in south - west Scotland have proved to be ornithological and inspirational. Check out the sand martin bank on the B7068 (post Langholm hearings) and the penduline tit on the A713 at Patna (post Dalmellington hearings). Prior to working in Dumfries and Ayr, few interesting ornithological opportunities arose in John Finnie Street, Kilmarnock, where the lunch-time dauner was more of an opportunity to re-stock pampers or converse with Killie acquaintances. Burns country you realise.

Life would be so much easier if I had a matching south - west accent. Having Glasgow on my passport as place of birth has always been a niggle. It could have read Redlands Hospital, by ambulance from Bishopton, Renfrewshire, but there is no room on the page and anyway that was for only two years before Kirriemuir in Angus " provided his formative years". A genuine spell of education at Glasgow before meaningful sojourns in Edinburgh, Ghana, London, Stirling and Troon followed. Arriving in Dumfries some eight years ago, we wondered if our travels had really ceased. Consequently, I possess a frustratingly nondescript accent.

Yet it was Dumfries which managed to discover real south-west roots for me. Robert Burns' first child was Elizabeth (1785-1817), 'dear Bought Bess'. Elizabeth's great granddaughter was my grandmother Jemima Helen Walker Caldwell (1878-1968). The Dumfries Burns Club took notice.

So, in this my presidential year, I had to engage a worthy speaker for our Anniversary Dinner. This was on my mind last February as a robin inquisitively perched on the damp dyke, eyeing the contents of my lunchbox. Lesley Riddock silenced her adversarial contributors for a lunchtime news report and that was when inspiration struck. Reference had been made to the UN Secretary General.

Kofi Annan had been the Director of Tourism when my wife and I lived in Ghana. His family village at Bekwai, Ashanti Region, was also the village where my wife had taught as a VSO. Annan was our neighbouring town and his namesake. Would the Freedom of Annan be given to Kofi before Jim Wallace? Hadn't Langholm taken the lead, three decades ago by making Neil Armstrong one of their own? Inspirational lay-bys!

If I got Kofi Annan to come, then I could confidently count on the First Minister (serva fidem) who was a well- known Burnsian , frequent Dumfries and Galloway visitor, speaker at the Howff Club, the Hole in the Wa' and our own Burns Club in the town and former children's reporter besides! The helicopter was no longer a fantasy.

In July, on vacation, we found ourselves in the Secretary General's New York Office. He regretfully declined to give the Immortal Memory on this occasion while wishing to visit Annan one day, beyond his term of office. There was no need therefore to contact Donald Dewer who was recovering at that time from his serious heart operation.

Meanwhile I was invited to Hampden (sans kit) by the Chief Constable of that fair city to a Conference on Safer Scotland. The answer is of course simple. Move to the rural Stewartry of Kircudbright! The problem is equally clear. Young men in fits of alcoholic rage attack each other leaving permanent disfigurement. Medical slides confirmed their youth and Policing tactics were shared amongst all eight Police Forces. It was a sombre morning delivery and not too comfortable for those like myself who frequently strive to prevent such juvenile offending.

Then strode on to the stage, a young eighteen year old six former. "This is my town", she announced with her PowerPoint projection. Kirriemuir! And plumb centre of the slide was the former St. Ninian's Manse, my childhood home. Defying the flavour of the morning, Gemma told the conference that parents buy mobile phones for their children. Why? "Well, all we hear about is paedophiles in the community and if someone slips us a drug, maybe we'll have time to dial 999. Yes, we do move in groups, she admitted. That's not a threat. We are protecting ourselves. Anyway on a night out in Dundee, we have to catch the last bus home to Kirrie at 10.45p.m." Bravo! Gemma could have been speaking for the youth of rural Dumfries & Galloway and every rural place as well. Lesley, if Gemma phones in, please don't cut her off. Had Gemma been from our neck of the woods, I could have asked her to reply on behalf of the Lasses.

One last trawl for a potential speaker took place on 6th October. How did you celebrate your 50th?

We opened the house to a variety of neighbours, colleagues and friends. As an Ice Breaker, I prepared a quiz sheet of facts about the guests. There was no shortage of detail for each of them to identify each other but to give you a flavour of the challenge inter alia:

In 1976, I was Miss France……….(my wife)

This man's cousin is the President of Ghana………(Tony Barbour)

I won a sub-machine gun shooting trophy ……….. ( Hilary Clark my female work colleague. Wow, did I need to know this?)

One of two Wigtown personalities present, this musician performed in her maiden years, as C. Sharp…… (get it?)(Christine Barbour)

I was at school with Tony Blair……………………(John Henderson)

Just back from sailing David Coulthard's yacht in the Mediterranean……….Jock

In 1974, I was mistaken by 10,000 people for the German international football striker, Gunter Netzer…………….. (that was me actually.)

Lady Lucan informed me that her husband had tried to strangle her ……………(Jenny Henderson)

A week later Donald Dewer died. Serva Fidem, the school motto, seemed very appropriate. He had kept faith with Scottish devolution and kept faith with the people he served. Alas, neither he nor the UN Secretary General would be attending the Burns anniversary dinner.

Roving Sheriff, Children's Reporter and above all Dumfries Doonhamer, Alan Findlayson, will return to his home town to give the Immortal Memory and the former European Director of UNICEF, Canadian, Paul Ignatieff, will toast his adopted town. The Lord Lieutenant will reply as many do around the country at this time. The singers have agreed to entertain and so has the piper.

Invitations go out immediately after New Year. Burns Night is often the first social event of the year promoting hibernal stirrings. Lets hope the wintry Devil's Beef Tub will not hinder Alan's southward journey on 25th.

Like the Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, the President's term of office lasts just one year. That should free me up soon for south west representation for the Institute of Contemporary Scotland's affairs. The scenic and inspirational lay – bys of Scotland must be worthy of contemporary recognition. Lesley Riddock's Paxmanian jousting must too…..but lets save that, on another drive.

Ends. 1,300 words.

By My Own Admission

First published in The Good Health Magazine
0ctober/November 1986

I returned to hospital, this time to have my sinuses washed out. I expected everything to go as smoothly as they had the first time around. How wrong I was!

I made my way to Ward 3B and chose a bed. The ward nurse remembered me and remarked that I would not have forgotten the ropes. I agreed. I confidently secured the irreversible studded namelet round my left wrist only to see it drop onto the polished floor seconds later. A new namelet was brought and fastened in the style of a double clove hitch by a dismayed nurse.
I was sitting up in bed now with a thermometer under my left arm at the same time as presenting my right arm to have my blood pressure checked. It was normal but where was the thermometer? In concentrating on the pressure being applied to my right arm, I had let slip the pencil thin thermometer from my left armpit. It lay beneath my pyjamas in two pieces. I reflected on another unnecessary expense to the NHS.
The shower room with its adjacent loo was already lit on my entry to provide a urine sample. I obliged with a modest sample, tugged the suspended light switch cord to save electricity, frantically noticing the plastic red button at the end too late.
'Don't worry Mr. Caldwell, you are not the first to pull the emergency help button', reassured the quietly exasperated nurse. I deserved a £50 fine!
I settled into the ward and made acquaintance with my fellow patients. We each revealed our medical problems that had brought us together and shared our anticipated length of stay in confinement with each other. I explained that I was a prosecutor of juveniles in court – a reporter to the children's panels.
That information led to sharing the story of the Sheriff some time ago who lived in Troon and relied on friends to run him to work at the Kilmarnock Sheriff Court some nine miles away. One morning he accepted a lift from a lorry driver. As they reached the 40mph limit on the outskirts of town the lorry slowed down to 32mph. On reaching the 30mph limit, the driver slowed down to 22mph.
'Taking it easy?' enquired the Sheriff.
'Aye, there's a bastard of a Sheriff in Kilmarnock an' I'm no losing my licence over him.'
On reaching the centre of town the Sheriff asked to be dropped off. As the lorry pulled into the kerb, the grateful passenger took a £10 note from his wallet and thrust it into the lorry driver's hand.
'There. That's from your friendly bastard, the Sheriff!'
As the recently acquired captive audience showed their appreciation, an elderly man stirred from the bed to my left.
'It was only £5, sir, and I should know. I was the Sheriff.
The anaesthetic could not come quickly enough.

Neil set the windscreen wipers to a more frequent thrust as he left the Moto service
station. The fine drizzle was going to damped his next leg of his journey home but it
would not diminish his enthusiasm for the day.
He had been to Milton Keynes to collect 200 copies of his first novel from his
publisher. He could not wait to get back home to introduce his work to the local
press, sell a few copies at a book signing venue and in common with all first time authors,
his thoughts turned to the 'what if' scenario. What if it became a best seller? What if film rights were in demand? Or perhaps what if he never had to work again for a living?

These feelings of wellbeing undoubtedly contributed to his decision to slow down at
the slip-way exit and make a sudden decision to stop, be a Good Samaritan and give a lift
to the dejected youth whose thumb up stance was at odds with his downtrodden look.
He lowered his passenger's window but was not the first to talk.
'Where are you going?' the youth asked.
'Wigan.'
'That'll do fine' he said, opening the front door and throwing a plastic bag on to the
back seat. Neil checked his mirror, accelerated and joined the busy motorway traffic.
'Andy's my name' said the damp passenger.
'Oh, mine's Neil. Been on the road long?'
Andy must have heard the question but he did not reply. Neil wondered what state of
mind was possessing the youth now sitting beside him and he was angry with himself for being forced to reveal where he was going before he could ascertain where the passenger wished to go. This was the very situation that had made him ignore so many hitchhikers in the past.
'I guess you're a man of few words then?' he ventured as he indicated to overtake a Curries lorry in the second lane.
'So would you if you had my life.'
'Not in work, then?'
'No. Not yet.'
'So what's the attraction of Wigan?'
'Don't know. You tell me what its like?'
'Hang on a minute. I stop to give you a lift, feeling sorry for you. You ask me where I'm going and I tell you I'm going to Wigan. So you tell me that's where you are going. So now I ask why Wigan and you tell me you don't know! That's crazy. I might as well have said Timbuktu! '
'Where's that?'
'In Mali in West Africa……but hang on a minute,…. Let's get back to Wigan.'
'Yeah that's where we're going.'
'Okay, okay. So we're going to Wigan. I'm going there because I live there. So, why are you going to Wigan?'
'Don't know.'
'Are you kidding? You must know. You said you were going to Wigan.'
'No I didn't. I said 'that'll do fine', so I did!'
'Fine for what?' Andy did not reply.
Neil looked at the passing road sign 'Services 2 miles and 26 miles'. He wondered if he should make a comfort stop in two miles and offload this awkward customer. No, that would arouse his suspicion. He would head for 26 miles and hope each mile would be less frustrating than the last.
'So what do you do?'
'I'm an author. See these boxes in the back seat? They are copies of my book.'
'An author?' he showed a spark of interest. 'Well, you are in luck.'
'In what way, Andy?'
'Meeting me.' Andy turned towards Neil whose eyes momentarily left the road to focus on his smiling face.
'Know me and you've got a best seller. I've been in a children's home, fostered, prison, I could tell you a few things.'
Neil felt the jigsaw was beginning to take shape but these were the corner pieces. He wanted to know why he was in each place. 'How did you get there, I mean I guess you've had a hard life?'
'You might think so, but I don't. If your father was a drunkard and your mother didn't care too much either, a children's home ain't that bad. Then they try and give you a real family, a foster family. That was cool but it meant living further away and I didn't settle. When I was sixteen no body took responsibility and I left. I tried to earn a little but it was soon easier to supply drugs to make a living. That, and some other things, got me prison.'
'That must have been tough?'
'Yeah, there are some tough people there but it was good too.'
'Well, you'd get three meals a day, a bed and a roof over your head' Neil said warming to this individual's plight but being conscious not to raise his hackles.
'More than that. I got some good classes. Not just the usual classes but the art classes. I did some good work there. They said I had some talent.'
'They say we are all good at something Andy. Guess its artwork for you. Books for me.
Want a biscuit? There's one in the glove box if you like.' Andy reached to open the glove box. He took out a chocolate biscuit and as he did so, he noticed a penknife. He took the penknife out and Neil's heart began to thump. What on earth made him invite this self confessed criminal to open the glove box where he always kept a penknife just in case, as gadget men do. Andy had the blade open and began cutting the chocolate biscuit wrapper. He lay the knife on his lap as he crunched the chocolate orange biscuit. Neil kept one eye on the road and one on the knife. This was doing his blood pressure little good.
Andy finished his biscuit and folded the wrapper neatly, placing it back in the glove box. Then he took the knife and examined it closely. Neil felt uneasy and knew Andy was aware he had the knife.
'You like the penknife?' Neil asked in as nonchalant a manner as possible.
'Yeah. It's cool.'
'You can have it, if you want.'
'That would be illegal. You know, carrying an offensive weapon.'
'Ah, of course, so it would' Neil felt silly for suggesting it in the first place. Especially as he was fond of it. Things were getting out of control and he knew it but he must not show any fear.
' I could make good use of it' suggested Andy.
Neil hesitated to think just what use he had in mind.
'You know real artists. They use proper paints. They could use a knife like this on their pallet.'
'Well, you're an artist Andy. If you fold it away and keep it out of sight, then whose to know you've got a penknife. After all it's only a penknife. It's not a switchblade or a cutlass!'
'You're right. Okay, I'll take it thanks.'
The monotony of the road ate up a few more miles but not as many as Neil had wished. How could he have been so unguarded on the slip-way? But it was too late to undo the journey. He had to make the best of a bad job and hope, just hope this journey was going to end satisfactorily for both of them. Such a solution was at present no where near.
With five miles short of the next service station, Neil decided he needed to have a face to face assessment of his passenger. He thought through his plan then put it to action.
'Andy, we'll stop at the next service station. I need a break and let's have a coffee.' He waited anxiously for his response.
'Yeah, I need a break too.'
There was no more conversation before the car indicated to leave the motorway and made its way to a parking place near the Service entrance. Neil clicked his fob securing his books and Andy's plastic bag in the back seat of the car.
They emerged together from the men's room and made for the coffee shop.
'What do you want then Andy?'
'I'll have a Cappuccino'
'And anything to eat?' Andy looked along the glass ledge and settled on 'a muffin'.
'One Cappuccino, a Latte and two blueberry buns, please.'
They made their way to a table by the window. Neil could see his car. Why oh why he wondered had this all come about. He had no intention of a further stop before he got home but this youth had begun to determine his moves. He was no longer in control. They sipped their coffees and un-wrapped their buns. Then Andy began to unzip his jacket. Inside was a jotter which he took carefully from his damp clothing and laid it carefully on the table.
'I was keeping it dry' Andy said needlessly but Neil recognised this was something he was protecting. Something he was pleased to produce in front of him. 'So what's this then?'
'Here, have a look.'
Neil stretched his hand over and lifted the exercise book from the table. He found it easier to leaf through the book from the back. What he saw interested him. There were drawings of countryside and of farm animals. Then pages of drawings of motor cars, motorbikes and planes. Each carefully sketched in detail, with great accuracy. He smiled as he viewed his work.
'Did you do all of these drawings Andy?'
'Yes. It's all my own work. I like to draw.'
Neil returned his eyes to the exercise book. He was eager to see what the next page would present. A building, then on the next page, was a prison scene. It seemed he could turn his hand to anything and create a picture in great detail. He sipped his coffee and finished his muffin before completing his inspection of this folio.
'You draw very well indeed.' Andy smiled.
Neil flipped slowly through to the start of the book. He eventually turned to the fist page. As he did so, a shudder took hold of him. He had focussed on the artist's name. It was a name that rang a bell in his mind. An alarm bell to be precise. Andy noticed his reaction.
'What's up?'
Neil could not have hid his astonishment at reading his name. He had to come clean.
'Andrew Hunt. That's a name I know. It's all coming back to me. Hey it was not just drugs you were inside for was it Andy? '
'How do you know so much about me?'
'Because I remember, yes, I remember. It must be some four or five years ago by now. You stole a car, a blue car, and you crashed it. You ran away. I remember the Police put out an appeal stating they went on the hunt for a car thief. The irony of your name stuck. And it struck too because it was my sister's car! She was very upset at the time.'
'I don't deny it but I did not know it was her car.'
'That does not make it right. But anyway, I'm not going to rake over old ground especially as you did time for that.'
They finished their coffees but Neil was not leaving just yet.
'Andy, before we go to the car, tell me just where are you going? Where do you want me to drop you? Is that clear?'
'Okay. I'm going to Eccleston. That's where my sister is.'
'So you've got a sister too?'
'Yeah, she says I can stay there and get a job. She says I can get one at the service station near by. I'd like that.'
They returned to the car. Neil felt there was a better understanding between them and with less than thirty miles to go, his ordeal would soon be over.
'Your art work Andy, how long does it take to do one of your drawings?'
'Not so long. I get it fixed in my mind and then concentrate and finish it always in one go.'
'That's impressive.'
'Tell me. Can you draw a sheep dog?'
'Of course I can. Why?'
'I mean not just a sheepdog sitting, but one running, jumping, guarding, playing with a child, rounding up sheep. All the things a sheep dog does. Can you do that?
'Yes of course but why?'
'Because Andy. I am an author. My next book is almost completed. It is a children's book. It's called 'The Adventures of Tache'.
'What's Tache?' It's the name of my collie dog. He has a white stain on his rump. He's had it since he was a pup. So we called him stain or mark but in French. That's une tache. So he's Tache and he's the subject of my children's book. But what I need is a graphic artist to illustrate the book and I think you'd be good at that. Are you interested?'
'That's brilliant. Yeah, let me do it.'
'Ok Then let me drive you to your sister's house in Eccleston. It's not far out of my way. Give me her address and I will send you a copy of the script and mark where I want you to place your drawings. Tomorrow I'll let my publisher know you are doing the artwork.'
'You seriously giving me work?'
'Yes. Can't say how much money this will bring at this stage so go for the Service job in the meantime.'
'Yeah. I will honestly, I will, honest.'
'Yes, I think we can do business Andy.'
Neil offered his hand and Andy shook it firmly.
'I guess we've got something to tell our sisters!'

Dusk was fading rapidly as I ran the watering can along the dahlias planted two days ago. As I approached the end of the row where the bed met the box hedge, I became aware of a slow movement. At first I thought it was a bat. With the tragic rabies death from a bat bite at the village of Guthrie near Arbroath last year, I was not rushing to get near it but then it chirped and I saw a slender yellow beak.

I approached carefully to find a newly fledged wren struggling on the soil. Its disproportionately long legs struggled to provide its round body with equilibrium. I cupped my hands beneath it and brought it indoors to see it better. Its eyes were still closed. Perhaps they had never opened. I placed a bottle top of milk near its beak and gauged its survival potential. It was so very young and too soon for it to find its feet, let alone find use of its wings. They lay motionless against its tiny body.

I took the helpless bird outside and placed it by the milk on a wooden table. I went to find my camera but after locating it, was disappointed to find no film inside. It was after 10p.m.now. Then I saw my neighbour closing his conservatory doors for the night and I called him over. Fortunately he had film in his camera.

We advanced cautiously and he took a flash photo. Then I placed the wren on the lawn by the milk, lay some leaf mould around it and left in the hope that it would receive either parental support or gain enough strength to engage in its first flight.

By morning it had gone. My neighbour's photo failed to materialise.

Wren! Dear Jenny wren.

Just where and when

Did you take your first steps or your flight?

I hope you have flown

Away on your own

But thanks for your friendship last night.

Last week on a somewhat dull overcast morning, I was ironing through a pile of washed clothes. In a state of numbed mental activity, I was disturbed by my collie racing through the lounge, barking at the closed conservatory doors.

I looked up to see a bird in distress hitting itself on each window pane as it sought its escape from its recent point of entry. I called Tache to his basket and instructed him to STAY. I entered the conservatory and quietly opened both doors to increase the area of escape to safety. It was a blue tit. I spoke quietly in response to its distressed chirping and followed it around awaiting it to settle within reach. Alas my approach scared it to flight and the open doors became a further barrier as it crashed into the angled area behind one door. This however, gave me the opportunity to approach it and restrict its escape. I knelt down and with both hands managed to trap the bird. As I stood up I was anxious not to harm it in any way. Unfortunately I was too concerned for its protection that the tit found an adequate aperture in my cupped hand to set off once more.

Two minutes later the tit had returned to the same trapped area and I had a second chance to capture it. I did so with the skill of a pet shop seller selecting a cage bird. Throughout the operation I offered words of comfort and encouragement. I went through the open doors and stood on the patio. I continued to speak while easing my cupped hands open. The tit looked at me, realised it was free to leave and did so.

It flew to the top of a miniature pear tree some few feet from where I stood. I could see it breathing heavily as it recovered from its ordeal. I continued to reassure it by voice. Then as its breathing returned to normal, I changed my tone and made encouraging sounds for it to return to me. I had not moved from the moment it flew away. Then quite suddenly with a cocky head movement, it flew from its high perch to the nearest branch to me, only three feet away. I smiled. It chirped. Isn't thanks the most wonderful word in any language?

Late one November evening, the telephone rang at Joan's home in Kirriemuir. It was her sister Lizzie, in Lenzie.

'Hi Joan. Lizzie here. You'll remember it's our turn to invite you and Ian over for Christmas dinner with Dad. Well this year, I've an idea.'

'Don't tell me it's going to be Boxing Day instead?'

'No. December 25th Christmas Day as usual, but with a challenge. You see it's been usual to arrive at each other's home for a late morning coffee and we don't eat till 6pm. It makes it a long day. Well with Dad getting older these days, I think he'll probably have an afternoon nap. And of course, it's no secret that Ian and Sandy don't always see eye to eye on politics or football, so what I have in mind is reaching an agreement that between the hours of 2 pm -5 pm. Ian and Sandy make themselves scarce. They can do what they like between these hours but they are not allowed in the house. When they return they must bring some sort of evidence to show what they've been up to! Sandy is up for it. Do you think Ian will be a sport?'

Joan rang back two days later indicating that Ian had agreed to go along with the idea.

Over the following three weeks Ian and Sandy considered their options for three hours of freedom. Not a hint of their plans emerged except occasionally a false trail was planted about finding a bar open or looking up old girlfriends.

Then Christmas day dawned seasonally frosty when they congregated in Lenzie to share Christmas presents over morning coffee. Ian was delighted to receive a hand shredder indicating he would be able to shred all his old bank statements while Joan smiled at the thought of shredding expensive shopping receipts. Dad was pleased with his boxed handkerchiefs and bottle of single malt whisky. 'One way or another', he declared, 'I'm well prepared for a winter cold!'

As the clock approached 2pm, Sandy and Ian left the comfort of the festive home. The sisters looked through the lounge window and saw them part at the road junction. Lizzie wondered if she had done right in organising this bizarre game. Could it cause ill feeling she wondered. Just how angry might they be on their return?

Light faded shortly after 3.30pm. By then Dad was indeed in the land of nod while Lizzie and Joan got to terms with the turkey and trimming preparations. The crackers were placed at the table settings by 5.30pm. Then the sisters sat down near the Christmas tree with a glass of red wine to reflect on their kitchen endeavours.

At precisely 6pm, Ian arrived back. He took off his coat and warmed himself by the open fire. Lizzie brought him a sherry. Before he had enjoyed a second sip, Sandy arrived. As Ian had arrived first, he was asked to explain his hours of Christmas freedom.

'I'm no wise man but I thought it's the unexpected gift that is always appreciated. That got me thinking. I went to the library at the end of last month and read about performing magic. I took three books on the subject home and practised until I was getting the illusions to appear convincing. Then I needed an audience. So I contacted the local nursing home and asked if I could perform on Christmas Day. I asked Madge Harvie, the matron, to confirm I had performed there this afternoon. Here's her letter and I promise to show you a trick or two after our Christmas meal.'

A round of applause filled the air then Ian handed the floor over to Sandy. Strangely he went to the table and began resetting the places. Without a word he brought four more chairs to the table adding four more crackers.

'We are having four guests to join us. I'm sure you won't mind. I have been with them all afternoon. A taxi will arrive shortly. Sam and his wife Grace will be joining us with their children Mary and Comfort Nakunda. They have fled the evil regime of Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe and have sought asylum in Glasgow. I've brought extra presents. Let's make it a very special evening for them.'

Tears filled Lizzie's eyes. She hugged her husband. 'Oh Sandy darling, bless you, how wonderful. And Ian, your audience is growing!'

Some forty years ago, before the era of the ubiquitous
holiday jet flight, we spent our family summer holiday at
Port Stewart, on the Antrim coast. With miles of bright
clean sand and many dunes bordered by long sharp grass, it
is one of Britain's best beaches. It was on that beach one
Saturday afternoon when disaster struck.

It was a warm sunny day. We had enjoyed a picnic at our
dune which sheltered us from a mild breeze and gave us
warmth. After a suitable post lunch rest, we stripped into
our bathing costumes and ran as fast as we could into the
cold sea. We jumped, shouted and screamed until we had
ducked into the sea and begun to swim. An annual holiday
was never a total success without a swim and my sister and
brother swam safely and happily with me on that carefree
afternoon.

My father, however, could not swim. Nor would he want to
swim. But he saw his children enjoying themselves so much
and he wanted to join in, as any parent would wish. His
preparation for the sea was much more cautious than ours.

He sat on the sand and removed first his shoes, then his
socks, then he took off his wedding ring. To keep it safe,
he carefully placed the ring inside his sock. Then the sock
was tucked into the toe of his shoe. It was most surely
safe there.

He ventured towards us as far as he could go. Carefully he
felt his way forward and soon found the water, waist high.
He knew that was deep enough for him. We gave him
instructions as to how to swim but he knew, as we knew, he
would never be able to swim. Our instructions were not
irrelevant however. What we were saying was 'Dad, this is
how to do it'. And every child knows that special day when
they can confidently tell their parents how to do
something, which they can do while their parent can not!

The fun in the water gradually came to an end. We returned
to the dune and were given orange juice and a biscuit. A
chittery bit, as we always called it, was gratefully
received. Our teeth chattered, we dried ourselves and drank
our juice. A flask of hot tea awaited our parents.

Dad dried himself with a multicoloured beach towel. He sat
down on the beach to put his socks on. He lifted one sock
and as he did so, a gleaming ring spun into the air and
after a moment of parabola flight, it settled on the sand
near by. In his anxiety to retrieve it instantly, Dad's
hand disturbed the sand and the ring vanished from sight.
Magically, it disappeared from view, never to reappear. He
announced the disaster. We all took turns searching for the
wedding ring. Surely it could not be lost. The sand was
sifted, the area was expanded, scooped, grabbed and
harvested but there was never any further sight of the
ring.

Dad returned after an evening meal and searched for a
further three hours on his own until the sun had set. A few
evening walkers joined in for a while after they had
learned about his plight. But as the sun disappeared, Dad
returned home depressed.

He could not sleep. The ring which Mum had placed on his
finger, almost thirteen years previously, was gone but he
still could not accept that a ring could vanish so easily.
Its disappearance had defied reason as well as a thorough
search.

The following morning was Sunday morning. At 6a.m, before
anyone had risen, Dad returned to the beach. Despite
numerous identical dunes weaving along the coastline, he
knew exactly which one we had been on that previous day. He
had marked it by tying a knot of grass. It was another
sunny morning with the sun already sharing its morning heat
- and its light. For, as he approached the dune, Dad saw to
his surprise his bright gold ring sitting proudly where he
had once sat. He approached it slowly. He bent down and
placed his hand over the ring. He grabbed a handful of sand
beneath the ring and sat down. As he sifted the sand
through his fingers, sheer joy replaced his depression as
he felt the ring in his palm. The prodigal ring was placed
securely on his finger once more.

A smiling Dad appeared for breakfast. He proudly displayed
his left hand bearing the errant wedding ring. We could not
explain why the ring had evaded so many hands and eyes the
previous afternoon and evening. Its disappearance had
mystified the family. Yet there must have been a reason for
its constant inconspicuousness.

We concluded that somewhere, a leprechaun knew more than it
would tell.

On that marvellously warm summer of 1960, my father entered
a shoe shop on the high street in Port Stewart, Northern
Ireland. After viewing a selection on display, his eyes
caught a pair of brown brogue shoes. They were his size. He
tried them on and with a smile brought them to the counter
to pay for them.

As the shop keeper packed the shoes neatly into the shoe
box, he said to my father in his local accent "Here's
health tae wear them."

Now this was not an expression known in Scotland although
it may have been well known in Ulster. Nevertheless it
became a family saying every time my father wore these
brown shoes.

Many years later Dad began to suffer a few minor
discomforts. There was the blitheritis to begin with. Then
came the diverticulosus. My father never seemed to suffer
simply an eye irritation or indigestion. There was always
some mystical medical nomenclature available.

It was not a medical cure which came to the rescue for such
ailments. It was his brown brogue shoes.

Now some would say that it was in the fresh air and
exercise that the brown shoes provided, that cured his
ailments. But there are others like me who really know the
secret of the brown shoes. It was health to wear them.

Mother's death came suddenly. The family had been a unit of
four but now was three - an odd number - and I felt the odd
one out. Mother had been always available to oversee my
achievements however humble and rectify my regular
failings. She overlooked my mischief too. But her vacuum
was felt acutely that morning.

'Well, Michael, you seem to have grown a foot or two since
I last saw you' said an uncle whom I had not seen since I
visited him two summers ago at his seaside home in Dorset.
His remark meant nothing to me for I was still the smallest
in the class. I chose not to reply. My silence embarrassed
him and with a reassuring pat on my back he moved away.

'Hello Aunt Mae.' I was determined not to remain silent
and this aunt had always been most talkative to me in the
past. But she too was drained of words. This was not the
vital family I had known. Where was the happiness, the
laughing? I had never seen such close relatives without
smiling faces.

Time more than any factor broke the barrier which was
impeding communication and when the funeral service was
over, I sensed some life ebbing back into the house. I
poured coffee into cups while relatives talked of their
plans for their summer holidays. I just had to break in.

'Uncle, is Milford - on - Sea in England?
This time my question reached its mark.
'That's right Michael. It's in Hampshire not far from
Southampton where the Atlantic Liners come in. You would
like it there. I'm sure.'
'Oh yes' I replied enthusiastically. Then I thought as I
sat with my sister by the fire, what a holiday without
mother would be like.
'No, no I don't think I'd like Milford - on Sea.'
'Why ever not?' asked Aunt Mae but all I could bring myself
to say was, 'I don't know.'

I felt increasingly secure as the funereal faces of my
relatives relaxed into expressions that I knew. Father was
more active than usual as he called to announce lunch was
ready. He helped Aunt Mae to prepare and serve the meal but
I was unaware of the significance of his chores. I still
expected Mum to come through the dining room door with the
silver plated teapot, but the teapot came without her.

My sister assumed many of the other roles I had seen my
mother perform in the course of a busy day's work but she
had not yet acquired the perfection Mum had achieved
through her years of service to us and I felt my sister
never would. I somehow knew apple pie would never taste
the same again nor would breakfast every morning be
complete without mother chasing us off to school. Who would
do all the things that we accepted only too readily?

Evening came early to the grief stricken house and soon
relatives were leaving, returning to continue with their
own busy lives. They left as silently as they came. When
the last car left the drive and mingled with the stream of
city bound cars, I was for the first time, aware that I was
lonely. This was the beginning of a permanent void.

However, when I returned to the sitting room, I saw not
only my father, but within that man, a mother. Qualities I
had associated with my mother were indeed visible in him
although I had been blind to them before. He caressed my
head and patted my back.

'School tomorrow, Michael? Can you make it? he enquired.

A hard lump hit the back of my throat. I looked up at him.

'Yes Dad. I'll go. Let's make the packed lunches.'

St. Valentines Day 1973. President Richard Millhouse Nixon
sat uncomfortably in the Oval Office digesting the solemn
news Bob Haldeman had shared with him. Watergate was about
to cascade into history. Israel was at war with Egypt and
at exactly 22.15 hrs, I flew into a blacked-out Cairo
Airport, bristling with military activity.

It was my first day serving the Church of Scotland as a
missionary or fraternal worker as I preferred to be known.
I was on my way to the Presbyterian Church of Ghana in West
Africa. The Air Egypt flight would leave Cairo the
following morning and fly south to Lagos in Nigeria before
depositing me at Accra in Ghana. An overnight transit stop
in Cairo seemed romantic when I booked the flight two weeks
beforehand without giving any thought to the combatants
in the Sinai desert.

We disembarked from the plane in darkness. A cordon of
officials herded us towards the dimly lit terminal, abiding
by the war's lights-out conditions. My name was checked and
I was given a slip of paper with my room number on it,at
the desk in the terminal.

The dormitory arrangements were situated along a ground
floor corridor and I managed to see there were toilet
facilities at each end. I approached room number six as
directed by the paper in my hand. The door was slightly
ajar. As I entered I was made aware of a flat double
mattress on the floor with a definite movement on one side
of the bed. I froze. Had I got the right room?

A black female American voice broke the silence.
"You got room six?"
"Er..yes. My slip says room six too. There must be a mistake!"
"Mistake or no mistake. There's a war on. You sleep at the
door side and I sleep here at this side. You keep to your
side and I keep to mine. No hanky panky, ok?"
It was a command as much as a question and I could think
of no response in the circumstances.
And so it came to pass that my first night as a Church
Missionary was spent in the bed of a black American woman
whose name I never knew and she never asked of mine.
We exchanged pleasantries on waking the following morning
and I noticed she departed at Lagos when the flight
resumed. I arrived two hours later in Accra to start
seven years of pastoral work.
That first night in Tema, Ghana, I wrote to the Church of
Scotland's head office at 121 George Street, Edinburgh to
confirm my arrival. I was brief. It simply read, "arrived safely".

A miracle took place in Govan on Christmas Eve 1944

It was my father's first Watch Night Service. He lived in the Pearce Institute in Govan, Glasgow at thattime which was in the Church halls of Govan Old Parish Church where he was the assistant minister. There had not been a bombing of the nearby shipyards for 48 hours and it was a generally felt that a Christmas truce was on the cards.

The Church Officer was Sam Hall, a conscientious and very particular Church Officer, but one who wore a serious and sad countenance. The only times he had been known to be cheerful were on the days his beloved Partick Thistle Football Club in his native Maryhill had won. As it happened, as well as being Church Officer, Sam Hall was his landlord, and his good wife Ina, was his landlady.

The Minister, Rev. Dr. Stewart Thomson informed my father, James, that he had decided to go home to his manse in Pollokshields and not wait for the Watchnight Service. He explained that it was customary for the Youth Fellowship to hold a Xmas Eve Dance in the Institute. The dance would end at 11pm. and the Youth Fellowship would go over to the Church for the start of the Watchnight Service in the Steven Chapel. At 11.30pm.

The Steven Chapel was a small side chapel with seating for perhaps a hundred. It was set apart from the main church which is of Cathedral architecture and proportions, with seating for well over 1,000 in the nave.

Dr Thomson gave James an Order of Service with instructions as to the conduct of the Service, and left for home. There would be little ceremony about the service as it was for only the Youth Fellowship. There would be no office-bearers on duty, and no offering was to be taken. Sam Hall and James were left in charge.

Govan Old Church had been built without a bell, as there was not enough money to build the projected belfry. Consequently, they used a gramophone recording of a carillon of bells, attached to an amplifying system. When the wind was in the right direction, the Govan Carillon was clearly heard across the river Clyde in Partick.

Sam came to James and told him. 'We're on our own. We're going to have a great service.'

This seemed to James the most unwarranted optimism as it was he who had to conduct the service, and with the minimum of preparation. But Sam was unusually happy that night – and inspired. 'Get on with it and make it your best' he told him, and hurried away with a broad but secretive smile.

By 11pm James was ready and he went over to the Church and down the vestry which was deep down beneath the Church. It was always peaceful there. Not a sound penetrated. One could not even hear the carillon of bells.
At 11.30 he was ready to climb the stairs to the church building and proceed to the wee side chapel for the service., but climbing, he was met by a very harassed but happy Sam.

'Get back down these stairs', he ordered.
'What's wrong?' James asked.
'The Chapel's full,' he said, 'I'm fitting in extra chairs. I'll come when I'm ready.'
So back James went to the vestry, and waited, and waited.

Just before Midnight, Sam appeared and said, ' Right! We're ready. Now Speak Up. The Chapel's full I've jammed in another fifty chairs.'
'Then why didn't you let them overflow into the church? They might not see as well but at least they could hear.' James asked.
'What do you think I've done?' asked Sam. 'The church is full, and they are standing. The back gallery and transept gallery are full. There's two thousand in the Church. You'll no see them all, but they'll see you.'

James never forgot that service. The heartily sung carols and the way his hand was wrung when the service was over. The mass of wonderful people who attended. Protestants, Catholics, but for the most part, people who normally would never enter a church; men and women in forces uniform representing many different nations and men and women in the green uniform of Corporation bus drivers and conductresses, ship yard workers, young and old, respectable and some less respectable, sober and the not so sober.

There had been no collection taken but that happy congregation that Christmas morning wanted to give – and nothing would deter them. Money was left all over the place. They found collection plates and filled them.

It took several hours to count the collection that night but when that chore had been done, James confronted Sam and asked him how this had come about.

'Well,' said Sam still smiling in the early hours of Christmas Morn, 'I had gone to the Youth Fellowship Dance. I asked the young folk there if they had any good Christmas records and someone brought me Bing Crosby singing Silent Night. That's when the idea struck !'

'What do you mean, Sam'

'Well, as Dr Stewart was not attending and you were so new, I decided that we'd give the carillon of bells a rest for this special night. So I played Bing singing Silent Night. But of course with the amplifier up at full, Bing was heard in Partick and Annisland and Dumbarton! They came from all the tenements around too.'

Bing Crosby had drawn people like a magnet. Sam's inspiration had worked a miracle.

Next morning, Christmas day, was Christmas communion. Rev Dr Stewart Thomson arrived and heard about the Miracle at Midnight.

'Put on that record again for the Communion Service, Sam', was the order.
Sam did but the miracle didn't happen again.

Christmas Day in Glasgow 1944 was an ordinary working day.

Rev James Caldwell MA 1916-1995

Footnote.

Christmas 1944 seems so far away. I wonder how many of the congregation that night were preparing for the final five months of World War II. Of course times have changed and the novelty of a record could not have a similar impact in our lives today but maybe just maybe, this story might cheer an armed service soldier this Christmas, so far from home.

Haste ye back.
Miller Caldwell

I left Primary 2 at Kirriemiur Primary school in May 1958. Well, that is not exactly true. The school was built on Reform Street. Therefore I came from Reform Street Primary school and that took some explanation to my new class, who knew what a Reform school was in Glasgow!

Pity that was not the only difficulty on day one. My father had brought the family down for educational purposes and he was the school's Chaplain. Clearly Miss Dick had not received my class folder from Angus County.

She drew a backward 'Z' on the blackboard and on the left of this unusual piece of art was a much longer number which I can not recall accurately but was around 36287. 'In silence please, work out the answer.'

Well, there was no long division in Kirriemuir, I was certain of that. I began by copying this strange design and numbers slowly. As Miss Dick approached the row I was sitting in, I pannicked. I worked out that she would be at my desk in a matter of seconds. As she approached, I ran my pencil all over the arithmetic. 'What have we here? A dirty mess! Well, we do not do this in Shawlands Primary. Stand up. Now come to my desk.'
I had no idea what was happening but thinking if I could get through this day, I would ask my older sister how to do this bizarre maths. As I thought through this resolution, Miss Dick produced a double-tongued leather belt and asked me to cross my hands in front of her. Three thrashings. Must not cry. I am the new boy. My fingers tingled with pain. The morning bell rang. 'Stay here all break, till I return'.

At lunch time I was approached by a friendly pupil. 'Miller, are you a Jew?' Well, this was proving to be a tricky day and a difficult question demanded a thoughtful reply. I wanted Leslie to be my friend, so I thought if Christ was the King of the Jews, and I was a Christian, then I must also be a Jew. 'Yes, I am' I said.

'Oh well, don't foret to bring your yarmulka on Friday.'

'My what?'

'Oh your family must be reformed Jews. Then just bring your school cap', Leslie reassured me.

At the end of term my father asked how I was doing in classs. I told him I preferred my class of 12 in Kirrie to this class of 53 but I was enjoying Hebrew.'

'Hebrew? my father enquired.

'Barook ata adenoi elu henu meloch ....Shaman Israel, Adenoi elu henu' I responded.

'Miller why are you learning Hebrew?'

'Because I am Jewish, I am A Jew.'

'Miller, you are not!'

The last day of the term meant the school went to the church for a closing term service. As we marched out, I noticed Miss Dick speaking ever so pleasantly to my father who had taken the service.

Three weeks later, we were on annual vacation at Carradale on the Mull of Kintyre. It was a wonderful holiday until I was informed that we were to visit Southend one particular afternoon. We had been invited to tea by - Miss Dick . I refused to go. For the first time I made it clear I would defy my parents and run away. I ran away after telling my sister that I would be on the golf course.

I returned at 5pm to find the family had already returned from Southend but the atmosphere was bad. I was sent to bed for being disobedient and our cocker spaniel was in the bad books too.

Rikki, who had never bitten anyone before, had been mesmerised by a plate of strawberry tarts sitting on a low coffee table. As Miss Dick in conversation was moving her hands around the cake plate, disaster struck. This was too much teasing for Rikki. He grabbed Miss Dick's hand angrily, drawing blood the colour of the strawberry tarts.

When I heard what had happened, I praised the wee dog. I thanked him. There was indeed a Just God and I could face the new term at school.

Post Script

The belt, the Lochgelly Tawse, imagine a town in Fife actually produced these torture belts, was banned in the 1970s. There are many who would wish it back to disciple wayward pupils. I think it was a case of throwing the baby out with the bath water.

Post Post Sriptum Miss Dick. If you are still alive, I hope you enjoy reading this.

Then came the signs. First the pain, then the x-ray, then the result – it was negative. Joyfully my father announced 'it's a fraud' and threw himself even more forcefully into the fray. Then the pain returned more acutely. There was a further x-ray. Then the diagnosis. A tumour. Terminal illness. He took it calmly, told my mother she would have to take control alone and be able to 'lay her hands on everything'.

'When the band begins to play', he said, 'we've all got to dance to the music.' He secured a locum; a lady, Dr Kerr.
She got his lists of calls at the bedside. She administered the pain-killing drug. What it must mean to a doctor to know the end is approaching and to recognise every advance of his fatal disease!

My mother used to send me up to read to him, sometimes from the Bible. Wanly he smiled at my earnest elocution. We children, however, were kept unaware of the critical situation, though we could see our father fading. It was so strange to see the one who was ever active now unable to leave his bedroom. When would things return to normal?

To us the end was sudden. Jessie, the maid, who had been so long with us and was a second mother, took me into the room and removed the cover from the face. This was not my vital father. He had gone to another place.

The funeral was private and modern. Most funerals brought out the black horses with the black plumes and polished carriages. Ours was going to the family burial-ground in Glasgow and so made concessions to modernity. We had a motor hearse and a motor car following. Opposite the house a huddled group of women stood weeping. They had come to say farewell to the doctor though the funeral was private.
We noticed the group as we entered the car, Dr McCallum, lum hat on knees, in front, the three oldest boys behind with two uncles and the family lawyer. Slowly we moved off, gathering speed at the outskirts of the village. Soon we were in Glasgow at the Southern Necropolis. Then a brief service took place. Earth to earth, dust to dust. David, the youngest of us there, broke down. He was only eight.
Ian and I kept stiff upper lips. It was all so stupefying.
There seemed to be a dulling of the senses. And so we moved away, and as we did so I noticed the inscription at the foot of the tombstone, 'Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His Saints'. The Psalmist, as always, said it perfectly.

There wasn't much daylight left when we returned from the funeral. I slipped off to bed and sobbed myself to sleep.
My mother found me there in the darkness and called me for tea.

Post Script:

Larkhall Parish Church 11th January 1928

Dear Mrs Caldwell

I am instructed to send you the following excerpt from the Minutes of the meeting held this night. Yours faithfully, John Paterson, Session Clerk.

"The Kirk Session deplore the death of Dr John Miller Caldwell at an early age. He had been most faithful in his attendance at Church and fulfilled his duties as an elder with diligence, consideration and kindness. As a medical man he was greatly respected in the Community, his singularly upright and Christian life making his professional visits often more than that of a healer of the body. He was a deeply religious man and bore his long and painful illness in the Spirit of a true Christian. The Kirk Session mourn much his loss and pray that divine consolation and guidance be vouchsafe to his widow and young family."

Taken from Poet's Progeny. See under books for sales

In mid December 2005 I met special police constable and restaurant Manager Farook Ahmed in Buccleugh Street, Dumfries. Farook had lost a niece in the October Earthquake in South Asia and was about to head out to Islamabad to administer the four Muslim Hands International Camps in the North West Frontier Province of Pakistan. As I was retired from being the Authority Reporter to the Children's Panels in Dumfries & Galloway and was now an author, I thought I could help by entertaining and counselling young children in a camp and offered this suggestion to Farook. Without any hesitation he told me to get my visa and he would meet me in Islamabad. The largest of 161 independent emergency camps was at Mundihar. In the second week of January I was taken there where during a heated meeting, I learned that aid was being siphoned to the local community. Colonel Shazad insisted that the camp be run by an independent person. Suddenly all eyes turned towards me. I became the Camp Manager of Mundihar Tented Village that day. 324 families provided a population of 2,268 in five camp sectors unimaginatively named a-e. Most spoke Urdu but Henco and Peshtu were also spoken. English was the common denominator but used as a last resort, despite being the national language. One camp dweller had lost his sister and three of his four daughters in the Earthquake on 8th October at his home town of Balakot. He had come to the Camp at Mundihar but on the day I arrived, he had suffered a tent fire in which his only surviving daughter had died.
One week later in hospital, at Mansehra, his wife died of her injuries. The Pakistan Government had already given each earthquake victim's family 100,000 Pakistani Rupees for each death. And that too went up in flames in his tent.
The terraced landscape contributed to the restricted ground in each sector and so fires were always a real threat. As he showed me the death certificates of his family, I was moved to hug him but when we separated, he smiled. "It was the will of Allah," he said with conviction. On a happier note I played cupid to the first loves of Jehangeer, the seventeen old young man setting out in a film career to twenty five year old Cuban medical practitioner Dr Jenny Carnet. Ages differed, she was Roman Catholic and would have to convert if she married Jehangeer. She would also be disowned by the Cuban delegation which held her passport and be deprived her return home to see her mother and brother again. The stakes were high. Yet on St Valentine's day they became engaged with myself as their main guest.
There was a significant administrative aspect to my work ordering aid supplies be they vegetable oil from the USA; high energy biscuits from Japan, sneakers from Sweden and anoraks from Norway. I let slip a remark I was to regret when distributing British Airways blankets, neatly packed in polythene bags. Fabric softener fumes filled my nostrils as I delivered two blankets to tents of three or four dwellers while only one blanket was given to single occupants. I passed one to a widow saying, "This is the Robertson tartan." Moments later, those who had already received their blankets caught up with me demanding to know which tartan they had. I was accurate on the Hunting McLean and the Dress McGregor but in the end I had to make a few improvised suggestions. As the weeks progressed and planning was underway to close all the camps by 31st March 2006, I grew tired and ill. It had been a 7 day week, 24hrs a day post and fraternising with some wonderful people in camp had led to a massive scabies attack. There was hardly a square centimetre on my body that was not infected. It was decided I should rest at the base camp some eight miles away at Mansehra. So behind a high metal gate, under a free eye hospital on the floor above, I slept and bathed, creamed and powdered till strength returned. One early evening alone in the base camp, resting on a mattress, I head a visitor arrive. I stood up and went on to the vehrandah to meet him. The vehrandah was raised from the ground but even although the visitor stood on the ground, he was still taller than I was. He wore a Taleban hat, a long cream gown (Kameez and Shalwar) and stood lean and gaunt at well over 6ft 10ins. "Asalaam Aleikum", I said in greeting him. Our cheeks met twice on each side, our beards touching. "Aleikum Asalaam", he replied. "Who is here?" he asked in impeccable English. "Just me but I think Rahim Ullah is making his wudu before his Maghrib prayer," I said. Suddenly the formalities returned. "Who are you?
Where are you from?" "I am the Camp Manger at Mundihar. I'm from Scotland." He said no more. He turned awkwardly and shuffled away hurriedly. As he did so I realised I had just spoken to the most wanted man in the world. Ironically, in the room behind me, was my kalashnikov. I had the means to end his life but I gave no chase. I was not going to take the law into my own hands. Guns will not make the world a happier place. But Bin Laden's days will be numbered if he frequents Pakistani towns, from the nearby Afghanistan border. Someone will have the motive to kill and gain a massive reward. My reward was massive too. I have met and lived with caring, thoughtful Muslim brothers and been accepted to share with them in their traumas. The Mundihar tented Village is closed now. All have returned to their land to build anew with aluminium roofing and wooden beams.
More earth tremors will return but they will be better prepared. It is ordained by Allah. Asalaam aleikum wa rahmatullah Peace be with you and the Mercy of Allah For Pictures of Camp Life at Mundihar in the North West Province of Pakistan and my kalashnikov, see under links at www.millercaldwell.org Miller Caldwell MA FFCS Camp Manger Mundihar Tented Village North West Frontier Province Islamic Republic of Pakistan January – March 2006.

Now buy the book, 7 point 7 (On the Richter Scale)

In 1973 on the Akwapim mountain range in Ghana, I met with Daniel Chapman-Nyahu, one of the first politicians in the Government of Kwame Nkrumah, the first black African President and first president of Ghana.
It gave a remarkable insight into the formation of a new Republic. I share my recollection of that memorable moment with you.
On the eve of the Gold Coast becoming the Republic of Ghana in 1960, Osagefo Dr. Kwame Nkrumah shared a perplexing problem with Cabinet Minister, Daniel Chapman-Nyahu.
Nkrumah instantly dismissed the adjective 'Ghanaian' to describe the citizens of the new Republic. "The word contains too many 'a's and, 'i's it will be difficult to spell correctly," he remarked. The two men sought similar familiar examples to solve their problem. "China - Chinese
- Ghanese"? suggested Chapman-Nyahu. "Then what about Romania - Romanian - Ghanian?" he further suggested.
Nkrumah frowned. "Then Cuba – Cuban – Ghanan," he continued. The President stood up and walked towards the door. He turned to face his Minister. "The people will soon learn to spell and pronounce GHANAIAN" And so that is how it came about and why we call the delightful people of Ghana today - Ghanaian.

Childhood recollection misunderstood!

Seven year old Annie gave her 'news' at class newstime.
"Last night, Dad pissed on the cat."
Alarm bells sounded. Was the teacher hearing libidinous, indecent exposure, lewd anti-social behaviour or just what by Annie's father. Should Social Services be notified?
The teacher took Annie into the corridor and brought a teacher from another class to have the story corroborated.
Teacher asked Annie to repeat her news. Sure enough, she
repeated: " Last night Dad pissed on the cat."
At 12 noon an emergency Social Services case conference was held.
"Tell me again Annie, what did your Dad do last night?"
"I told you before, he pissed on the cat."
The Social Worker sharpened her pencil and made her own enquiry. "Does he do this regularly?" she asked.
'Oh yes, most nights," Annie replied, " You see, we don't let the cat stay outside all night. So Dad opens the back door about 9p.m. and goes Pssssst.... Trixy ...come in. And she does".