Where were you when ...

I've been watching some of the TV programmes marking the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, including what seemed to me a well-made film about the passengers who foiled the fourth attack by re-taking their hijacked plane. But inside my head I was re-running the film of my own experience of that day nine years ago.

I was just outside my classroom door after the lunch break when my mobile phone rang. While my class filed in and settled themselves, I took the call. It was Number One son, in the Guardian offices in London. He sounded incredulous, interested, sharing a story with me. There had been a freak accident - a small plane had flown into the World Trade Centre. Ignoramus that I was, I had to ask where exactly this was, had to be told that it consisted of two massive towers. Strange now, to think that I didn't know. As we spoke, he suddenly broke off. He was watching the live monitors in the newsroom, and there was another plane - surely not - yes, it too had flown into the second tower. I felt as if I was witnessing it myself, as I became aware that the second year pupils in front of me had stopped chatting, that the room had become silent, that they were all staring at me. I think my mouth was open in horror, and I don't think I was making much sense.

I can recall now how frustratingly hard it was to find out what exactly was happening; I took my class to the library for their scheduled book-changing/research period and told them to search, to see if they could find anything online about this unfolding horror. Meanwhile, I told the technician whose lair was close to my room to put on his television - one of the few in the school connected to an outside aerial. The pupils were finding out plenty about the WTC, but so far there was no real news - and they were as frustrated as I was.

By the time I reached the last period of the afternoon - a non-contact one for me - the technician's room was full of off-duty staff, all glued to the screen, all silent except for the odd gasp or oath. We saw the first tower fall, and then the second - in the wrong order, it seemed. Fear began to grow - would there be a war? A big one, involving everyone? Anything seemed possible.

I'm of an age to remember what I was doing when I heard Kennedy had been shot; this year is the first I have realised that that strangely live participation across half a world, a newsroom screen and a mobile phone is becoming similarly vivid. And these 13 year old kids who were in my room at the time it happened felt that they too had a tiny share in "being there" - it was one of the things several recalled when we've met since.

I would like not to be part of any more horror, no matter how distantly. Please?

July 8 1970 - July 8 2010

Ruby Balloons
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

It's our 40th wedding anniversary today. It may be a cliché to say so, but I can hardly believe that 40 years ago from now I was telling my father that no, I couldn't eat anything more substantial and that I was going to go and put my face on. It was a warm, still day that deteriorated in the late evening to the thunder and rain that had all the men clutching large umbrellas throughout the afternoon, and the yards of white wedding-dress (yes, I was very traditional) seemed ... hot, actually. We were married in the Memorial Chapel of Glasgow University, by the chaplain of the day, the Revd David Millar, who kindly overlooked the fact that I was a heathen at the time and provided a service that kept the piskies (like Mr B) happy as well as my side of the family (a right old mix, but nae piskies among them)

It's only when I look at my children, far older now than I was when I was married, probably far more adult than I shall ever be, that I think yes - the intervening years have occurred, and I'm not the child my father thought me on my wedding day. I thought this morning of a poem by R. S. Thomas -

She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.

I'm not providing a link to the poem, but you can find it if you're sufficiently curious; it's called "A Marriage".

But then we ate Loch Fyne kippers for a late breakfast, and I've thrown the clock (metaphorically) out of the window. We shall eat bagels and maybe a boiled egg (we have new eggcups to christen) and go for a walk in the fitful sun. Later we shall return to Chatters for dinner with a friend who couldn't make it on Saturday. Tomorrow I shall think again about time, and tasks, and what to cook for dinner.

And then we shall embark on another mile along the road. Here's to the gold at the next halt!

Good company saves the day

We've been celebrating 38 years of marriage today (the long-service medals are on the table) with our pals from Heathbank. It's as well the company was excellent and the wine a pleasant Merlot, for the meal was possibly the worst I've ever eaten in a restaurant.

Garlic bread sounds like a safe and toothsome starter - no? Well, no. This gave me my first opportunity in about ten years to eat what Di called "duck bread" - white sliced, barely toasted, with a sad drizzle of pallid oil. The accompanying salad was naked. Not a vestige of dressing. And it should have been a tomato salsa - I've just remembered that. The lamb noisette was toughly tasteless, and the dish of vegetables (for four to share) would have served me if I'd been alone. To be fair, the waitress said "just ask for more" - so we did, immediately, and ended up with a reasonable quantity. There was no decaffeinated coffee on offer.

In the end, having complained, we weren't charged for the starters. I've eaten at The Pier on several occasions and thoroughly enjoyed it, but I won't be returning. There was a definitely slapdash atmosphere about the whole operation, right down to the missing tiles on the loo wall. We emerged to a beautiful, midge-laden evening, with a wonderful sky over Loch Eck. My phone camera doesn't do justice to it. And Mr B is confirmed in his high opinion of my cooking. Here's to the next 38 years - or maybe not!

Celebration!

Yesterday evening, as the rain poured down and the darkness was more Octoberesque than midsummer, we were having a ball in the restored splendours of St Augustine's, Dumbarton. Kenny's anniversary bash was the most wonderful mix: a High Mass (singing everything that moved), Eastward-facing at the high altar (you can see the nave altar in the foreground), clergy everywhere. Fr Dougal twinkle-toed about with the thurible, Kenny sang dead in tune (they don't always, you know - it's interesting when the Sanctus begins in a completely different key from the preface), Fr Alex read the Gospel in his gorgeous dark-brown voice, and Mr B played what Kenny described as the "difficult bits" - the accompaniement to Merbecke - and sang the verses in the Taize psalm. There wasn't a dry eye.

Meanwhile, Mrs Heathbank and I were bashing out the Merbecke with a will - because they don't do the 1970 Liturgy in St Aug's any more, let alone sing Merbecke. This, after all, was a 1970s occasion. We even sang a couple of trad hymns, albeit with a praise band. But never think the evening was staid: during the communion we had a couple of country and western numbers - holy words, but definite C & W. I'm sure the celebrant's shoulders were shaking as he cleared the altar. Maybe that's why high altars are so far from the congregation. And at the end, Kenny seemed to skip from the sanctuary - but maybe he was just catching up with the procession.

It was a great night. There was the usual St Aug's purvey afterwards, including some very pleasant wine in delightfully large glasses, and many old friends to greet. I feel very much at home in St Aug's - the welcome is always warm and affectionate, and I feel like an old friend. Kenny leaped onto a chair, ostensibly to thank everyone but probably to show off his good suit. The noise level was extraordinary and the heat intensified, but no-one was bothering. People were hugging in greeting, hugging in farewell. Magic.

And then we had to dash. It was 9.45 and we had 45 minutes to drive to the last ferry home. Thanks to the sudden incontinence of one of our number, we only just made it: we were grateful to the miscreants who were taking up the attention of the local constabulary (4 cars' worth) on the Erskine Bridge. The ferry hurtled across in half the usual time (last ferries always do) and we were home by 11pm.

It fair took me back, this high mass. This is what drew me into the Episcopal Church just over 30 years ago, and when the liturgy is used absolutely formally with all the dignity and ceremony of the church it still has the power to transport. Last night wasn't just Kenny's celebration, for I was celebrating too. I think we all were.

Midsummer celebration

Last night it never became dark. The photo above was taken at 1.45am, looking north. The last of the sunset was segueing into the first light of dawning and two hours later it was daylight (I was too sleepy to hang out of the window again to take another photo). Tonight it will be dark, as the clouds have sailed in again, but tonight I'm off to celebrate another kind of light. Thirty years ago my pal Kenny was ordained deacon, and we're off to join in the High Mass at St Augustine's, Dumbarton. Should be a joyous occasion - who cares if it rains!

After all those years ...

Celebrating the fact of being married (to the same bloke) for 37 years brought some interesting reflections. Not the least of these was occasioned by the wedding photos which we exchanged with Mr and Mrs Heathbank at our celebratory dinner last night. How young we all were! Quite apart from the fact that we actually were young, we looked positively childlike - and no top hats or tail coats could disguise the fact.

I was also recalling the first few weeks in our own home, which felt strangely unreal. Perhaps it was the proximity to my parents' house, perhaps the fact that we kept coming home for a few days and thn heading off again to places like the Cathedral on Cumbrae (a long-term feature of our life together!), but I remember thinking how unbelievably liberating it was to have a place of my own after living at home all through university and the first couple of years of my working life. My own kids left home at 17 and have never actually lived here since - does, that, I wonder, lessen the impact?

Anyway, I had a shot at reproducing them ...

Anniversary avatars

I've been horribly infected with the vacuous delight of creating little avatars, thanks to Wee World. And so I offer this one of Mr B - in slightly early celebration of our 37 years of marriage. I'm afraid I couldn't provide a medal for him - or for myself - but medals are understood - right?

I am pleased at this time to commend Kimberly's new image - suitably emerging as she arrives at the end of her first year at HT. Here's to the next 37 years/one year - delete whatever seems appropriate!