Finland on arrival was not a disappointment. It was all that one expects from a Scandinavian country - both spotlessly clean and unobtrusively hi-tech from the time we set foot in the airport building.
Once we had passed through the urban conglomeration of Helsinki, the first thing that struck us, apart from the acres and acres of dark forest, was the SPACE - everything was so spread out. Finland is the seventh largest country in Europe and with only a little over 5 million Finns, there is no shortage of personal space. We were hardly crowded in our area of France, with mile upon mile of open country, but houses in medieval French villages are tightly huddled together and it soon became obvious that your average Finn prefers to live in isolation in a clearing in the forest rather than in a close village community. In fact we were later to learn that it is quite common to clear a space in the forest and then use the timber felled to build your house. In times gone by the French must have felt that there was safety in numbers, not to mention stone fortifications whereas the Finns found it easier to hide in the forest.
We had come to see wooden houses. No problem with that, they were everywhere we looked. Like rainbows of color lining the streets in the small towns, houses in yellow, green and blue mingled with the traditional dark, ox-blood red. We had read that eighty percent of houses in Finland are built of wood and despite there also being a huge export market for their timber, the forests are so well-managed that they are actually still increasing in size. The ecological appeal of this was undeniable. As a building material Finnish wood is hard to beat - grown in their cold, arctic climate it is far more dense and hard as iron compared with wood grown in more temperate latitudes such as ours.
The factory when we finally reached it, was family run, friendly, efficient and on a pleasingly human scale. The resinous pine smell of the hundreds of logs in various stages of production was enticing and the long lengths of pale wood incredibly tactile; irresistibly drawing me to run a hand down their smooth surfaces. Bill, the friendly Brit. who worked there and to whom we had spoken on the telephone, met us in the nearest town to escort us to the factory for a meeting with the owner and also to show us inside a couple of houses that were in the process of construction. The Company had also arranged for us to stay in an apartment they owned in the town. This was not so much a high pressure sales ploy as a necessity due to their remote location.
Looking inside the houses under construction, there were all manner of differences from construction methods with which we were more familiar, one rather amusing one being the difference in size of such a basic thing as a door frame. You would think door sizes would be fairly standard across Europe but no, it soon became obvious that the average Finn is built like a New Zealand rugby player and therefore somewhat larger than the average southern European. Door frames were sized accordingly – at least one and a half times the size of what we were used to. We spent the next few days attempting to draw up more and more far-fetched hypotheses to account for this, along the lines of the one I have always favored to explain the unusual height of most Dutchmen – the theory being that as the Dutch tend to be both very thrifty people and great biking enthusiasts, Dutch kids are usually given bikes that are way too big for them and their legs have to stretch to reach the pedals.
It was a successful trip, both from a business and a personal perspective. We struck a good deal on our house, the weather unusually for Finland was fantastic and furthermore we came away with the prospect of working for the Company as agents for the sale of their houses in France. A potential commitment that we knew we would enjoy as it was a product in which we sincerely believed and something which we also hoped could prove moderately lucrative in the years to come. Our own house would become a showplace and the two small ones we were later planning to build on the site, could operate on a ‘try before you buy’ principal as well as being holiday rentals. It looked to be an exciting year ahead full of hope and we were buoyed up with enthusiasm.
We made the most of our remaining three days after the meetings were over and traveled as far as we could in the time, greedy to experience the vast areas of lakeland. Those hot, lazy days were filled with visions of a countryside rich with huge expanses of forest, roads lined with ribbons of pink and purple lupins, flat horizons and mile after mile of vistas where the distinction between sky and dark water was distorted by reflections of deep clear blue punctuated only by the cotton-wool puffs of the odd white cloud.
The time went all too quickly but having achieved what we came for and fired up by all the discussions and thoughts of our beautiful new house, we were not sorry to return and keen to get to work on putting our plans into effect.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Building a Rainbow - part 3
The next morning we telephoned the TV station and managed to wheedle out of them the telephone number of the Company in Finland. Thank heavens they spoke English when we called!
In no time at all - and without giving too much thought to the consequences - we were off to Helsinki.
We flew from Toulouse via Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport and with only forty minutes between flights, we anticipated delays, problems and perhaps a night in Amsterdam en route. Remarkably all went smoothly and we arrived in Helsinki late by our time clock but in good time for our first experience of that strange northern summer phenomenon of an almost, but not quite, twilight.
We had to buy a small travelling alarm clock. Graham cat, whose color lives up to his name, is our usual alarm clock. He has the rather anti-social habit of waking us by sucking hungrily at any piece of exposed flesh, never having completely forgotten the experience of abandonment as a tiny kitten in a plastic carrier bag at the side of a French country road. If these assaults do not have the desired effect, i.e. of persuading us to get out of bed and produce food, Graham will be followed by Molly, a large and very heavy tortoiseshell who has a habit of pinning you down whilst purring loudly two inches from your face. Although possessing the cantankerous disposition often found in tortoiseshells, Molly has an unassailable place in the household, being a legacy from a much-loved daughter who died much too young of cancer. We actually had six cats at this time, an admission which usually invited looks of horror from most people. We hadn’t set out to acquire this many and the supermarket bills horrified us too at times – cats eat more as a percentage of their body weight than just about any other domestic animal. We also had a dog and aspirations after we had settled in our meadow, for further and more productive animal additions in the shape of a couple of nanny goats and a clutch of chickens to complement our hoped-for eco lifestyle.
In no time at all - and without giving too much thought to the consequences - we were off to Helsinki.
We flew from Toulouse via Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport and with only forty minutes between flights, we anticipated delays, problems and perhaps a night in Amsterdam en route. Remarkably all went smoothly and we arrived in Helsinki late by our time clock but in good time for our first experience of that strange northern summer phenomenon of an almost, but not quite, twilight.
We had to buy a small travelling alarm clock. Graham cat, whose color lives up to his name, is our usual alarm clock. He has the rather anti-social habit of waking us by sucking hungrily at any piece of exposed flesh, never having completely forgotten the experience of abandonment as a tiny kitten in a plastic carrier bag at the side of a French country road. If these assaults do not have the desired effect, i.e. of persuading us to get out of bed and produce food, Graham will be followed by Molly, a large and very heavy tortoiseshell who has a habit of pinning you down whilst purring loudly two inches from your face. Although possessing the cantankerous disposition often found in tortoiseshells, Molly has an unassailable place in the household, being a legacy from a much-loved daughter who died much too young of cancer. We actually had six cats at this time, an admission which usually invited looks of horror from most people. We hadn’t set out to acquire this many and the supermarket bills horrified us too at times – cats eat more as a percentage of their body weight than just about any other domestic animal. We also had a dog and aspirations after we had settled in our meadow, for further and more productive animal additions in the shape of a couple of nanny goats and a clutch of chickens to complement our hoped-for eco lifestyle.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Building a Rainbow - part 2
On choosing wood as a building material, we had entered the maze like world of timber frame construction or solid log. If we chose logs, should they be round ones, square cut, laminated or plain and what thickness should they be? There was a bewildering variety. Why is it that initially choices look to be so simple but the more you delve into them, the more complicated and difficult they become?
At the outset, we had discounted a timber frame house as the feeling was that we would lose a lot of the style we had initially fallen in love with. We wanted wood with a capital W and frame houses normally had most of their internal walls constructed from sheetrock. We had also stayed several times in a log house belonging to a friend in Virginia, USA and loved the ambiance of the natural wood - the air inside the house always seemed so much fresher and sweeter smelling and there was just something essentially pleasing about living in a building that was so naturally at one with the environment. After all, we told ourselves, one of our main aims was to make this house as ecologically sound as we were able.
With these thoughts reverberating through our heads, we had started off by spending weeks trekking round our region visiting constructors and suppliers and had become more than a little disheartened with exorbitant prices, vague delivery dates and quotes that never arrived. Disillusionment had set in and we had been about to give up on the whole idea when we saw a TV program devoted to a self-build project which was actually being constructed in the UK with logs from Finland. The house looked wonderful, the price was good and the presenter assured our eager audience of two that Finnish timber was infinitely superior to that grown in more temperate latitudes. Furthermore, the forests that provided the timber were managed and sustainable. We were transfixed as the program showed the owner of the house discussing his plans directly with the suppliers at their factory in Finland. Wow! That could be us we thought.
At the outset, we had discounted a timber frame house as the feeling was that we would lose a lot of the style we had initially fallen in love with. We wanted wood with a capital W and frame houses normally had most of their internal walls constructed from sheetrock. We had also stayed several times in a log house belonging to a friend in Virginia, USA and loved the ambiance of the natural wood - the air inside the house always seemed so much fresher and sweeter smelling and there was just something essentially pleasing about living in a building that was so naturally at one with the environment. After all, we told ourselves, one of our main aims was to make this house as ecologically sound as we were able.
With these thoughts reverberating through our heads, we had started off by spending weeks trekking round our region visiting constructors and suppliers and had become more than a little disheartened with exorbitant prices, vague delivery dates and quotes that never arrived. Disillusionment had set in and we had been about to give up on the whole idea when we saw a TV program devoted to a self-build project which was actually being constructed in the UK with logs from Finland. The house looked wonderful, the price was good and the presenter assured our eager audience of two that Finnish timber was infinitely superior to that grown in more temperate latitudes. Furthermore, the forests that provided the timber were managed and sustainable. We were transfixed as the program showed the owner of the house discussing his plans directly with the suppliers at their factory in Finland. Wow! That could be us we thought.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
BUILDING A RAINBOW
CHAPTER ONE – NORTHERN LIGHTS AND LOG HOUSES
La Vie est Une Chance - Saisis La
(Life is a Chance - Seize It)
Mother Theresa
Unlikely as it may seem, we traveled from the South of France to the far North of Finland to buy a kit house. Even in the height of summer, it was somewhat of a culture shock. The contrasts were starkly defined. The incessant sawing song of the cicadas was exchanged for the occasional whine of an arctic midge. The pulsating colors of fields of sunflowers, banks of oleanders and ripening vines for vast expanses of still lake and dark, cool forests. We left our searing southern sun for one that was altogether softer but which remarkably was still shining at midnight.
I wondered as we flew ever northward, whether the log house we hoped to buy would survive all these contrasts. Would it sit as well in our Mediterranean meadow as it would by a Finnish lake? Would all that hi-tech insulation keep out our summer heat as well as it did the freezing winter temperatures of Finland? Logic told me that of course it would, but then of course only time would really tell.
We weren’t going to be building this house in some avant garde district of Paris but in a conservative rural backwater and although from northern Finland to Southern France, we were still within the EU, it was a long way from Brussels! We would have to face censorious planning restrictions and would need to satisfy not only skeptical local planning authorities but the village Mayor. Mayors of small villages have a lot of clout and in out of the way regions of Southern France are not noted for their modern outlook, or interest in unusual eco-projects. The main [read ‘only’] preoccupation for most Southern French Mayors is the state of the vineyards and this year’s harvest.We already knew that our choice of design would be very limited. Our roof for example would have to be covered in the local terracotta tiles - unchanged in style from when they were fashioned over the thigh of a Roman Centurion. With planning guidelines dating from some time BC, heaven only knew what other restrictions we might be presented with.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Extract from "For the Love of David"
The blue station wagon weaved in and out of the traffic as Anna desperately tried to keep
up with it. Her sweating hands slipped on the steering wheel and she was prompted to take risks
that she would never have attempted before, sliding in and out of the lanes and veering sharply
around street vendors and pedestrians. Anything to keep that tenuous contact with the car in
front.
So intense was her focus on the traffic, she only narrowly missed a black-robed figure who
appeared suddenly in front of the car - a woman struggling with bundles of shopping and a
recalcitrant toddler. As Anna swerved to avoid her she caught a glimpse of the woman’s
frightened face as she snatched up the infant, slinging him around her plump hips. She
somehow managed to make it across to the other side of the road, narrowly missing being hit
by a donkey cart, the driver of which shouted at her, his voice harsh as he waved his whip
angrily in the air. The woman’s appearance and the subsequent altercation momentarily
distracted Anna. When she was able to bring her attention back to the road in front, the blue
station wagon was nowhere to be seen.
A cold wave of panic overwhelmed her as she frantically turned her head, looking all around
her, trying to peer past the cars in front. The traffic was becoming heavier as other cars joined
the stream; the road ahead densely packed with vehicles. She was forced to slow to a painful
crawl.
As the car lost speed, she became aware of raised guttural voices all around the vehicle, loud
shouts and the noise of running feet. The car was bumped by another behind her and she could
hear the sound of fists banging on the hood and side of the car, as it rocked with the impact.
All at once, there were faces peering in at the window and hands pushing at the glass.
She screamed and covered her head.
Dixon/David 35
The noise was all pervading, ringing in her head as if in some dreadful nightmare from
which there was no escape. The tears poured down her face as she stared in desperation at the
scene ahead.
For a brief moment, the wall of vehicles shifted and she saw a route open up around a
broken down truck whose hood had been propped up and human cargo disgorged. It created an
eddy in the surrounding flow of traffic. She put her foot hard down on the accelerator, the
torment of the situation giving her the necessary impetus to shoot forward quickly round the
truck. As she wrenched hard at the steering wheel, the car veered off sharply down a side road.
The street she now found herself in was long and narrow, hemmed in by parked cars but it
had a blessed familiarity and Anna realized with profound relief that she was in one of the
roads that led down to the school.
The sidewalk and school yard when she reached it was teeming with worried mothers and
fretful children. Teachers were running up and down the school steps, helping to usher the
younger ones out of the school. The air was filled with the sound of children’s voices raised
querulously against mothers and teachers who were anxiously trying to hurry them into cars
and minibuses. Some of the little ones were crying, comforted by elder brothers and sisters
attempting to put on a brave face.
Walking slowly against the tide of people, Anna searched for David’s face, hoping that he’d
not been too frightened by the confusion. All at once she saw his teacher, in the act of
shepherding a group of children from his class onto a minibus. Running over she tried to attract
her attention to ask where she could find David.
The teacher, Mrs. Marks, answered her distractedly over her shoulder whilst helping the
children to get settled on the bus. “Oh, Mrs. Carter. I didn’t expect to see you here, as you had
sent your husband’s driver to fetch David.”
“I didn’t send him… are you sure?” Anna’s voice rose. “I brought David to school today and
he knew I was coming to fetch him again this afternoon.”
“Well he went off with the driver, of that I’m certain.”
“Was it Karim, the usual driver?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was,” she replied, turning back from the bus. “I’ve seen him bring
David to school a couple of times, so I recognized him.”
“I didn’t ask him to come and collect him. I’m sure my husband would have called me if he
was sending him.” Anna was starting to feel waves of panic wash over her again.
The children safely on the minibus, David’s teacher gave Anna her full attention. “Now,
Mrs. Carter why don’t you come into the office and telephone your husband,” she said
reassuringly. “I’m sure you’ll find that he asked his driver to come and that David is waiting for
you, quite safe back at home.”
“We don’t have a home!” Anna was close to tears, the panic destroying rationality. She
allowed herself to be led inside the school and into the cluttered office. She got out her
notebook and shakily dialed Ben’s office number.
“Ben!” It came out as a desperate wail.
“Anna, are you OK? Are you back at the hotel?”
She sniffed. “No, I’m at the school - Ben, did you send Karim for David?”
“No Honey. Why did you want me to?”
Anna burst into tears, her gasping sobs racking her thin frame as David’s teacher took the
‘phone gently but authoritatively from her hand.
Dixon/David 36
“Mr. Carter, this is Mrs. Marks, David’s teacher. It is a little chaotic here as you can
imagine, but your driver Karim did come and collect David from school. I handed him over
myself.”
On the other end of the line, there was a long pause before Ben answered. “Mrs. Marks, are
you absolutely certain that it was my driver, Karim?”
“Well, yes,” she replied, nonplussed. “As I said to your wife, I’ve seen him a couple of
times dropping David off at school. Why is there a problem?”
There was another pause on the other end of the telephone before Anna could hear Ben
answering her. “You could say so, yes. I’m afraid Karim my driver, has left the Company - He
sent in a letter of resignation and hasn’t turned up for work. No-body has seen him today at
all.”
“But why would he come and collect David then? It seems very strange.” Mrs. Marks
sounded as if she hoped they weren’t going to blame her for letting David go.
“I don’t know Mrs. Marks - It’s not your fault of course, but it doesn’t look good. There is
something else which causes me additional concern…We heard today that Karim is thought to
be somehow caught up with these suicide bombers …It seems that he may be a member of this
organization The Brothers of Islam.”
up with it. Her sweating hands slipped on the steering wheel and she was prompted to take risks
that she would never have attempted before, sliding in and out of the lanes and veering sharply
around street vendors and pedestrians. Anything to keep that tenuous contact with the car in
front.
So intense was her focus on the traffic, she only narrowly missed a black-robed figure who
appeared suddenly in front of the car - a woman struggling with bundles of shopping and a
recalcitrant toddler. As Anna swerved to avoid her she caught a glimpse of the woman’s
frightened face as she snatched up the infant, slinging him around her plump hips. She
somehow managed to make it across to the other side of the road, narrowly missing being hit
by a donkey cart, the driver of which shouted at her, his voice harsh as he waved his whip
angrily in the air. The woman’s appearance and the subsequent altercation momentarily
distracted Anna. When she was able to bring her attention back to the road in front, the blue
station wagon was nowhere to be seen.
A cold wave of panic overwhelmed her as she frantically turned her head, looking all around
her, trying to peer past the cars in front. The traffic was becoming heavier as other cars joined
the stream; the road ahead densely packed with vehicles. She was forced to slow to a painful
crawl.
As the car lost speed, she became aware of raised guttural voices all around the vehicle, loud
shouts and the noise of running feet. The car was bumped by another behind her and she could
hear the sound of fists banging on the hood and side of the car, as it rocked with the impact.
All at once, there were faces peering in at the window and hands pushing at the glass.
She screamed and covered her head.
Dixon/David 35
The noise was all pervading, ringing in her head as if in some dreadful nightmare from
which there was no escape. The tears poured down her face as she stared in desperation at the
scene ahead.
For a brief moment, the wall of vehicles shifted and she saw a route open up around a
broken down truck whose hood had been propped up and human cargo disgorged. It created an
eddy in the surrounding flow of traffic. She put her foot hard down on the accelerator, the
torment of the situation giving her the necessary impetus to shoot forward quickly round the
truck. As she wrenched hard at the steering wheel, the car veered off sharply down a side road.
The street she now found herself in was long and narrow, hemmed in by parked cars but it
had a blessed familiarity and Anna realized with profound relief that she was in one of the
roads that led down to the school.
The sidewalk and school yard when she reached it was teeming with worried mothers and
fretful children. Teachers were running up and down the school steps, helping to usher the
younger ones out of the school. The air was filled with the sound of children’s voices raised
querulously against mothers and teachers who were anxiously trying to hurry them into cars
and minibuses. Some of the little ones were crying, comforted by elder brothers and sisters
attempting to put on a brave face.
Walking slowly against the tide of people, Anna searched for David’s face, hoping that he’d
not been too frightened by the confusion. All at once she saw his teacher, in the act of
shepherding a group of children from his class onto a minibus. Running over she tried to attract
her attention to ask where she could find David.
The teacher, Mrs. Marks, answered her distractedly over her shoulder whilst helping the
children to get settled on the bus. “Oh, Mrs. Carter. I didn’t expect to see you here, as you had
sent your husband’s driver to fetch David.”
“I didn’t send him… are you sure?” Anna’s voice rose. “I brought David to school today and
he knew I was coming to fetch him again this afternoon.”
“Well he went off with the driver, of that I’m certain.”
“Was it Karim, the usual driver?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was,” she replied, turning back from the bus. “I’ve seen him bring
David to school a couple of times, so I recognized him.”
“I didn’t ask him to come and collect him. I’m sure my husband would have called me if he
was sending him.” Anna was starting to feel waves of panic wash over her again.
The children safely on the minibus, David’s teacher gave Anna her full attention. “Now,
Mrs. Carter why don’t you come into the office and telephone your husband,” she said
reassuringly. “I’m sure you’ll find that he asked his driver to come and that David is waiting for
you, quite safe back at home.”
“We don’t have a home!” Anna was close to tears, the panic destroying rationality. She
allowed herself to be led inside the school and into the cluttered office. She got out her
notebook and shakily dialed Ben’s office number.
“Ben!” It came out as a desperate wail.
“Anna, are you OK? Are you back at the hotel?”
She sniffed. “No, I’m at the school - Ben, did you send Karim for David?”
“No Honey. Why did you want me to?”
Anna burst into tears, her gasping sobs racking her thin frame as David’s teacher took the
‘phone gently but authoritatively from her hand.
Dixon/David 36
“Mr. Carter, this is Mrs. Marks, David’s teacher. It is a little chaotic here as you can
imagine, but your driver Karim did come and collect David from school. I handed him over
myself.”
On the other end of the line, there was a long pause before Ben answered. “Mrs. Marks, are
you absolutely certain that it was my driver, Karim?”
“Well, yes,” she replied, nonplussed. “As I said to your wife, I’ve seen him a couple of
times dropping David off at school. Why is there a problem?”
There was another pause on the other end of the telephone before Anna could hear Ben
answering her. “You could say so, yes. I’m afraid Karim my driver, has left the Company - He
sent in a letter of resignation and hasn’t turned up for work. No-body has seen him today at
all.”
“But why would he come and collect David then? It seems very strange.” Mrs. Marks
sounded as if she hoped they weren’t going to blame her for letting David go.
“I don’t know Mrs. Marks - It’s not your fault of course, but it doesn’t look good. There is
something else which causes me additional concern…We heard today that Karim is thought to
be somehow caught up with these suicide bombers …It seems that he may be a member of this
organization The Brothers of Islam.”
Saturday, 20 March 2010
Short Story: The Inheritance - Last part
It was hard when I moved with him to the city. I didn’t fit in with his crowd. We got to bickering; the resentment built up in him and I was no longer exotic but just different. Suddenly, he didn’t want different - like my dad with my Gran, he was embarrassed by me. It was little things at first – gibes and threats and then he started to beat me. I realized it was all my fault and all and I still loved him. I just couldn’t seem to make him love me any more.
Then I saw him out with someone else. Naturally she was blond and had those kind of blue eyes that looked as if the sky was shining right through her head when she lifted it up to meet his eager lips. That kind of did my head in.
I am thinking about my grandmother now, as I stand at the stove, stirring the pot of herbs. “I’m making some chicken soup,” I tell Alex. My eyes wander over to him as he sits carelessly reading the newspaper at the table and they darken like the night outside the window. I lift a hand to touch the bruises on my face and wonder if I inherited my grandmother’s desire for revenge right along with her old recipe book.
Then I saw him out with someone else. Naturally she was blond and had those kind of blue eyes that looked as if the sky was shining right through her head when she lifted it up to meet his eager lips. That kind of did my head in.
I am thinking about my grandmother now, as I stand at the stove, stirring the pot of herbs. “I’m making some chicken soup,” I tell Alex. My eyes wander over to him as he sits carelessly reading the newspaper at the table and they darken like the night outside the window. I lift a hand to touch the bruises on my face and wonder if I inherited my grandmother’s desire for revenge right along with her old recipe book.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Short Story: The Inheritance - Part three
When I was going through school, I knew just how she felt - not really fitting in. I never did either. Perhaps I was fey like her, although I didn’t know what it meant back then. Ours is a small community and perhaps it was just that folks knew I was related to her and they didn’t like that; although that wasn’t something I could help. Perhaps it was just the color of my skin – I always was a little darker than most of the other kids, like I’d been out in the sun too long. Just like her. Either way, throughout school, I had more than my fair share of hair pulling, being tripped up in the corridors and having my lunch box snatched.
I guess I can’t blame the other kids for not wanting to be friends with me, half of them had relatives who’d gotten sick back then or so they said. It was hard though, desperately wanting to be a part of a group who wouldn’t accept you. I was marked out from kindergarten and it only got worse as we’d all gotten older. I can remember looking with envy at the girls who used to hang out with the popular guys, the ones who were the jocks, the sports heroes – the ones who used to call me a freak. They were the girls with the blue eyes and long fair hair, or so it seemed to me looking at them out of my own eyes - eyes as dark with resentment as the rocks on the mountains outside our back yard.
I’d like to say my life changed when Alex walked into it and I guess it did for a while. He was different from the rest. His mom and dad had moved up there from the city. “My dad’s a writer,” he’d said dismissively. “He wants the quiet to finish some book or other.” Alex didn’t take too kindly to the move. “Where do you guys hang out?” he’d said. Where are all the coffee shops and malls?” There weren’t too many of those on our island. I suppose he had us all marked down as country bumpkins. The moment I clapped eyes on him though, I knew I wanted him and the feeling seemed to be mutual. In a way, I guess he saw in me the same things that my grandfather had seen in my Gran – in his eyes I was exotic, different from his slick city friends. Of course the other kids soon filled him in about me but it didn’t seem to make any difference and soon we were an item.
I guess I can’t blame the other kids for not wanting to be friends with me, half of them had relatives who’d gotten sick back then or so they said. It was hard though, desperately wanting to be a part of a group who wouldn’t accept you. I was marked out from kindergarten and it only got worse as we’d all gotten older. I can remember looking with envy at the girls who used to hang out with the popular guys, the ones who were the jocks, the sports heroes – the ones who used to call me a freak. They were the girls with the blue eyes and long fair hair, or so it seemed to me looking at them out of my own eyes - eyes as dark with resentment as the rocks on the mountains outside our back yard.
I’d like to say my life changed when Alex walked into it and I guess it did for a while. He was different from the rest. His mom and dad had moved up there from the city. “My dad’s a writer,” he’d said dismissively. “He wants the quiet to finish some book or other.” Alex didn’t take too kindly to the move. “Where do you guys hang out?” he’d said. Where are all the coffee shops and malls?” There weren’t too many of those on our island. I suppose he had us all marked down as country bumpkins. The moment I clapped eyes on him though, I knew I wanted him and the feeling seemed to be mutual. In a way, I guess he saw in me the same things that my grandfather had seen in my Gran – in his eyes I was exotic, different from his slick city friends. Of course the other kids soon filled him in about me but it didn’t seem to make any difference and soon we were an item.
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