Author: Sharron Burnett

It’s amazing how much I remember about my father. Even though I was only eight when he died I have been able to piece together my memories of him into a more adult vision of who he was as a person. Perhaps because he was a creature of habit it has been easier to view him with the eyes of reality rather than only the childhood admiration that I had for him.

My father was a young man who faithfully went to work each day to care for his family. Ours was a typical nineteen fifties arrangement in which he brought home the income and my mother kept the home fires burning. We had a good life because he had worked hard to earn a college degree in mechanical engineering, but even I noticed his dissatisfaction with the work he was doing. I am rather certain that he moved from job to job hoping to find a way to use his knowledge meaningfully. Working in the oil and gas business, which was the most common route for mechanical engineers, was not challenging enough for him, nor did it feel like something that would make a difference in the world. The only time I saw him animated about his work was when he spoke about the potential of changing the salt water of the ocean into potable water that might be used for humankind. 

My father had so many talents that I suppose it was difficult for him to decide what he really wanted out of life. He was so incredibly well educated that he was able to discuss literature, history, philosophy, science, mathematics, music, architecture, art and even sports with the knowledge and confidence of an expert. Sometimes I imagine that there were two sides to him the artistic one that played to his greatest joys and the practical one that he used to care for his family. That those two aspects of who was were in conflict seems rather certain to me in retrospect.

Daddy would leave early in the morning and return each evening at a fairly regular hour. He liked to use the time before dinner to wind down from the day’s challenges. He would invariably put one of his favorite classical records on the turntable and then stretch across the living room couch with the evening newspaper or the most recent book that he was devouring. If I or one of my brothers came around vying for his attention he usually gave it to us in the form of lessons on whatever he had just finished reading about. He took adult themes and explained them the way even a little one might comprehend them. I was often exposed to literature that should have been above my understanding but my father nonetheless found ways to make learning so easy. 

My father liked to talk about what was happening in the world at large during dinner. He was never political so I have no idea if he was conservative or liberal, Republican or Democrat. Instead he talked in generalizations about current events and often offered what he considered to be sage advice to me and my brothers. Given our young ages I now laugh at his assurance that we were not too young to hear about topics that few of our peers even knew existed. 

He was a forward thinking man who was always bringing in new inventions, new discoveries, new philosophies. We were often the first in our extended family to purchase the latest appliances and cars. I vividly recall when the first television I had ever seen was delivered to our home. It was life changing for all of us and became a nightly way of sharing even more time with my father who was addicted to comedy of every kind. While others might have been watching dramas or variety shows or westerns my father and I caught all of the comedies, at least until it was time for me to go to bed. In retrospect I suppose that I heard some jokes that were a bit above my pay grade as as five, six, seven or eight year old but I was so naive then that I only laughed because my Daddy was filling the air with his chuckles. 

My father had been an outstanding student. I see that even more clearly now than when he was alive. The beauty of sites like Ancestry.com have allowed me to see his junior high and high school yearbooks. In those annuals I realize that he was active in clubs of every sort and even played football for a time. He won the American Legion award in the eighth grade and graduated from high school with honors. He was a perfectionist in his work and in his devotion to our family. 

My father loved to travel and he took me and my brothers all over the United States. He was working on visiting all forty eight of the states that existed before he died. He took photos of me in museums and at historical sites from the time I was an infant in a baby carriage. He was happiest when he was seeing new places and excitedly teaching us about what we had seen. 

Just before my father died he lectured me to do my best in school. I had admittedly slacked off a bit and he had taken note of my lack of attention to my studies. He urged me to set goals and work hard and become the best of myself. He did not lecture. I saw his words as a sign of his love. When he died I became dedicated to carrying out the challenges that came before me. I suppose that I even became a teacher because somehow that is how I saw my father, a loving and exciting teacher who explained so much about the world to me. 

I still feel such a closeness to my father. When I travel I think of how much he would have enjoyed the places that I have visited. When I read a good book I wish I had the opportunity to discuss it with him. When I have to push myself beyond what I think I can do and then succeed I silently thank him for his sage advice. Isn’t it amazing how one person might have so much influence on a child that he lives on for decades as a guiding light. That is my father who lives in me even now. How lucky I have been.  

“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”

“The man who moves a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.”

“And remember, no matter where you go, there you are.” —Confucius

Who among us has never faced a situation in which we ultimately felt that we had done everything wrong? We chide ourselves for being failures and maybe even give up on whatever we had been attempting to achieve. The one act that left me feeling horrific for many years afterword involved the way in which I agreed to treat my mother’s mental illness the first time that her bipolar disorder raged to the point of depression and paranoia that frightened me. 

Looking back I have been able to ultimately forgive myself. I was quite young at the time, barely past the age of being legal to drink alcohol. I had never before experienced the confusing behavior of a person with mental illness. I knew nothing about doctors who offer care for such things. I was in fact groping in the dark while grieving that my mother was suffering in a most horrific way. Not even the adults with whom I conferred wanted to offer any kind of advice. I realized that I was on my own and would have to take a stab in the dark to make my mother well again. 

As it turned out I relied on the expertise of our family physician, which I suppose was a proper thing to do rather than bowing to old wives’ tales or the advice of laymen. He gave me the names of two psychiatrists whom he admired and I simply drew one of the names out of a hat. The doctor was kind enough to offer to help but instead of first seeing my mother in his office, he insisted that she had to be hospitalized immediately. (I would later learn that such a dramatic move was not necessary but at the time I had no way of knowing better.) 

It took some trickery on my part to get my mom to agree to go with me to the hospital. I did not like fooling her and just as I silently predicted the fact that I had not been totally honest when I conned her into signing herself in for treatment would haunt our relationship forevermore. Still, I was unable to think of any other way to get her the help that I believed she needed. 

Once she was in the hospital the doctor took over and to a large extent used psychology to get me to agree to procedures that I would later learn were not really necessary. Sadly the experience was so horrific for my mother that she found it difficult to trust me from that point until the day that she died. Part of her loved me in spite of what she saw as a betrayal and the other part allowed her motherly love to overcame the hurt that she felt. 

The next time that she became ill, and there were many next times, I was more mature and sure of myself. I set out in search of a doctor for her, taking time to insure that he or she would try to heal my mother without hospitalization and procedures that would terrify anyone. After speaking with many psychiatrists and asking them many questions I decided to take her to a doctor who had listened to my concerns attentively and who explained that he used a different approach to helping his patients than the person who had first treated my mom. He explained that different medical schools pushed different practices and as such he turned out to be exactly the physician that my mother needed. He treated both her and me with respect and she had a very long term and successful time with him. He had shown a willingness to help heal slowly and under my care in a home setting. It was a good match all the way around. 

Still, I carried feelings of guilt until my daughter was studying to be a nurse. By happenstance a discussion arose about the care of mental illness in one of her classes. She described the journey that my mother and I had taken together in the quest to keep Mama well. She furthermore described the horror of the first attempt and the subsequent negative feelings that I had carried for decades. The professor’s response was the the remedy that I had needed for so long. 

She explained to the class that dealing with a loved one who has a mental illness is one of the most difficult medical situations that we might ever encounter, especially if we have not had any previous experience with it. She insisted that even the medical teams who work with such individuals sometimes feel as though they are groping in the dark as they attempt to find the proper treatments for each individual. She told my daughter that I had done what I had to do to keep my mother from delving more and more deeply into the dark pit that was consuming her and that ultimately the initial treatment that she endured had obviously saved her. She applauded me for learning how to tailor future treatments to my mother’s feelings and needs and told the class that I was the kind of hero that doctors not often see. 

I am not writing about this to boast that I am somehow a terrific person but because the journey with someone who is afflicted with mental illness can become so dark and confusing that there are times when the individual seeking care for them is unable to decide whether what they are doing is good or bad. Everyone will experience deep emotions and mistakes will be made. The point is to rise again and be willing to keep trying for the sake of the person who is afflicted. In the end they are the ones who are feeling an indescribable and deep pain for which there is often no permanent cure. Their lifetimes become defined by the symptoms of their illnesses with moments in between when they find themselves again. It is important that we focus on them rather than our own failings. What we need is the strength and willingness to keep moving sometimes slowly forward and sometimes slowly backward. All the while we would do well to remember that the spirit of Confucius’ wisdom is cheering us on. 

I have always been fascinated by the fact that a high speed train traveling in a tunnel for much of the way is able to reach Paris from London in about two and a half hours. When I mentioned to my husband that I would really enjoy spending a day in Paris on our trip he flinched and pointed out that we had already planned to travel to Scotland and would not have time. Nonetheless, I was insistent that if we left early enough in the morning on one of our free days we would have an entire day to see much of Paris without having to worry about hotels and such. 

I found the Eurostar site and learned that there is a train leaving from London to Paris at six each day which would put us in Paris at eight thirty, providing enough time to hit the highlights and still get a feel for the city. I saw the wheels turning in hubby’s head and I knew that he was suddenly as interested in the idea as I had been. I sealed the deal by noting that the experience on the fast train would be as much a part of the trip as the city itself. 

We went to bed early on the evening before our remarkable journey so that we might arise from our slumbers by three in the morning and head quickly to the train station at St. Pancras. We scheduled a car for the early hour which promptly arrived by three thirty and was waiting for us as we exited the hotel. The streets of London were more deserted than I had ever witnessed and our ride went quickly. 

The vendors were barely coming alive when we arrived at St. Pancras. The gate to the Eurostar was not yet open so we waited patiently on a bench sipping tea and munching on a light breakfast. It was strange seeing so few signs of life in a place usually packed with travelers. It did not take long for the place to pop back to life once the gate to Eurostar opened. I was stunned by the number of people who would be joining us on the “chunnel” over. 

The train itself was so long that I though we would never reach our assigned car. Since we were only staying for the day we did not have to worry about luggage. We settled into our seats and as though someone had pulled a switch we were on our way by six thirty speeding toward Paris in the dark. The rhythm of the ride lulled me into a light sleep and by the time we were back on land the sun was rising over the little towns through which we moved. It was stunning how quickly we reached our destination

We secured a ride to the Louvre which was at the top of our must see bucket list. We were shocked by the crowds standing in long lines named by the hours at which the ticket holders would be allowed inside. We had a bit of leeway before we needed to join the que and that allowed us to walk around the area and stroll over to the Seine River. The buildings and the atmosphere were as electric as I had hoped they would be. Soon it was time to walk through the glass pyramid into the wonder that is the Louvre. 

I have to admit that I felt a bit overwhelmed once I was inside. I had not expected such a huge crowd. It was not at like the quiet strolls that I was accustomed to having in other galleries. We were like sardines packed into a small can. Still, we were incredibly excited about just being there and we were determined to first see the Mona Lisa. We followed the guide that took us up one set of stairs after another and along hallways filled with people. After at least a fifteen minute hike made slower by all of the visitors we were finally in the room where Leonardo da Vinci’s most famous work resides. 

At first all I was only able to see was a mass of people in front of me. I soon enough realized that if I was going to actually see the painting I would have to be a bit more aggressive like the people who had pushed past me. With a bit of effort I had a glorious moment when suddenly there was the lovely lady in her all splendor smiling at me with that mysterious expression on her face. I snapped as many photos as possible before I was pushed aside. I felt as though everything about the trip was as glorious as I had wanted it to be. I needed nothing else to make our journey worthwhile but there would be more to come.

We spent a bit more time looking at other fantastic works of art but knew that our visit would have to be a bit like speed dating so that we might see the other sights. Our next destination was Notre Dame Cathedral which was part two on my bucket list. 

I had cried when I saw that incredible church on fire. I worried that it would never be the same. I was stunned when it reopened after only five years. I had watched a video of the painstaking repairs and I knew that I had to see the place in person. Sadly try as I may I was unable to secure tickets to get inside. Just standing in front was good enough for me when I saw the long lines of people vying to enter. I realized that I probably would not have been able to get the spiritual feeling that I desired with so many souls sharing the space. Instead I enjoyed the breathtaking views of the exterior with the spire and roof repaired from the horrific damage of the fire. I cried as I thought of how sacred the place was and spent quite some time just sitting and staring at the wonder of it all. 

The clock was ticking and we were hungry so we found a nearby cafe and ordered some wine and onion soup which proved to be more tasty than I expected. We stayed for a long while just watching the people pass in front of us and enjoyed the fact that nobody was pushing us to hurry up and leave. Being in that quaint spot ended up being one of the most wonderful moments of the trip. 

I had promised a young student of mine that I would bring him a miniature Eiffel Tower and a nearby shop had exactly what I needed. The miniatures were so lovely that I purchased one for myself. We were running out of time and a visit to the base of the tower would have to wait for next time, but we were close enough to get some wonderful photos. 

We walked some more through the streets of Paris and our stroll was as lively as it might have been. I felt the vibe of the city and its people. As we waited for the car that would take us back to the train station we marveled at the people riding motorcycles, mopeds, bicycles and scooters in the crowded streets. It was the best show in town but before leaving we enjoyed the almost sinful delight of Pan au Chocolate. Afterall what is Paris without a bakery?

It was with reluctance that we left the city after dark. We were tired and ready to be back in London but I think that both of us agreed that we had only had a taste of Paris and we wanted more one day. We got back to St. Pancras Station that once again felt empty due to the late hour but we marveled at the crowds enjoying the night life in the streets of London even at such a late hour. We were ready for slumber and happy that we had spent the day in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. We knew that there was a very good chance that we would one day return. 

My husband and I tend to be serious travelers. We prefer visiting museums, buildings and landmarks rather than enjoying amusement parks, sports and entertainment venues. Sometimes, nonetheless, something seemingly silly calls us and so it was when we chose a visit to the suburban town of Richmond when we returned to London from Scotland.

For the uninitiated Richmond is the site of the television comedy Ted Lasso. The story of the sitcom revolves around a soccer team owned by a woman embroiled in a competition with her ex husband and coached by an American who knows little or nothing about soccer.  The characters are delightful and the ultimate result of the strange arrangement pulls the people of the town together in the belief that anything is possible. 

We rode from the Embankment tube station to Richmond in a little over thirty minutes with multiple stops along the way. The Richmond station was built in the late nineteen twenties and it has a lovely art deco look that sets the mood for a stroll around a place that harks back to Tudor kings and queens. The town itself is neat and clean and filled with the same kind of friendly folks who brought so much joy to the Ted Lasso show. 

One of the batteries in Mike’s hearing aide had died while we were enroute so our first task was to find some new batteries which proved to be a bit more complicated than expected because the sizing dimensions in the UK are different from those in the USA. Fortunately there was a shop that specialized in all kinds of batteries and the manager knew exactly how to match Mike’s batteries to the ones that he had. With his assistance we were quickly on our way to explore the town. 

We soon found ourselves at a lovely park where people were enjoying the sun, walking their dogs and just strolling with friends. The site had once been used for jousting tournaments and it was surrounded by lovely high end homes that had been there for decades. We found a bench and watched the passersby and the antics of the pups exercising and fetching sticks. I expected to see members of the fictional Greyhound soccer team walk by at any moment but most of the filming for the coming season of the show is taking place elsewhere for right now. 

After enjoying some great people watching we headed over to the pub made famous by scenes from Ted Lasso where the townspeople gathered to watch soccer matches that all too often did not end well. Before going inside we continued down the narrow street to the Ted Lasso store where a variety of shirts, scarves and Ted Lasso themed merchandise is on sale.I settled for a small refrigerator magnet with Ted’s “Believe” mantra reminding me of the positive outlook that pulled the motley group together. 

We also peered into a hat shop that featured the kind of headgear that might be celebrated at a royal event or the Kentucky Derby. There was one lovely design after another tempting me to go inside but the place was closed for the day so I had to be content with only gazing through the window at the lovely creations. 

From there we found our way to the River Thames on which Queen Elizabeth I often rode to the Richmond Palace where she sometimes lived. It was filled with sea birds resting on small boats that appeared to be fitted for everything from fishing to living. Benches along the banks of the river were beckoning us to spend some time watching the life of the river flow before us but we were hungry and ready to return to the pub for some lunch. 

We quickly wound our way back to the Prince’s Head which was called the Crown and Anchor in the Ted Lasso show. Located on Richmond Green it was filled with memories of the television show including uniforms and scarves from the fictional Greyhounds. A special corner was filled with Ted Lasso paraphernalia. It was a delightful nook created with a wooden bench and lots of pillows. It felt as though the proprietors had been waiting for us to arrive. When we perused the menu we not only found exactly what we had hoped to eat but there among all of the brews was cider from New Zealand called Old Moot that I had been searching for since our last visit to London.

We settled in for a comfortable dining and drinking experience that seemed to top off our delighted joy in being there. We could have sat there for the rest of the afternoon and we did indeed spend a great deal of time savoring our feast and the moment but it was nearing the rush hour and we knew that as we rode back on the tube our coach would be filled with people going home from work. We reluctantly said goodbye to Richmond feeling the same kind of joy that we had experienced in watching the Ted Lasso show. We both agreed that we will eagerly await the new season whenever it is finally scheduled to return with an intimate feeling of what living in Richmond is acutally like.     

Planning for a big trip is critical. So much has to be done before ever leaving home but sometimes not having anything specific scheduled for a day turns out to be the very best idea. A bit of serendipity never hurts. 

So it was in Scotland. After walking the Royal Mile and visiting most of the shops we had our fill of window shopping. The tour of Edinburgh Castle was a grand memory that would last us for years. Now we had a day with nothing to do because we had been uncertain as to what might interest us among the many options that were available. 

I had read about the Royal Botanical Gardens and learned that they were free for anyone to visit. Somehow we were enchanted by the idea of strolling leisurely among nature after seeing the ingenuity of humans. Even though it was a cloudy day with a chance of a few drizzles we set out for the gardens and almost instantly knew that we had made the right choice. 

The entrance was incredibly lovely with a variety of ferns growing magnificently behind a glass wall. I literally sat for a time just staring at the wonderful specimens that reached for the roof of the building. A few steps later I learned that the old glass buildings were being refurbished after many decades of use. Even watching the video outlining the plans and the progress was so interesting.  

Eventually we walked out into the massive park filled with winding pathways and lush trees and bushes of different varieties. Because it was fall and the air was already cold most of the plants were no longer flowering but the leaves were celebrating the season with colors of yellow, orange, red and gold. It was a kind of wonderland that I never get to see in my part of the world where it never gets cold enough for seasonal color changes. It was a sight that I had longed to experience. 

We walked the entire length and width of the gardens stopping from time to time to watch the workers tending to the flowerbeds and pruning bushes. We enjoyed seeing the toddlers and babies demonstrating their sense of wonder with wide eyed curiosity. We watched couples holding hands and old people pushing their walkers down the pathways. All the while we were surrounded by the glories of nature in a quiet place that  seemed to shut out the rest of the world. 

Eventually we made our way to a little cafe at the top of a small hill where we munched on warm scones and sipped our tea and coffee. I mentioned that it smelled like rain was coming so we moved inside just as a downpour caught many visitors and soaked their clothing and hair. 

Everyone seemed so happy there. Something is magical about such a place. It shuts out politics and debates and arguments about our differences. Instead we all become united in the loveliness and peacefulness of it all. I found myself wishing that I lived there so that I might retreat there whenever the world became to much for me. Instead I reluctantly agreed that it was time to return to the hotel to gather our things to leave for the train ride back home. 

I liked the hotel where we had stayed. It was small and so were the rooms but everything was spotlessly clean and the people working there went out of their way to accommodate us. Each morning they featured a wonderful breakfast spread that energized us for the day. I felt as much at home there as I had in the botanical garden and found myself already planning to one day return. 

Soon enough we were back at the train station racing down the platform to the coach that would take us back to London. For a time we enjoyed the views of the countryside but nighttime beckoned and it became too dark to see anything but lights off in the distance. When we reached St. Pancras Station it was late and all of the shops and food stands were closed. We made our way outside to find a cab to take us back to our hotel on Northumberland near Trafalgar Square, tired but happy about the journey to Edinburgh that had gone so well.