Kisa face invitatia, iar Lari o accepta. Kisa o roaga prieteneste sa ii cumpere un plic de Ness Strong in lungul drum de 3 minute pe care Larisa il are de facut pana la ea.

Si coboara Lari din scara...Se duce la magazin... Carpita de somn...

- 4 Tuborg Strong, va rog !

atatea senzatii noi, tumultoase.

si mi-e dor de el. de privire, de zambet, de PREZENTA, dar mai ales de voce.

imi ondulez gandurile pe amitirile lui - sunt aceleasi. si senzatiile mele. inca nu am nevoie de sfaturi, pentru ca stiu ce mi ar spune. si ar fi fericit pentru mine...oarecum. doar el a vrut toate astea !!!

stii ce cred eu? ca de fapt va fi fericit FARA mine.

asta e tot.

Mâ Ravan au Festival d’Avignon

Jusqu’au 2 Août à 15h35
À la Chapelle du Verbe Incarné

Le Théâtre Taliipot, crée en 1986 par Philippe Pelen Baldini et Thierry Moucazambo est implanté à La Réunion.

Cette compagnie travaille sur la mémoire des corps et leurs écritures dans l’espace, elle interroge l’identité en se nourrissant du métissage et des différentes formes traditionnelles pour arriver à un art contemporain. Son théâtre est physique, dansé, musical, il s’inspire des traditions orales de l’Océan Indien.

Mâ Ravan, leur nouveau spectacle est écrit et mis en scène par Philippe Pelen Baldini. Il s’articule autour de « la ravanne », un tambour rond, commun à toutes les îles de l’océan de indien mais que l’on trouve aussi en Afrique de l’Est, en Inde et au Sri Lanka… Il est l’objet qui fait l’alliance et relie les mondes entre eux en se mettant en scène, au-delà des blessures de l’Histoire, le besoin urgent de retrouver les liens, les filiations d’une île à une autre, d’une rive à une autre, d’un monde à l’autre, tout simplement, le besoin de faire corps.

Ce spectacle, ou pour ainsi dire, ce voyage est entre un rituel et une représentation mettant en mouvement, les forces de vie inscrites dans le corps avec des artistes qui chantent jouent et font danser la ravanne pour réveiller les mémoires et l’alliance entre l’homme et la nature, l’homme et son territoire. L’homme et son histoire. L'homme martial.

C’est un rendez-vous avec l’émotion, une communion, une rencontre avec des prouesses énergétiques, une ballade, un rêve dans un univers hypnotique, vibrant, touchant et émouvant, sans barrière de langage, en s’interrogeant sur la source, les racines, l’origine.

Nous sommes alors transportés par quatre acteurs, musiciens, danseurs, éveilleurs du jour, venant de la Réunion, de Madagascar, et de l’île Maurice.

Une fois atterrie, je n’avais plus de mots, plus de voix, abasourdie par l’énergie, le corps encore en vibration, les larmes aux yeux d’émotions, je ne peux que recommander Mâ Ravan qui fait salle comble à chacune des représentations. Dépêchez-vous !

http://www.verbeincarne.fr/programmation-2008/ma-ravan’/

Ecriture, mise en scène, chorégraphie :
Philippe Pelen Baldini
Assistant à la dramaturgie :
Thierry Moucazambo
Interpêtes :
Thierry Moucazambo
José Njiva Andrianantenaina
Michaêl Marmitte
Pascal Marie

Régie Lumière :
Valérie Beck

Contact :
Compagnie : Véronique Levasseur – theatre.thaliipot@wanadoo.fr
Communication : Valérie Koch – taliipot.communication@wanadoo.fr

Nathaly Coualy pour Cite Black 

Seulement 7 étudiants présentent leur TFE en juin

Effectivement, les 35 élèves que suivent régulièrement les cours de Com de troisième année 08, certains ils ont fait de la « résistance passive », d’autres ont été recalé par « abandon » forcé, il y a eu ceux qui l’ancien directeur a fait échouer par « absentéisme », enfin les raisons sont multiples. Mais le nombre des élèves qui ont présenté leur mémoire en juin est très limité.
C’est ne pas étonnant, car l’attitude de certains DEI, est contraire à des enseignants en RH.
Le manque de respect, de disponibilité, d’écoute, de feed-back des DEI a un effet néfaste dans le moral des étudiants, qui frustrés par des comportements tels, non seulement désertent les cours, mais également excitent à prendre l’initiative de faire leur mémoire.
Car le TFE demande une grande dose d’énergie et de motivation de la part de l’étudiant et la bonne entente avec son DEI. (Imposé par le système).

Alors que dans la plupart des cas, ces mêmes DEI découragent, déconseillent, mettent des bâtons dans les roues et encore discriminent les étudiants.
Parmi les 7 étudiants qu’on présentés leur TFE en juin, il y avait qui possèdent déjà un graduat, des formations longues et l’habitude de se débrouiller seuls. ( Plutôt « seules », tu veux dire.)

L’échec massif des autres s’explique simplement par le découragement d’un mauvais enseignement, auquel s’ajoute les attitudes des professeurs, le grand « turn-over » des directeurs du IRG.
Ici, l’on voit clairement les résultats des nombreux « dysfonctionnements »

• Le turn-over des directeurs, 3 en trois ans !!

• La mauvaise information concernant les règlements.
• La discrimination de la part des étudiants et professeurs (il y a les racistes et les bourrés de préjugés)
• L’attitude des déléguées de classe, qui « fricotent » avec les profs, à la place de défendre les intérêts des collègues de cours.
• Le manque de solidarité (tu dis quoi, nous proclamons surtout l’empathie !)

Enfin tu connais le tableau, pas la peine de rajouter !

Je peux exprimer ma pensée, car j’ai réussi. Et si j’ai le fait, n’importe qui du groupe peut le faire !!

Avec ou sans DEI.

Pense qu’ils sont là pour nous ennuyer, nous boycotter le stage, ils sont là seulement pour le salaire et leur carrière, car sont des pistonnés sans compétences, exemple flagrant c’est le commentaire qu’on fait à propos de ma présentation orale : « Je suis étonnés que vous avez réussi à faire le travail et le présenter, car on avait mal à le concevoir, on vous entendait si mal en cour »
Et oui, les surprises arrivent même à ceux qui pensent comme Napoléon : « Se faire battre est excusable, se faire surprendre est impardonnable »
Comment peut-on avoir des propos pareils quand se prétend être enseignant en RH ?
L’on parle de collaboration ou de concurrence ?
Le management détermine l’attitude des collaborateurs, bien, pas s’étonner si les étudiants se déchirent entre eux.
Sont bien eux qui nous apprennent que le leader démocratique est le plus efficace, et le cœur professoral est composé des « Pinochet »…

Quelle ironie et combien d hypocrisie !!

We zitten op het afbrokkelende  terras van “Memories”, een bar in een louche uitloper van Chinatown. Purperen, burchtachtige muren. Het lijkt de entree van een spookkasteel. In de valslederen, afpellende zetels hangen ‘working girls’ zonder werk. Met blote buiken, korte shortjes en plastieken laarzen aan. Op verlaten tafels staan lege flessen Tiger beer en overvolle asbakken.  “Memoires’ is nogal muft en ranzig.  En zeker het type bar waar doorsnee Chinezen gek op zijn. Een karaoke installatie, een pooltable en de nodige tv-schermen tegen het plafond. Meer moet dat niet zijn. Ze vergapen zich met graagte aan catch-wedstrijden met van die overgespierde venten voorzien van  een domme Amerikaanse kop. En meekwelen met tjingeltjang lovesongs is iets waar ze zich uitermate goed bij voelen. Het lijkt hier bijwijlen een basisbehoefte. 

We zijn met vier en bestellen een karaf bier en een glas spuitwater. Een vers geimporteerd meisje uit China plant alles op onze tafel neer en vraagt 37 dollar. Vriend Alberto trekt een bedenkelijk hoofd maar betaalt.  

Ik vraag: “How much do you charge for the glass of water?”

“Twelfe dollar”, zegt ze met afgestreken gezicht.

Ik zeg: “you must be kidding.”

En zij zegt: “Nooooo! Sodawater we charge same price as cocktail.”

“Very logic. You must be kidding”, herhaal ik.

“No, no”, antwoordt ze bloedserieus maar twijfelend. Ze loopt naar haar baas, een jonge Chinees, die een fles wiskey aan het leeg maken is met zijn maten in het zetelstel achter het onze. Er volgt een discussie in een taal die ik niet begrijp.

 “Okay”, zegt hij. “For you we’ll only charge 10 dollar.”

We lachen.

Ik zeg hem dat hij inkopen moet doen in de Thaise supermarkt in onze straat want dat ge daar 24 soda’s krijgt voor 10 dollar en dat ik wel begrijp dat een mens winst moet maken maar dat meer dan 240% nemen op een glas water me toch wel absurd overkomt, en dat het onbegrijpelijk is dat een watertje evenveel kost als een vodka tonic. Al zeker omdat zijn bar nu ook weer niet de allures heeft van een Hyatt hotel of zoiets.

Daar had hij nog niet over nagedacht. Hij loopt naar binnen met achter zich het vers geimporteerde meisje. Het meisje komt na twee minuten terug buiten met het wisselgeld en een extra glas water. “We don’t charge you this glass”, zegt ze fier.”Free for you and only 8 dollar for the first glass. Okay?”

Voor rede vatbaar, die Chinezen, maar ge moet er wel mee opletten. Altijd.

I believe it was taken when, or soon after, she had graduated. Or perhaps it was a twenty-first birthday, or something. Anyway, in the picture, she was done up to the nines in a smart, two-piece suit, the whole ensemble being topped off by a big, white, Easter bonnet sort of hat that shouted from the rooftops that its wearer was celebrating something.

I don’t think I had looked at that snapshot for maybe thirty or forty years.  I didn’t even know whether I still had it in my possession, back home.

Nevertheless, a clear impression of the photograph must have been retained indelibly in the depths of my subconscious - for the prospect of the imminent meeting with my American cousin had shoved the fifty-year-old image suddenly and almost rudely, to the forefront of my mind.

It was hovering there, bright and clear, as cousin Rose entered the building.

The image of the elegant young girl that had been shimmering in my imagination was, of course, not the one I was now looking at. For this lady - my relative, at long last - was in her late sixties or early seventies. Well, she would have to be wouldn’t she? Rose had already graduated when I was writing to her, and at the time I was just 12 years old.  I was now 64.

Yet, I recognised her immediately…

Like me, Rose was carrying more than half a century of wear and tear, and she appeared to have filled out a little from what I recalled of the photograph.  Nevertheless, the bulky, dark anorak and the warm trousers she was wearing against the cold Laramie breezes outside, easily disguised the portliness that encroaching age had imposed upon her.

All the same, I could see she didn’t know me from Adam…

And I was now agonisingly aware of the presence of the twenty-four-hour growth of grey stubble on the face I was about to present to her.

Yesterday - would you believe it - for the first time since I had started shaving at the age of seventeen, I decided not to. Shaving was a damn nuisance and a chore - as any man will vouchsafe. For me, the daily habit was a spin-off from National Service days with the military, when failure to shave - unless under direct orders not to from the MO - would be enough to put you on a charge for crass slovenliness.  Besides which, there was a certain amount of encouragement from Mark, who had said: " I don’t know why you bother to shave every day. With your colouring nobody can see it, anyway…"

So, noting that my son hadn’t bothered to shave either, I had stashed away my toiletries. And - I thought - it being extremely unlikely that Rose and I would be bumping in to each other, I had shrugged off any vain ideas about what the general American public were going to think about this pair of unshaven Limeys who had dared to contaminate their pristine environment.

Yet - wasn’t it ever thus? - in spite of the unlikeliness of the event ever happening, nevertheless, it happened. My cousin Rose was, at this very moment, coming towards me.

It was hardly surprising then, at this point, that my twenty-four-hour growth of alfalfa was beginning to feel as though I had sprouted - overnight - the very twin of the goatee that adorns the familiar, patriotic countenance of Uncle Sam himself…

Why is it that things always seem to work out just the opposite to what you expect?

As Rose came nearer she was wearing a slightly quizzical expression. I knew, without any doubt whatsoever, that she was asking herself: "Wonder what dung-heap this couple of bums - who are claiming to be my relatives - crawled out of?"

Well, it must be admitted that our trip wasn’t the usual tourist jaunt. We hadn’t come to the US in order to dress up and take in the Las Vegas bright lights.  Or to parade ourselves along Hollywood Boulevard on the off-chance that some desperate talent scout was sweeping the horizons on the lookout for a couple of Limey prospects for belated stardom…

In fact, except for one or two occasions when we might fancy a posh nosh-up at some salubrious restaurant nearby, we ate either in a simple diner, or in our bedroom at whatever motel we may be currently staying.  Or we’d stop at some breathtaking overlook and eat surrounded by wilderness - like the pioneers we had come here to emulate.

So we weren’t exactly adorned in our Sunday best for what was going to be, obviously, a memorable occasion.

All this, together with the stubble on my face which - thanks to my tortured imagination - had, by now, turned into an Amish beard, began to make me believe that we had, indeed, crawled out of the dung-heap of cousin Rose’s razor-sharp speculations.

I began to wonder whether it might not be a good idea to duck out of sight and leave Kathy Clymer to explain to Rose it had all been one great big case of mistaken identity…

Meanwhile, the doors of the magnificent boardroom, which Kathy had invited us to use for the meeting, had been left wide open, awaiting our cousin’s arrival.

Rose walked through them, into the boardroom, and came to a stop right in front of me. Her eyes, twinkling behind the large, sepia-tinted lenses of her horn-rimmed spectacles, were questioning but friendly. She held out her hand in greeting. "Hello", she said. "You Jim?"

As I introduced myself and Mark to Rose, Kathy Clymer had been bustling around somewhere in the background, and now she appeared with a tray of coffee and biscuits and laid them on the boardroom table. Then she went out and left the three of us - distant cousins in more ways than one - to get acquainted.

It was all very slow at first, and we talked haltingly and shyly, as strangers talk when they are seeking for something in common on which to hang a decent conversation. But then the ice began to crack, and it wasn’t long before we were firing the names of mutual relations at each other, and laughing and joking as though we had known each other, if not for years, then at least for a couple of months.

Mark, meanwhile, had seated himself - rather politely, I thought - a little to one side, as if giving Rose and I a little elbowroom in our efforts to get acquainted with the idea that we were, in fact, blood relations.

He must have been quite entertained by it all.

Here we were, in his eyes, a couple of old fogies, relatives but strangers, who had never met up in their lives, trying desperately to make up the difference in space and time by throwing family names and experiences at each other for all we were worth. In a matter of minutes, I learned I had relatives in England I never knew existed, and Rose was busy pinning new leaves to whatever branches of the family tree I happened to be acquainted with.

But, quite apart from the obvious novelty of the situation in which I had now found myself, there was something else, for me at least, about meeting up with Rose Banner.

Here - at this very moment, and quite impossibly - had come about the manifestation of a concept, bandied around way back in the Forties, mulled over and played with, and finally, flung aside as being nothing else but an immature daydream. Here - within the luxurious, polished-wood and carpeted surroundings of a Chamber of Commerce situated somewhere within an historically-famed sector of the vast and beautiful American West - a childhood bout of wishful thinking had somehow bounced into reality.

Through the magic of time and circumstance, the descriptive stamps of "impossible"; "immature"; "daydreaming" had been sloughed away from a young boy’s youthful shoulder-shrugging contemplations, and, by way of a sort of "quantum leap", the youth - now grizzled and in the winter of his existence - had tumbled, startled and incredulous, into the future…

Isn’t it amazing?  After many long years of a humdrum, workaday, oh-so-ordinary-sort-of-non-event existence, "normal" man’s only and established ambition is to have provided adequately for his family, and so he settles into doddering old age, sitting in the pub swapping reminiscences with his peers. Then, suddenly- and quite unexpectedly - something like this sweeps across his entity?

I have to hand it to my son. It was Mark’s generosity that had brought about this belated jump into an American daydream, and the resultant "Hi, there’s" between a couple of relatives whose awareness of each other’s existence had lapsed into indifference many years ago.

Fact is, Rose had not even been on Mark’s itinerary. His original plan was to head south for the warm deserts as soon as we had hit Denver and stocked up with provisions. The loop through the snowy Rockies was an addition at the last moment, at my instigation.

Which is why the meeting with my cousin had to end there, in the boardroom of the Chamber of Commerce in Laramie, Wyoming. It was a shame. But finding Rose was not the main object of our trip to the US…

Mark wanted to show me parts of America he had already seen for himself; parts that he knew I would fall desperately in love with; parts I had carried around in my imagination all my life; the sorts of places I would then carry around in my imagination for the rest of my days…

We must revert to his original plan and head south as soon as possible. Which meant tomorrow…

So we took our pictures, and we said our goodbyes. And we waved when Rose’s car passed us as she drove home.

One thing I knew. It had been a little sad to be saying goodbye so soon after saying hello. But Rose Rasmussen - this being her married name, although she was now a widow - would remain the high point of our visit to America, and would forever be my favourite talking point whenever I met up with other members of the family in the coming years…

It's hard sometimes to take care of a handicapped person,specially for me. I am not made to be a nurse, but my wife gave me 15 wonderful years and now I have tho thank her and help her to cope with her illness as long as I can. But again its hard and depressing. As I am the only one around her I often get bad, angry words and a hard time I really don't deserve but that's it. I have go through this period of my life and cope with it. I loved her truly but now I feel more as a very good friend taking care of a once lovable great person. Needless to say, sex we did not had for years, as it's practicly impossible but as well if it would be possible I can hardly think I still would like to it.

Lets see what tomorrow brings me, Sunday mybe get great!

The building itself was nothing like the aristocratic edifice back home, which towered proudly over the heart of one of the most salubrious commercial areas of Birmingham.

Nevertheless, boastful banners called out, with some conviction, the fact that if the potential entrepreneur was interested in "Commerce" and/or "Economic Development" then this was the place where, in the first instance, he should present himself.

Well, I was no entrepreneur. But I was, nonetheless, a man with a mission.

I pushed open the door, Mark following closely behind. Mark was letting me take the initiative, for he had never heard of Rose Agnes Banner until he told me he was taking me to America. So it was up to me, on this occasion, to do the talking…

Inside, a light and airy vestibule contained a rack filled with dozens of pamphlets and magazines, all of them advocating most of the activities to which the sightseeing tourist and the wealth-seeking entrepreneur might be attracted.

I gathered together a thick sheaf of whatever was on offer and tucked the bundle under my arm. Then I pushed open another door and we stepped into the carpeted reception area.

"C’n ah hailp yuh, gen’lemen?"

The broad, western drawl floated towards us from a general office to our left, along with the pretty, fair-haired young woman whose stoutish proportions belied her graceful approach.

Kathy Clymer had a nice smile and a pleasant manner. I told her we were British tourists seeking a relative with whom I had had no contact since World War Two. "Her name - then - was Rose Banner", I told her. " She lived at 701, South 2nd Street when I was writing to her, but my guess is she moved, probably a long time ago."

I told Kathy that when Rose graduated she went to work with the County Assessor, but whether she stayed in the job for the rest of her life I had no idea.

"Well", said Kathy. "Lait’s jus’ see what we c’n do"

She reached up and took one or two books from a shelf above her head. Her fingers started flicking through the pages. Now and then Kathy made pencilled notes on scraps of paper, and then she would pick up the telephone and have short conversations with people who, I gathered, were related to Rose.

Finally – and it could only have been ten minutes or so – Kathy handed me the ‘phone.

"There’s your cousin", she announced, as though she had done nothing much - all in the day’s work, you know, sort of thing…

I took the ‘phone from Kathy and clamped it to my ear. "Hello", I ventured, carefully. "Hi, there…" came a response in that casual, distinctive, western drawl.

I was so overcome with the speed and efficiency with which Rose’s whereabouts had been discovered, plus the fact that she was still - amazingly - in Laramie after all these years, that I could think of just one word to say in the circumstances. So I said it…

"Rose?"

A couple of short sentences later Rose said to me: "Stay there. I ’m coming over…"

As she came towards us I could see she was wearing some kind of uniform jacket. Snow-white trainers adorned tiny feet that stepped along the broad sidewalk with smart, athletic tread. And she was wearing dark glasses against the blue intensity of a sky made bright by the occasional strong emergence of the sun from behind silver-lined clouds.

Mark spoke to her and she turned down the busy squawking of the radio transmitter fastened to her left shoulder. "Hi, there", she said, good-naturedly.

As she leaned nearer to catch his words she raised a futile hand to her head in a vain and very feminine attempt to control the generous mane of ash-blonde hair contorting wildly around cheeks turned ruddy by the cold breezes blowing in from the high plains.

"Oh, sure", she smiled. "Just carry on to the next corner, turn left, and you’ll find the Chamber of Commerce three blocks further along"

Mark thanked the girl. "You’re welcome", she said as she turned away to take up the stride we had interrupted.

In spite of her obvious femininity I picked up a hint of the macho about that young lady; a quiet strength, reinforced by a touch of authority. I wondered what she did for a living.

"Cop", said Mark

Had I heard properly?

"She’s a cop", he repeated.

"What! That little thing?"

"Sure is", Mark insisted. "And she’s probably a good one, so don’t start anything"

I shook my head in disbelief. Then I realised that I had noticed that even back home in England the police were not only appearing younger, but they also seemed to be getting shorter…

So, what the heck. This was America, and over here they always seem to do things in a bigger way than we do – or, in this particular case, smaller than we do.

We ambled on along a wide and busy road that was bright in the warm, noon sunshine. As we took the route that the glamorous little cop had indicated, I looked around me and realised that my imagination – slow burning as ever – had not kept up with the times.

I had expected a sort of ‘old-fashioned’ set-up; a still prevailing and very obvious frontier atmosphere. I thought I might see a hay wagon or two rumbling by once in a while, with a ranch-hand perched high and mighty, reins dangling easily from work-worn fingers.

I was wrong again.

The Laramie I was looking at was shining and smart and not a bit like Jimmy Stewart’s dusty old cow town languishing in a hot, mid-day sun.

Rangy cowpokes that in earlier times may have adorned raised, wooden boardwalks whilst gazing idly at the noisy, passing scene, were long gone. So, too, were the crinoline-clad ladies teetering prettily, eyes averted, past swivel-hipped gallants raising their Stetsons in polite flirtation.

Here, in fact was a Laramie that was neat, and as modern and as commercialised as Denver - the big city I had left behind only a few hours ago.

I could have been sad, even a little disappointed. But I wasn’t. For this was here, and this was now, and I came to earth just as I heard Mark say: "Here we are…"

The house was small, I think, by American standards, or at least by the American standards I had calculated as a result of Hollywood’s offerings over the many years I had been consuming them. And it was timber built, which was no great surprise, this being the land where hardy pioneers had built their first homes from the soaring pines of the virgin forests and called them – what else? – log cabins.

Featuring a front porch and an upstairs balcony – access to which, I presume, being obtained through a bedroom window, for I saw no door opening onto it – the dwelling was painted in what would have been an attractive maroon colour had it not been done, apparently, a long time ago.

Now, the whole place looked tired and run-down, like an old lady who has devoted her life to the shelter and well-being of her loved ones, but to whom the years have now brought fading looks, and the inevitable and consequent aches and pains of burdensome age.

While I was browsing over Rose’s old home - I knew instinctively that she no longer lived there - I wondered why Americans call their byways and thoroughfares ‘streets.’

Streets! Why, most of the streets I had seen since coming to this country were twice as wide as some of our ‘A’ class roads, and South 2nd Street was one of them…

I’d gained the impression that their streets’ names were always numbers – like 42nd Street, or 5th Avenue. ("I’ll meet you on the corner of 5th and 42nd." says the hero, maybe, in one of Paramount’s gangster films) - or something like that.

Not once had I come across anything like a ‘road’- Denver Road; Rock Springs Road; Laramie Road – something like our Bristol Road, for instance…

Mark interrupted the undoubtedly crucial import of American and British attitudes towards their somewhat conflicting descriptions of each other’s highways and byways. "What do you think, then?" he said. "Shall we go across and ring the bell?"

I shook my head. "I don’t think so. It’s been fifty years, and that house looks a bit run down. I doubt that Rose would be living there, now. She probably married and moved away a long time ago. I’d be surprised to find her over there today, and that’s a fact."

Mark pulled gently at his bottom lip as he mused for a second or two. "She was with the local authority at some time or other, wasn’t she?" he asked. "Why don’t we go along to the local Chamber of Commerce and make a few enquiries? They may have a line on her, especially if she worked for the city."

"Good idea. Let’s try it."

Mark gunned Jimmy’s starter and drove us out of South 2nd Street.

And so evaporated some of the aura of the romanticised West which – along with the Laramie address of a distant cousin – had had a special place in the back of my mind for over half a century. For this was reality, and I never saw South 2nd Street again.

In fact, Highway 287 took us straight to Laramie, sailing under a flyover that turned out to be Highway 30 - the famous Lincoln Highway – as it soared over Laramie’s outskirts.

Highway 30 carries on due west until it merges with and becomes Interstate 80.

Which is a bit of a shame, really.

The Lincoln Highway, completed in 1923, at once became world famous as being the first road ever to span the breadth of an entire land mass.

Tons of steel and concrete had been hauled across America, as a result of which, two great oceans, parted for eons by the solid might of a single continent, became joined by a snaking umbilical cord some three and a half thousand miles long.

The Lincoln Highway, wriggling its way between soaring peaks and fertile meadows, had pushed hard against wild and arid wastelands. Finally, a coast-to-coast rendezvous was created, and the Atlantic joined hands with the Pacific.

The whole affair was a magnificent feat of logistic enterprise; well worthy of a great country and the big thinking, pioneering people who live there.

And now, would you believe it, here we have the first transcontinental highway ever built disappearing into the rear end of some johnny-come-lately, less historically-noteworthy road, which is somewhat ingloriously designated as being Interstate 80.

As I say - bit of a shame, really.

But I wasn’t here to gripe at the lack of sentiment exhibited by materialistic, sharp-suited, modern Americans. The fact that the brilliant, entrepreneurial colour of a bygone age probably was lost on today’s mushrooming, super-duper technocrat mentality was nothing to do with me.

I was hot on the trail of my cousin, Rose.

I’m not saying the tundra on this side of the line was so dramatically different from that of Colorado that a man could announce, with quiet assurance, that he was definitely in Wyoming. In fact, the trees were no taller, no greener, and the boulders no bigger, than any of the trees and boulders we had noted on the way up.

The sure-fire confidence that we had arrived in Wyoming was nothing to do with our having been nodded through, perhaps, from tall watchtowers manned by white-stetsoned deputy sheriffs armed with Gary Cooper type Springfield rifles. Nor had we been pulled up at a customs post on the other side of no-man’s land with the directive that we shouldn’t enter Wyoming if we carried guns - or that we shouldn’t enter Wyoming if we did not carry guns.

This last because I had read somewhere that the Equality State was considered to be the most blatantly ‘western’ of all the cowboy states in America.

Nearly everyone owned a gun, it said. And in recent years, the state legislature in Cheyenne had decided to make a symbolic gesture towards increased public safety by tabling a ruling that all legislators would be required to check in their handguns at the front desk before entering the Statehouse. Yippee! Hi! Ho!

No, it was none of this that made us aware that we had moseyed our way over the line. It was the big roadside hoarding that did it. It was a fine piece of municipal artistry, and as soon as we clapped eyes on it, we knew we were there…

Suspended by metal straps from a wooden crosspiece straddling a pair of sturdy timber boles, the six by four foot hoarding was additionally secured by further metal strapping clamped to the two stout side supports.

On the hoarding itself were pictured a flat stretch of brown prairie, with darker foothills in the distance, while, on the horizon, the soaring might of what I took to be the snow-covered Rockies imposed its dominance over a subject landscape.

Against a light-blue cloudless sky was printed, in striking black lettering, the titular banner: "Wyoming", whilst beneath the whole scene was emblazoned a white-lettered caption that trumpeted out the authoritative opinion that Wyoming was "A Great Land Outdoors."

On the left side of the picture, against the pale blue print of the sky, was the dramatic silhouette of a bucking mustang, it’s rider depicted with arm raised, hat in hand. It was the classic, still life rendering of violent contest between horse and man to see who was master.

The whole shebang - which was twice the height of a tall man – overlooked a neat and tidy lay-by rest area, from which Wyoming’s own artistic presentation could issue a neighbourly welcome to a couple of tea-swilling limies from the Old World who had come here seeking antecedents in the New.

Mark pulled over.

He had composed his photograph even as he stopped the car. He reached for the Pentax...

"Stand over by the hoarding", he directed. "This’ll be one for the album." He threw me his cowboy hat. "And put this on. Let’s make it the real McCoy…"

As I walked towards the poster it reminded me that Rose had sent me, in those early days, a wooden badge shaped exactly like the silhouette of the bucking bronco, but touched in with brilliant, coloured, enamel paints. I had prized that little gift and kept it all through the war years. But it disappeared, like most of my other mementoes of those dark days. I never saw it again.

I stopped at the hoarding, turned around, and put on Mark’s cowboy hat. It was made of light brown felt and was quite unpretentious, as cowboy hats go - nothing like the towering, ten-gallon affairs that Buck Jones and Ken Maynard used to wear.

I started to chuckle. And the reason I started to chuckle was the thought of ten-gallon hats…

They always remind me of Albert.

Albert was an old workmate and, as a child, had been subject to continuous bouts of illness. As a result, he had missed out on much of his schooling.

But, to his credit, he had tried hard to catch up and, in his recovery years, had done an awful lot of reading. The trouble was, Albert’s efforts were a teach-yourself exercise, and without a teacher to guide him, he would put his own interpretation onto unfamiliar words and phrases as he came across them – one such being the ten-gallon hat.

Albert loved cowboy stories and movies, and he liked to recount them to his workmates. So – for instance – our gun totin’ hero, having been invited into the ranch-house, would take off his ten-galleon hat…

At this point I can’t help but envisage a small squadron of Spanish men-o’- war, sails bellying in the wind, spilling all over somebody’s ranch-house carpet as the rough, tough cowboy politely removes his ten-galleon hat.

Then there was the time when Albert had arrived home from work to find that his wife had suffered a fainting fit and was lying prostitute on the kitchen floor. I swear that is what he told us.

And then they invented garden sheds that could be erected easily and quickly as the buyer nailed together parts ready-made at the factory. Sectional sheds they called them. So Albert, in dire need of such an item of garden equipment, promptly went out and bought one of those new-fangled sexual sheds.

But I digress. It’s the ten-gallon hat. It does it every time.

Anyway, I donned Mark’s cowboy hat. Funny how it made me feel a great deal taller, even though the crown was only a discreet half the height of the true, ten-gallon titfer. And if I were astride a horse as well… How does the saying go – he was tall in the saddle? Maybe I’ll find myself doing just that in the next couple of weeks!

I relaxed and listened with perhaps half a mind as Mark called out his suggestions for the pose he wanted. With the other half I was trying to guess how much further before we reached Laramie.

We had left Florissant at least a couple of hours ago, I think. I wasn’t noticing the time as well as I should, my brain being somewhat landlocked as I viewed the hugeness of everything,

I calculated that we had perhaps another twenty-five miles to go before we reached Highway 30 - the old Lincoln Highway – onto which we would make a right turn to thence hightail it to the outskirts of Laramie. Another hour should do it. That was my guess anyway.

"That’s it, Dad. I’ve got it. And it’s a good one…"

I walked back across the soft, brown earth of the rest area, watching as Mark hoisted himself back into the driving-seat. I saw him turn around to stow away the Pentax.

Wyoming’s fresh and icy winds were chopping at my face. Quickly, I rejoined Mark in the sheltering warmth of Jimmy’s cab and slammed the door shut.

"Off we go." said Mark, and he fired up the horsepower.

We shot off north towards the Lincoln Highway.

Mark decided on a short break. He’d been driving for two or three hours, non-stop, ever since we left Florissant. So he pulled off the road, tucked us in at the bottom of a steep bank, and cut the engine.

"This’ll do for a few minutes", he said.

I felt a pang of conscience. I should, really, be offering to take over for a while, and I would have done, normally. But I hadn’t driven for some years due to an intermittent eye problem wherein, without warning, I could become blinded by a sudden onrush of tears - the result of some allergy or other.

Besides which, it was left-hand-drive over here and, as far as I was concerned - being British - the right side of the road was the left side of the road.

In any case, the thought of my unfamiliarity with left hand driving being responsible for hurtling us over some cliff or other – with the lilting, eternal curses of Mark’s mother damning me to hell and back – was too much to bear. I decided we were both much safer in his capable hands.

Well, he was resting now, and it would be nice to sit here taking in all those square miles of frosty tundra and contemplating the passing traffic.

Traffic?

There wasn’t any traffic. There was no sign of any kind of a moving vehicle north, south, east, or west. We were alone in this cold, brittle wilderness.

Except, of course, for the spirits of the pioneers…

For there had been plenty of traffic on this particular road a hundred and fifty years ago.

We were sitting on part of the Overland Trail - that famous detour from the even more famous Oregon Trail – whose two thousand miles had, between 1842 and 1860 taken some 300,000 emigrants through plains and mountains and deserts to seek a new life in the great golden west.

So, here we were, Mark and I, a part of it. And quite a famous part of it, too…

For Virginia Dale boasted its very own piece of Wild West history.

It started in a place called Julesburg, a junction point on the banks of the South Platte River, where a certain Ben Holloday created the Overland Trail Mail route and stage line in order to avoid Indian uprisings on the Oregon Trail, further north.

So, it was to this place in Northern Colorado that Holloday, desiring to open yet another staging post along the route, sent a Mr. Joseph "Jack" Slade to organise it’s construction.

Jack, who took his wife, Virginia, along with him to help him organise the operation, pleased her immensely when he called it Virginia Dale, in her honour. He hired his hands, built what was needed, and the station became the first division point to the northwest of Denver. Jack Slade’s station was situated about a mile to the east of where we were parked right now.

"This is Jack Slade country", I announced to Mark, who had been gazing around looking for an interesting landmark.

"Who the hell’s Jack Slade?

"He ran a staging post about a mile or so from here during the pioneer days."

"But who was he?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know who he was. I only know what he was. And according to all reports, he was a bit of a rat bag."

I searched my memory and picked up a few threads.

"Apparently", I said, "Jack Slade - apart from being station manager - was a notorious desperado. The reports say that when he wasn’t drunk and shooting up saloons, he’d be sober and shooting up the countryside, and maybe riding around on wild horses. And he was probably responsible for holding up a stage or two near here, where we are now."

"Sounds a right beauty to be running a stage station", said Mark

"Well, what you have to understand is that even some of the lawmen in those days were notorious crooks, and gamblers, and gunslingers at sometime or other. Look at Wild Bill Hickok. He was Marshall of Deadwood. Somebody shot him in the back and killed him while he was gambling. And that other famous Marshall -Wyatt Earp - his reputation was a bit questionable, too."

"Anyway", I continued, "Sixty-Thousand US Dollars disappeared in one particular hold-up, and it was never found. When Jack was fired from his job, later, they say he made ‘a very docile departure’. He had no money worries, apparently. Which is why nobody ended up shot dead when he was sacked…"

"Did he rob the stage?" Mark asked.

"Nobody ever found out. Same as they never found out what happened to the money…"

"A few years later", I went on, "Jack – roaring drunk as usual – began shooting up a saloon in Virginia City, Montana. The vigilantes of the town had got a bit fed up with people like Jack Slade, always shooting up the place and disturbing the peace. Without further ado, they marched him down the street and hung him."

"Sounds like good riddance to me."

"Well, it was, I dare say. But that wasn’t quite the end of things." I stifled a grin at the thought of the next bit of the story.

"Jack had one or two friends and they galloped off to tell his wife Virginia, what had happened. She rode pell-mell into Virginia City and started scattering curses and expletives all over the place. The town council promptly told her to get herself and Jack’s body outside the city limits within ten minutes or they’d string her up alongside him"!

"What happened then?"

"Well, Virginia took Jack’s body back to her ranch and pickled it in alcohol."

"She did what…?"

"That’s what it says in the reports, Mark. Not only that, but she stashed his body under her bed, and it lay there for months…

"Finally", I told Mark, "Virginia took Jack’s body - in a pinewood coffin of course – to Salt Lake City and she buried him there. And he’s still there to this day."

Mark shook his head in disbelief. "Where do you pick these tales up?"

"Well, I know some of the stories may sound a bit exaggerated. But they were funny times back then, and some funny things used to go on…"

Mark began preparing to move back onto the road. "Let’s get out of here before Jack Slade comes after us…"

I looked along the cold, snow-laden undulations of what I suppose are designated as Badlands, since nobody appeared to be in residence anywhere as far as the eye could see. Here we were - on the Overland Trail – and I found it slightly disconcerting that reading the map, there were only three names indicated along Highway 287’s meandering sixty to seventy miles of length.

I had assumed that each of the romantic-sounding appellations -The Forks, Virginia Dale, and Tie Siding – were towns or cities or, maybe, hamlets. But I was totally unaware of having passed through any kind of a community that could be generally described as being commercially or socially active.

Up ahead of us somewhere was Tie Siding, which, I understand, had itself played an immense part in the story of the West, inasmuch as this was where one of the ‘tie boy’ camps had been situated during the building of the great railroads. The stands of timber situated along the Laramie River Valley were what the tie boys felled and trimmed before floating them further downriver to be collected and made into the ties. These were then used in the laying of the railroad tracks.

As the construction of the railroads made progress, vast areas of tie camps were turned into sawmills. But the great days of the tie boys, who worked and slaved throughout searing summers and bitter Arctic winters, were never forgotten. A monument was erected to commemorate their help in the building of the railroads. I believe the monument is still there, at Tie Siding.

But, no doubt, just like Virginia Dale, Tie Siding would be a little off the beaten track, and we wouldn’t see it…

Never mind. I don’t know about Mark. I don’t think he feels the same kind of romanticism about the West that I do. But it does feel great just to be where it all happened.

"Mark", I said, still fascinated by the icy emptiness that was Virginia Dale, "I can’t see any AA and RAC booths about. And I haven’t seen a house or telephone box for miles. What happens if we break down?"

Mark’s answer was brief, to the point, almost dismissive.

"We walk out."

Having cleared away, with nonchalant airiness, that small, insignificant item of business, he switched on the ignition.

I think it is safe to say - without much fear of contradiction - that I was so pleased and relieved to hear Jimmy’s engine burst into life…

"You ready?"

I nodded.

Mark eased us gently back onto the road and pointed us towards the north and Wyoming.

While the seasons and the years drifted slowly by, they clung closely to each other, plunging their roots deeper and wider until they were anchored forever to Mother Nature’s nurturing breast.

But one day they realised - as do all young things – that they each needed space to grow, to spread, to reach for the sky. They needed to let go…

The result was a projection of twin boles forming a perfect ‘V’.

Now, on this cold day in early spring, grown apart but still together, the topmost branches of each tree touched fingers some forty or fifty feet above our heads. And they played and laughed and whispered in the cool Florissant breezes.

It was an arrangement that provided the ideal frame through which to take a couple more shots of the Hornbek place, now just visible a mile or so further down the valley.

For we had arrived, finally, at the Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument and - as at the Hornbek ranch - we found that we were the only visitors. But it was still early in the season and Mark had explained months ago that he didn’t want to take me later in the year – in the summertime – because I might have found the heat, particularly in the deserts, quite unbearable.

Probably he was right, although I think I would have endured it all – as I was enduring the biting cold of the valley, right now! – as an essential part of the ‘Wild West’ experience.

But, no matter, the fewer the people the more for us…

From here the distant cabin and it’s adjacent outbuildings were little brown matchboxes; pieces of flotsam swept aside long since by a tide of human endeavour surging ever westward towards new dawns, new sunsets.

I took my pictures. Then I went back to Mark.

"Ready?"

I nodded and we started off immediately along ‘A Walk Through Time’ – one of the trails suggested in the pamphlet we had picked up at the Visitors Centre.

Seven available routes covered about fourteen miles altogether. But to walk them all would have taken us the rest of the day, and I - who was only three days into an adventure which could become, at times, rather a physical one - was not quite up to a fourteen mile limbering up exercise!

Besides which we wanted to make it to Laramie, and be settled in at a motel by late afternoon. For who knows what obstacles we might be encountering as we pushed our way through The Rockies on our way to Wyoming?

So we chose just three trails: ‘A Walk Through Time’: ‘Sawmill Trail’: ‘Petrified Forest’. These appeared to offer most in the time that was available to us.

To tell the truth, the concept of pre-history, with its steaming swamps, choked forests, ice-bound continents, exploding volcanoes, small-brained dinosaurs, and not a sign of a human being, was not one that settled comfortably on my shoulders…

But Mark is a scientist, and the sheer chemistry of it all would be of intense interest to his enquiring mind. So, armed with polite curiosity, I went along for the sightseeing.

Or so I thought…

My enthusiasm began to sharpen as the literal meaning of the word ‘petrified’ was thrust rudely against my learning curve, itself being somewhat ossified by years of neglect.

Years ago, for some reason or other, the word had fastened itself into my vocabulary as something meaning ‘frightened’; ‘scared to death’, and so on…

‘Fossils’, to me, were tiny insects embedded in bits of slate and rock - infinitesimal bits of pre-historic evidence which were constantly and eagerly sought after by eggheads in boots and shorts and carrying little pickaxes.

But, with growing fervour, it began to dawn on me that the large pieces of stone I was looking at were the petrified remains of what were once towering redwoods; fossilised moments in time; facets of a landscape that had been vitally alive millions of years ago.

What else were they but pebbles in the sands of time, marking dramatic and catastrophic events that had taken place in the days of the lumbering dinosaur?

They were, in fact, the healed-over scars of a young planet striving to evolve; pieces of an extinct age, plucked from the eons and turned to stone for the benefit of posterity.

Here in this wild country, while tall ponderosas rustled beneath grey, glowering snow-clouds, and cold, biting winds chased the tail end of winter through the Florissant Valley, I had found a new perspective.

The cold winds and the tall trees and the dark and pregnant cumuli were ignored as I delved into more remnants from the dawn of time. After a while, I sat down on a fossilised root of The Big Stump, the largest specimen in the park.

Measuring thirteen feet in diameter, and thirty-six feet in circumference, the enormous fossil stood twelve feet high. It was the remains of one of a number of Redwood giants that had grown near a meandering stream in the area some thirty million years ago.

Mark couldn’t resist it. He took my picture.

Then I noticed that a rusty piece of broken saw was embedded in the stump, about a foot down from the top. It was one of those two-man jobs, the sort that would have been wielded by tough and hardy backwoodsmen in the early years, before the advent of mechanical tools.

Obviously, someone had tried to cut through the stump and failed in the attempt.

"Souvenir hunter, maybe", Mark commented.

"It must have been a long time ago", I said. "Certainly before electric saws came on the scene. Anyway, it was a bit ambitious, thinking you could cut through this with a handsaw…"

We discovered later that in 1893, an attempt had been made to cut the stump into sections. These were to have been sent to Chicago for the Columbian Exposition. The attempt - as we could plainly see - had been unsuccessful. So the now rusty, metal saw remains trapped in the stump, lending a little contemporary history to the scene.

"Look at this, Dad."

Mark was standing beside a young pine tree that seemed to be balanced on top of a small, petrified redwood stump. The pine, from seed, I imagine, had directed its roots along and down the sides of the stump until, finally, it found soil suitable for rooting.

This, in itself, was a wonder of Nature…

I looked around this desolate plantation of pre-history, and contemplated the wonder of the constant, volcanic activity that had typified this planet of ours thirty million years ago. I saw the mighty, towering trees that had fallen like so much kindling, buried under the tons of hot ash erupting from the same fire-spitting cores responsible for the lethal lava flows roaring relentlessly onwards, and scything down everything in their destructive path.

I guess my imagination was running on Premium Grade …

But the Florissant Fossil Beds are a treasure house of ancient calligraphy. Impressions of dragonflies, beetles, ants, butterflies, spiders, fish, along with mammals and birds that lived here millions of years ago, are almost perfectly preserved, and are on display at the Visitors Centre.

Some species, though, are not on display – because after Dr, A.C. Peale discovered the fossils of the Florissant lakebed in 1874, scientists from everywhere dug up and removed over 80,000 specimens. Those specimens now grace exhibition halls and seats of learning all over the world.

When I think about it, my son could have handed me a heavy tome on the subject of Palaeontology, and told me to get on with it. I would have pushed, and shoved, and heaved my way through its voluminous pages. I would have done this despite a mind numbed and mesmerised at the sight of prolific quantities of black typescript and a preponderance of long, unfamiliar, Latin-sounding words.

But he did not hand me such a book …

Instead, he took me to a broad and chilly meadow, situated deep within the Colorado Rockies. Here, he introduced me gradually, yet with slowly ascending graphic impact, to a time classified by Palaeontologists as the Oligocene epoch.

This was the period when there came acceleration in the number of mammalian orders making an appearance; when the first hominid burst into being, walking upright on hind legs, its small brain starting a strange and difficult activity called ‘thinking’.

It was the period when a thin, silvery tongue that was to become the Colorado River, started to lick at a two hundred mile tract of land in the south-west of America; a piece of land that was destined to become a magnificent spectacle of natural grandeur: a scenic wonder.

Today, they call it The Grand Canyon.

A quick swivel of the buttocks and I was crouched like a buzzard on the high, unyielding, wooden seat of a rickety vehicle that had creaked its way through a century of hard and faithful service.

Up there, in the driver’s seat, I started daydreaming. I found myself gazing down onto the broad, harnessed back of a quiet, brown mare, who was waiting patiently in the for the last forkfuls of hay to be loaded. I thought I heard someone’s voice issue a peremptory: "Walk on, Lucy." Was it mine…?

There came a click of the tongue and a gentle flick of the reins against Lucy’s solid hindquarters. Immediately, the strong and willing animal strained hard against the shafts and another massive load of hay was on its way to the distant barn.

"OK, Dad. You can get down, now."

Mark’s voice interrupted my reverie to let me know he had successfully constructed the picture he wanted. What he didn’t realise was that for a couple of minutes I’d slipped back a hundred years or so…

It was the fall of the year, harvesting time, and my muscles were young and strong and hard as iron. I was guiding a gentle mare to the giant, all-sheltering barn, where another ranch-hand was waiting for me.

Together, we would toss another load of new-mown hay, the sweat pouring off us. I was a happy man, and I gave thanks to the Lord…

"Dad…! You getting down? You’ll freeze to death in a minute!"

I was still up on the wagon, taking in the rolling miles of Colorado landscape. It was Nature, as I had never seen it – raw and beautiful. And I knew that beyond the foothills, presiding in silent majesty, Herculean shoulders caped in snow-flecked ermine, were the stalwart, eternal, Rocky Mountains.

Safe beneath this powerful vista was laid the refuge that Adeline Hornbek had built for herself and her family, her now pathetically untilled meadows rippling onwards and outwards to meet the dark, pine-covered slopes of the distant, encircling hills.

I would have loved to see this land when it was being worked and yielding a-plenty…

Mark and I wandered about the Hornbek site for a long time, observing, admiring, marvelling…

Once upon a time there had been a man who could use an axe and an adze with such pioneering skill that he could dovetail each building’s corners so that, even now – more than a century later – neither nails nor pins were needed to hold them together.

Two, thick wooden blocks, the width of the doorway, were the steps, up which a man would need to tread in order to knock on Adeline Hornbek’s front door. A short rail to one side of the door I can only suppose was for hitching a horse to.

I mounted the steps and leaned with easy familiarity against the rail. Mark lifted his camera…

The Hornbeks must have been on pretty good terms with the local Indians for – as far as I could see – there was no stockade or defence works of any kind. All that surrounded the homestead was a thigh-high, corral type of fencing, which gave a sort of ‘this is mine’ look but was no defence against determined attack.

Although, I have to admit, the Hornbek spread was flat as a pancake all the way to the far pinewoods – a mile and a half, at least. Any marauding Indians would have been spotted long before they reached the homestead, thus giving the family plenty of time to take cover in the large, stoutly built cabin that was their home.

Later, I discovered that Adeline’s first husband, Simon A. Harker, had been in business with Adeline’s brother, and that the family had lived and traded quite amicably in Creek Indian territory. It was probably her experiences amongst the Creeks and her knowledge of the ways of the Indian that brought about a grudging acceptance of the Hornbek presence by the Utes of the Florissant – for, apparently, they caused her no harm.

I felt an icy breeze, and the wilderness around us was suddenly cold and hard and lonely. I wondered whether Adeline was resenting our presence on her land…

But, of course not. Any spectral sounds I could hear were in my head. They were those of some long-gone Saturday night in Adeline’s homely parlour.

Saturday nights were special at the Hornbek ranch. On these occasions, she would entertain her friends and neighbours to an evening of song and dance as she thumped out her rousing repertoire at the family harmonium.

These people of over a century ago wouldn’t have resented us! They would have welcomed us in the same neighbourly manner that they would have welcomed any stranger passing through their valley.

Maybe the ground wasn’t hallowed. I suppose I was just being sentimental. Nevertheless, I felt, somehow, that we were trespassing on sacred ground. People’s blood, sweat, and tears, as well as their dogged aspirations, had gone into this place, and, rather eerily, I sensed it.

Finally – and I was still carrying deep within me vague feelings that I had brushed faintly with the paranormal – we made our way back up the long, dusty drive towards the road.

When we reached the plague warning notice, I realised I’d forgotten about the plague, and tick fever, and Rocky Mountain spotted fever. At once I slapped at my clothes, and scraped the soles of my shoes on a flat stone, hopefully crushing some of the little bastards into kingdom come.

I wondered how Adeline had managed to keep these iniquitous armies of ticks away from her four kids…

Now, there’s a thought. Maybe Elliot Hornbek had got fed up with blasting away at the advancing hordes of flesh-eating ticks and had done a runner because he preferred to be a thousand miles away further south blasting away at the advancing hordes of scalp-hungry savages!

I turned to take a last look at the ranch. It was a quarter of a mile away, now. Yet I could swear I saw a grey-haired chap wearing a navy-blue anorak, leaning on the tethering-rail at Adeline’s front door. He was grinning like an imbecile.

I’d been standing there myself only a short while ago. Perhaps a little bit of me was still back there with the Hornbeks.

On the other hand, maybe it was one of Adeline’s neighbours – some asshole of a ghost who had materialised just long enough to take the Michael out of a couple of English dudes.

"Up yours", I said, and we climbed into the car and drove on up the valley.

Adeline Hornbek was a tough, red-haired woman of pioneering stock who, with her first husband, Simon Harker, moved west in the Eighteen Sixties and settled beside the South Platte River, where they farmed and raised cattle.

In 1864, a devastating flood took almost everything they owned. Simon died soon afterwards, and Adeline was left to bring up three small children.

Before he died, Simon had filed a claim against the land on which they had settled, under President Lincoln’s Homestead Act of 1862. In spite of the hard life and the difficulties of managing on her own, Adeline coped. In 1866 she bought 80 acres of the claim outright for the sum of one hundred dollars. And she did this long before the Homestead Act’s time limit ran out.

Two months later she married Elliot Hornbek.

Strangely enough, Hornbek disappeared from the scene in 1875, leaving five-year-old Elliot junior in Adeline’s care, along with the three children of her previous marriage.

By spring of 1878 Adeline Hornbek, at forty-four years of age, and the sole supporter of her family, had scooped up the rest of the original land claim by taking advantage of a clause in the Act, which specified that a homesteader could, after six months residence, purchase the land for a dollar-twenty-five an acre.

And here we were looking at it. The Hornbek Homestead; red-brown acres that a hardy, pioneering lady of the Eighteen-Sixties, had wrenched from the wilderness, probably with her bare hands.

Snuggled beneath the dark forests of the nearby foothills, the flat, farming area was dotted now with patches of late winter snow. But it was obvious that the Florissant Valley, come summer, would be dressed in green and beautifully re-adorned. Adeline Hornbek’s judgement regarding a place to live and bring up a family could not be faulted…

A quarter of a mile from the road, and dwarfed by the geographical features surrounding them, stood the weather-beaten structures which now make up a National Monument - for the Hornbek land and buildings were bought by the US government in 1973. Nowadays, unfortunately, the main house is the only original structure left from what was the Hornbek Homestead. Nevertheless, I needed to explore this historic site.

Mark and I - as far as the eye could see - appeared to be the only living, moving beings on Adeline Hornbek’s wide, sprawling acreage.

Except for…?

Beside us we noticed a sign. Stark and white, with black lettering, and secured in a strong, aluminium frame, it was nailed to a thick, wooden post – "PLAGUE WARNING."

I stood before that notice like a small boy standing before a black-bedecked church dignitary who, with arms waving and punching the air, was meting out dire warnings from HELL!

What I gathered from the sign was that chipmunks and other wild creatures in the area might be infected with plague (Whatever ‘plague’ happened to be) and it could be transmitted by not only the animal’s bite, but from the bite of its fleas – not to mention other gory insects that may be around at the same time…

The sign advised us not to play with (I think) the grizzly bears and mountain lions and other such animals for fear of catching something nasty. And certainly it was advisable to keep our domestic animals on leads. Although, how a lead was going to prevent a plague-ridden flea from jumping onto Fido’s back and taking a bite out of him I’ve no idea.

It also indicated (with a shrug of the shoulders, I imagine) that if you happened to feel ill at anytime after you had visited this particular area, you should seek medical assistance…

The sign didn’t have one word to say about tick fever and Rocky Mountain spotted fever. I decided that they must be the icing on the cake.

At this point, I began to realise that there are aspects - ancient and modern - of the Wild West that Zane Grey, and Will Henry, and Bret Harte, and Jack London, and all the rest of the bloody Wild West merchants, hadn’t told us about.

Well, I’m here now. So sod it. I’ll have to live with it, plague or no plague.

I stepped resolutely out onto Adeline’s land …

Actually, I felt better than that. I felt great. We were busy loading Jimmy up, and soon we would be on our way to Laramie, Wyoming.

Mark suggested we get an early start and have our breakfast later on. However, I thought that perhaps it wouldn’t do us any harm to call in at "Denny’s" for a quick cup of coffee, just to wake us up. Mark agreed, and, with the last piece of luggage safely stowed, he slammed down Jimmy’s hatchback rear door.

It didn’t take long to sign out of the motel and hand in the key, and in next to no time we were pulling onto "Denny’s" forecourt.

Blondie and her two pals, Brunette and Ginger, kept us mightily supplied with coffee from the big, white, enamel jug which seems to be an essential part of the American diner scene. It is always there, dangling from the arm of some attentive waitress, who is either doing the rounds, or hovering in the background waiting to pounce on some unwary customer who has dared to empty his cup.

And since you don’t have to pay for these top-ups, I think the sole object of the jug’s constant presence is to prevent a diner from drinking up and leaving the restaurant before he’s had time to consider a second helping of the apple-pie he has just downed.

Either that, or those waitresses must have loved the Brits. For I never saw any of "Denny’s" other diners drink as much coffee as we did that morning.

All I know is that the early start was forgotten. We sat there long enough to conduct a full debate on the politics of business, and the business of politics, while we each consumed a breakfast which was supposed to have been taken later that morning…

Finally – with the world’s business and national politics probably no better off for our early morning efforts than they were before – we said goodbye and thanks to "Denny’s" and climbed back into Jimmy. We were off to Wyoming.

Or so I thought.

First – before we headed for Laramie – we were making a slight detour. We were going to visit the Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument, which was about 35 miles west of Colorado Springs, along the US 24.

‘Heavy snows in winter may occasionally cause hazardous driving conditions", the pamphlet said. It also said that ‘ticks spreading Colorado tick fever and Rocky Mountain spotted fever were common here in spring and early summer.’ Well, is that a fact, now?

As far as I could see, there was enough winter left in the north of America to introduce us quite easily to the ‘hazardous driving’ set-up.

And with local wisdom informing us that spring ‘had arrived early this year’, I knew deep in my quaking, apprehensive soul that – due west of here – the ticks of Colorado tick fever and Rocky Mountain spotted fever were busy and thriving.

They were, in fact, lining up column o’ route, breathlessly awaiting the season’s first bag - the blood-rich anatomies of a couple of dopey nuts from England who, even now, were only a few miles away, and speeding happily towards them.

I wondered, yet again, what my son was getting me into.

    बनारसीपने में सुकरात का घर का नाम मैंने दिया - बमबम । बमबम की बुआ -संघमित्रा की शादी के वक्त आशीर्वाद देते वक्त हुए प्रख्यात गाँधीजन दादा धर्माधिकारी ने हम तीनों भाई बहन के लिए कहा था :" ये गुजबंगोड़िया हैं । गुजराती पिता , बंगाली नानी और ओड़िया नाना होने के कारण ।" जीजाजी मराठी हैं इसलिए उनकी बच्ची - महागुजबंगोड़िया - यह दादा कह गए ! सुकरात ने इस प्रक्रिया को जारी रखा , व्यापक बनाया ।

    सुकरात की सगाई कल सम्पन्न हुई । सगाई के लिए गंगटोक से पूर्णतय: स्त्री सदस्यों का दल तीन दिन की यात्रा कर अहमदाबाद पहुँचा था । सुकरात अहमदाबाद टाइम्स ऑफ़ इण्डिया में कॉपी एडिटर है और उसकी मंगेतर पूजा कम्प्यूटर साइन्स की प्रवक्ता है , गंगटोक में । कल हुए आयोजन में नचिकेता ने आभासी नाते के प्रत्यक्ष सम्बन्ध बन जाने पर खुशी व्यक्त की । सुकरात ने पूजा को अँगूठी पहनाई उसके पहले उसे नेपाली टोपी पहनाई गई , एक खुकरी दी गयी तथा पूजा की माँ और चाची ने घोषणा की : " गोरखा समाज सुकरात को दामाद के रूप में कबूलेगा । " नेपाली टोपी मेरे भाई और मेरे जीजाजी को भी पहनाई गई । असम के लाल किनार वाले अँगोछे की तरह इस टोपी के महत्व का अहसास हुआ । हमें कोई टोपी न पहना सका लेकिन काशी में बैठे-बैठे हमने बमबम और पूजा को आशीर्वाद दिया ।

  १

  २

  ३

[ चित्र : १. सुकरात और पूजा , २.  सिलीगुड़ी का दल , ३. नेपाली टोपी ]

So did most of Wednesday, come to think.

Forty-eight hours of infamous jet lag had thrown a filigree veil over my head, in the same manner that a South Sea fisherman would cast his net wide.

Darting little silver fish, desperately trying to escape the fisherman’s guile would fail miserably. Just like my darting little silver thoughts, desperately trying to wriggle a way through the cobweb veil, which still had my groping mentality entangled within its spectral mists.

It was as if I were moving through a shaded forest wherein, on occasion, I would reach a bright patch, a clearing where sunlight would filter through and open up my clouded vision.

At such moments, I would become aware that I was following Mark around a huge, brightly lit supermarket. Or that we were in a diner, or a restaurant, where I would be mumbling, zombie-like, my dietary preferences as he despairingly consulted a menu and ordered for us both.

It was Wednesday, I think, during one such ’oasis’ of clarity that Mark said: "We’re going to Castle Rock, this morning."

I decided at once that this is where it all starts - the big adventure. This is where I start seeing the sights…

"Where’s Castle Rock, then?"

"About eight or ten miles south on Interstate 25. Not very far, but it’s worth a visit."

Castle Rock. I took this to be, probably, a towering needle of red sandstone, growing out of some desert; a phallic edifice, which probably had been thrusting its macho proportions at wide-open desert skies for a million years or more.

I was wrong.

Castle Rock turned out to be a popular little colony of factory outlets: retail shops and warehouses - which are located soon after leaving Interstate 25 at Exit 184.

The shops and warehouses are owned by the factories supplying them, which, of course, make a point of supplying their outlets at rock-bottom prices. This, as a consequence, encourages retailers to accept lower profit margins, thereby satisfying the public’s demand for ‘bargains’.

It was here, at Castle Rock, that my son led me to a vast emporium, which was staffed and supplied by Levi – the jeans people.

Apart from the tiny island in the middle of the floor where two young ladies took your money, jeans, jeans, and more jeans occupied the whole enormous place. Climbing up the high walls were tens of dozens of jeans of all sizes, styles and colours. And they were stacked on shelves that ascended proudly from floor to ceiling.

I decided, at this point, that if they hadn’t got what you wanted at Levi’s, then they hadn’t got it anywhere, and you would have to go naked in the streets…

"If he wants to buy clothes, you choose them. He’s hopeless."

Such were his mother’s words to Mark just before we left England. He was as good as her words. He marched me through this mighty labyrinth of jeans and accessories. Then he started to choose.

I’d never worn jeans in my life. For one thing, they reminded me of the bib and brace overalls that I had worn for my first day as an industrial worker. For another, I just could not understand why the younger generation looked upon them as clothes for social occasions – or for any occasion for that matter…

But now I’m in America, I notice it isn’t just the youngsters that seem to be caught up in the wearing of jeans anytime and anywhere. I swear that old chap over there is seventy if he’s a day. He’s parading around like a teenager. And he’s wearing jeans…

The hall was well populated with browsing shoppers, evidence of how universally accepted was an item of clothing to which I, personally, had never given a moment’s consideration.

I left it all to Mark. He strode up and down the shelves, examining a pile of denim here and a pile of denim there, perusing their labels, and, occasionally, sweeping me up and down with a skilful eye.

Finally, satisfied, he handed me a neatly folded pack of blue jeans. "Try these on", he ordered.

Directing me towards the changing rooms, he waited outside while I went through a doorway to find myself facing a choice of five or six curtained cubicles on each side of a short passage. I entered a vacant booth.

I stepped out of my corduroy trousers and pulled on the jeans. I thought I was donning a couple of tubes of moulded sheet steel. The denim cloth felt hard and unrelenting. Even the denims we wore doing fatigue duty during National Service were softer than this abrasive material. What was he getting me into?

What he was getting me into was certainly the hardest cloth I had ever encountered. I’d heard that denim jeans last forever, so maybe they would turn out to be the hardest-wearing pair of ‘trousers’ I’d ever slid over my legs. We’ll see…

I left the booth and went out into the main store, where Mark was waiting for me. The iron touch of denim cloth scraped at my knees and thighs as I twisted and turned like some bimbo model parading her gown before a prospective, socialite customer.

I felt a little self-conscious. Other people were moving about in the area as they glanced over what Levi had on offer. I wondered what they were thinking: ‘What’s so special about this old guy and his new jeans (an ordinary wear-every-minute-of-the-day garment to them…) that he has to be guided in choice by the young feller with him?’

Mark nodded his approval. "Just the job", he said. "They look good on you."

His acceptance encouraged me a little.

I shrugged off any curious glances in my direction. How could these folk understand that a considerable amount of metamorphosis was taking place before their very eyes. In fact, I felt like a young lad trying on his first pair of long trousers…

Half an hour later I was onto another ‘first’- trainers.

I had always looked upon trainers as glorified ‘pumps’ – the cheap canvas and rubber footwear that impoverished parents bought for their kids instead of shoes during the early thirties.

But I revelled now in the feeling of comfort my new trainers offered as a result of their contoured insoles. They went a long way towards supporting ageing feet that had developed an unfortunate tendency towards fallen arches.

Suddenly, I felt I was ready. Ready for Mark’s deserts. Ready for Mark’s canyons. Ready for anything!

I’d slept well all night, and now I was wide awake.

The fact that it was still dark was due, no doubt, to Colorado’s time zoning. It was obviously having the same effect on daylight as did our own British Summer Time…

In the darkness to my right, I could just hear my son’s deep, regular breathing.

Mark was badly in need of sleep after his two flights across the Atlantic in one weekend, and I slid out of bed carefully so as not to disturb him.

Quietly, I felt my way to the bathroom. Once inside, I closed the door noiselessly and switched on the light.

I was startled for a moment as the extractor-fan started whirring above my head. I had forgotten that the switch was dual-purpose and actuated the fan as well as the light. Actually, it was more than a whirring sound I was hearing. There was a slight rattle from the fan, as well – probably due to a worn bearing.

I was concerned that the noise may have disturbed Mark. There was little chance of that, though. As a rule, he swims beneath the surface, and usually finishes up with the blankets well over his head.

Besides which, the bathroom door was tight shut, and the mere flushing of the toilet would not create a bigger racket than was being caused by the extractor-fan.

I flushed the toilet…

I wondered what time it was, here in the United States. Should I take a quick look?

My watch was on the dressing table. If I left the bathroom door open slightly, I would be able to see the time in the half-light from the bathroom.

The toilet cistern was still re-filling. I waited for the hissing to stop, then, disregarding the rattling whirr of the fan, I ducked quickly out of the bathroom.

In the semi-darkness, I picked up my watch and blinked obliquely at its face, which was dimly illumined in the bounced light from the bathroom. It was seven o’clock.

A bit early, really – a little too early for holidaymakers to be dragging themselves out of bed. And I wanted Mark to wake up ‘naturally’, in his own time…

There was nothing for it but to go back to bed for an hour - or until Mark came alive.

I switched our room back into silent darkness and groped my way back to bed. Not to sleep. To await daylight. Or for my son to resurface…

I don’t know how long I lay there. It was as if I was watching a film show. My restless mind played ceaselessly with colourful pictures my imagination – working overtime – was conjuring up about the odyssey upon which I was about to embark.

What was the scenario that was likely to lead me into the experience of a lifetime? I had no idea what was in store. Apart from the cousin-seeking detour, which would be taking us soon through the Rocky Mountains, Mark had not discussed with me any specific itinerary.

I decided that, because I was right here beside him, he was restraining the outpourings of his own enthusiasm – wanting me to see for myself amazing natural happenings, or breathtaking spectacles, without the doubtful benefit of his probably inadequate descriptions acting as precursors.

Mark’s bed creaked as he turned over in his sleep. I heard the soft sigh that comes of a sleeper who has adjusted to a new and more comfortable position.

I hoped for a moment that he was waking up. But he wasn’t.

I lay there for what must have been over an hour. It was at least eight o’clock by now, surely…

I looked towards the window. What time does it get light, for God’s sake? Colorado Time is worse than British Summer Time!

I pondered that outside our dark and quiet room was another life. Potentially, it was a thrilling, exciting kind of life. America was beckoning with a giant forefinger.

Yet here I lay, trapped and frustrated, inside a suffocating black shroud.

I could stand it no longer. I had to break out.

I couldn’t shake Mark. That seemed a bit heartless. On the other hand, I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to let him sleep on until lunchtime. We had a lot of shopping to do before we began out trek in earnest, so it was better to be up and about…

I made up my mind. I switched on my reading-lamp, bounced out of bed, and made my way to the bathroom. On went the light and the rattling extractor-fan. I left the door wide open.

A great shaft of illumination spilled out onto the luggage corner and deflected to merge with that from my reading-lamp. Stultifying darkness was gone. I felt free and alive. My soaring, runaway spirit could now make preparations for the heady prospect of facing my first full day in America!

I turned on the taps and let the water rush forcefully into the washbowl. I watched it swirl cleanly around the smooth, white, sloping sides of the porcelain before it gurgled merrily down the plughole to pursue its inevitable destiny.

I brushed my teeth, had a quick wash, and began to towel myself dry. While I was doing so, I stepped out of the bathroom to take a glance in Mark’s direction. The edge of the blanket near the unoccupied pillow was beginning to move. It looked like he might be about to break surface…

I watched gleefully as my son’s tousled brown hair slowly came into view. Finally, his head lifted. He made a supreme effort and, laboriously, managed to turn his face towards me.

"Dad", he mumbled. "What are you doing? You’ll wake everybody up."

"I’m having a wash", I replied. "It’s eight o’clock – time to get up."

Mark reached for his watch. He squinted painfully at the time. Then he peered back at me.

"What are you going on about? It’s only half-past-two…!"

For a second or two I couldn’t take in what he was saying.

"How can it be half-past-two? It was seven o’clock when I checked my watch, and that was over an hour ago!"

"You’d better check again. It must have stopped, or something."

Mark pulled the blankets back over his head and went back to sleep.

I went over to the dressing table. He was right. Two-thirty. But how could it be? It had definitely said seven o’clock.

Then I caught on.

Earlier, I’d examined my watch in semi-darkness. When I picked it up it was upside down! It had been reading one-thirty, but upside down it would have seemed like seven o’clock.

Idiot!

Then I realised something else. For the first time in my life, I was experiencing the effects of the phenomenon known to all intrepid air-travellers as…jet lag.

My body clock was telling me I shouldn’t be asleep. I should be up and about. Jet -lag, together with my upside down watch, had been telling me to get up!

Poor Mark. And I thought I was being kind…

Mark had slid back into his cocoon, utterly resigned to his fate. Three weeks with his old man, and this was only the first day!

I slipped quickly into the bathroom. I put out the light and quietened the fan. Sheepishly, I crawled back into bed. I reached up and pulled the cord on my reading-lamp. All-enveloping darkness enfolded me, once again, to its triumphant bosom.

My head touched the pillow. Faraway, I heard someone snoring.

I think it was me.

"Where are we going?" I asked my son.

"Dunno", he shrugged. "I know as much about Denver as you do. We’ll call in at the first decent place we come to."

He started the engine and adjusted the gearshift. The car rolled slowly over a thin layer of crackling snow towards the car-park exit.

Mark chose a left turn and joined a long line of slow-moving vehicles, their exhausts steaming white in the frosty air. We had travelled no further than five hundred yards before we spotted ‘Denny’s.’

We swept off the road onto the diner’s small forecourt.

‘Denny’s’ was to become our favourite coffee-stop in the few days we stayed in Denver – both at the beginning, and at the end of our trip to the United States.

Through the large polished windows, this bright little diner looked ‘comfortable.’ It seemed the sort of establishment where you could order a coffee and read a book. And nobody would bother you.

We pushed open the glass-fronted doors and walked into a small, square vestibule where my nostrils were assailed at once by a delightful variety of appetizing cooking odours. They seemed to be drifting from an unseen kitchen situated to one side of the well-filled dining room.

My taste buds reacted at once. I began to look forward with a keen and eager appetite to whatever gastronomic treasures that ‘Denny’s’ was about to spread before us.

A pretty blonde, in waitress uniform, was bent over a table making notes on her order-pad. She looked up as we entered and her blue eyes sparked off an electric welcome.

Pocketing her order-pad, Blondie came towards us. Her smile was wide and brilliant.

"Hi, guys", she chirruped, as if greeting two old friends. Where would you like to sit?"

I’ll remember her always, our little fair-haired waitress. Somehow, her cheerful greeting and her easy friendliness cut through my self-conscious timidity and dispersed any lingering doubts I may have had regarding my right to a place in the American sun. As she led us to a table, I noticed I had been dead right about ‘Denny’s…’

In one corner sat a middle-aged man. He was alone. In front of him was a cup of coffee. He was reading a book.

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The City of Denver hummed with noise and bustle. Stolid-looking business houses, standing shoulder to shoulder, nudged each other speculatively as they gazed down on the busy criss-cross of city life buzzing to and fro beneath their noble structures.

Denver was a typical big city; it’s throbbing heart being the commercial district, into which we had driven via one of the many roads, which made up its pattern of arteries. Through these arteries surged the life-blood of the city – it’s people, and it’s traffic and it’s business, and it’s clamour, and it’s movement; all of these the vital life-signs of a thriving, pulsating metropolis. Mark and I had just become part of it…

Traffic was brisk, but the roads uncongested as an easy flow of snorting automobiles was conducted with orchestral nicety by high-placed, overhead traffic lights. Pedestrians, in their turn, came under the guardianship of robot crossing controllers, which blinked out their instructions to ‘Walk’ or ‘Don’t Walk’ according to whether traffic was stopped or moving ahead.

Sometimes a tooting horn would warn some happy wanderer that he was about to be annihilated. But, overall, discipline on the roads and pavements was good and Mark was able to drive through this shifting maze with ease and efficiency.

Meanwhile, I was keeping a lookout for something called Motel 6, where Mark had told me we would be staying while we equipped ourselves with appropriate clothing and provisions for the coming adventure.

Presto! It was there, standing just off from a lively, main thoroughfare. Mark made a deft right turn onto its wide, and almost empty forecourt.

Motel 6 was adequate-looking, two stories high, and low-slung compared with some of its taller neighbours. Each of the floors housed three-dozen or so small apartments, which were accessed along balcony walkways stretching the whole length and breadth of the motel’s long, squat containment.

At one end of the lower walkway was a small office where, I presumed, we would be making our request for accommodation.

Mark drew up outside the office and jumped out of the car. Reaching for his wallet, he pushed open the office door and went in.

I took a glance around the car park. Didn’t seem to be many cars about. I thought maybe the place might not be all that popular. I began to consider one or two things that might give these motels a bad reputation…

Then again, the current residents might be out on business. Motels did cater for travelling-salesmen, after all. Other residents could be on holiday, like us, and just having a look around the city. The motel might even prove to be too popular!

God, I hope there are vacancies. I don’t fancy scouring the area looking for somewhere to stay…

The office-door opened and Mark came out. "OK", he beamed as he climbed back behind the wheel. "We’ve got a room on the ground floor".

Mark drove the car round to the rear of the building and parked near the door to our apartment. He went to the door and inserted the key. I followed him in.

I was surprised. I had expected to see something of rather an austere nature, considering the fact that Mark had told me that motels made a relatively low charge for their rooms. Instead, I found myself surrounded by comparative luxury.

The walls of our room were decorated in a cool, pastel shade. Against one of the walls was a pair of nicely sprung twin beds, above which were fitted discreet little reading-lamps. Between the beds, standing side-by-side, were two, polished-wood lockers, on one of which lay the inevitable Holy Bible.

Further along the wall, a door opened to reveal a bathroom of glistening chrome rails and tiles of sparkling white. A generous supply of freshly laundered towels was stacked neatly on a shelf, ready for use.

The wall adjacent to the bathroom sported broad, inch-thick shelves for the storage of luggage, whilst opposite the beds was a dressing table, again of polished wood. Above it, the long vanity mirror could be illuminated at the touch of a flick-switch.

A red telephone sat smugly at one end of the dressing table, awaiting the slightest desire for outside contact.

The room was warm. I tested the radiator, which stood beneath the small, curtained window. It was hot to the touch. Mark turned it down a little. "C’mon", he said. "Let’s get the cases in".