TALK ABOUT THE WEATHER

By Doug Hoekstra

It doesn’t matter where you go; people love to talk about the weather.  They like to brag about how their weather is colder, hotter, wetter, windier and simply more unpredictable than the place from whence you came.   And, they’re often right; I often leave their villages and towns and cities completely unable to imagine what it’s like to live in such hostile climate zones.  Except when it comes to the cold, for I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, and spent a quarter century of my life shoveling snow, pushing cars out of three foot drifts, and standing under heat lamps in sub-zero temperatures, waiting for yet another long delayed subway train.   That’s also why, as a full-grown traveling musician, I have no problem touring in wintertime.  I’m working anyway, and when it comes to cold, I can handle anything they throw my way.

This was my thinking when I flew over to the U.K. for my fifth tour of that fine country, to promote yet another well-reviewed, poorly selling recorded work of songcraft.   It was the end of January and I hopped from Nashville to Chicago to London to get there, the flights were smooth and without travails, and I even caught some sleep on the last leg.  For the first day and a half,  I stayed at my friend Gail’s flat just outside of the  Islington neighborhood, Tony Blair’s old stomping grounds.  Gail’s a radio presenter who I met several years before, and as I waited for her to meet me at Paddington Station, Tuesday morning, I sipped on a hot coffee to fight the  chill in the air,  It was in the mid-40s, Fahrenheit, wet and cold, but certainly not as bitter as the winters I remembered my hometown.   While I was in London, I shopped for toys for my son at Hanbury’s, toured the Tate, and got some takeaway curry from the neighborhood Tesco.  I also spent some time at the internet café down the block, where the native African proprietor called me “boss” every time he spoke to me, which I found quite disconcerting.  “Need some help, boss?” “That’s ten quid, boss.”      The first night in town I crashed early; the second night, Gail was out seeing a show with a friend, so it was mellow to-myself-time.   

On Thursday, I caught the train at Victoria which took me south to Brighton-by-the-sea for my first gig of the tour at the Sussex Arts Club, a lovely venue close to the waterfront.  My friend Rachel, who lives in Brighton, sang with me at the gig.   The show went well, decent numbers, good response, and there were some old pals in the house.  I stayed at Paul and Ashley’s, friends who I met several years before at my first gig in Brighton.  They have a posh guest room on the third floor of their townhouse, resplendent with a comfy futon and a view of the city and the sea beyond.  I call it the Skylight Lounge.   Back at the house, we had a nice time sitting up and talked about life and art and music and politics, how much we like Bob Dylan’s records, and how much we dislike the current U.S. president select.

Then, Friday afternoon, it was back up to London on the train for a show in Soho, at the Borderline.   It was getting a little colder, dropping to the low 40s, but of course, it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.  Rachel joined me on the train and sang with me at the show.  It started to drizzle as we got off the train and went outside to catch a double decker bus to the gig.   Riding along, I looked out the window and noticed posters everywhere for the city’s two leading musicals - one based on the music of Queen, the other on the music of Rod Stewart.   Is this what it’s all come to, I thought?   I stared silently down at my purple guitar case.  Am I part of the problem or the solution?   One puts those thoughts out of one’s mind, though, when one has work to do.  The show went well, with decent numbers, good response, and there were some old pals in the house.   Afterwards, I was in the office getting paid, chatting a bit with the manager on duty and the sound man.  The sound man asked where I was off to next.  

“Cambridge,” I said, “I’m working my way up to Scotland.”

 “Oooh, that’s rough, mate,” he said, “supposed to be a blizzard coming.” 

 “Really?’

 “Oh yeah, we had one a couple years ago,” he added, “and it shut everything down.  Terrible it was”

Hmmm.  That got me thinking a bit, but I shrugged it off pretty quickly.   What can you do?  You can’t control the weather.

Back at the flat, Gail and I had a nice time sitting up and talking about life and art and music and politics, how much we like Tom Ovans’ records and probably because she’s Canadian, we didn’t say too much about the former governor of Texas.  Those Canadians are awfully polite, you know.

The next day, Saturday, I took a cab from her place to Heathrow to pick up my car for hire.  I wound up with a stick shift, which I can’t drive very well, but the price difference was enough to turn me into a committed novice.   Or a novice who should be committed, as I pictured myself barreling along on the wrong side of the road, frantically grasping for the clutch as the driving snow piled up on the road.  But, one always has to be up for a challenge.   As it turned out, the drive on the M11 up to Cambridge was uneventful.   There were clear blue skies above me as I drove, and the sun even shone for most of the ninety minute ride.

   In Cambridge, I stayed at Rob and Antja’s house; they are musicians I met several years before.  Upon arrival, I went upstairs to take a shower and generously applied the splendid spearmint liquid soap they had on hand and recommended, which as promised, completely invigorated me.   That night I played a series called Acoustic Routes, at a venue called C2.    The show went well, decent numbers (sold out, actually), good response, and there were some old pals in the house.   Afterwards, there was a post-gig party and one of the promoters of the series asked me where I was off to next.

 “Barton-Upon Humber,” I said, “I’m working my way up north to Scotland.” 

  Oooh,” she said, “there’s supposed to be some heavy snows coming.  Hope you make it okay.” 

 “Really?’  

 “Oh, yeah, it doesn’t snow much here, but when it does.” she paused, “it completely shuts down the country.  It’s bloody awful.”   

 That got me thinking a bit, and a bit more, but again, I shrugged it off.   After all, you can’t control the weather.

Back at the house, Rob, Antja and I had a nice time sitting up and talking about life and art and music and politics; how much we like Johnny Cash’s records, and since Rob is British and Antja is German, we spent quite a bit of time talking about how much we don’t like the guy in the White House, the one with lifelong ties to Saudi oil interests. 

The next morning, Rob showed me how to make toasted soldiers for my little boy.  You hard-boil eggs, but only half the time you normally would, so you still have plenty of yoke inside.   Then you break off the top of the shell with a knife, tear up little strips of toast and dip them inside.       Apparently, this is what Rob’s parents did for him when he was young, to get him to eat eggs.  He also told me how his Dad used to listen to Johnny Cash every Sunday morning, because he considered that his church.   And, it made for fine Sunday morning conversation, which I hated to leave behind as I got in the car for my drive north to Barton-Upon-Humber. 

My map said 139 miles to Barton, and so indeed, it was a longer trek, but it was a Sunday afternoon and consequently, free of heavy traffic.   I felt a tick in my throat coming on, but I kept drinking water and sucking on throat lozenges.    My fatigue lead to worry as I drove on and tuned in  to the BBC and heard weathercasters glooming and dooming over the coming snows, gleefully citing potential pitfalls as all newscasters seem to these days.   And then, my spirits were lifted as I approached the Hull Bridge and caught a beautiful late afternoon sunset.  I even took a picture of it with one hand while I was driving.  

In Barton, I was playing a place called Carnival Inn, and once I got there and said “I’m here,”  the cook made me some great curry which gave me a little bit more energy.    I caught up on some newspapers while I ate and the folks  from my record label came and we chatted awhile and pretty soon it was time to go on   The show went well, decent numbers, good response, and there were some old pals in the house.   I sold a goodly number of CDs, and afterwards, I was signing one for a fan when he asked me where I was headed next.

“Liverpool,” I said, “I’m working my way…”

“Oh, goodness, no,” he interrupted, “that’s right where the snow’s going to hit, mate.  I hope they have the gritters out.  I hope you make it.”   

 “That bad?’

 “Oh, yes, last time we had snow, they had no gritters at all and it was terrible.”  He paused, shaking his head.  “It turned the whole country upside down.  You couldn’t go anywhere, do anything…”   I handed him his CD and he thanked me.   “But I reckon you’ll be okay.” 

 On what he based the last statement, based on the statements before, I didn’t know.  But, you know, once again, I shrugged it off, there are some things we can’t control, I kept saying, over and over and over to myself.   Besides,  I was feeling more poorly by the minute and just wanted to get some rest.

That night, I was supposed to stay at the booker’s house, but there was some strange “emergency” (the snows?) that caused him to set things up at a friend’s instead.  The fellow’s name was Gray, a bald (not that there’s anything wrong with that) karaoke singer who wore lots of cologne and gold chains, bemoaned the fact that karaoke singers were looked down upon by artists who played instruments, and confessed that he went into local chat rooms disguised as a woman to find out what other people were saying about his act.     We might have had a nice time talking about life and art and politics; some music we liked and you-know-who, but he was really obsessed with validating his craft.  “Like I don’t do ‘Hey Baby’’ he said, “everyone does that.  Bollocks, it is.  No, I’ll mix it up, surprise ‘em.  I’m an entertainer.”  I listened and nodded and felt a fever creep into my body, on this night, of all nights, the one night I wasn’t staying with friends.  Sure enough, when I finally got to flop down on his rollaway couch, my body was raging.  

I tossed and turned, got up to gargle with salt water, started popping Vitamin C like mad, and wrapped a cold wet towel around my head.  Between it all, I slept a little, and prayed a lot.  I don’t like to bother God which insignificant personal requests, but I thought of my wife and little boy back home and vehemently did not want to wind up hospitalized with a fever in Barton-Upon-Humber in the middle of a snowstorm.  All so I could continue in that great rock and roll tradition, now being carried on by Queen and Rod Stewart musicals?

Well, He or She must’ve had someone on the case, because when I woke up the next day, Monday morning, I felt better, good enough to make it to Liverpool.   I was thankful I didn’t have a show that night, my only off day.  Along the way I took lots of aspirin, my secular humanistic side thanking modern medicine, and drove the width of the country in a little under three hours.   I was on the M62, the country’s busiest thoroughfare, but my timing was good, and I missed most of the rush hours.  And, while I was driving those 128 miles, I was, of course, looking, anticipating, and searching anxiously for the snow.   The temperature had dropped a little more, to about 35 degrees, but there was no sign of the impending blizzard.  There were lots of gritters on the highway, however, and through observation, I learned they were the U.K. equivalent of salt trucks.  

When I got to Liverpool, I headed straight to Mossley Hill, which is near to Penny Lane and the area John, Paul and George grew up in, for all you Beatles fan.   I was staying with my friend Mark, a fine music journalist and supporter I met several years before.  He and his pals made a terrific dinner and we had a nice time talking about life and art and music and politics; how much we like Matt Hill’s music and how many people really protested the war in London (since Mark was there) and how it doesn’t get reported in the States and how we don’t like the former Yale cheerleader who now has an oval office. 

Of course, before I went to bed, I asked Mark about the snows, bracing myself for the answer.  “What snows?” he said, “we never get snow here, we’re too close to the sea.”   And, so I had a sigh of relief and I slept well and I slept late.  The next morning, Tuesday, I squeezed in a quick visit to the Tate Liverpool Gallery down by Albert Dock, where I saw some fine modern art, Picasso and Rivera, among the best.    Back outside, I could tell it was definitely getting colder, no doubt about it, the wind whipped off the Mersey River, hitting me square in the face as I walked through the parking lot and back to my car.  The wind chill had probably dipped below zero at this point, more akin to the winters I was so familiar with from my childhood.   My fever had disappeared, but I was still pretty tired and my throat was raw.

After the Albert Dock, it was out of town and back onto the M62, 35 miles east to Manchester.    When I got there, I pulled into City Centre and asked directions to the venue, Briton’s Protection Agency.  It’s a little pub dating back to 1811, located behind the Bridgewater Hall, a state-of-the-art international concert hall built in 1996.    No one had heard of either place.   So, I persevered on my own and finally made it through all the twisty one-way streets without incident, found the barely marked little stretch of road that is Bridgewater Street and parked at the train station across the street.  

The venue was on the second floor above a pub, it was something like an old fashioned meeting room for gentlemen of the Victorian day, you could picture them back in the day smoking their pipes and twirling their handlebar moustaches as they launched into a discussion about the queen. There were windows all along the side of the room and about midway through my set, I noticed finally, as advertised…large crystal snowflakes falling gently and steadily to the ground.    They were coming down singularly and in white waves, just like the snow I used to watch out my bedroom window so many years before.    I’m a sucker for making any part of gig another part of the gig and so in-between songs I referred to the snow and told the crowd I was heading to Edinburgh the next morning.  I asked if I’d make it okay.  I got lots of groans and mutterings of conversation in return, and I heard someone say “If you start right now”.   And, so I knocked off the snow talk and got back to the music. 

The show went well, though, with decent numbers, good response, and some old pals in the house.   Afterwards, I was talking with a musician I knew from the city and he asked if it was true I was heading up to Edinburgh the next day.  

“Yeah,” I said, “and after that, I work my way up to the Highlands.” 

He shook his head.  “Rough one.” he said, glancing at the snow still falling outside.  “that’s where it’ll be worst.   I’d call ahead, make sure none of the shows are cancelled” 

 “You don’t say?’

 “Oh, yeah, last time we had this, bands everywhere were stranded.  Tours fucked up.  I heard some stories.  It was ‘orrible.”   I began to feel anxious.    “But, what can you do?” he said, smiling, “no worries, eh?  Show must go on!”    Thanks a lot, I thought to myself, nodding absentmindedly, as I ran through a checklist of potential disasters.     To make matters worse, after he left, several more punters added their warnings, seemingly rehearsed as if to pile new horrors on with each telling.  It was like having a roomful of my parents at my disposal, warning me of pitfalls without providing any real solution.

I stayed at my friend Matt’s house that night, he’s another musician from Manchester who I met several years before, and indeed, it was his music we were praising in Liverpool.   He had just finished his new record and he played me some of it, and it was very good.  I was still a little nervous about the snows, though, so I excused myself to check the weather on the net and called my friend Paula up north to see how things were in Edinburgh.  Cold, but no snow problems, she said.    Matt and I had nice time sitting up and talking about life and art and politics, how much we like Elvis Presley’s music, and how much we disliked both Tony Blair and the rancher from Crawford, Texas, for all their “misinformation” about Weapons of Mass Destruction.    When I was getting ready to hit it, Matt really helped me out by making a great bedtime cold concoction, tea and whiskey and something else, I couldn’t even tell you what all he threw in there, but it put me out and cleared me up, big-time.  

The next morning, Wednesday, I got up pretty early because I wanted to leave myself enough time to get to Edinburgh, my map said 222 miles, so you add on the snow and well, there was no telling.  I had a pre-gig live interview scheduled at the BBC for 6, but they wanted me there an hour early to set up.   I had planned on giving Matt a lift to the doctor’s before heading out, and as he opened the front door, we were both quite surprised by what we saw.   There was at least two to three inches of unshoveled snow on the ground and the street and the car, and more was still falling.   He had been one of the calm ones from the night before,  in regards to my journey, but even he looked a little shook by what the morning had brought.  He said he’d never seen that much snow in Manchester.   The roads streets weren’t plowed, but I drove through them okay, and after I dropped him off and got on the M6, it was a little slushy, and then, nearly clear.  My cold was a lot better and I hummed a little tune as I switched on the BBC.  Sure, they were still glooming and dooming, but the only closings were way up in the north of Scotland, secondary roads, nothing where I was headed.   It was all candy from here on in, I promised myself.

It was a promise broken a couple hours later, as I approached Carlisle and the high mountain land of Cumbria, when things finally, as so many had warned, became nasty.   There was a great deal of drifting and high winds and the highway shut down to one lane and traffic crawled to a slow bumper to bumper crawl.   The sky was literally dark with snow, ominous and foreboding.   But, I had time on my hands, and I stuck with it, and after about 45 minutes of 30 mph, I reached level ground again and soon I crossed into Scotland, one of my favorite spots in the world.  The sun came out and life was once again, big blue and beautiful.  Above me was a huge sky, and outside my car window, I saw miles of brown and white fields rolling up to greet snow-capped mountain peaks.   As I approached Edinburgh, I stopped and got out of my car to take a picture of the beautiful scenery.   The wind was still blowing and some drifting kissed the road, but funnily enough, I was passed by an elderly gentleman oblivious to it all, taking his afternoon stroll along the shoulder, walking stick in hand.

Amazingly, I arrived at the BBC in Edinburgh, which is located just off the Royal Mile, in the middle of town, ahead of schedule.  I even had time for a sandwich and some tea and a chat with the presenter, Clare, who I hadn’t met before.  She was lovely, particularly considering the mayhem in the studio that day.  In addition to the weather news, a very famous Scottish comedian had died, and the head of the BBC had just resigned due to the Hutton Report (Weapons of Mass Destruction furor).  You know, your average day.    Before we went live, she and I had a nice time having a short chat on life and art and music and politics; how much she likes my music (which was gracious); and how much we dislike the son of the 41st president of the U.S. 

At 6 p.m., Clare went on the air, live, and in between various segments I threw a couple performances and some talk into the mix.  Afterwards, Mark, the booker from the BBC, accompanied me on the short drive over into the Leith section of Edinburgh, where I was playing.  I felt for his white knuckles and pale expression of horror, as I had my worst driving spell yet, stalling at every other roundabout, probably because I was too busy telling him about all my weather scares.   The gig that night was at a wee pub called the Village and I split the bill with some friends who have a fine band they call Sunshine Delay,  Paula is the lead singer, and I’d met them several years before, shared gigs and hung out in Edinburgh, Portmahomack, Chicago, and Nashville.  The show went well, decent numbers, good response, and there were some old pals in the house.

After the show, however, the girl behind the bar asked where I was headed next.  “Perth,” I said, “On my way to the Highlands.”

 “Oh dear, you better call ahead.  It’ll be bad up there, the gritters never get up that way.”

“Will there be more snow?” 

“I think so, I think I’ve heard there’s another blast comin’.”

At this point, I was getting a bit worn out by the desperate weather warnings, particularly because after my trying and glorious drive through Cumbria, I thought I’d passed the worst of it.   But, once again, stoically, heroically, or perhaps, comically, I remembered you can’t control the weather.  Each day marked another destination made.

That night, I stayed at my friend Paula’s place, and back at the flat, she and her roommate and I had a nice time sitting up and talking about life and art and music a little bit, but we never got to politics, because she made us some toasties and everyone was too busy eating and then it was time to crash.

The next day, Thursday, I found the air in Edinburgh as cold on my skin as any experienced to date, it might have dipped below freezing without the wind chill.  But, it was sunny and the skies were clear, so as I scraped the ice off my windshield and got ready for my drive, I felt good.      It was a short hour drive to the next venue, the Famous Bein Inn, which is actually located in Glenfarg, south of Perth city, and is a place that is all too reminiscent of Fawlty Towers, if you’ve ever seen John Cleese play the hapless innkeeper.    The gigs at the Famous Bein Inn are poorly promoted and the whole operation seems like it moves forward in an increasing state of disrepair and neglect.   That said, it’s midway between Edinburgh and Aberdeen, and it makes for good routing, which is why so many play there.

I arrived without incident, plenty early, because the roads were completely clear, God Save the Queen and her gritters!   I chalked up another one for perseverance over exaggeration, or something like that.  Again, I was glad I was early, because it meant I’d have some rare time to chill and since I was in the middle of nowhere, I’d be forced to do just that, as opposed to dashing off to take in a diversion.  I got the key to my room, which was located in a long narrow hotel wing that was attached to the main building.   When I  walked inside, it had a strangely familiar air, but that really isn’t so unusual for a hotel, they tend to all look the same more or less.  Then, setting my suitcase in the closet, I noticed a leather belt lying on the top shelf.  Taking it down, it looked weirdly like a long lost accessory I’d misplaced on my last tour of England.  I put it on, and yes, that confirmed it, the belt fit me perfectly, and I doubt if there are many men with waists as narrow as mine.    This tells you something about how fully booked the Famous Bein Inn isn’t, and how well they clean their rooms, eh?   I looked in the drawers to see if there was anything else I left behind, a ten pound note, perhaps?  No luck.

The main traffic at the Famous Bein Inn is distinguished looking gentlemen who come eat at the restaurant and occasional music fans from the surrounding area who are diligent enough to look at the website and come for the shows.   As I killed time in front of the fireplace downstairs, I overheard two older fellows time talking about their fox hunts.   The proprietor of the Inn is, like the Basil Fawlty Cleese character, unable to cope, and prone to disappearing into his room.  Every time I asked the bar maid for assistance setting up sound or any sort of detail that needed the owner’s involvement, she told me was “unavailable”.  However, when I went back upstairs to my room to get some newspapers, I passed his living quarters, and heard loud Kinks music spilling into the hallway.  On the way down, I heard loud Who music blaring away.

The show didn’t go that well, the numbers were poor, but actually the response was positive, and there was at least one old pal in the house.   There was no sound man to ask me where I was headed next, but that role was taken up by the old pal.

 “Aberdeen,” I said, tired of the question and fearful of the response.  

”Dear me,” he said.   “That’s where the roads are closed.”

“Haven’t they cleared ‘em by now,” I asked, hopeful.

“I don’t know, but I heard the whole city was shut down.  Schools, shops, roads, everything.  They get it bad because they’re right on the sea, you know.”

“Is that, so?” 

“Sure.   Last time we got hit it was even worse.  I’d call ahead, you know, just to be sure.  It might be safer just to stay here an extra day.”   

Aberdeen is on the North Sea, but my friend in Liverpool told me they didn’t get bad weather because they were on the sea.  Which was it, I thought?    This fellow, Pete, was a nice man, and a supporter, so I lied and said I would -- call that is. 

Then, I went upstairs to my room.  There was no one to talk with about life, art, music, or politics.  I called my wife and son, as I always do, before going to sleep.  But, we spoke only briefly, as I needed to get up early the next day to get to Aberdeen.   My show was at 1 p.m. and I had to drive 87 miles up the coast, on A90, a secondary road.   Although I knew I had no control over the weather, I still hoped it was clear.

Since it was wintertime, it was still dark when I rose.  I was so glad to get out of the Famous Bein Inn that I skipped my free breakfast and hit the road with glee.  I stole a hair dryer, too; I never do that sort of thing, but it had a UK plug on it, for one, and for another, I knew I’d never take that booking again.   Despite the debacle of the night before, I remained optimistic, because I was completely over my illness, I only had six gigs left, and so far, I had outrun the weather.   As I headed north, the dusky sky became lighter, and so did my mood.   It was nothing but clear roads and weather, until about half an hour from Aberdeen, when a steady rain began to fall.   I pulled over at a little roadside café to get some coffee and a scone, which I thought was ironic since I’d just passed the Scone Castle.   As I walked inside, I noticed I was the only customer on hand.    I ordered and the woman behind the counter asked me where I was headed.

“Aberdeen,” I said, “and then over to Inverness after that.”

She paused.   “Watch out for the snows, now, we’re supposed to get more.”

My patience was growing thin.  I had to respond with more than a nod.

“It’s okay,” I said, “I’m a Chicagoan, so I’m kind of used to it.”

Never mind that I’ve lived in Nashville the last ten years, I’m still a Chicagoan, and drastic situations beg for drastic measures.

“I’ve been to Chicago once,” she said.  The snows there aren’t as bad as these, though.”  She put my scone into a bag, and handed me my coffee.  “The cold in Scotland is terrible, it cuts right through you.”

I gave up and went back to my car.

The Lemon Tree is a great venue, and though the lunchtime shows pay well, they can be a bit dodgy.  Sometimes you get the “wandered in for lunch, have no idea who’s playing and so I’m going to chatter through the whole set” people.  I had some of those at the beginning, but I really was able to grab other parts of the audience, and win them over, and get a little victory out of it.  So, I’d say the show went well, decent numbers, good response.  There were no old pals in the house, though apparently I made a new one, a fellow named Ian who sat up front; we had a short chat after that show and weeks later, I found the following entry on his blog:  “Caught Doug Hoekstra at the Lemon Tree on Friday lunchtime -- great relaxing set which improved my mood considerably during a tough day at work….he was a very nice down-to-earth bloke.  Good karma to him.”

I’m not blowing my own horn here, it’s just one man’s opinion, but it does show how sometimes one reaches people in ways one isn’t aware of, a truth for all walks of life.   Thankfully, as I hurriedly packed my gear, neither Ian nor the sound woman Fi asked me where I was headed.   There was nothing to plant the seed of worry, then, as I scooted away as quickly as I could, intent on making my 6 o’clock sound check in Inverness.      It may sound strange to book a gig in Aberdeen in the afternoon and Inverness at night, but, they’re only 105 miles away and as long as you’re headed forward, it works.   The drive on A96 would take a little longer, because you go through so many small towns, but as I drove, the sky began to darken and the BBC continued to gloom and doom.   But, I didn’t have that far to go, and I wasn’t too worried about what I couldn’t control.

Now, as you can tell, I don’t get much time on these tours to do any sightseeing, but one thing I like to do, and can usually squeeze in, is visiting the Standing Stone sights of Scotland.  It so fascinates me, these prehistoric cultures that set up these magical circles of stone, burial cairns, meeting henges, and ceremonial avenues.   They date back thousands of years B.C.; remnants of communities long since vanished from the earth.  Today, we can guess what some of these surviving paeans to ritual meant; but others remain unexplained. On previous trips, I’d visited Clava Cairns east of Inverness, and Easter Aquourthies Stone Circle off the very road I was traveling on.   Indeed, about twenty minutes out, as I approached the town of Inverurie, I came to a roundabout with a sign for Easter Aquorthies pointing one way, and a sign for the Brandsbutt Pictish Stone in the other direction.  

The Picts were a warrior tribe that probably originated as Celts in central Europe and moved into the Scottish Highlands after the ice age.   They were first referred to as Picts around 300 AD by a Roman writer, because the word “Picti” means “painted” in Latin.   Records indicate they either had lots of tattoos and/or painted themselves blue, long before teenage girls and the Blue Man Group, respectively, made such behavior chic.  The Picts built great duns (stone hill fortresses), crannogs (forts and houses built on stilts in lochs) and, unique to Scotland, brochs (stone towers tapering inward as they rise from the ground.)    The stones I was about to see would be a remnant of one of these structures.

I drove slowly, following arrows on markers for a few blocks, left and right and left, as I wove my way through a very suburban-style subdivision,  reminiscent of the town I grew up in.    I passed rows of single-story ranch houses with attached garages and manicured lawns, lined up with more space between them that you normally see in the cities of the U.K.    After a few turns, I wound up at  a little park tucked into the neighborhood, with a swing-set, dog walk, and a historical marker at what was presumably the entrance.  I got out to take a look, turned my collar up, and wiped away the tears that started rolling down my cheeks.  While, contrary to the scone lady, it still wasn’t as bad as Chicago, it was around freezing, and felt worse, as a brisk wind blew through the treeless terrain.   I walked over a grassy patch of land, up a slight hill, and then in the middle of the park, there were three stones about five feet high, right across the dogwalk from a bench and some shrubs.      I stood among them, closed my eyes, and tried to picture the past.  I listened to the silence in the air.  And, then I took a picture.

 As I hurried back to my car, I noticed a woman of about fifty standing by the sidewalk, at a bus stop, waiting.   She was the only person on the block besides me.   There was no sound of approaching cars, no cry of children playing, just the lonely whistle of the wind, breaking branches.   I said hello.  She nodded as I reached for the door and then shook her head.

“The snows are coming.”

These were her only words. 

I’d had it.  I couldn’t answer.  I was tired of the warnings, the worry, the snows promised, and the disasters that never came.   But, as the man in Manchester said, the show must go on.  And so that’s what happened, I drove on, and played that Friday night at the Maple Court Hotel in Inverness, and the next day at the Balconie Inn in Evanton, Sunday at the Waverley Hotel in Nairn, and on my final Monday night of the tour, at Stamps Bar in Liverpool.    And yes, each night, the show went well, decent numbers, good response, and some old pals in the house.   I had nice times sitting up with friends and talked about life and art and music politics, and how much we disliked the guy with the malaprops  who would soon be running for re-selection in the United States, but, no one, and I mean, no one,  talked of the weather.   Weirdly, the absence of questions regarding my destination and what it might hold began to puzzle me, until I got to Liverpool.

This time, I stayed at Steve and Ann’s house in Liverpool. Steve is a musician friend I met several years before.   He was out of town at a gig, but his wife and two kids were graciously putting me up in his absence.  I was sitting on the stoop waiting for Ann to come home when her next-door-neighbor came up to me and asked me who I was.   I told her, and she invited me over for a cup of tea.  Their house was abuzz with activity, and I sat down at the kitchen table and had a chat with this woman and her mother, who lived there, and the brother-in-law who came in to re-wallpaper the living room, and his wife, and her sister, who came along with the brother-in-law, and all their children of various ages who flowed in and out between rooms, dropping their schoolbooks on the floor, watching the telly, and grabbing snacks and cups of tea.  It was a great slice of life.   Believe it or not, we talked about life (I told them about my wife Molly and little son Jude and they passed his picture around the house) and music (which of course landed on the Beatles and people in the family who saw or knew various Beatles way-back-when).  And, though we didn’t talk politics, the mother did ask me where I was headed next.

“Tomorrow, I head back to London, to go back home.”

“Where are you flying from?”

“Heathrow”

“Oh, dear…have you heard about those planes?”

“No…”  I read the paper every day, but I hadn’t heard this one.

“They’re being grounded, out of Glasgow and London.  Terrorists, you know.  I’d call ahead, you know, make sure you’re not delayed another day.”  Her tone was solemn.  She seemed like she wasn’t telling me all of what she’d read.   “But, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

What could I say?

That night, Ann made dinner for the both of us and I got to meet her brand-new baby, Fae, and re-meet their older child Rosa.  The gig was just down the street at a place called Stamps, which I’d played on my last tour as well, the day after Queen’s Jubilee.  I’ll never forget walking in to their afternoon celebration and finding a British Frank Sinatra impersonator surrounded by banners and Union Jacks, ringing in the bank holiday.   This time I was splitting the bill with a transvestite poet named Chloe Poems.   The show went well, decent numbers, good response, and some old pals in the house.  

The next morning, at Heathrow, security was very heavy, with armed guards prominent. My carry-on luggage was searched thoroughly at two different entry points.   I’d since learned from the newspapers that they’d had tips that terrorists would be boarding planes carrying anthrax or biological weapons that they’d release on the plane so the passengers would become carriers.    My plane was severely under booked; there must have been fifty people in my entire section.   When we took off, I was able to lie down across the seats and go to sleep.   And, before drifting off, I looked at the graphic representation of our plane on the little screen in front of me, slowly heading westwards across the Atlantic Ocean, with nothing but clear skies in its way.

END

Doug Hoekstra was educated in Chicago (B.A / DePaul University) and Nashville (M.Ed. / Belmont University).  Hoekstra’s short fiction and non-fiction has appeared in a number of literary journals, and as a singer-songwriter, he has six well-received independent CD releases to his name.  He has toured the United States and Europe extensively, and the musical accompaniment to “Talk About the Weather” can be found in his forthcoming live CD Su Casa Mi Casa. He lives in Nashville with his wife, novelist Molly Hoekstra, and son Jude Aaron.  For more information, please refer to www.doughoekstra.com.

The Juke Jar                          Canopic Publishing