Growing, Growing, Gone!

This is a story taken from the collection "Blind Man's Buffet" which will be available in full later this year. The collection outlines my dad's experiences with blindness and this story in particular illustrates how he managed to find the fun in everything.

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Growing, Growing, Gone!

It was a cloud sniffling sort of September morning.  The type of morn that plainly signposts the rougher route through summer’s dregs towards bleaker climes.  Overcast and comfortless to the fuming cars and grumpy, old trucks perpetually phasing in and out of ear-shot like some confused tribe of rust-gargling nomads.

My 9 year old daughter, Rania was home from school with a cold.  And so was her friend, Rachel.  Both in MY home!  Baby-sitting 2 sick kids was not exactly my cup of tea that morning, especially on finding my supplies of Earl Grey nothing but an aromatic memory.

A quick committee decision on tea gathering needed taking.  And it was!  So, with a girl guide on each hand, and our chilly, little escapade well out of radar range of any over-protective motherly instincts, we all sneaked off to the local supermarket.

At first it seemed like the wrong decision as my poor, aching arms flailed like reigns on unruly fillies, trying desperately to steer a course away from the irresistible lure of telephone kiosks, dropped bicycles, shop fronts, pillar-box slots, vegetable displays, parked car door handles, dripping drain-pipes, gutter wildlife, unclaimed litter and the like.  My feral street scavengers needed taming; and quickly!  Otherwise, I risked having my upper appendages stretching so close to the ground as to warrant my hasty re-classification to a quadruped.

My plan was minted in a minute and born of my frequently re-surfacing mission in life to cheer up the world.  On presenting my idea to my little companions, I found that I had won over their fullest attention.  Wow!  The omens were definitely good.  Rehearsals were brief and taken in our stride.

As we approached the kerb of the pedestrian crossing, little did mankind suspect the momentous moments about to unfold.  For it was here, on the lower Pelican Crossing of Crwys Road in central Cardiff that the first ever ‘Pelican Hop’ was performed.

I do confess that this particular world premiere was not exactly acclaimed with rapturous applause from those witnessing this crinkle-in-the-page of history, but even the Olympic Games must have had humble beginnings!  Probably a thrifty bunch of Ancient Greeks dashing around the outer pillars of the Parthenon to avoid the high priest’s collection tray.

The beacons bleated out our cue.  Vehicles grudgingly folded their arms and waited.  Hand in hand, we springingly stepped out onto centre stage, right foot forward.  In unison, we took 1-2-3 full striding steps, and then hopped!  It was a pedalling style hop, with one knee rapidly following the other high into the air.  Again I counted ‘1-2-3 HOP’ and we were halfway across.  Those crossing in the opposite direction made way like bewildered extras.  Again I synchronised ‘1-2-3 HOP!’  Then our finale onto the pavement ‘1-2-3 TURN ROUND AND BOW’  It all worked splendidly.  Quite splendidly!

 ‘Brilliant!’ I congratulated my sprightly gazelles.

 ‘But, dad,’ said Rania, ‘people are laughing at us.’   And indeed, people were laughing: drivers, passengers, pedestrians, loafers, window-gazers, road-sweepers, old uncle Tom Cobley and all! 

 ‘That was the whole idea, darling!’ I replied, musing on how productive our few simple steps had proved.

On our return journey, having unwittingly purchased Darjeeling (but that’s another story) we developed the choreography by replacing the middle hop with a switch, whereby the girls changed flanks, one passing in front of me and the other behind me.

And thus the ‘Pelican Hop’ was born; a novel, if slightly dotty, way of crossing the road.  Simply intended to passingly amuse passers-by.  My daughter and I developed it further over the subsequent weeks.

But now, dear reader, I must transport you forward in time by a little over 2 months, to a Sunday after midday mass.  Walking homewards in a group too desultory to resemble a family unit were my 16 and 12 year old sons, Rania and myself.  Our precise geographical location was the approach to the Richmond Road pedestrian lights.

I tried to encourage, even implored, my sons to join in the, by now, ritual Pelican Hop despite there being little hope of their participation due to the notoriety it had cumulatively gathered amongst family and friends.  They were too grown up to play ‘silly buggers’ as they put it!  Nevertheless, ever-persevering, I even tried commanding their obedience as their paternal lord and master.  But all I received in response were mockery and derision.  However, their dissension had been fully expected.  What I had not at all expected as a result of their jibes and resolute refusals to risk being laughed at by strangers, albeit in sparse Sunday traffic, was their contamination of Rania.

I was utterly dismayed to hear her also refusing to Pelican Hop; my own, true partner refusing to dance and leaving me without an act.  I couldn’t believe the suddenness of it all.  I begged and pleaded with her to re-consider as we neared the crossing and to at least accompany me in our simple original routine.  My adjurations were fruitful for she consented at the last moment.

The bleepers sounded and Peter, my eldest, ran off as if trying to break the world record for someone running 100 metres with a coat over his head.  Tony merely trotted briskly ahead of us, turning and dissociatingly laughing as if all aloof of the pursuing idiots.

Rania and I took the floor.  1-2-3 HOP!  Our first hop was long, high and handsome.  Again I urged ‘1-2-3 HOP’ but during this second hop, her feet hardly left the ground for she had followed Tony’s gaze towards a laughing driver and passenger, and, despite my redoubled promptings, there was no third hop for Rania.

It was over!

Perhaps, in later life, the aroma of Earl Grey may turn her thoughts towards making people merry, making people happy… and therein discover her own, personal route to happiness as a result. 

But enough philosophy, if you do happen to spot clowns, couples or quartets Pelican Hopping around your neighbourhood, you’ll know where it all began.  If not, you know it’s simply because my darling daughter suddenly grew up.