British Mail Wherever You May Be

I needed to get to my Gate, of course, but I had to write postcards to the kiddies! Surely there would be enough time to do that, one last time. So I sat down near the British post box at Heathrow airport (you can always find a British post box), and scrawled out a few messy lines. Into the box they went, and then I made a quick dash down to the shuttle trains and thence to the Gate. Everyone was there, standing in the gargantuan line and yawning, looking thoroughly bored. We were all more than ready.

It had been my small daily chore, to fill the kiddies in the many details of a long visit to England in general, and to Cornwall in particular. I imagined their mother reading the two smaller tykes' cards to them aloud, while the 8 year old read his own. I couldn't believe that within less than a day I would be holding them, saying silly things to them, laughing with them. I knew for a fact that the 8 year old would be saying, "Grandma, don't go back there any more. Please? I don't want you to.." 


And then, after the flight and after Customs and Immigration, after baggage claim, after finding the SconeLady's husband's car along the crowded curb outside, it all did begin to happen just as I had imagined it (but not until we had had to trudge through the unbelievable SoCal traffic. It was a 'parking lot' out there).

"Grandma!" said they at last, "You CAME!"  My arms and hands were squeezed, my neck was hugged, and 3 squeals rang out through the kitchen. It was absolutely the sweetest thing. I will never forget those faces beaming over at me everywhere I looked. And then the inevitable words, "Grandma, don't go back there any more. Please...?"

I'm going to have to think about that one. It isn't an easy one.


See you along the way! (I think..)
the SconeLady