Author Archive: Pat McKinzie

Happy Birthday to Me, E.T.

Oh dear, how do I tell my 91-year-old mother that she gave birth to an extraterrestrial being? What else could explain my extraordinary quirks, peculiar ailments, and uncanny ability to survive against all odds?

I’ve recovered from accidents that no mortal should have survived. I suffer from maladies so bizarre that no one has ever heard of them before.

Then again, how many people survived a rabid skunk bite as a toddler and lived to tell the tale?

My latest episode involved the right side of my mouth festering until my gum line resembled the embers of a dying fire. A thread under my lip pulled my gum away from my tooth, exposing the root.

My Swiss dentist pried open my mouth and exclaimed in awe, “Très intéressant! I’ll do a frenectomy!”

Frenectomy?

In the past, when diagnosed with other strange ailments, I had no idea what my American, French, German, Greek and Swiss doctors were talking about.

I’ve always been different.

After all, I was born in Sandwich.

“Which kind? Baloney!” friends teased.

According to my mother, I was the only planned baby of her four children.

Good grief! Who in their right mind would have planned to birth an extraterrestrial being?

Fortunately, back in Sandwich in 1957, I was a bargain baby! The doctor who delivered me charged my folks only 50 bucks.

Since then, I’ve cost a fortune!

Braces, glasses, orthodontia, orthotics, and umpteen surgeries. Disintegrating discs, temporal mandible dysfunction, neuroborreliosis. I had strange conditions before they became common knowledge. My treatments, considered controversial quackery at the time, have become part of standard care, like chiropractic and TMJ dental treatment.

Why me?

Blame it on that rabid skunk bite!

My poor mother! How did she survive my childhood?

My poor Frenchman! How does he endure my adulthood?

After each calamity, he picked up the pieces, paid medical bills and waited for me to heal. With his help, I am still ticking, albeit slowly.

Today, doctors suspect I was born with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS). EDS? Huh? It’s part of a group of genetic connective tissue disorders, which could help explain
my proprioception issues and propensity for falls.

We’re all unique beings, trying to move forward, stay strong, and beat the odds.

No one chooses their family, the genes they inherit, the beliefs they assimilate, or where they grow up. No one can predict what physical, emotional, and mental challenges they’ll face.

Wouldn’t it be easier if we didn’t see ourselves only as Democrats or Republicans, Americans, Europeans, Asians, Africans, Indians, Australians, Muslims, Jews, or Christians?

Could we live better harmony if we didn’t identify so much with one religion, nationality, race, or ethnicity, but more as tiny specks in the universe?

What if we all came from somewhere beyond Earth?

How’s this for conspiracy theory?

What if we’re all aliens?

Who knows?

I am here still questioning, still yearning, still learning.

Time is running out. I may never get it right. For now, I exist in a state of grace, warts and all, grateful to be here even during these troubled times.

 

 

Thank you, my beloved mother, for bringing me into existence and guiding my path!

Merci mille fois mon courageux français for staying by my side.

Happy Birthday to me, E.T.

Endearing Tradition – Swiss Celebrate Seniors With Christmas Dinner

In one of its most endearing traditions, Swiss villages celebrate their seniors by hosting the annual Christmas dinner for retirees. The “Repas de Noël” has become a beloved part of the holiday festivities.

In St-Cergue, at the community center next to the grade school, a few hundred retirees gathered around long tables to share fondue. Not the classic cheese fondue one associates with Switzerland, instead Vaud, like all 26 Swiss cantons, has adopted a variation of the Chinese fondue to celebrate Christmas Eve.

After individual starters of grated carrots and paté, we passed plates of veal, pork, chicken and beef provided by our local butcher. We skewered the thinly sliced meat on long forks and dipped them in slow-simmering broth in Chinese fondue pots. The meat was accompanied with rice and different sauces, ranging from curry-flavoured mayonnaise to zingy relishes.

For dessert, we savored the traditional Buche de Noel or yule log, a rolled sponge cake, with layers of buttercream. This extraordinary favorite had a local twist. It was crafted by a former pastry chef who perfected his art in prestigious French restaurants.  To our great fortune Julien Maslanka relocated to Switzerland where he opened four different patisseries including Le Comptoir du Vieux Chateau à St-Cergue on our main street.

In a serendipitous stroke of luck, I sat next to an interesting jazz musician and a friendly, outgoing woman, who gave me all the contacts and links to activities for citizens in the community. When she saw me scribbling in my pocket notebook, I explained that I wrote a blog sharing European experiences.

“Oh, I have to introduce you to our American writer!” she said clapping her hands. Then she led me to a table to introduce me to a short, white-haired fellow with twinkly blue eyes who had lived in Switzerland for fifty-five years.

Then after the municipal employees took a bow on stage, the seniors gave a hearty applause in  appreciation for their public services, especially for their swift snow plowing of our streets.

A senior dance group performed a polka, school children sang holiday songs, and then we joined in  singing along to a French translation of Gloria in Excelsis Deo.

The only shadow on the festivities, was finding out that we lost our petition to save our local post office, which closes in 2026.

The convivial atmosphere resumed, when the master of ceremony invited us to pop open the tubes of confetti in a jovial grand finale.

Wherever you live dear friends and readers, however you celebrate the season, I wish you peace, health and hope for 2026.

 

 

Happy holidays from X-Pat & ze Frenchman in "Santa's Village" Switzerland!

The Village Shop, Soul of the Town

In a nondescript, brick building across from the Malt Shovel Pub, Gaydon’s Village Shop opened in May 2010 as a non-profit co-op where volunteers provide locals with staples and simple necessities that households might run out of on a weekend.

The shop’s shelves were stacked with a hodgepodge of essential toiletries like shampoo, soap, deodorant, toilet paper and toothpaste, as well as milk, eggs, butter and cheese and a limited selection of fruits and vegetables, canned goods, pasta and cereals.

Surprisingly, the Village Shop also sold fresh pastries and bread delivered daily from a bakery in the hamlet just down the road.

Beverages, such as bottled water, alcohol, beer, wine, cider, juice and sodas are also available for purchase.

I perused the shelves with childlike wonder. I picked up a chunk of cheddar, waved it at the woman behind the counter and asked, “Do you have grated cheese?”

“No” the lady at the till told me, “but I have grater at home that you can borrow.” Then, she picked up the phone and called her daughter and asked her bring it over.

Minutes later, the shop doorbell jingled and her daughter dashed in and handed me the family’s cheese grater.

Meanwhile, as we were talking, a middle aged man walked in with his father, who hobbled on an artificial leg from the knee down.

“Oh dear, what happened?”

“Felt my knee cap slip up me thigh when I fell,” the elder man told the woman at the cash register. “And that was my good leg!”

A spontaneous discussion between strangers unfolded as can only happen in these quaint, little communities where the time seemed to standstill.

Another shopper asked me, “Where you from?”

“Illinois,” I answered in my midwestern nasal twang. My very unBritish inflection was a dead giveaway.

“I’m from Normandy,” Gerald added in English with a heavy French accent.

“Normandy!” the elder gentleman exclaimed. “Lost my great uncle over there during The Landing. He was shot down parachuting over Ranville (towards Caen).”

“Me and dad were paratroopers,” the man’s son explained. “I parachuted in the WWII reenactment in Arnhem, Holland.”

Then the friendly fellow went on to recount his tales traveling to US and being in whiskey bar in Florida.

“We’ve just been to the pub,” the jovial, older man said, “Had a wee pint or two or three!”

Another young lady in the shop overheard us talking. She peeked into our baby buggy and asked, “Oooh, is that Nic and Larissa’s baby?”

“Yes,” I said beaming, “we are the proud grandparents.”

“I’m their neighbor,” she said.

“Glad to meet you!” I said. “I’ve heard so many nice things about you from our son and daughter-in-law; I feel like I know you already.”

If the Malt Shovel Pub is the heart of Gaydon, the Village Shop is its’ soul. Where else in the world does the pace slow enough to chat with locals, so trusting, that they’ll lend their own kitchen appliances to complete strangers?

Everyone feels at home at the Village Shop.

Even the “foreigners.”

The Malt Shovel Pub — A Pet Parrot, A Mascot Dog and Stories A-Go-Go

The ol’ pub (aka public house) has been a part of British culture for centuries.
England is known for its cozy and welcoming pubs; the best pubs create a sense of belonging, a place to be that isn’t home, but can become like a second family. Gaydon’s eclectic Malt Shovel is no exception.

The altered building, made of Hornton Stone, an ironstone found nearby on the Burton Dassett Hills, was first referenced in 1849 as an unnamed beer house. In 1874, it became known as the Malt Shovel when it was licensed to Robert Ayres.

Just off junction 12 of the M40, the Malt Shovel, opened daily, serves fresh, locally sourced food and a wide selection of cask ales, lagers, wines, spirits and soft drinks.

Everyone is welcome here including four legged friends. Though tolerated in many pubs, at The Malt Shovel, pets are offered their own doggie menu.

The pub has so many personal touches — a cozy, reading corner on a deck, stained glass windows, its’ own mascots, a parrot, a miniature schnauzer and knick knacks galore.

In addition to the special doggy menu, the proprietors’ humor can be seen in the proposed children’s menu.

  1. -I don’t care (chicken nuggets, skinny fries)
    -I’m not hungry (bangers & mash)
    -I don’t know (chicken nuggets, fries? whatever (burger, skinny fries)
    …all served with choice of beans or peas) bubble & steak, homemade pizza

When we stopped in for a drink, the man at the table behind us was sneaking fries to the schnauzer waiting patiently beside his table.

“Can I take a picture of your dog?” I asked.

“Of course,” the man said and chuckled, “but Belle’s not mine. She belongs to the pub owner.”

Sure enough, the little, gray and white dog had his own doggie couch where he could reign over the bar.

The man, a friendly trucker, pointed to the names written in chalk on wood beams around the bar,

“See the names up there?” He explained. “They were people who worked for JLR (Jaguar Land Rover) engineering centers at the edge of Gaydon on the land that was once an air strip of the RAF.”

Many of the patrons lining the bar look like they just finished a work shift and stopped in for a quick pint on their way home.

The charismatic pub was cozy and charming. Gemutlich. Nicknacks decorated the walls, including a tea pot collection.

“Where you from?” The trucker asked.

“Illinois,” I told him and then added, “My husband’s French.

“Where about in France?” he asked Gerald.

“Normandy on the coast.”

“Ever heard of a tiny place called Trouville?” the trucker asked.

Gerald about fell off his chair. “That’s where I grew up.”

“ I hauled a load there,” the trucker said.

“What do you haul?”

“Blacktop and gravel when they strip the road to repave.”

“What kind of truck you drive?”

He pulled his phone out and showed me pictures of his rig.

“Drove all across France, but grew up in Warwick,” he said, “Now I live in Casablanca. When I’m on the road, I live in my truck.”

As we were leaving, I thanked the bartender and told him, “We’re just visiting, but our son and daughter-in-law moved to the area.”

“Oh I know them,” the bartender said, “they live across street from me!”

It’s a small, small world!

In the spirit of the ol’ English pubs, The Malt Shovel unites people still today.

Buggy Ride Back in Time With Lil’ Prince of Gaydon

How about a buggy ride back in time through an enchanting village in England’s heartland? Mormor, (that’s me) is driving! Mormor is grandmother in Norwegian, giving a nod to my Norwegian mom and our family in Norway. Lil’ Prince of Gaydon (nickname I gave my grandson) and I are taking a wild ride through town!

Gaydon, though not mentioned distinctly from Chadshunt in the Domesday Book of 1086, was a separate settlement. It became known as Gaidon by the late twelfth century, taking its name from the proper name “Gaega” and the Old English word for hill “dun”.

Homeward Bound

Gaydon is at the gateway to the Cotswolds in the Stratford-on-Avon District of Warwickshire. Surrounded by rolling hills and rich farmland, Gaydon is known for its picturesque countryside and meandering walking trails. While the rest of the England races by with its twenty-first century angst, the 500 or so residents of Gaydon can chill away from the big city hustle in a community where time stood still.

I bundle Lil’ Prince into his buggy and wheel down his street lined by stately, red brick homes with colonial windows. As we pass by, I wave to the young couple next door and hope for a sneak of their new baby.

It’s a boy!

Lil’ Prince will have a new playmate soon.

Allez op, off we go ‘round the cul-de-sac and down the other side of the street past the home of the proprietors of the local pub, The Malt Shovel.

On the corner, the decrepit Gaydon Inn, notorious in the eighteenth century for violent highwaymen, still stands, barely. In 1725, a Parliamentary Act brought the stagecoach trade to the village, increasing Gaydon Inn’s importance. It has since has fallen into disrepair due to zoning laws.

Across the street on Banbury Road, a busy highway for commuter rushing to the cities, the Esso station and a quick stop shop, reminds me modern civilization is never far away.

We turn and wind along Church Street, which leads us to the St. Giles Church, as does Church Lane. Like in yesteryear, all roads lead to the church.

Now at the site of original thirteenth century medieval chapel, the current one was rebuilt in the gothic revival style of the mid 1800s. Only the bell survived from the original church, but worn gravestones from past centuries remain in the churchyard.

Lil’ Prince appears to be enthralled by the bewitching stories I spin of ghosts lurking among the ancient tombstones tilting in the heavy Warwickshire fog.

“They look like Hobbit Houses!” I exclaim pointing out low stone dwellings across the lane from the churchyard. Anyone in my family would have to duck to enter the doorway, but I would love to see inside even if had to crawl through the visit.

Just past the church, in front of the town parish, I read aloud the Parish Council News and update Lil’Prince on village events. Next to town hall, a white stone, blue-shuttered thatched-roof house stands magnanimously.

Next we stop to admire the Manor House on Kineton Road, which dates back to the seventeenth century. Surrounding the village, open fields, farms and estates, date back to the nineteenth century and bear the titles Manor Farm, Gaydon Farm, Gaydon Hill Farm, Gaydon Field Farms and Poplars Farm.

“How about that?” I laugh as I tell the Prince, “Now we are on Pimple Lane.”

Then, we stroll past the local village shop that opened May 2010. Volunteers run, the non-profit coop providing local produce, homemade gifts and daily essentials.

Last stop, The Malt Shovel, the local pub, which offers a cozy welcome to village life. With baby in tow, we pop in for a quick pint of apple cider, popular in the region.

This village is definitely worth a look see, but,”shh don’t tell anyone.”

If I advertised this gem, villagers would be dismayed. Gaydon’s natural beauty, unaltered by tourist buses, gift shops and fast food joints, is part of its charm.

Like the British would say, “Gaydon is a great place to stop and ‘ave a nosy.’”

Jump Start Brain and Body – Learn a New Sport

Feeling old, achy and foggy brained? Experts say learning a new skill is recommended for our rusty bodies and aging brains. For me, relearning old skills is equally valuable. It is never more important than after suffering a traumatic brain injury (TBI) which can effect spatial awareness, balance, proprioception, executive function, listening, speaking and emotional stability.

Like so many people after injury, illness and accidents, I was forced to reframe my life. Once I retired from playing pro ball, I dreamed would learn to scuba dive, alpine ski and surf. I’d run marathons and bike mountains.

Well, that hasn’t been an option for decades.

So when my chiropractor in Geneva (Switzerland) suggested that I try “rope flow” to help strengthen my core, align my back, retrain my brain to better coordinate both hemispheres and work my lazy left side, I was all ears.

In Dr. G’s office, I watched in awe as he demonstrated swinging a heavy rope around his body.

“Jump rope sans the jump for injured adults!” I said.

“Actually, a heavier marine rope like sailors use works better,” Dr. G explained. “The sailboat boutique across Lake Geneva in Nyon carries all different sizes.”

Then he went onto explain the history.

“David Weck, an American, created rope flow to help people recover rotational movement and to reinforce how we walk, run and move. Rope wave, quickly adopted by elite athletes and movement coaches, has become a valuable training tool for improving mobility symmetry, coordination and striking power.”

At first glance, rope wave looks easy. It’s not. It involves swinging a rope around your body in coordinated patterns like figure-eights, while shifting your weight and rotating your spine, shoulders, and hips with rhythm and control.

I was delighted to discover a game that I can play without getting hurt as long as I don’t whip myself on the back of my legs or lips.

If you perform rope flow properly, the rapid rhythm builds a smooth, effortless coordination across both sides of the body. Rope flow is symmetrical. You rotate both left and right, retraining your non-dominant side and this helps smooth out imbalances.

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Rope flow is ingenious for its affordability, convenience, practicality and simplicity. This portable habit helps rewire the way I relate to my body. It is probably even more valuable for people like me who suffer from the effects of a stroke or TBI where message systems in the brain are damaged and to weakness on one side of the body.

After my time at the Functional Neurology Clinic in Minnesota, I learned how neuroplasticity allows the brain repair itself. After my brain surgery, messages did not get to my left side. Rope flow trains the brain and the body simultaneously and I would recommend it for anyone recovering from a TBI.

I am learning to accept my limitations, no more hooping, running, jumping. No kayaking, canoeing, golf, tennis, pickle ball or any asymmetric sport requiring lateral movement. For me, traveling in cars and planes or even sitting must be minimized.

So I was encouraged to finally find a sport I can perform with my broken body; it’s even good for me.

Granted I look a bit crazy, but who cares? I swing my rope, whistle like my dad used to, hang out with cows up in mountain meadows and admire the panoramic Alps.

It is highly unlikely that you can find an instructor in your area, but David Weck, Tim Shieff and other experts offer detailed videos breaking down movement into steps.

So pick up a rope, put on your favorite song and swivel those hips.

Yahoo! Clear the way! Look out! I’ll lasso you…my first dream was to be a cowgirl!