Friggin Alf

Today marks day one of our week long adventure, having travelled from Jersey to Poole on the ferry yesterday. We are in England visiting the people and places of Alf’s youth prior to his move to the USA in 1960 at the age of 21.

Our first two nights are being spent on a farm in Devon, hosted by a family friend, the son of the man who, in the 1950s inspired Alf to take up a career in agriculture.

Today, Alf hurtled down memory lane, nay, the memory thoroughfare, as we toured the farm of our host in Paignton. He asked many questions in his usual curious and interested manner. I can’t rightly remember how many “if I remember rightly)s were uttered but be assured, there were many, accompanied always by a wagging finger and a faraway look.

Oh, but the friggins! They are gathering momentum and taking up a life of their own. They don’t need to precede particular types of words, like say narcissist or parking ticket, which might well be understandable. Friggin’ tractors have featured, along with friggin potatoes and even friggin grass. What did grass ever do? Twice, we have had four friggins in one sentence and once upon a time a friggin toucan (he meant pelican) apparently landed on a friggin Cadillac. Of course that was years after Alf and my mother met the friggin Beatles in a friggin elevator.

From our hosts farm, we went on to visit the farm that Alf’s parents owned for a time in Marldon, land which has several houses on it, one of which was where I lived with my parents for a year when I was one year old. The multigenerational current occupants were generous with their time in showing us around while we took photographs, striving to remember rightly and asking a great deal of friggin questions.

Next stop Kingsbridge to the house where our host lived when he was born and to try to find any surviving relatives of Alf’s mother’s cousin. We have the predictable debate as to whether she would have been a second cousin or a cousin once removed. We give up as life is too friggin short. Having visited the site of her hair salon with interest but with no real clues forthcoming, I look to the internet and found a few clues such as her name, her husband’s name and profession, the address of the salon. Someone on Facebook is remembering them in a group entitled Kingsbridge Old Locals. Alf is inordinately surprised by this find and highly suspects me of friggin fabricating the information.

I hired a travel scooter to bring away with us, as I thought it would open up Alf’s options and enable us to keep pace out of doors together. It has already achieved the former but the latter might need some work. At the moment, he pauses the scooter each time he talks and when it is finally time to move he hurtles ahead, once nearly tipping sideways, once narrowly avoiding going over backwards and at all times with one hand in his friggin pocket.

I’m sure it will be fine.