Gypsies

The farmer in the home across the road from my cousin knows all about his neighbor, the Jewish doctor.  If Caroline is something of a character in these parts, so is he, John.  There's a tractor and all sorts of impressive farm machinery behind his house, and I assume the fields beyond must belong to him.  But what I really know about John is his barbecue.  He hauls an enormous grill behind his tractor in the warmer months, going from one party to the next.  John, barbecue man.  I found him leaning against a fence with his son.  Actually, we found him.  It was Marlou who said hello. 

Why does this detail matter?  Because in California, of the two of us, Marlou is less likely to approach a total stranger and initiate chitchat.  But we are traveling, after all, and all bets are off, all roles are reversed and nothing is what it usually seems.  Which explains why Marlou remembered John's name, though I didn't, and the two of us approached, me in my wheelchair, to join him by his side fence.  John does not actually chew on a piece of grass, but this is probably only under advice of his dentist.  One has to imagine the grass.  His Gloucestershire accent makes him almost incomprehensible.  So, conversation naturally drifted to the big regional news of the year: cousin Caroline's near-death experience in the Gloucestershire floods.

"The doctor tried to park her car in a river."  That was how John put it.

"The doctor doesn't take advice."  That's how I put it.

"We know that," said John. 

With that, Marlou and I were away.  There was something astonishing up the road, an apparition I had glimpsed from the first floor window of the bedroom that serves as my office in Caroline and Alistair's Todenham home.  A gypsy wagon, painted, carved, and drawn by two draft horses which looked like miniature Clydesdales, had just clip clopped down the road.  Marlou, having seen the same thing, had rushed out to get a better look.  And sure enough, just over a rise, there they were.  One gypsy wagon.  Two horses.  Three generations of Romany.  Plus conventional vehicles, including two old cars and one battered aluminum caravan.  As we approached, Marlou warned me.  You don't have to make a point.  This is who these people are, just enjoy them and get out.  Marlou is recalling that I'm not always generous with Seventh-day Adventists, Mormons and the other religiously demented who occasionally knock on our apartment door.

Sure enough, within minutes the old woman standing beside the circus-wagon-looking hunk of wooden rolling stock had gone rolling off in the direction of fundamentalist Christianity.  What a beautiful wagon, I said.  Oh yes, she said, we have this beauty in honor of Jesus.  Have you found Jesus?  Oh, yes, I said, vaguely nodding and remembering to get a good look at the view of Gloucestershire beyond.  It was, after all, a remarkably sunny and crisp October day, not the sort of thing one takes for granted in autumnal England.  Jesus has saved me, the woman said.  The horses are beautiful, I said, convinced that there was no opener here for Jesus, Christianity or general salvation.  What kind are they, I asked?  The woman stared at them blankly.  They're called piebald, she said.  Even I knew this referred to coloring, not to breed, but I let this pass.  Before she could get in another word about Jesus, I said something about the impressive size of the horses' hooves.  The latter were enormously wide, very shaggy with hair above the shins or forelegs or whatever the horse-savvy call them.  Oh, yes, she said.  When had I found Jesus?

The breeze blew, Gloucestershire wavered, green and glorious, at the bottom of the hill where a horse-drawn railway once headed to the neighboring village of Shipston.  I know just enough of the local lore to appreciate, and increasingly love, this spot.  Which was why even an evangelical gypsy could not throw me off my conversational stride.  Found Jesus?  Didn't know he was lost.  I said none of this.  Just smiled.  Beautiful wagon, I added.  Did you make it yourself?  Oh, no, she said.  You need a special tool to do that sort of thing.  What sort of thing?  Oh the carving and that, she said.  You could paint the red bits yourself, but that's real gold there on those other bits.  You need a special tool.  Where are you from, she asked?  California, I said.  Oh, that's in American, isn't it?  Oh I've never flown in an airplane, but I will now, if I have to, since I've found Jesus.  As this rolled by me, rote and mechanical, I wondered how Jesus had found the Romany.  These people used to be known for picking pockets in the village marketplace.  Now they had gone straight, apparently, and were busily picking up converts.  I didn't get it.  I didn't want to.  I'd seen the cart and the horses and the view, and that would do.  I had a final go at conversation.  Where was she born?  Worcestershire.  I frowned and looked as puzzled as I could.  Worcestershire?  Where is that on the map, I asked?  England, she said.  Ah.  I clicked my wheelchair into gear and bounced back along the road.