February 23, 1986.  Nighttime

Please God I don’t want to die like this!

How’s that for the first sentence in my brand new diary?  The Girls gave it to me for my 103^rd birthday.  They think that I've got a little problem remembering things.  And I think....

I think....

Oh bother, I can't remember what I think.

Forgive my shaky handwriting, Dear Diary, but it's hard to write when you're on an airplane that's hopping about the skies and you're thinking that any minute is going to be your last.  Every time the captain says "Ladies and gentlemen," I scream "This is it!" and I grab hold of Bambi.

She's a rock, old Bambi.  And at 89 years of age, she's also the baby of the group.  She doesn't like to be reminded of that.

“Gladys, you're the big baby!  This plane is not going to explode.  Not when our pilot has a voice like Charlton Heston's."

“But Bambi," I wailed.  What if we drop into the ocean?  I can’t swim without my noodle!”

Flo reaches up from behind and taps me on the shoulder.  “Gladys, you lost your noodle a long time ago!”

“Gladys,” said Maybell, “Quit your yapping.  You're distracting the pilot!"

“I just don’t want to fall out of the sky,” I told the girls.  “Is that so much to ask?  If I gotta go, let it be from old age.”

“Too late for that!” Bambi cackled.  “You’re already past old age.  You're gonna have to find another way to go!"

That’s it.  Sorry, Dear Diary, but I'm going to try to get some sleep.  If I fall out of the sky, so be it.  And if I should live (please God), the girls will appreciate that I’m all rested up.  After all, they don’t want their driver to fall asleep at the wheel, do they?  Especially not in a foreign country.

February 24, The Next Morning (We’re on British time now!!!)

Well, we’ve landed at Gatwick.  What a silly name for an airport.  Makes me think of bathroom fresheners every time I say it.  Gatwick, Gatwick, Gatwick.  Why couldn’t we fly to an airport with a more dignified name, like Charles de Gaulle?

“Because that airport is in France, dear,” Flo reminds me.  “Cousin George lives in England.”

“Cousin George?  Who’s cousin George?”

“Your cousin,” Maybell snapped.  Can’t you remember anything?  We gave you that diary, can’t you write it down?”

Yes, I do love these Cottonhead Girls, but, Dear Diary, you won’t tell anybody if I say that sometimes, just sometimes, these ladies get on my nerves.

Now that we're here, I wish Gatwick really did smell like bathroom fresheners.  Because it really smells like people who’ve been inhaling each other’s fumes for the past 10 hours.

But forget about the smell.  They lost Bambi’s suitcase!  Nobody loses Bambi’s suitcase and lives to tell about it.  Flo, Maybell, and I are piled into a heap with our baggage while Bambi explains the situation to a man who is now on his knees.

Later that morning (Still February 24, 1986):

Hello Mr. Diary.  I just wanted to tell you this before I forget.  The nice man in the airport only needed 5 stitches when Bambi and her purse got through with him.  But then we had another problem.  The rental car.

The car man insisted that it was a fancy French car, but honestly, what kind of a name is "poodle" for a rental?  Flo says the guy talks like he's got marbles in his mouth.

He's got marbles in his head, too, if he thinks that four Floridian women are going to drive anything less than a brand new, shiny white Cadillac with four doors.

I guess the man didn't speak English too well because Bambi had to explain things with the business end of her umbrella.

Once Bambi clarified the situation, the rental man returned with a gorgeous, brand spanking new, white stretch limo.  It had so many doors that we couldn’t figure out where to get in.  Of course, I took my usual spot at the wheel.  But something didn’t look right.

I called on Flo, who serves as my memory when mine goes on vacation.  “Flo, there’s something missing and I don’t know what it is.”

“Oh Gladys, I’m all the way in the way-back.  I can’t see anything.”

It was Bambi to the rescue then.

“You ninny, we’re in England.  The driver sits on the other side of the car.”

“What other side, dear?  Do you mean I have to sit in the way-back with Flo?”

Bambi put up such a racket that the rental manager came running.  Such a lovely woman.  Gave us the rental car for free and drove us all the way back to our hotel.  Even gave me some pointers about driving in England.  “Remember ladies, it's always left, left, left.”

Even later that morning.

A fellow calling himself Lord somebody or other delivered Bambi’s suitcase, an apology, and a bottle of champagne.  He also slipped Bambi an envelope, but Bambi ignored me when I asked her what was in it.  Maybell says it’s money.  Flo says it’s dope!

Still later that morning.

Shhh!  We’re napping.

Nearly Noontime

The Cottonheads go out on the town.  That’s what I called it.  Everybody else called it going downstairs to the hotel restaurant.  This place is jumping.  All kinds of people, mostly with all their original hair and teeth, are jammed into every nook and cranny.  Can’t tell the boys from the girls.  Everybody’s wearing patched up blue denims and flowers, and lots of hair.  And they’re all carrying shopping bags. 

I’d like to carry a shopping bag.  We’ve been here for hours and we haven’t seen the inside of one gift shop yet.  Bambi promises we can go after lunch.

After lunch (nearly one in the afternoon)

We followed one of those long-haired people to a room at the back of the hotel.  The big sign in front said, “London Beatles Convention.” 

Aren’t the British silly?  They can’t spell anything correctly, always adding in or taking out letters!  Still, I wanted to go inside to look around, but the other three Cottonheads vetoed me. 

“Go outside if you want to look at a bunch of bugs,” Maybell said.  “At least it’s free and you’ll be breathing fresh air.”

Just then, four of the most handsome gentlemen smiled at us and walked through the door.  They were all dressed so nicely in these matching chocolate brown suits.  They even had matching haircuts, although a little long to suit my taste.

“Those nice young men went inside,” I pointed out to the other Girls.

“They’re not so nice,” Flo corrected me.  “Did you take a close look at their suits?  They had no collars!  Those boys need to see a tailor immediately!”

“And they’re not too smart, either,” Bambi pointed out.  “Why would anybody carry a guitar into a bug convention?”

“Music soothes the savage bug,” I pointed out.

“Beast, you ninny!”  Bambi shouted.  She grabbed my arm.  “Maybell, lead us to the exit, quick!”

So much for the bug convention.  Wish I could see those adorable young men again.

Early Evening

We took a lovely walk down Oxford Street, and we poked our noses into every store we saw.  Maybell bought an entire set of Wedgwood China so we could enjoy our Saturday dessert nights in style.  Bambi bought beautiful glass flowers designed by a company called Royal Doulton.  Ever the optimist, 96 year old Flo bought three cashmere sweaters “to put away ‘til next winter.”  Don’t laugh.  It does get cold in St. Pete sometimes. 

As for me?  Well, I just couldn’t help myself.  I bought postcards.  And mugs.  And T-shirts.  Even a few cassette tapes.  And every single one of those items bore the image of those delightful young men I saw at the bug convention!  Not only that, but these lads looked even MORE handsome in the photos.  I wonder how that happened?  I guess those young men made quite an impression on London! 

“How could you be in love you ninny?” Bambi asked me.  “They’re about 20 years shy of being half your age.  And you’re going to forget them in another three minutes anyway.”

Well Dear Diary, I haven’t forgotten them yet!

Later that Evening

Goodnight Dear Diary.  I’m sleeping in one of my new T-shirts.  Flo says I’m doing something obscene.  She’s obscene!  She’s sleeping in two of her new sweaters!

Early early early the Next Morning (February 25)

Well Dear Diary, this is it.  After breakfast, we’re going to see Cousin George!  The hotel clerk said it should only take us 45 minutes to get there.  He drew us a nice map and he even kissed me for good luck.  Maybe it was because I’m wearing another new T-shirt?

Maybell was feeling awfully cross about my T-shirt.  “It’s not decent,” she claimed.

“What?  Everything’s covered.  It’s perfectly decent.”

“Just look at you.  Four improperly dressed boys across your chest and a gigantic typo.  B-e-e-t-l-e-s.  That’s the proper spelling.” 

“Maybell,” I said, “Get hip.”

Three Hours Later

We’ve been sitting in this rental car for a solid hour.  We’re not speaking to each other.  So I got you out, Dear Diary, and I’m gonna tell you what happened.  I left the hotel with all good intentions of reaching the motorway.  They don’t have highways here like normal countries.  This shouldn’t be a surprise because they can’t spell either. 

We pull out of the hotel, and immediately, Maybell starts screaming, “Left, left, left.”  I thought she meant “Go left, left, left,” so that’s what I did.  Ended up right where we started, back at the hotel 

“You ninny," Maybell shrieked.  “I meant stay left, left, left.”

So I did.  I stayed left, left, left.  Guess where we ended up.

“You ninny.”

And again.

“Stay left.”

One more time.

“Listen to me!”

After we passed the hotel for the fifth time, Flo started to scream that she wanted to drive.

“You can’t see so good!”  I yelled back.

“I don’t need to see so good to know that I shouldn’t be turning left!” she shrieked.

“QUIET” Bambi hollered.  “Now Gladys, pull over.”

“Pull left, left, left!” Maybell screamed.

Lap six.

Ahhhh!  That was me screaming, Dear Diary.  I just couldn’t take it anymore.  So after lap seven, I decided that no matter what happened, no matter what Maybell or anyone in this car said, including me, I was not going to go left.  Even if a hole big enough to swallow the entire limo opened up in front of me, I was going to drive straight. 

So I did.  I drove straight where I usually made my first left.

“That’s right!” Maybell yelled.

What?  I’m still not in the correct spot?  Sweating now, I gunned the limo across three lanes of traffic, and hit a right at the first corner.

“Left, left, left!” Maybell wailed.

“You said go right!”  I argued.

“That’s right!” Maybell countered.

I went right again.

“No, no that’s wrong!” Bambi screamed.

“That’s wrong that it’s right?”  I asked. 

“Right!” Maybell yelled.

Went right again. 

"Ninny!" Bambi hollered.

“I’m only driving the way you’re telling me to drive!”

Well, we finally figured our way out of that mess.  And I refuse to take any of the blame.  It’s not my fault that those ladies cannot tell their lefts from their rights

Once we got to the motorway, it was a piece of cake.  It’s nice how everyone gets out of your way when you drive a big white stretch limo.  Especially when you’ve got Maybell with her hand on the horn.

Found the exit we needed.  That was easy enough.  We were on our way, until I saw this funny road sign.

“What’s a roundabout?” I asked Maybell.

“Right now, it's roundabout 3:00 in the afternoon,” Maybell answered. 

Suddenly I saw something ahead that made me shake.  A rotary.  Not a rotary.  Oh please don’t let that be a rotary.

Definitely a rotary.

“I’m scared to get into the rotary,” I informed the Girls.

“Just go with the flow,”  Bambi advised.

“Flo’s in the back of the car,” I wailed.

“DRIVE.”  Bambi sure can explain things clearly.

“Remember left, left, left!” Maybell yelled.

And that's what I did.  Gripped the wheel good and tight, put my foot to the floor, forged bravely into the rotary, and headed directly for the far left lane.

Very friendly people, these British.  They honk and wave as you drive through a rotary.  I honked and waved, too.

“What are you doing?” Maybell shrieked.

“I’m in the left, left, left lane, just like you said!” I yelled back.

“Darling Gladys,” Bambi said calmly.  “Do you notice how everyone in this rotary is driving in one direction?”

“Yes, but…”

“Towards the left…”

“But Bambi..”

“Do you noticed how our car is pointed right?”

“But I’m in the leftmost lane.”

“Yes Gladys, you did that quite nicely.  Now turn the car around and drive in the same direction as anyone else!!!!”

“Are you crazy!” I cried.  There’s too much traffic.  I can’t turn around here!”

“Do something!” Flo yelled from the back.  “Do something and do it quick.”

“Quick” is not a word you should use on a 103-year-old driver.  Still, I did my best.

“GLADYS!”  Bambi screamed.

“Why are you driving backwards?” Maybell yelled.

“Tally-ho!” Flo shouted from the rear.  I mean the front.

"Quit complaining! I yelled.  "You told me to get moving in the same direction as everybody else.  So, I'm doing it the best way I can."

"You backwards ninny!"  Bambi cried.

"How many times are we going to keep going around in circles?"  Maybell shouted.  "I'm getting dizzy."

“You just tell me when to exit," I told Maybell.

“How should I know?"  Maybell shrieked.

“You’ve got the directions!”

“I can’t see the exit signs when you’re driving backwards in the leftmost lane!”

Such a fuss these ladies make out of trifles.  At their ages, you would think they would know when it’s important to scream at your friends, and when you should be giving them support.  So, I took things into my own hands.  You have to do that sometimes when you’re the driver.  I leaned on the horn, backed my way across three lanes of traffic and exited out the first place I saw.

So here we are stopped at the side of the road and not talking.

Later.

We’re talking again, but it’s very tense.  And we’re driving.  And driving.  And driving.  I know we must have made a wrong turn somewhere.  Poor Cousin George must be very worried about us.

Even Later.

Maybell claims that we’re here, in front of Cousin George’s house.  I don’t think his house looked like this in the pictures.  Flo said that I'm not remembering things properly again.  Bambi said that pictures never do a place justice.  And Maybell pointed out that Cousin George left the gate open so he must want us to come in.

Cousin George has a very impressive driveway.  It's filled with more cars than we saw in the rotary, but it's much easier to negotiate.

Sounded like there was a party going on, so we headed for the noise.  What a racket.  I had no idea Cousin George liked that kind of music.  

A beautiful young brunette approached us.  “Hello, ladies.  I’m Olivia.  Have we met?”

We introduced ourselves, and then I told her that we were looking for Cousin George.  "He promised us a party," I told her.

“Well, it is his birthday,” she said.  “Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

A very handsome young man gave us a beautiful smile.  “Cousins, are we?”  We all turned tomato red when he kissed us.  "How are we related?" he asked.

Oh dear.  I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to upset the poor young man.  Memory loss did start young in our family.  Just look at me.  I don’t ever remember Cousin George looking like that.

I tried to explain our relationship, but I couldn't remember.  Luckily, Flo did so she told him.  It sounded right to me, once I heard her explanation.

But Cousin George looked puzzled.  “I don’t know any of those people you’re talking about,” he kept saying.  “But I do like your T-shirt.”  He pointed to one of the men on my beetles-with-the-typo shirt.  “I’m especially fond of that fella with the big guitar.”

Poor Cousin George.  His memory is worse than mine if he can’t remember even one name in our family.  And I hope his dear wife doesn’t know about his fondness for the man on my shirt.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, the fellas want to play.”

I thought Cousin George meant play cards or croquet.  So, I was quite delighted when he picked up a guitar.  After all, I used to play banjo with Lawrence Welk.  Or maybe it was violin.  It was so long ago.

“Gladys!” Bambi shrieked.  "We know that man!”

“What man?”

Bambi pointed to a doe-eyed man standing next to Cousin George .  “The one who is playing the guitar backwards!”

Flo cackled.  “Hey Gladys, he plays guitar the same way you drive.”

As we tried to remember the name of the man with the backwards guitar, a beautiful blond woman stepped over to us.  Four children trailed behind her.  “You’re not the ladies from Florida, are you?"

I couldn’t believe it.  But here she was, the lovely Linda that we met at New Year’s when we got trapped in that awful traffic tie up.

The little boy tugged on my arm.  “I still have that orange traffic gate that you gave me,” he announced proudly.  “We use it to let our sheep in and out of the pen.”

Maybell tapped me on the shoulder.  “What’s that Flo doing now?”

I gasped.  “Looks like she’s trying to hang herself,” I said.

“Looks like those two young men are trying to help her hang herself,” Maybell agreed.

“You’re both ninnies!"  Bambi shrieked.  “I’m surrounded by ninnies.  Flo is going to teach those young men how to play the guitar.”

Well, I don’t know what kind of lesson Flo thought she was giving, but my old boss, Mr. Lawrence Welk, would never have allowed it on his show.  Still, everybody is up and dancing, and little James Louis wants to take me for a spin.  Not too fast, dearie!

Later that Evening (Still February 25!)

So sad that this beautiful, beautiful day had to come to an end.  Such a lovely party our Cousin George had.  Delicious food, but poor boy, I'm sure he forgot to put out the meat tray!  I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to embarrass him, but poor dear should really see a doctor.

One thing I will say for Cousin George.  When Bambi told him how we drove backwards to get here, he offered us his own personal chauffer!  And he gave us a bottle of champagne for the trip home.  Live it up, Cottonheads!

Even Later

Poor Cousin George.  He really must get his memory checked.  He’s so young to be even more forgetful than me.  He just called to ask why we didn’t show up to his party today.  But we were there, I kept insisting.  And there was something wrong with his voice.  Or maybe it was the British telephone system.  He sounded so old.

Even Later

Heavens to Betsy!  Oh I’m such a ninny.  Such a silly old ninny!  But I’m not in this alone!  The other Cottonheads are in this with me!  We’re all going down together.

Oh Dear Diary.  How can I say it?  How can I explain?  We were at the wrong address!  Cousin George wasn’t really Cousin George at all.  Oh dear, oh dear.  Who’s house were we at? 

We telephoned Cousin George, the real Cousin George, and explained the whole mix up.  He laughed and agreed to have another party for us tomorrow.  And we certainly agreed to be there.  “Bring along the fake Cousin George,” he told me.  “I want to meet this imposter.  And the lovely Linda and her family, too.”

Early morning, February 26

The girls were very proud of the way I drove them to fake Cousin George’s without missing a turn.  And this time they didn’t say boo when I drove backwards through the rotary. 

Fake Cousin George took the wheel when we got to his house.  He insisted that he was just interested in driving such a gorgeous vehicle, and that it had nothing at all to do with his trust in me as a driver.  Such a wonderful car – everybody fit – us, Fake Cousin George and his family, and the lovely Linda’s family.  Such thoughtful people.  They brought along some of the leftovers from the party.  I was secretly hoping that there were some cold cuts in there, but the young ladies said there were only vegetables.  We even managed to squeeze in one extra friend named Ritchie.

The sun must be extra strong today.  Because when Real Cousin George opened the door to greet all of us, the poor man just gasped and fainted right into a bowl of spinach dip.  Thank goodness Olivia didn’t mind the mess on her blouse. 

Later on February 26

Oh we had such a wonderful time with Real Cousin George, once he stopped fainting into the potato salad! 

I wish I could tell you more, Dear Diary, but there’s no more blank pages left in this book.  Such adventures we’ve had, and we’ve only been in England for 3 days! 

Long live the Cottonhead Girls!!!!!

Lisha Goldberg is a Technical Writer/Website Developer for a Massachusetts-based insurance company. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.