December 27, 2023 • 24 mins
In this true story, we'll be taken on a journey of innocence, curiosity, and intergenerational bonding with a young Tate as he sets out to explore a new neighborhood. As he wanders the streets, he encounters an unexpected encounter that leads to an unlikely friendship.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
While we aim for an uninterrupted listening
experience, we'd like to take amoment to recognize a remarkable
listener, vitality UK in theUnited Kingdom.
Thank you so much for leavingour first review and rating.
For all of our other listenerswho enjoy the stories, please
take a moment to follow, rateand review the podcast.
Your feedback enhances thepodcast algorithm, expanding its
(00:22):
reach to more listeners.
Again, special thanks toVitality UK for the fantastic
5-star review.
Now let's get into today'sepisode.
Welcome to another episode ofPan2Pen.
When a private chef leaves thekitchen to write a story, each
(00:43):
episode serves a fresh literarytreat crafted by Tate Basildon,
a private chef and memoir author.
In this episode we'll be takenon a journey of innocence,
curiosity and intergenerationalbonding with a young Tate as he
sets out to explore a newneighborhood.
As he wanders the streets, hefinds himself in an unexpected
(01:05):
encounter that leads to anunlikely friendship.
So sit back, relax and prepareto be transported into the
heartwarming tale of visiting MrFitzwilliam.
When I was a boy, my family andI relocated to a serene
(01:27):
residential area on the northernedge of the city limits.
The community was renowned forits stunning Victorian mansions
that bordered a vast parkserving as a boundary for the
city.
Towards the north of thismagnificent park lay the city's
botanical garden constructed atthe base of a mountain.
Our house, a modest yet ornateVictorian building, sat just a
(01:48):
block from the beautifulmansions.
Dotted within our neighborhoodwere homes as stunning as those
on the park's perimeter, butthey did not receive the same
notoriety.
The neighborhood transformed asbusinesses bought up old
mansions for offices.
Elderly British expats mainlyoccupied the remaining houses.
So no children my age were inthe neighborhood.
(02:08):
My two brothers were five andseven years older than me and
did their own thing.
My best friend lived around theblock, but his parents were
strict and only allowed him tocome out to play at certain
times.
Therefore I had a lot of freetime for myself.
Despite this, I neverconsidered myself a lonely child
, as I enjoyed being alone.
(02:28):
I preferred the company ofadults over children, as I was
always fascinated by the storiesadults told rather than the
games children wanted to play.
So this neighborhood wasperfect for a child like me.
I made daily rounds to talk toalmost all the older adults in
the area.
During the Easter holidays Iexplored my neighborhood daily.
(02:49):
I usually stayed within ourstreet, but one day I decided to
go to the end of the block,turned left and walk towards the
house at the end, I noticed thehouse was very small.
The house was always empty whenwe drove past that street.
All the other houses on thatblock were converted into
businesses, except for one oldmansion which was obliquely
opposite, operated as a boardinghouse.
(03:10):
Mrs Ho ran it.
She was a short, elderlyChinese woman with a bob style
haircut dyed bright red andalways wore a short mini skirt
and knee length red leather highheeled boots.
She would walk past our houseevery day at precisely 10 in the
morning and return at noon.
We could set our clocks to herschedule.
(03:31):
I never spoke with her, but shealways smiled and waved when
she saw me in our yard.
The house at the end of theblock was unlike all the other
Victorian style housessurrounding it.
It was a World War II era homemade of brick and stucco, which
was flat and plain, with hugebay windows surrounded by a wide
covered porch.
It was noticeable compared toeverything else around us.
(03:53):
Hello, a voice said from withinthe hedges.
I peered into the yard but Icouldn't see anyone.
I wondered if I was hearingghosts, so I remained silent.
Suddenly, the hedges startedmoving and a tall, slim man with
a long white beard appeared.
He was wearing a straw hat andgloves and holding garden shears
(04:14):
.
Speaker 2 (04:15):
What's your name?
Speaker 1 (04:16):
He asked his accent noticeably different from the
other expats in the neighborhood.
He wasn't British and soundedAmerican Tate, I said.
Studying him closely, his eyeswere the bluest and most
captivating I had ever seen.
My stepfather's eyes were blue,but they paled.
Compared to this man's, I foundhis eyes both fascinating and
(04:38):
sorrowful.
I once asked my stepfather whyhis eyes were blue.
He told me it was a beautifulday when he was born without
clouds.
When he opened his eyes andlooked up, he saw the blue sky
first and that's why his eyesbecame that color.
He also said his hair wasblonde because it was the color
(04:59):
of the sun that shone in thecloudless sky.
I gazed at the stranger withsilver hair and deep blue eyes,
wondering what he saw at birth.
What did you first see when youwere born?
I asked what when you werefirst born?
What did you first see?
I have no idea why.
Never mind, do you havechildren, I asked.
Not that I felt the need toplay with any.
Speaker 2 (05:20):
Yes, one son, but he lives far from here and I don't
see him much.
Speaker 1 (05:24):
He replied, his eyes betraying his deep sadness at
that thought.
We chatted for a long while.
He leaned against his low brickwall and I tried to imitate his
stance to appear more mature.
We talked about theneighborhood, the people who
lived there and what he did fora living.
He worked as the clay courtexpert at the tennis club around
the corner, although I wasn'tsure what that meant, he said he
(05:47):
only went to the club for anhour or two after lunch and
spent the rest of his time inhis garden.
We finished our conversationand I left to continue speaking
with the other elderly neighbors.
When I went home I told mystepfather about meeting Mr
Fitzwilliam and I asked if Icould return to visit with the
older man.
My stepfather said it was fineso long as I was not becoming a
(06:08):
pest to the man.
During our meetings we wouldoften engage in lengthy
conversations about his life.
He always had fascinatingstories about his experiences as
a US Air Force pilot duringWorld War II.
He had seen many battles,flying bombing missions over
Europe.
He told me he never knew if hewas ever coming home with every
mission he flew.
(06:28):
He was already in his fortieswhen he flew those expeditions
and learned to fly on a biplanein his teens in the Great War,
as he called it.
He shared about his time inEngland, meeting his wife and
having one son, although hiswife had passed away.
He didn't elaborate on when orhow and I did not pry.
I loved listening to hisstories, as my stepfather, who
(06:51):
also served in World War II, inretrospect suffered from PTSD
and didn't ever speak of histime there.
After the war, mr Fitzwilliamwas given a new assignment in
the Caribbean, where he flewmissions over the Caribbean Sea
in search of German U-boats.
He fell in love with thetropical weather and decided to
stay there permanently, neverreturning to the US or England.
(07:13):
His son lived in England andrarely visited him in the
Caribbean, so he did not seemuch of his grandchildren.
He carried a deep sadness whenhe spoke of his family, a
loneliness that spanned oceans.
I wondered why he never went toEngland to visit his
grandchildren, but I realizedthere was an unspoken story
about his relationship with hisson, and it was none of my
(07:34):
business.
There was a parallel between MrFitzwilliam and my stepfather.
My stepfather also had a grownson from his previous marriage,
with whom he had a strainedrelationship.
Looking at Mr Fitzwilliam waslike looking at my stepfather in
years to come.
I went to see Mr Fitzwilliamalmost daily during the Easter
holidays.
On returning to school I onlysaw him occasionally on weekends
(07:58):
.
When the August holidays rolledaround, I anxiously visited him
every day around 10 to talk.
While we were conversing onemorning outside, a dark rain
cloud suddenly formed over themountain, as it sometimes did,
and it began to rain.
I was about to run back homewhen a lightning bolt struck
down in the nearby park,followed immediately by a
(08:18):
terrifying crack of thunder.
Come on in.
He swung the gate open andgestured for me to follow him to
his porch.
As we approached the front steps, I couldn't help but admire the
well-manicured lawn and thecolorful flower beds that lined
the path to the entrance.
His garden was by far the mostbeautiful in the neighborhood.
As I stepped onto his porch, Ilooked inside his house through
(08:40):
the enormous bay window and wasstruck by the vibrant and modern
decor With its bright orangeand yellow hues.
The furniture almost seemed toglow in the natural light that
filtered through the windows.
The clean lines and futuristicdesigns of everything from the
couches to the lamps made itfeel like I was looking into the
set of a sci-fi film.
In stark contrast to my home,which was filled with heavy,
(09:03):
ornate pieces of Victorianfurniture, his house was a
refreshing and energizing changeof pace.
A shelving unit with a stack oftoys was in one corner of the
huge porch.
A particular box that caught myattention was a construction
set.
I had seen it in a storepreviously.
Unlike LEGO, this set consistedof wooden floor panels with
holes where you could insertthin, rigid metal poles.
(09:26):
These poles acted as thesupport like wood beams in a
wall, and you could slide panelsonto the poles to create walls.
They were the perfect toy for achild to have fun with and
simultaneously dangerous enoughto poke both of your eyes out.
I desperately wanted to playwith it, but didn't say anything
, since my mother had alwaystaught me to look and never
(09:46):
touch anything at someone's home.
Mr Fitzwilliam saw me staringat the set and asked with a kind
smile would you like to playwith that construction kit?
I eagerly nodded in responseand swiftly got down on the
floor, excited to explore thecontents.
With a swift motion, I openedit up and poured all the pieces
onto the ground, relishing thechance to start building and
(10:09):
creating.
Speaker 2 (10:11):
I bought all these toys the last time my
grandchildren visited, but Ithink I overdid it.
They weren't here long enoughto play with them all.
Speaker 1 (10:19):
As he spoke, I again noticed the sadness in his eyes
and a slight tremble in hisvoice.
He admitted that he barely sawhis grandchildren and was not
the best father, dedicatinghimself to his job and barely
ever being at home.
His son wanted less to do withhim as an adult, so he rarely
saw him or his grandchildren.
His son in turn became a pilotin the British armed forces and
(10:41):
said he never had time to cometo the Caribbean to visit.
He explained that he was tooold now to handle the lengthy
flight to England so he had todepend on his son coming to see
him.
Despite his apparent emptiness,we engaged in a friendly
conversation about our lives.
As we talked, I watched himclosely and it seemed like he
was trying to avoid dwelling toomuch on his loneliness.
(11:02):
The downpour had ceased,prompting me to dismantle the
structure I had beenconstructing and carefully store
it away.
Speaker 2 (11:10):
No, leave it.
You can continue when youreturn next time, if you want to
.
Speaker 1 (11:15):
I wanted to, so I carefully pushed my
half-completed structure to theside out of his way.
After a while, mr Fitzwilliammentioned that he had to go into
the club and we said ourgoodbyes.
I returned the next day andalmost every day after that for
the entire August holiday,building and dismantling
structure after structure, allwhile we chatted about his life
(11:36):
as a pilot.
I asked him more questions thanhe could answer and he
fascinated me with the thoughtof becoming a pilot.
On weekends I would beg mystepfather to take us to the
airport to watch the jets departand arrive, dreaming of the day
I could fly one of thosemassive metal tubes.
It was a dream I held on tountil I was a teenager where,
for reasons I will give inanother story, I learned I could
(11:58):
never become a pilot.
I was becoming a substitutegrandchild and for me he was
becoming a substitute fatherfigure.
Although my stepfather was inmy life and loved me, he mostly
kept to himself and we neverspoke the way Mr Fitzwilliam and
I did.
As much as I listened to MrFitzwilliam's stories, he
listened to a precocious boy'sdreams of the future and his
(12:20):
little problems, something noone ever asked me about.
He always had very sage advicewhen I complained about some
issue with my brothers orparents, prompting me to see the
problem from their side also.
The August holidays ended and Ireturned to school again, seeing
Mr Fitzwilliam infrequentlywhen the Christmas holidays
rolled around, I did not get tovisit him as often as I wanted
(12:42):
and when I did it was only totalk in his garden or on the
sidewalk, without ever gettingto play with the construction
set.
I would glance up at the porchand see the half-complete
structure.
I left there in August sittingon the ground waiting for my
return.
As we spoke, I noticed he wasless active in his garden than
when I first met him.
(13:02):
He seemed to age many yearsbefore my eyes.
On Christmas Eve night, I washelping my mother prepare dinner
when my stepfather suddenlycalled out from the front of the
house that I had a visitor.
My mother and I exchangedcurious looks and made our way
to the front porch to see who itcould be.
As we stepped outside, we weregreeted by Mr Fitzwilliam
(13:23):
holding onto a significantlywrapped gift.
The porch light cast a uniqueglow on his face with its white
beard and red shirt, making himlook like a thin Santa Claus,
despite the brightness of hisexpression I could tell that he
was sad and that this was adifficult time for him.
He was alone and had no familyaround him.
His eyes betrayed his sadnessand I suspected that he was
(13:45):
crying.
I stared at him and he caughtme looking into his glassy sad
eyes, reading him.
Speaker 2 (13:52):
I was making the neighborhood rounds, I am afraid
I had too much punch to cram atall the other neighbors I
visited first, but I saved myvisit to my best friend for last
.
Speaker 1 (14:01):
He said, giving me an excuse for the redness of his
eyes, but I knew he was notdrunk.
This is for you, tate, he saidas he handed me the package.
I knew what it was the instantI took it from his hand.
It was the construction set,like the one I played with in
his house, but the box size toldme it was the Deluxe Edition.
Is this what I think it is?
(14:21):
I asked excitedly.
Yes, it is.
I bought you your own.
My mother invited Mr Fitzwilliamto have a seat.
It was apparent that she and mystepfather knew Mr Fitzwilliam
somehow.
She offered him more punch tocram, a milk punch similar to
egg nog, made with rum andAngostura aromatic bitters,
which he happily accepted, and apastel, a traditional pork and
(14:43):
beef pie with olives and caperswrapped in a cornmeal shell that
is then wrapped in a bananaleaf and steamed.
The banana leaves impart aunique taste.
You can never eat just one.
Mr Fitzwilliam gobbled thepastel as if he had not eaten in
days.
My mother offered him another,which he eagerly took, along
with a slice of my aunt's superbblack Christmas cake, much like
(15:06):
English plum pudding butdrenched in rum.
My stepfather, although youngerthan Mr Fitzwilliam, was in the
Canadian army during the war andthey swapped war stories as
they were both stationed inEngland.
My stepfather opened up to theolder man and spoke about things
he had never told me.
He was a person my stepfathercould talk to, about things he
kept inside.
(15:26):
They wondered how often theymay have crossed paths to only
now meet a quarter of a centuryafter the war's end.
My mother allowed me to openthe gift and I sat on the ground
playing with it while myparents and Mr Fitzwilliam
laughed and shared stories.
After what seemed like hours,mr Fitzwilliam said he should go
before he fell asleep on ourporch.
He stood, shook my mother'shand and then shook my
(15:49):
stepfather's hand before pullinghim in for a hug, which my
stepfather eagerly embraced.
The gesture not only shocked mebut also fascinated me, and my
stepfather reciprocated.
It was as if each became asubstitute for what the other
was missing in their lives.
Speaker 2 (16:08):
He's a new light in my life.
He is great company for anolder man.
I hope you don't mind that hevisits me".
Speaker 1 (16:14):
Not at all, so long as he minds his manners.
After he left I asked my motherif we could invite Mr
Fitzwilliam for Christmas andshe said that my stepfather had
already done so when they weretalking, but he declined.
He told them he preferred to bealone on Christmas Day.
I didn't see Mr Fitzwilliamagain until New Year's Day, when
I went to wish him a happy NewYear and bring a slice of the
(16:36):
black Christmas cake he said heloved.
I again returned to school andsaw Mr Fitzwilliam a few times
after New Year's.
A month before Easter holidays Ibecame very ill, which happened
often.
It seemed the warm, humidweather of the Caribbean
disagreed with me.
I frequently developedbronchitis with severe ear
infections.
I was down for a few weeks andnever visited Mr Fitzwilliam.
(16:58):
As I lay in bed, my stepfatherbrought a new comic book for me
to read.
He said it was a gift from MrFitzwilliam.
He came to see me when I wassleeping.
I thought of all the places MrFitzwilliam described in the US
and decided that maybe that waswhere I needed to live to escape
the heat and humidity thatdisagreed with me.
When Easter holidays camearound, I went to his house to
(17:21):
wish him a happy Easter.
He wasn't in his yard and Iassumed he already left for the
club.
I returned home when I passedin front of Mrs Ho's guest house
, he's gone boy.
I heard a voice come from theporch of the guest house.
I saw Mrs Ho smoking a pipe andreading a paper in a rocking
chair.
Excuse me, I asked, not knowingwhat she was talking about.
(17:41):
She continued to rock, puffingon the pipe and never took her
eyes off the paper.
I never noticed her therebefore, but from where she sat
she had a direct view into MrFitzwilliam's yard and porch and
could see everything that wenton there.
Your old friend, is gone.
She said never looking at me,Gone where he passed away a
(18:02):
couple of weeks ago.
Speaker 2 (18:05):
His family buried him last week.
Speaker 1 (18:08):
I stood motionless on the sidewalk, completely taken
aback by the news.
Despite being aware of his age,I had never truly prepared
myself for the reality of hispassing.
The thought of never having thechance to bid him farewell left
me feeling numb and helpless.
As I glanced around at thehouse, the walls seemed to echo
with the deafening silence of myold friend no longer in his
(18:28):
yard.
His absence was anirreplaceable loss that had left
a void in my heart.
It was as if the house had lostits soul and the memories we
had shared were now just ghostsof the past.
With an aching heart and aheavy step, I left and returned
home.
As I lay in bed, memories ofour conversations and his
(18:54):
beautiful stories flooded mymind and I could feel my heart
breaking into a million pieces.
The tears streamed down my faceand with each sob I felt a
little bit of my old friend'spresence slipping away Sitting
in the living room.
My stepfather heard me andwalked straight to my room.
I sobbed as I told him aboutthe sudden death of Mr
(19:15):
Fitzwilliam, my old friend.
I was devastated that hisfamily didn't let me know about
his passing.
All I wanted was to attend hisfuneral and bid him a final
farewell.
My stepfather was visiblyshaken by either the news or my
devastation, but tried toconsole me, explaining that it
was possible that MrFitzwilliam's family didn't know
(19:36):
about me, hence the lack ofnotification.
It was a tough pill, but I knewhe was right.
I saw tears form in mystepfather's eyes as he quickly
turned away and left my room.
It took a while for me to getover Mr Fitzwilliam's passing
and I could never return to thatpart of the neighborhood.
I stopped visiting the otherolder adults in the neighborhood
for fear of the samedevastation I felt.
With time I eventually blockedMr Fitzwilliam from my mind
(19:59):
until I recalled the friendship.
In adulthood I asked my motherif she recalled Mr Fitzwilliam
during her latter years and, tomy surprise, she did.
However, I never knew untilthen that after that
unforgettable moment, mystepfather and Mr Fitzwilliam
met a few times at our home.
During those meetings, mrFitzwilliam lent an ear to
(20:20):
listen to my stepfather'sstories, something he had never
been able to share with anyonebefore.
They both filled a void in eachother's lives.
I realized there was somethingso special about Mr Fitzwilliam.
Maybe he was an angel indisguise.
Reflecting on my childhood, Iempathized with the little boy I
once was, despite my bestefforts to convince myself
(20:42):
otherwise.
I was struggling withloneliness, but amidst this
struggle, I found solace in anolder man missing his
grandchildren.
The bond we shared washeartwarming and inspiring.
I provided him with a muchneeded source of company and
attention, and he would share atreasure trove of captivating
stories that would spark myimagination and give me a
glimpse into a world beyond myown, listening to me as no one
(21:05):
else in my life could.
I was able to make a living bylistening to my own, listening
to me as no one else in my lifedid.
At that time, the bond betweenmy stepfather and Mr Fitzwilliam
was one of the most remarkablethings that came out of all this
.
It was our friendship thatbrought them together, allowing
them to form a connection thatwent beyond just casual
acquaintances.
I imagine they talked andlaughed together, sharing
(21:26):
stories and experiences like oldfriends.
Reflecting upon those moments,I am filled with profound
gratitude for our sharedexceptional kindness and
understanding.
It was a remarkable experiencethat was a powerful reminder of
how crucial human connection canbe, even in the most unexpected
and challenging circumstances.
The empathy and compassion thatwe demonstrated towards one
(21:49):
another was a testament to thestrength and resilience of the
human spirit, and it is a memorythat I will always cherish.
As we come to the end of thisweek's story, let us take a
moment to reflect on the smallyet significant connections we
make through our naturalcuriosity and innocent nature.
These brief moments ofinteraction often impact our
(22:10):
minds, emphasizing therelationships that transcend the
limitations of time and age.
Have you ever thought about howour past experiences shape who
we are today?
Is there a childhoodrelationship that forged the
person you are today in ways younever realized?
Even the memories we don'tdiscuss can significantly impact
how we view the world, makedecisions and build
(22:31):
relationships.
These intangible connectionsfrom our past linger in our
memories, influencing us in wayswe may not even realize.
Thank you for joining us onanother episode of Pan2Pen,
where a chef puts aside hissaute pan and picks up a pen to
share his stories.
This is our final episode forthe year, as we take a short
(22:52):
break for the season, but we'llbe back in the new year with
fresh tales.
Tate would like to take thisopportunity to express his
gratitude to his fantastic wifefor her unwavering support and
invaluable input in creatingthis podcast.
We wish our listeners a joyfulholiday season of love, laughter
and happiness.
May the new year bring youprosperity and many happy
(23:15):
memories.
We're committed to keeping thispodcast ad-free to ensure your
listening experience remainsuninterrupted.
However, producing a podcastlike this demands significant
resources.
If you enjoy what you hear andwant to support us, please
consider visiting the link inthe show notes.
Your contributions will help uscontinue to bring you
captivating stories free ofinterruptions.
(23:37):
Thank you for being a part ofthe Pan2Pen community.
If you haven't done so already,please subscribe, rate and
follow us.
Also, share this podcast withyour friends and family.
If you enjoyed this story orhave any comments, you can find
us on social media and Tate'swebsite, which are listed in the
show notes.
We would love to hear from you.
Thanks for tuning in, Wishingyou all the best until we meet
(24:00):
again.
And remember.
Stories never end.
They just take a break.
Until next time, keep the talesalive.
Pan2pen, where a chef exploresstorytelling beyond the kitchen,
is written, produced and editedby Tate Basildon, who holds the
copyright here in.
While we aim for an uninterrupted listening
experience, we'd like to take amoment to recognize a remarkable
listener, vitality UK in theUnited Kingdom.
Thank you so much for leavingour first review and rating.
For all of our other listenerswho enjoy the stories, please
take a moment to follow, rateand review the podcast.
Your feedback enhances thepodcast algorithm, expanding its
(00:22):
reach to more listeners.
Again, special thanks toVitality UK for the fantastic
5-star review.
Now let's get into today'sepisode.
Welcome to another episode ofPan2Pen.
When a private chef leaves thekitchen to write a story, each
(00:43):
episode serves a fresh literarytreat crafted by Tate Basildon,
a private chef and memoir author.
In this episode we'll be takenon a journey of innocence,
curiosity and intergenerationalbonding with a young Tate as he
sets out to explore a newneighborhood.
As he wanders the streets, hefinds himself in an unexpected
(01:05):
encounter that leads to anunlikely friendship.
So sit back, relax and prepareto be transported into the
heartwarming tale of visiting MrFitzwilliam.
When I was a boy, my family andI relocated to a serene
(01:27):
residential area on the northernedge of the city limits.
The community was renowned forits stunning Victorian mansions
that bordered a vast parkserving as a boundary for the
city.
Towards the north of thismagnificent park lay the city's
botanical garden constructed atthe base of a mountain.
Our house, a modest yet ornateVictorian building, sat just a
(01:48):
block from the beautifulmansions.
Dotted within our neighborhoodwere homes as stunning as those
on the park's perimeter, butthey did not receive the same
notoriety.
The neighborhood transformed asbusinesses bought up old
mansions for offices.
Elderly British expats mainlyoccupied the remaining houses.
So no children my age were inthe neighborhood.
(02:08):
My two brothers were five andseven years older than me and
did their own thing.
My best friend lived around theblock, but his parents were
strict and only allowed him tocome out to play at certain
times.
Therefore I had a lot of freetime for myself.
Despite this, I neverconsidered myself a lonely child
, as I enjoyed being alone.
(02:28):
I preferred the company ofadults over children, as I was
always fascinated by the storiesadults told rather than the
games children wanted to play.
So this neighborhood wasperfect for a child like me.
I made daily rounds to talk toalmost all the older adults in
the area.
During the Easter holidays Iexplored my neighborhood daily.
(02:49):
I usually stayed within ourstreet, but one day I decided to
go to the end of the block,turned left and walk towards the
house at the end, I noticed thehouse was very small.
The house was always empty whenwe drove past that street.
All the other houses on thatblock were converted into
businesses, except for one oldmansion which was obliquely
opposite, operated as a boardinghouse.
(03:10):
Mrs Ho ran it.
She was a short, elderlyChinese woman with a bob style
haircut dyed bright red andalways wore a short mini skirt
and knee length red leather highheeled boots.
She would walk past our houseevery day at precisely 10 in the
morning and return at noon.
We could set our clocks to herschedule.
(03:31):
I never spoke with her, but shealways smiled and waved when
she saw me in our yard.
The house at the end of theblock was unlike all the other
Victorian style housessurrounding it.
It was a World War II era homemade of brick and stucco, which
was flat and plain, with hugebay windows surrounded by a wide
covered porch.
It was noticeable compared toeverything else around us.
(03:53):
Hello, a voice said from withinthe hedges.
I peered into the yard but Icouldn't see anyone.
I wondered if I was hearingghosts, so I remained silent.
Suddenly, the hedges startedmoving and a tall, slim man with
a long white beard appeared.
He was wearing a straw hat andgloves and holding garden shears
(04:14):
.
Speaker 2 (04:15):
What's your name?
Speaker 1 (04:16):
He asked his accent noticeably different from the
other expats in the neighborhood.
He wasn't British and soundedAmerican Tate, I said.
Studying him closely, his eyeswere the bluest and most
captivating I had ever seen.
My stepfather's eyes were blue,but they paled.
Compared to this man's, I foundhis eyes both fascinating and
(04:38):
sorrowful.
I once asked my stepfather whyhis eyes were blue.
He told me it was a beautifulday when he was born without
clouds.
When he opened his eyes andlooked up, he saw the blue sky
first and that's why his eyesbecame that color.
He also said his hair wasblonde because it was the color
(04:59):
of the sun that shone in thecloudless sky.
I gazed at the stranger withsilver hair and deep blue eyes,
wondering what he saw at birth.
What did you first see when youwere born?
I asked what when you werefirst born?
What did you first see?
I have no idea why.
Never mind, do you havechildren, I asked.
Not that I felt the need toplay with any.
Speaker 2 (05:20):
Yes, one son, but he lives far from here and I don't
see him much.
Speaker 1 (05:24):
He replied, his eyes betraying his deep sadness at
that thought.
We chatted for a long while.
He leaned against his low brickwall and I tried to imitate his
stance to appear more mature.
We talked about theneighborhood, the people who
lived there and what he did fora living.
He worked as the clay courtexpert at the tennis club around
the corner, although I wasn'tsure what that meant, he said he
(05:47):
only went to the club for anhour or two after lunch and
spent the rest of his time inhis garden.
We finished our conversationand I left to continue speaking
with the other elderly neighbors.
When I went home I told mystepfather about meeting Mr
Fitzwilliam and I asked if Icould return to visit with the
older man.
My stepfather said it was fineso long as I was not becoming a
(06:08):
pest to the man.
During our meetings we wouldoften engage in lengthy
conversations about his life.
He always had fascinatingstories about his experiences as
a US Air Force pilot duringWorld War II.
He had seen many battles,flying bombing missions over
Europe.
He told me he never knew if hewas ever coming home with every
mission he flew.
(06:28):
He was already in his fortieswhen he flew those expeditions
and learned to fly on a biplanein his teens in the Great War,
as he called it.
He shared about his time inEngland, meeting his wife and
having one son, although hiswife had passed away.
He didn't elaborate on when orhow and I did not pry.
I loved listening to hisstories, as my stepfather, who
(06:51):
also served in World War II, inretrospect suffered from PTSD
and didn't ever speak of histime there.
After the war, mr Fitzwilliamwas given a new assignment in
the Caribbean, where he flewmissions over the Caribbean Sea
in search of German U-boats.
He fell in love with thetropical weather and decided to
stay there permanently, neverreturning to the US or England.
(07:13):
His son lived in England andrarely visited him in the
Caribbean, so he did not seemuch of his grandchildren.
He carried a deep sadness whenhe spoke of his family, a
loneliness that spanned oceans.
I wondered why he never went toEngland to visit his
grandchildren, but I realizedthere was an unspoken story
about his relationship with hisson, and it was none of my
(07:34):
business.
There was a parallel between MrFitzwilliam and my stepfather.
My stepfather also had a grownson from his previous marriage,
with whom he had a strainedrelationship.
Looking at Mr Fitzwilliam waslike looking at my stepfather in
years to come.
I went to see Mr Fitzwilliamalmost daily during the Easter
holidays.
On returning to school I onlysaw him occasionally on weekends
(07:58):
.
When the August holidays rolledaround, I anxiously visited him
every day around 10 to talk.
While we were conversing onemorning outside, a dark rain
cloud suddenly formed over themountain, as it sometimes did,
and it began to rain.
I was about to run back homewhen a lightning bolt struck
down in the nearby park,followed immediately by a
(08:18):
terrifying crack of thunder.
Come on in.
He swung the gate open andgestured for me to follow him to
his porch.
As we approached the front steps, I couldn't help but admire the
well-manicured lawn and thecolorful flower beds that lined
the path to the entrance.
His garden was by far the mostbeautiful in the neighborhood.
As I stepped onto his porch, Ilooked inside his house through
(08:40):
the enormous bay window and wasstruck by the vibrant and modern
decor With its bright orangeand yellow hues.
The furniture almost seemed toglow in the natural light that
filtered through the windows.
The clean lines and futuristicdesigns of everything from the
couches to the lamps made itfeel like I was looking into the
set of a sci-fi film.
In stark contrast to my home,which was filled with heavy,
(09:03):
ornate pieces of Victorianfurniture, his house was a
refreshing and energizing changeof pace.
A shelving unit with a stack oftoys was in one corner of the
huge porch.
A particular box that caught myattention was a construction
set.
I had seen it in a storepreviously.
Unlike LEGO, this set consistedof wooden floor panels with
holes where you could insertthin, rigid metal poles.
(09:26):
These poles acted as thesupport like wood beams in a
wall, and you could slide panelsonto the poles to create walls.
They were the perfect toy for achild to have fun with and
simultaneously dangerous enoughto poke both of your eyes out.
I desperately wanted to playwith it, but didn't say anything
, since my mother had alwaystaught me to look and never
(09:46):
touch anything at someone's home.
Mr Fitzwilliam saw me staringat the set and asked with a kind
smile would you like to playwith that construction kit?
I eagerly nodded in responseand swiftly got down on the
floor, excited to explore thecontents.
With a swift motion, I openedit up and poured all the pieces
onto the ground, relishing thechance to start building and
(10:09):
creating.
Speaker 2 (10:11):
I bought all these toys the last time my
grandchildren visited, but Ithink I overdid it.
They weren't here long enoughto play with them all.
Speaker 1 (10:19):
As he spoke, I again noticed the sadness in his eyes
and a slight tremble in hisvoice.
He admitted that he barely sawhis grandchildren and was not
the best father, dedicatinghimself to his job and barely
ever being at home.
His son wanted less to do withhim as an adult, so he rarely
saw him or his grandchildren.
His son in turn became a pilotin the British armed forces and
(10:41):
said he never had time to cometo the Caribbean to visit.
He explained that he was tooold now to handle the lengthy
flight to England so he had todepend on his son coming to see
him.
Despite his apparent emptiness,we engaged in a friendly
conversation about our lives.
As we talked, I watched himclosely and it seemed like he
was trying to avoid dwelling toomuch on his loneliness.
(11:02):
The downpour had ceased,prompting me to dismantle the
structure I had beenconstructing and carefully store
it away.
Speaker 2 (11:10):
No, leave it.
You can continue when youreturn next time, if you want to
.
Speaker 1 (11:15):
I wanted to, so I carefully pushed my
half-completed structure to theside out of his way.
After a while, mr Fitzwilliammentioned that he had to go into
the club and we said ourgoodbyes.
I returned the next day andalmost every day after that for
the entire August holiday,building and dismantling
structure after structure, allwhile we chatted about his life
(11:36):
as a pilot.
I asked him more questions thanhe could answer and he
fascinated me with the thoughtof becoming a pilot.
On weekends I would beg mystepfather to take us to the
airport to watch the jets departand arrive, dreaming of the day
I could fly one of thosemassive metal tubes.
It was a dream I held on tountil I was a teenager where,
for reasons I will give inanother story, I learned I could
(11:58):
never become a pilot.
I was becoming a substitutegrandchild and for me he was
becoming a substitute fatherfigure.
Although my stepfather was inmy life and loved me, he mostly
kept to himself and we neverspoke the way Mr Fitzwilliam and
I did.
As much as I listened to MrFitzwilliam's stories, he
listened to a precocious boy'sdreams of the future and his
(12:20):
little problems, something noone ever asked me about.
He always had very sage advicewhen I complained about some
issue with my brothers orparents, prompting me to see the
problem from their side also.
The August holidays ended and Ireturned to school again, seeing
Mr Fitzwilliam infrequentlywhen the Christmas holidays
rolled around, I did not get tovisit him as often as I wanted
(12:42):
and when I did it was only totalk in his garden or on the
sidewalk, without ever gettingto play with the construction
set.
I would glance up at the porchand see the half-complete
structure.
I left there in August sittingon the ground waiting for my
return.
As we spoke, I noticed he wasless active in his garden than
when I first met him.
(13:02):
He seemed to age many yearsbefore my eyes.
On Christmas Eve night, I washelping my mother prepare dinner
when my stepfather suddenlycalled out from the front of the
house that I had a visitor.
My mother and I exchangedcurious looks and made our way
to the front porch to see who itcould be.
As we stepped outside, we weregreeted by Mr Fitzwilliam
(13:23):
holding onto a significantlywrapped gift.
The porch light cast a uniqueglow on his face with its white
beard and red shirt, making himlook like a thin Santa Claus,
despite the brightness of hisexpression I could tell that he
was sad and that this was adifficult time for him.
He was alone and had no familyaround him.
His eyes betrayed his sadnessand I suspected that he was
(13:45):
crying.
I stared at him and he caughtme looking into his glassy sad
eyes, reading him.
Speaker 2 (13:52):
I was making the neighborhood rounds, I am afraid
I had too much punch to cram atall the other neighbors I
visited first, but I saved myvisit to my best friend for last
.
Speaker 1 (14:01):
He said, giving me an excuse for the redness of his
eyes, but I knew he was notdrunk.
This is for you, tate, he saidas he handed me the package.
I knew what it was the instantI took it from his hand.
It was the construction set,like the one I played with in
his house, but the box size toldme it was the Deluxe Edition.
Is this what I think it is?
(14:21):
I asked excitedly.
Yes, it is.
I bought you your own.
My mother invited Mr Fitzwilliamto have a seat.
It was apparent that she and mystepfather knew Mr Fitzwilliam
somehow.
She offered him more punch tocram, a milk punch similar to
egg nog, made with rum andAngostura aromatic bitters,
which he happily accepted, and apastel, a traditional pork and
(14:43):
beef pie with olives and caperswrapped in a cornmeal shell that
is then wrapped in a bananaleaf and steamed.
The banana leaves impart aunique taste.
You can never eat just one.
Mr Fitzwilliam gobbled thepastel as if he had not eaten in
days.
My mother offered him another,which he eagerly took, along
with a slice of my aunt's superbblack Christmas cake, much like
(15:06):
English plum pudding butdrenched in rum.
My stepfather, although youngerthan Mr Fitzwilliam, was in the
Canadian army during the war andthey swapped war stories as
they were both stationed inEngland.
My stepfather opened up to theolder man and spoke about things
he had never told me.
He was a person my stepfathercould talk to, about things he
kept inside.
(15:26):
They wondered how often theymay have crossed paths to only
now meet a quarter of a centuryafter the war's end.
My mother allowed me to openthe gift and I sat on the ground
playing with it while myparents and Mr Fitzwilliam
laughed and shared stories.
After what seemed like hours,mr Fitzwilliam said he should go
before he fell asleep on ourporch.
He stood, shook my mother'shand and then shook my
(15:49):
stepfather's hand before pullinghim in for a hug, which my
stepfather eagerly embraced.
The gesture not only shocked mebut also fascinated me, and my
stepfather reciprocated.
It was as if each became asubstitute for what the other
was missing in their lives.
Speaker 2 (16:08):
He's a new light in my life.
He is great company for anolder man.
I hope you don't mind that hevisits me".
Speaker 1 (16:14):
Not at all, so long as he minds his manners.
After he left I asked my motherif we could invite Mr
Fitzwilliam for Christmas andshe said that my stepfather had
already done so when they weretalking, but he declined.
He told them he preferred to bealone on Christmas Day.
I didn't see Mr Fitzwilliamagain until New Year's Day, when
I went to wish him a happy NewYear and bring a slice of the
(16:36):
black Christmas cake he said heloved.
I again returned to school andsaw Mr Fitzwilliam a few times
after New Year's.
A month before Easter holidays Ibecame very ill, which happened
often.
It seemed the warm, humidweather of the Caribbean
disagreed with me.
I frequently developedbronchitis with severe ear
infections.
I was down for a few weeks andnever visited Mr Fitzwilliam.
(16:58):
As I lay in bed, my stepfatherbrought a new comic book for me
to read.
He said it was a gift from MrFitzwilliam.
He came to see me when I wassleeping.
I thought of all the places MrFitzwilliam described in the US
and decided that maybe that waswhere I needed to live to escape
the heat and humidity thatdisagreed with me.
When Easter holidays camearound, I went to his house to
(17:21):
wish him a happy Easter.
He wasn't in his yard and Iassumed he already left for the
club.
I returned home when I passedin front of Mrs Ho's guest house
, he's gone boy.
I heard a voice come from theporch of the guest house.
I saw Mrs Ho smoking a pipe andreading a paper in a rocking
chair.
Excuse me, I asked, not knowingwhat she was talking about.
(17:41):
She continued to rock, puffingon the pipe and never took her
eyes off the paper.
I never noticed her therebefore, but from where she sat
she had a direct view into MrFitzwilliam's yard and porch and
could see everything that wenton there.
Your old friend, is gone.
She said never looking at me,Gone where he passed away a
(18:02):
couple of weeks ago.
Speaker 2 (18:05):
His family buried him last week.
Speaker 1 (18:08):
I stood motionless on the sidewalk, completely taken
aback by the news.
Despite being aware of his age,I had never truly prepared
myself for the reality of hispassing.
The thought of never having thechance to bid him farewell left
me feeling numb and helpless.
As I glanced around at thehouse, the walls seemed to echo
with the deafening silence of myold friend no longer in his
(18:28):
yard.
His absence was anirreplaceable loss that had left
a void in my heart.
It was as if the house had lostits soul and the memories we
had shared were now just ghostsof the past.
With an aching heart and aheavy step, I left and returned
home.
As I lay in bed, memories ofour conversations and his
(18:54):
beautiful stories flooded mymind and I could feel my heart
breaking into a million pieces.
The tears streamed down my faceand with each sob I felt a
little bit of my old friend'spresence slipping away Sitting
in the living room.
My stepfather heard me andwalked straight to my room.
I sobbed as I told him aboutthe sudden death of Mr
(19:15):
Fitzwilliam, my old friend.
I was devastated that hisfamily didn't let me know about
his passing.
All I wanted was to attend hisfuneral and bid him a final
farewell.
My stepfather was visiblyshaken by either the news or my
devastation, but tried toconsole me, explaining that it
was possible that MrFitzwilliam's family didn't know
(19:36):
about me, hence the lack ofnotification.
It was a tough pill, but I knewhe was right.
I saw tears form in mystepfather's eyes as he quickly
turned away and left my room.
It took a while for me to getover Mr Fitzwilliam's passing
and I could never return to thatpart of the neighborhood.
I stopped visiting the otherolder adults in the neighborhood
for fear of the samedevastation I felt.
With time I eventually blockedMr Fitzwilliam from my mind
(19:59):
until I recalled the friendship.
In adulthood I asked my motherif she recalled Mr Fitzwilliam
during her latter years and, tomy surprise, she did.
However, I never knew untilthen that after that
unforgettable moment, mystepfather and Mr Fitzwilliam
met a few times at our home.
During those meetings, mrFitzwilliam lent an ear to
(20:20):
listen to my stepfather'sstories, something he had never
been able to share with anyonebefore.
They both filled a void in eachother's lives.
I realized there was somethingso special about Mr Fitzwilliam.
Maybe he was an angel indisguise.
Reflecting on my childhood, Iempathized with the little boy I
once was, despite my bestefforts to convince myself
(20:42):
otherwise.
I was struggling withloneliness, but amidst this
struggle, I found solace in anolder man missing his
grandchildren.
The bond we shared washeartwarming and inspiring.
I provided him with a muchneeded source of company and
attention, and he would share atreasure trove of captivating
stories that would spark myimagination and give me a
glimpse into a world beyond myown, listening to me as no one
(21:05):
else in my life could.
I was able to make a living bylistening to my own, listening
to me as no one else in my lifedid.
At that time, the bond betweenmy stepfather and Mr Fitzwilliam
was one of the most remarkablethings that came out of all this
.
It was our friendship thatbrought them together, allowing
them to form a connection thatwent beyond just casual
acquaintances.
I imagine they talked andlaughed together, sharing
(21:26):
stories and experiences like oldfriends.
Reflecting upon those moments,I am filled with profound
gratitude for our sharedexceptional kindness and
understanding.
It was a remarkable experiencethat was a powerful reminder of
how crucial human connection canbe, even in the most unexpected
and challenging circumstances.
The empathy and compassion thatwe demonstrated towards one
(21:49):
another was a testament to thestrength and resilience of the
human spirit, and it is a memorythat I will always cherish.
As we come to the end of thisweek's story, let us take a
moment to reflect on the smallyet significant connections we
make through our naturalcuriosity and innocent nature.
These brief moments ofinteraction often impact our
(22:10):
minds, emphasizing therelationships that transcend the
limitations of time and age.
Have you ever thought about howour past experiences shape who
we are today?
Is there a childhoodrelationship that forged the
person you are today in ways younever realized?
Even the memories we don'tdiscuss can significantly impact
how we view the world, makedecisions and build
(22:31):
relationships.
These intangible connectionsfrom our past linger in our
memories, influencing us in wayswe may not even realize.
Thank you for joining us onanother episode of Pan2Pen,
where a chef puts aside hissaute pan and picks up a pen to
share his stories.
This is our final episode forthe year, as we take a short
(22:52):
break for the season, but we'llbe back in the new year with
fresh tales.
Tate would like to take thisopportunity to express his
gratitude to his fantastic wifefor her unwavering support and
invaluable input in creatingthis podcast.
We wish our listeners a joyfulholiday season of love, laughter
and happiness.
May the new year bring youprosperity and many happy
(23:15):
memories.
We're committed to keeping thispodcast ad-free to ensure your
listening experience remainsuninterrupted.
However, producing a podcastlike this demands significant
resources.
If you enjoy what you hear andwant to support us, please
consider visiting the link inthe show notes.
Your contributions will help uscontinue to bring you
captivating stories free ofinterruptions.
(23:37):
Thank you for being a part ofthe Pan2Pen community.
If you haven't done so already,please subscribe, rate and
follow us.
Also, share this podcast withyour friends and family.
If you enjoyed this story orhave any comments, you can find
us on social media and Tate'swebsite, which are listed in the
show notes.
We would love to hear from you.
Thanks for tuning in, Wishingyou all the best until we meet
(24:00):
again.
And remember.
Stories never end.
They just take a break.
Until next time, keep the talesalive.
Pan2pen, where a chef exploresstorytelling beyond the kitchen,
is written, produced and editedby Tate Basildon, who holds the
copyright here in.
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