Summer is here, and it’s time to share a beach outfit! But first, a disclaimer: I am not much of a beach person. I dislike being wet and sandy, swimming bores me quickly, and beaches inevitably mean nasty sunburns for someone as pasty as me. That said, I do love beach fashion; and I wish that I could enjoy the beach more than I do!Kokomo


Kokomo by adairjacobs on Polyvore
Of course, I think the best beach fashion is inspired by the ’40s. ’40s beach fashion was more modest than today’s (which I greatly admire), but it was still alluring and very beautiful. This ensemble uses a classic shirred halterneck swimsuit in a gorgeous shade of red, which amps up the tan shorts and woven straw accessories. Tortoiseshell sunglasses are very appropriate for the era, and the leather sandals are another authentic choice. Whenever I go to the beach, I still wear jewellery- mainly because I avoid swimming anyway- and it adds a polish to an outfit that nothing else can. A tropical print scarf in a bracing shade of yellow adds a final surprise to this look. I may not be a beach person, but if I had an outfit like this to wear then you might just find me at the beach!!

Farewell, Motherland: A Short Story

To mark today’s 75th anniversary of Operation Barbarossa and the Wehrmacht’s massive invasion of the Soviet Union, I have written a short story about one of my favourite subjects. Throughout the five years I’ve been obsessed with and studying the Eastern Front, the story of the last defenders of Brest Fortress has always stood out to me. The Fortress in Belarus was one of the first Soviet strongholds to fall; but brave soldiers remained hidden within the walls, beneath the floors, and around the complex for weeks after it was overrun. These soldiers displayed great courage in their dedication to fight the enemy, as they chose to hide and create resistance even as they were starving and running out of water.

It’s in thinking of stories like these that I am so motivated to write about the Eastern Front. I want these stories to be known; they must be known, and if I can make them known in any way then I must. Also when thinking of these stories, my own efforts seem so inadequate. My story below, although I worked hard on it, just doesn’t do heroic deeds like those seen at Brest Fortress justice. But I will always try nonetheless. Farewell, Motherland imagines the last days of two of those last defenders. Their final days must have been bleak, but their endurance shows that their spirit was never broken. I hope I have portrayed that well.

Farewell Motherland

The message scratched into a wall at Brest Fortress, left by one of its courageous defenders. It reads, “I am dying but I do not surrender! Farewell, Motherland. 20 July 1941.” Image from Wikimedia Commons, attributed to Sergei Semyonov (Stauffenberg). CC-BY-SA 3.0

Farewell, Motherland

“You say we’re to wait until the Fritzes are all relaxing, eh?” Pasha drawled sceptically. “I don’t see how we’ll be able to tell when they’re asleep. It always looks like midnight down here.”

“Shut up,” Volodya growled. He could only just make out his comrade’s hunched outline, but he sent a scowl in Pasha’s direction all the same. “If you’d be quiet, then we’d at least hear them walking around.”

“Don’t bite my head off,” Pasha shot back. “My commentary at least enlivens the atmosphere a bit. Makes it a bit less dead. We’re the only breathing things down here… except for the worms and the rats.”

“I didn’t hear a commentary, it all sounded like complaining to me,” Volodya replied, pausing in the middle of his sentence to smile. Pasha and his stupid jokes. Maybe down here, in the dry, unwelcoming darkness, they were good for something. “Anyway, shut up for a minute. It’ll do you good to quit griping and listen for awhile.”

What a pleasant change; Pasha obeyed without a word, and the two men craned their necks toward the rough floorboards above them. There was absolutely nothing to see, so all they could do was try to hear what was going on in the room overhead.

“There’s nothing,” Pasha announced, before Volodya had even gotten focused. “Face it, Volodya, we’re never going to figure this out. I say we just burst out now and let them have it, before they find us and before we starve.” The floorboards creaked overhead, dumping a shower of dust and splinters onto both of them. “Ugh, my eyes! What an atrocious little cellar this is, anyway!”

“You dolt,” hissed Volodya, grasping blindly for the idiot’s collar. “Concentrate, why don’t you? The fascists’ footsteps are worth more than all the clever things you’ll ever say! And this cellar’s our saving grace, in case you’d forgotten. We’d be dead or ashamed like Kuzakov and Nazhinsky without it.”

“Okay, okay, fine!” Pasha yanked at Volodya’s hand, wheezing. “You’re right about that. But cut me some slack, okay? You outrank me, but only by a few months. And only because you’ve got a heart of stone and no sense of indecision! As it is, I’m a grunt, and a thoughtful one; so I’ve got to do some grumbling. If I don’t, who knows… I could end up like Vova Federov.”

“Vova Federov?” Volodya knew the name, but couldn’t ascribe it to anyone in particular.

“Yeah… the kid from Gomel, who vomited enough for a horse when he saw his first dead man. Then he stabbed himself in the foot with his bayonet and jumped off a bridge before he’d been a soldier for a month.”

“Right,” Volodya relinquished his grip on Pasha’s collar. “What a coward.”

“Well, there you have it.” A puff of dust into Volodya’s face signalled that Pasha had leaned his back against the earthen wall. “A lack of grumbling will turn this brave Soviet into that sort of a coward.”

Volodya shrugged. “Grumble away, then. But quietly. I’m listening.” And he turned his face back to the floorboards. He enjoyed a few minutes of silence; but of course Pasha the parrot couldn’t keep his mouth shut for long.

“What’s the plan, anyway?” Pasha was whispering, but that didn’t make his interruption any less irritating. “Once they’re asleep, what do we do?”

“For goodness’ sake, can’t you keep your words in your own head for once?!” Hissed Volodya, slamming his fist down onto the dry, sandy ground.

“Well, I thought it might help if I was prepared, but if you don’t think so, then fair enough…”

Now Volodya leaned his head against the crumbling wall. He knew Pasha was right; annoying, but right. “Okay, but pay attention. I won’t explain it twice, and I’m only taking questions now– not in twenty minutes, when you’ve worked out all the things that might go wrong.”

“But, Volodya,” Pasha protested, “don’t you want a second opinion? Surely we want the plan to be as perfect as possible.”

“The plan’s never going to be perfect,” Volodya replied after a pause. “There’s only one thing we can do now, and that’s figure out the most productive way for us to die.”

That shut Pasha up for a bit, but all Volodya could hear was his comrade’s anxious breaths and the fascists’ jackbooted footsteps above.

“I bet you’re glad you let me grumble now,” Pasha muttered presently. “If I were Vova Federov, I’d have topped myself not to avoid the fascists, but to avoid coming in here.”

“It’d be much more peaceful if you were Vova Federov, then,” Volodya smiled.

“Yeah, much more peaceful,” echoed Pasha. He paused and sighed, almost inaudibly. “So what is your plan?”

“You’ve still got grenades, right?”

“Two of them– I thought about using one when I seemed to be cornered, but then I found my way in here.”

“You mean, you followed me in here,” interjected Volodya.

“Well, at least I’ve still got my grenades… remind me why I shouldn’t use one on you?”

Volodya chuckled. “Because you’re lost without me, that’s why. Anyway, listen to the plan. Once the fascists are quiet and have forgotten all about our resistance, we’ll burst out and give them a magazine full. Then we’ll throw our grenades before they can return fire; and in the confusion, we’ll reload and shoot some more.”

“I’ve only got twelve rounds left,” objected Pasha. “Twelve rounds don’t go far.”

Volodya let out a pained sigh– Pasha could always think of something wrong. “We won’t go far, either! Don’t bother yourself with that. Just hope that you’ll have the time to get those twelve rounds off.”

“Am I allowed to save a round for myself?”

“You saw how many fascists poured into the Fortress. I doubt you’ll have to.”

There was a pause; even the scurrying rats seemed to fall silent and Pasha the parrot had nothing to say.

“Well, how long do we have to wait?” Finally he spoke, tapping what sounded like the butt of his Mosin impatiently. Volodya ignored this annoyance.

“As long as we can hold out without getting too weak. I’ve got half a canteen of water left.”

“Oh, alright then. That’ll last for at least a week.”

“Don’t get smart,” Volodya shot back. “Of course, it all depends on how long you can keep your mouth shut, too.”

Pasha snorted in reply, and Volodya smirked as a thought came to mind. “You know, Pasha my old comrade, you might make it out of this after all. Your nonstop chatter might entertain the fascists enough that they decide to keep you alive.”

Pasha laughed so hard that Volodya had to smack him to shut him up. As the floorboards creaked and the dust floated down, Volodya took a deep breath of the stuffy, dry air. “The fascists will be going to bed soon. After tonight, it’ll only be a few more days of this.”

“I know,” Pasha said, fidgeting like a child. “But after a few more days…”

Volodya ignored his suggestion. “We won’t be waiting long, the days will go fast. Three or four days isn’t a long time when we’ve both had twenty-five years here.”

“Well, not here, ” Pasha protested. “Twenty-five years here, in this little cellar, would be enough to drive anyone nuts!”

“You’re a moron,” Volodya looked towards Pasha’s dark figure, chuckling. “I’m spending my last few days with a moron.”

Pasha sounded thoughtful. “A moron, and a friend?”

“Yes, Pasha, a friend.”

“Well, that’s something! I thought you’d be grumpy with me right to the end.”

“There’s time yet… are you going to be talking even as we burst out and hammer the Fritzes?”

Volodya could hear the sad smile in Pasha’s voice. “I’ll be talking alright. I’ll be the last thing they hear!”


A Petrolhead’s Paradise: Pt. 1

Most people enjoy visiting England for the culture, or the history, or the food– and then there are people like me; petrolheads, who especially enjoy visiting for the cars. The streets of England are very different from the ones I’m accustomed to in Canada. Here, large SUVs and trucks are favoured; there, economical hatchbacks and wagons are preferred by most people.

The streets of London are different still. London is a fantastic place to see awesome cars. Locales like Kensington and Chelsea are full of wealth and, by extension, full of expensive cars like Maseratis, Aston Martins, Rolls-Royces, and Lamborghinis. Even outside the posh neighbourhoods, motoring exclusivity is everywhere. On my last trip (April 2015), I was on the lookout for nice cars, and there wasn’t one day I was disappointed!!

London 2015 Adair 070 edited

Back in April 2015, I’d been enthusiastically working at Mitsubishi for less than a month. Therefore I was incredibly excited to find this Mitsubishi pickup truck (not offered for sale in North America) parked in Greenwich!

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The Mercedes in the background is covered in Swarovski crystals. I had actually seen an article on this car some weeks before on the internet… apparently it is often seen around the posh locales of London. All I can say is, unfortunately money doesn’t buy good taste.

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The blingy crystal Mercedes was followed by something much more appealing; this immaculate Bentley. I think it’s an old Continental coupe.

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I saw this incredible vintage Jaguar outside Sir John Soane’s museum in Holborn. This is one of my dream cars– an old Jag in British racing green, of course!

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My mum loves the original Mini, and we always keep our eyes open for them in England. We saw this one in Hammersmith…

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…almost immediately followed by a garish pink modern Mini, complete with eyelashes over the headlights. What would John Cooper say?

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The roads of England are well-populated with motorbikes of all kinds since they’re economical and small. I took a photo of this gorgeous Triumph for my brother, who is eager to get his own motorbike one day

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Not far from our rented flat in Bayswater, amongst beautiful white plaster terraced houses, was this very British Lotus. I detail a whole array of cars at work, but I hope someday to get the chance to detail a car like this!!

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In Kensington, an enormous Rolls-Royce. It’s always interesting to wonder who is behind the wheel of cars like this

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A military presence on the Strand! A hulking truck like this would be something to drive through the narrow, congested streets of London

These are only some of the awesome vehicles I saw on my trip to London… watch for part two for the rest! It really is cool to go to a place that has such a wide range of vehicles. It’s just a shame that, in the slow, congested traffic of London, you never get to hear the Bentley W12s and roaring Lamborghinis to full effect!



72 Years after D-Day

To commemorate this year’s 72nd anniversary of D-Day and the Normandy landings, I wanted to share a D-Day poem I wrote. I have shared it before on this blog, but it’s very much from my heart and is the best tribute I think I have to offer. After 72 years, of course the complement of veterans who return to the French coast on June 6 gets smaller every year; but there are still many who return to honour their experiences and their fallen comrades. This year and in years to come, let us remember with them and for them.

We Paid for the Beach in Blood

With hands clenched and eyes down

And stomachs sick from the sea,

We approached the beaches and soaring cliffs

Of concrete that made up Normandy.

We had to swim the last few yards,

And those ones were the longest;

Wading past bodies of those who fell,

We were the luckiest, not strongest.

Only machine-guns welcomed us–

Their zeal made every man shiver

But slowly we began to take the beach

A feat only sacrifice delivered.

Onwards, upwards; up to the cliffs

There was cover there, at least.

But the inheritance from our mates below

Was the grueling push to the east.

So many lives were taken that day

How many? I can’t remember,

Laid out on the altar of Normandy

On the rocks and in the scarlet water.

More plentiful than the dead was our bravery

Forget about love– courage is blind;

It considers not the peril of action

But acts with an iron-willed mind.

The beaches ours, we made it east

And opened the door to the final year,

But not without the will of the dead

Whose sacrifice made our path clear.

With strength of thousands and courage of heroes

We took the beach that day

Long, long ago but not so distant

The wounds don’t go away.

The numbers 6-6-44

Remain forever in my head;

Emblazoned like the shock I saw

On the faces of the dead.

It took us some time, and more than we thought

But we fought like an armoured flood;

For all our lives, we won’t forget

We paid for the beach in blood.

Some Throwback Poetry: Pt. 3

Despite it being a beautiful sunny June outside, I seem to have gotten a cold and am not feeling exceptionally well. I feel sluggish and not too motivated about blogging unfortunately, so I’m going to be lazy and share some throwback poetry again! I’m hoping that tomorrow I might feel well and awake enough to write something new, but today I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with leftovers!

This poem was written when I was around nine or ten, and was quite obsessed with the story of the Cottingley Fairies.  I think most little girls want to believe that fairies and unicorns and other such fanciful creatures are somehow real; and I was no different. I loved the intrigue of fantastical stories and mythological things.

The Fairies

The willows weep

While the fairies sleep,

Their thin gold wings a-blazing

The crystal pools

Entice mere fools

To sit forever, gazing.

The moon shines bright

Throughout the night

Where fairies are a-dreaming;

The elegant trees

Rustle their leaves

Black the world is seeming.

The morn now comes

And violet plums

By fairies are a-eaten,

The wind is warm,

There is a storm

But the fairies are a-sleeping.

The dewdrops fall

The wind doth call

The fairies out of sleeping.